Eddie is bathed in light, his body a silhouette against the harsh glow of three police cruisers that’ve come to a stop before him. From here I count six officers, their guns drawn and pointed at Eddie Michaels in all his haggard, undead glory, a flamboyant mixture of sequins and shredded flesh.
The initial gunshots from across the street could’ve summoned them, or maybe all that screaming at the pool. Maybe the front desk clerk actually did what I asked him to when I burst into the lobby.
“Put your hands up,” the booming voice demands through a patrol car PA.
My first instinct is to get out there and warn them, but deep down I already know it’s too late. Eddie can speakfaster than I can move, and giving up my position is the last thing I should be doing. I’m helpless to stop what’s coming.
“Oh no, no, no,” I murmur under my breath.
Eddie very, very slowly begins to raise his hands above his head, the cop cars illuminating him in a cluster of glorious spotlights. He is center stage, exactly where he wants to be, and he’s milking every ounce of drama from this moment.
As Eddie’s hands creep upward he begins to sing in a deep, soulful baritone. “I … want … you,” he begins, then freezes in place.
“Get on your knees!” one of the officers screams.
Eddie’s next note is long and drawn out, a falsetto that floats with uncanny grace, “toooooooooo…”
He lets the moment sit, commanding the scene with something much more powerful than any supernatural ability—raw, undeniable stage presence. It feels like the whole world has come to a grinding halt, as though Eddie Michaels is controlling time itself through the power of sheer will.
A bigger, badder shark.
Eddie suddenly throws his arms out wide, wiggling his fingers in a melodramatic display of jazz hands. He belts the next words at the top of his lungs, a soaring melody.
“Blow your fucking brains out!” he sings.
The reaction is immediate, not a moment of hesitation. I watch as each officer swiftly puts their gun to their temple and pulls the trigger.
The pops erupt with such perfect timing that it almost sounds like a single blast.
Forks
My hand instinctively flies over my mouth as all six bodies drop to the pavement in a smattering of limp thumps. I pull away from the window, overwhelmed with the need to run, to find a back exit where I can slip into the night and keep on going till I’m home.
There’s no time to stop and consider the existential weight of all this death.
At the beginning of the night, Eddie directly helped me with these emotions, offering a potent salve in the form of his commands. He instructed me not to feel, and for each twenty-minute dose of influence, I didn’t.
But in a moment of panic Eddie wiped the slate clean, my numbness pulled back to reveal what should be an overwhelming buzz of relentless grief. I should be sobbing and screaming and moaning under the weight of theseviolent things I’ve witnessed. I should be retching up all the food in my stomach as I crawl under the table and curl up into a ball.
There’s a hint of those emotions—I admit it—but something else has painted a thick, shimmering varnish over my heart, gradually hardening into a shell.
I steady myself, then press onward by creeping deeper into the building.
The spa lobby transitions into a short hallway with two doors on either side. They’ve been left open, revealing a variety of wellness experiences. One room features a pair of massage tables while another sports rustic tubs for mud baths. The hallway ends with another door, behind which a distinct pale glow emanates. This hue immediately piques my attention, drawing me faster toward the final chamber. I enter without hesitation, finding myself in some kind of managerial office with a very important device positioned against the far wall: a computer.
My eyes widen as excitement pulses through my nervous system. I hurry over and slip into a rolling chair behind the desk, tapping the keyboard to wake the machine from a deep slumber of undulating screensaver waves.
A small box appears at the center of the screen, politely asking which employee account I’d like to sign in under. I click on the profile labeledGUESTand a clean desktop materializes, various apps lined up across the bottom of the monitor. There’s no video call or texting software, which is disappointing until I’m struck by a terrible question: Who the fuck am I supposed to call? What public servicecould evenbeginto help me out of this mess? The police are already here. They’re right outside, briskly stiffening as the rigor mortis sets in.
Would I call the emergency line again, warning the PSPD to plug up their noses? Should they send every officer in Riverside County with a cold? Even if I tried, something tells me that the dispatcher would order up an entirely different service to come and take me away.
There are no reinforcements tonight.
Instead, I open up the web browser and pound out a quick search:PALM SPRINGS, SELF-INFLICTED, SKINNED BODIES.
Results begin to populate as my eyes dart across the headlines.
“Four skinned bodies discovered,” I whisper as I click the first link.
