Free A Boy and His Corpse by Richard B. Knight Page A

whispered, “but there’s definitely one in the kitchen, and I don’t mean the obvious one by the stove. Those cameras don’t even work. They’re just there for show.”
    “James—” Alan began again, but James put up a finger to him. He was still talking to Herbert.
    “I need you to go in there and break it. But try to make it look like an accident. It will look like a little white pea, just like the one I just broke.”
    “What the hell are you talking about, boy?” Herbert asked before coughing violently. He rubbed up and down his throat to catch his breath.
    James’ face flashed red. He spoke even lower this time, and slower.
                  “I’m telling you that there’s a camera in the kitchen that has a microphone in it.” He looked both ways and mouthed his next words. “I need you to break it. Maybe put your elbow down on it or—”
                  Just then, they all heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway.
                  “Crap,” James said, slapping his hip. “Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.”
                  “What? Who’s there?” Alan asked.
                  James went back to trying to pick up the sofa, but the sound of the car door closing followed by footsteps up the walkway was an indication that time had run out. The agents were seconds away.
                  There was a frantic knock at the door, followed by the sound of the doorbell being stabbed repeatedly. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!
                  Herbert, Mort, and Alan stared dumbly at the door.
                  “You might as well answer it,” James said, not even whispering anymore. “They know you’re here.”
                  To add validity to his statement, the knocking grew louder.
                  “Come on,” came a harried voice on the other side of the door. “It’s President Rosewater. I don’t want people seeing me out here. It’s just me and two agents. My envoy is parked down the street. Open up.”
                  “President Rosewater?” Herbert said. He came out of his stupor and rushed over to the door. Before he reached it, James grabbed him above the elbow and squeezed.
                  “You didn’t hear me say anything about my family before, got it?”
                  Herbert tried pulling away but James tightened his grip.
                  “Say you got it or I’ll break your arm.”
                  There were more hurried knocks, and with a bit of green magic, Herbert pushed James aside and opened the door.
              The President rushed inside.
                  “For the love of God, man, what took you so long?” President Rosewater said. His immaculate hair sat perfectly on his head, and his blue suit hugged his body luxuriously. He looked every bit the magazine model he once was only ten years ago.
                  Behind the President, two men in black suits and sunglasses pushed inside, closing the door behind them. Alan recognized them immediately as Agents Heinzelman and Covington, the two members of the Undead Militia who usually stood guard in a floral delivery van parked across the street. Both were bald as a coot and stood shoulder-to-shoulder at well over six feet.
                  Once all of them were inside, James’ whole disposition changed. His eyes sparkled and he shuffled back two steps, holding his heart. But it didn’t seem genuine to Alan. Not after what he just saw a moment ago.
                  “President Rosewater?” James exclaimed. “Wha-what are you doing here?”
                  The President gave James a twenty dollar bill smile and a patted him on the shoulder.
                  “Hello, son. I need to see Mr. Chandler on a private matter. Please run along and,” he leaned in