“Oh, look,” Angie said. “Another suspiciously corpse-shaped bundle. What’s that, the third one in two months?”

Kate looked back across the backyard at the bundle on the neighbors’ patio. It did seem suspiciously corpse-shaped, just like the others. A bit over six feet long, slightly wider at one end, wrapped in tarps.

“What do you think it is?” she asked her roommate.

“It’s a body. Obviously.” Angie padded over to the bar cart. “So what are we drinking?”

“Do you really think this is an appropriate time for a drink?” Kate protested.

Angie swung around, vodka bottle in hand. “Is that a trick question?”

“Angie, there might be a dead body in the Smiths’ yard.”

“Is that their name? Smith? I thought it was Walton or Perry or something.”

“Whatever.” Honestly, Kate had no idea. “I’m more concerned about the dead body.”

“Exactly. So we fix ourselves a beverage, then call the police to investigate. Then we watch from the window and prepare to be interviewed by a hot young patrol officer. Are we thinking vodka, or brown liquor?”

“We can’t call yet.”

“Why not?” Angie demanded.

“Because what if that’s not a body? What if it’s just gardening equipment, or an old rug they’re throwing out?”

“No way it’s gardening equipment.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Correct. That’s why we call the police – so they can find out.”

“But what if they come out here and there’s no body? They’ll think we made the call just for kicks.” Kate frowned. “I’m pretty sure they can charge us with something for that.”

“Kate, I don’t think they charge you if you had a good-faith reason to make the call. I’m thinking maybe Moscow Mules.”

Kate folded her arms stubbornly.

Angie studied her for a long moment. “Fine,” she said. “But you’re doing the actual looking. I don’t stomach death well.”

“So you’re going to play lookout?”

“Of course not,” Angie said briskly, turning away from the bar cart. “I’m going to provide the diversion.”

*          *          *

A light rain pattered down, soaking the ground underfoot. “Here, kitty kitty kitty,” Kate called.

The lost cat story had been Angie’s idea. “Just say you have an indoor cat, and she got out. It’s totally conceivable that you’d be snooping around if you were looking for a lost cat.”

“But I don’t have a cat. I don’t even like cats.”

Angie had given her a stony look. “Well, if anyone stops you, I’d strongly suggest that you not say that.”

Glancing at the street now, she caught sight of Angie, tripping up the sidewalk. She would knock on the Smiths’ door, explain to whoever answered about the lost cat, and hopefully keep them talking for long enough to let Kate have a look at the bundle.

Kate stepped over the railroad ties that bordered the Smiths’ yard. She half expected some alarm to sound, klaxons to wail, guard dogs with giant teeth who under understood German to come pelting across the lawn to rip off her arm. But she heard only the whispering rain and her own voice. “Here, kitty.”

In the summertime, the Smiths had a riotous vegetable garden, muscular vines climbing over cages and trellises to produce tomatoes and squashes and whatever else they grew instead of buying at the store like sensible people. Now, the muddy earth lay desolate and empty, cut through with pale gravel paths and dotted with skeletal trellises. Kate took the gravel path.

As she neared the patio, she smelled the faintest whiff of death, though it could have come from the composter behind the potting bench. She crept closer, abandoning all pretense. She finally stood close enough to touch the tarp bundle, to untie the knots of the rope that bound it. She reached out…

And leapt back when the back door slammed open with a sound like a gunshot. Mr. Smith, or Walton or Perry, stood there, a second tarp-bound bundle slung over one shoulder, blinking at her in surprise that quickly darkened into suspicion. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

For a moment she could only gasp, one hand pressed to her chest to keep her heart from plunging through her sternum. “I’m, um,” she managed at last. “I’m your neighbor, from over there?” She waved vaguely.

“I asked, what are you doing in my yard?”

From inside the house, she could hear Angie’s voice, striding along in full Angie story-telling mode, and a murmured reply.

“I’m looking for my cat,” Kate said. “He’s an indoor cat. But he got out. This morning. I’m really worried.”

The man studied her for a long moment. Kate had always thought he looked harmless, benign, like the television dad who shows up only once every few episodes or so.

Up close, she could see the hardness in his face, the harmless-dad persona falling away.

“He’s not here.” Then, “I hope you find him.” He hitched his face into what he probably thought of as an expression of friendly concern.

“Um, thanks,” Kate managed.

“You might try that Neighborly app that everyone uses,” Mr. Smith-Perry-Walton said. “People post lost pets all the time.” He shifted the bundle on his shoulder, his eyes hard and flat. “Seems safer than wandering around in people’s yards.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Kate backed away slowly. “You have a nice day.”

“If I see your cat, I know where to find you.”

In any other instance, the statement might have sounded perfectly innocent. Coming from a man carrying what might have been a corpse, it did not.

*          *          *

“Remind me again why we don’t call the police.”

“I have to know what he’s doing.”

“He’s killing people and dumping their bodies.”

“And his wife?”

“Maybe she doesn’t know. Or maybe she’s in on it.  Or wait – I know. Maybe she’s just a wife-bot. He killed his real wife and built a robot to take her place and do the housework. Like a Stepford wife.”

Kate studied the two bundles.

Sighing, Angie joined her. “So what’s the next move?”

*          *          *

Kate decided to go back just after dark, when the Smiths would be eating dinner.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Angie said.

“Do you have a better one?”

“I do, in fact. Call. The. Police.”

“I’ve got to know.”

“Why? Why not wait and read about it in the news tomorrow like everyone else?”

“It probably won’t make the news.”

“Are you kidding me? This is the age of the 24-hour-news cycle. A man’s dog saves a duck from a fire and it’s all over the internet. Newspapers are desperate for anything that even smells like news so they can pop a couple of paragraphs up on their websites and get a few clicks. No way they’re passing up a nice white suburban couple with a pile of dead bodies on the patio.”

“Angie.”

Angie rolled her eyes. “This,” she pronounced, “is a horrible plan.”

*          *          *

Slipping through the purple-black shadows of early nightfall, Kate had to agree. The darkness might provide her some concealment, but it also made it impossible to see. She had Angie’s little keychain flashlight tucked into one pocket, but she couldn’t use it to light her way, unless she wanted to advertise herself sneaking through the yards. Every step felt like the brink of a broken ankle, at best.

At least it’s too cold for snakes, she reflected. Glancing back over her shoulder, she could make out Angie’s outline in the kitchen window. “I’ll call the police if he comes storming after your crazy ass for snooping in his yard,” Angie had said. “But just so you know, it’ll serve you right if he does.” Still, her presence offered a surprising amount of comfort.

Kate picked her way gingerly, hoping she was right about the snakes.

She stepped over the railroad tie border into the Smiths’ rich-smelling garden mire. The mud dragged at her feet. She looked longingly at the garden path, but the memory of the gravel crunching under her feet earlier kept her off that easier route.

She drew near the patio, edging past the hunched shadows of the grill and the potting bench. Finally, she neared the slumped bundles.

“I asked him about it,” Mr. Smith’s voice boomed. With a little shriek, Kate scuttled against the wall of the house, huddling into the deeper shadows there.

Light flared overhead, and the sound of running water. “What?” Mr. Smith pitched his voice to carry above the sound.

Of course. The kitchen overlooked the garden. He obviously stood at the sink, washing dishes or his hands, talking to someone in the house.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he said. “Probably just a cat or something.”

Kate crouched against the wall. The light, she realized, would keep them from seeing her, even if they did chance to look out the window. They’d only see their own reflections.

She knelt down, reaching out one hand to the top bundle.

“No, I’m not sure whether they found it or not,” Mr. Smith said. The clatter of dishes drowned out his next words.

They were wrapped in rugs and old canvas tarps, then wound about with ropes. The rope felt oily and slippery under her fingers, rain-soaked and swollen, impossible to untie.

“Have you ever seen a cat around there?” Mr. Smith’s words came back as the sound of dishes stilled.

Kate crept to one end of the bundles. Maybe she could work them loose enough at the ends to see inside. She half-listened to the Smiths’ conversation, more focused on their positions than what they actually said.

“Alice, I don’t even think they have a cat. I’m not worried about it getting into anything.” Pause. “I’ll take care of it tonight. After dinner.”

Hunkering down at the open end of the bundle, she began pulling apart the spiraled layers of wet tarp and carpet, seeking the center of the roll.

After endless minutes, she felt something cold and unyielding under her hands, like marble. She pulled out the flashlight, the tiny light flaring into life. She turned it on to the bundle, and nearly screamed.

It was definitely, absolutely, and for damn certain, a body. Or at least the head and neck of a body, sloping away into shoulders that disappeared into the tarp. The skin shone smooth and corpse-green, unhealthy in the uncertain light. It – Kate’s screaming brain could not process whether the body had been male or female – looked like it had been through at least one autopsy then sewn back together, seamed like an old rag doll with black lines of stitching, around the top of the skull, down the sides of the face.

And then, the head moved, tilting back in her hands. The whole bundle moved, arced itself, stretching.

And slowly, the head opened its eyes.

Kate reared back, flashlight skittering away into the darkness, hands clamped over her mouth to press down the shriek that wanted to spill out. The rolls of cloth and canvas stayed open, the head tilting out like the stamen of some horrible flower, cloudy eyes staring blindly, milkily at nothing. Then they blinked. The mouth drew breath, a long rattling gasp.

“Fine.” Mr. Smith snapped. “I’ll go check.”

Shit. She dove into the darker shadows between the potting bench and the composter. The patio light flared on, washing the whole night away in bright yellow light. Kate pressed her whole body to the wet patio.

The door swung open with a bang. “See, it’s fine,” Mr. Smith said. “Specimens present and accounted for. Nothing—”

He broke off. Kate peered under the bench. She could only see six inches off the ground, but that gave her a view of the screen door when it opened and closed. Mr. Smith’s feet, encased in quilted house slippers, stepped onto the patio, walked toward the edge. He stopped at Angie’s flashlight, glimmering under the yellow light.

His hand came into view, scooped it up. Then he turned. He’d see the bundle now, the end she pulled apart, the head peering sightlessly up at him.

Kate bolted. Her shoulder slammed into the potting bench, sending it crashing down in a clatter of pots and tools. Mr. Smith tried to leap into her path, but stumbled on something and fell. Kate leapt over him, fueled by terrified adrenaline more than any actual athleticism, and fled into the dark.

She became aware of him calling her, yelling meaningless things. “Come back! It’s not what you think!” and, weirdly, “Alice, come and look! Bring the equipment – it worked!”

The mud dragged at her steps like molasses, but she stumbled on, breath screaming in her lungs.

Distantly, then closer and closer, she heard a wail. A meaningless sound at first, it slowly resolved itself into the sound of sirens. God bless Angie.

She tripped over a railroad tie and fell into the wet grass beyond. She rolled, expecting to find the Smiths looming over her with axes. To her shock, they hadn’t pursued. Instead, they knelt over the bundle she’d opened, leaning over it, talking to each other with excited animation. Something flashed in Mr. Smith’s hand – a knife, Kate realized, as he cut the ropes.

Before they could do more, though, lights suddenly flooded the yard. The police had arrived.

*          *          *

“I told you it would make the news.” Angie handed her tablet across the breakfast table the next morning.

Kate had to read the headline three times before it made any sense. After the night she’d had, she couldn’t quite muster up the reading comprehension skills necessary to process phrases like… “Modern-Day Doctors Frankenstein?” she asked, looking at Angie in consternation.

“Sounds more like a Frankenstein wannabe situation, really,” Angie said. “The bodies you found had both died of natural causes. The police found a lab in the basement. Apparently they were actually trying to revive them or something. Reanimate. That’s the word they used.”

“They succeeded,” Kate said. “At least with the one I saw. It was alive.”

Angie shrugged. “The story doesn’t mention that,” she said. Kate could hear a world of And it was probably just in your head in her voice.

“So apparently they weren’t murderers after all,” Angie added, shrugging. “Just…really sketchy scientists who watch too many movies.”

“It says the police found notes indicating other experiments,” Kate said, sipping her coffee.

“Yeah. The earlier bundles we saw, probably.”

“Gross.”

“Indeed.” Angie grinned. “But the important thing is, we solved it,” she said, holding up her coffee cup for a toast. “Well, the police solved it. Just like they would’ve done if we’d called them in the first place. But close enough, right?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “I’m not toasting that,” she said.

“Fine. Then here’s to the neighbors not actually being axe murderers.” Angie held out her mug, a smile pulling the corners of her mouth.

“Fine,” Kate said.

Their mugs clinked in a toast.

 

THE END.