Free The Dead Parade by James Roy Daley Page A

sorry’ was an appropriate solution for causing a string of deaths. It wasn’t. But still, what alternatives were there?
    He rode another block and came to his conclusion: he would return to Johnny’s house. Getting the gun was a good idea, he decided. Defending himself was a good idea. Having a destination was a good idea.
    A plan had been set. He turned left on the next street.
     
     
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    There was a police cruiser and James failed to look at it. Had he looked, chances were, he would have panicked. His nerves were wound tighter then a drum core snare and the odds of him doing something incriminating were greater than he would like to admit. Luckily for James, he steered the bike to the side of the road and let the cruiser pass by. When it did the sirens didn’t spring to life. They stayed quiet. A moment later the car turned a corner and was gone.
    I dodged a bullet, James thought. And he was right.
    His description had been sent over the wire fifteen minutes earlier: James McGee. White male, 30’s, 5’ 10”, medium built, short brown hair, white dress shirt, black dress pants, black dress shoes, black tie, last seen fleeing 216 Tecumseh Street on foot, which is located at the corner of Tecumseh Street and Spalding. Suspect may/or may not be covered in dirt and ash, and may/or may not be showing signs of injury. It is not believed that the subject is armed, but he is considered dangerous. Approach with caution.
    The description was meticulous. And yes, he had dodged a bullet. Had the two officers in the police cruiser not been bickering as they passed by, odds were, they would have noticed him. And arrested him.
    James stood up on the bicycle and he pressed his weight against the pedals. The ground soared beneath him. The wind pushed against his face and chest. He zipped around a corner, pushing hard as he leaned over the handlebars. A bug hit his knuckles as he went over the roll on a hill; he felt his stomach lift into his chest. He had always liked that feeling; it reminded him of being on a rollercoaster. He kept peddling and his legs burned. He rolled over a sewer; the handlebars rattled and his feet threatened to slip from the pedals. He moved past a STOP sign that someone had vandalized. Now it said: STOP - EATING MEAT. Sitting on the curb not ten feet from the sign, three boys––all of them between five and seven years old––were wasting the day away. The boys stopped talking and watched James go. He offered them a fake smile. In return a boy with spiky hair tossed a rock at him and sneered.
    James turned corners twice more and peddled for three minutes. Then he found himself on Tecumseh Street looking at police cars, an ambulance, and what he figured to be a car belonging to the coroner.
    James stopped cold.
    It was Johnny’s house. The authorities had the place enclosed, but why?
    Suddenly, James remembered the gunshot. Somebody must have heard the gun go off and called the police. Or maybe it was the pizza. He ordered pizza and gave the operator his name and address. Did he leave Johnny’s door open? Did the pizza guy step inside?
    Did reasons even matter?
    James was the prime suspect in a string of deaths; nothing else was relevant. Maybe it was time to come clean.
    James put a hand over his face and rode away from the scene. He turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then he felt his muscles tighten. The stress was getting to him.
    No, he thought. Coming clean is a bad idea. The demon––
    James slowed down and looked over his shoulder. The demon was gone.
    Holy shit, he thought. I did it!
    With animated eyes James pedaled hard. For the first time all day he was smiling; he felt like he was in charge again. The sensation sparked an idea designed to put him in an offensive position. It wasn’t a good idea. In fact, the idea was absolutely terrible.
    He was going to Suzy’s house to get the shotgun.
     
    * * *
     
    And in the hospital room Mathew whispered, “No.”
    But nobody heard a