Man in the Empty Suit by Sean Ferrell Page A

to add. I was beginning to feel anger at him for getting killed. Anger at me. “All right, so what?” I said. “One of you must remember where it was she came from.”
    Seventy wiped at his face with an open palm. “That’s just the thing. We don’t. Now that we’re not tethered, that girl could be from anywhere. She refuses to even say.” He shrugged. “Itried to convince her to leave.” Was I really going to be so passive at his age?
    I re-covered the Body, the sheet tented over his face. What had he been thinking, bringing that woman here? If in fact it had been him. I didn’t believe I could fully trust either of these two. At least they hadn’t brought the one I really didn’t trust. “Where’s Yellow?”
    Seventy chuckled. “He was busy. We’re trying to keep some semblance of normalcy down there. In fact, you should come down. The movies are about to start.”
    “Christ, no.”
    “It’s tradition,” Seventy said pointedly. “You come make an appearance, and then you get back to work.”
    I reached into my pockets. One hand slid through the hole where the pocket had been ripped out; the other fell against the gun. I remembered that the pocket lining was stuck to my forehead and yanked the fabric from my temple. The pocket, black and sticky, smelled of sweat and blood. I noticed the filth on my hands. Dirt filled the nails and creases. It made them look old.
    I said, “I’ve got Youngsters threatening me. Right now half of them probably think they killed me. How come I have to figure out all this shit by myself? How about some of you guys pull some of the weight?”
    Seventy circled the perimeter of the room and stopped near the door, eyes vacant, mind probably replaying events. I felt sorry for speaking and didn’t want to hear a reply. I knew whatever he had to say would fall at my feet like a dead thing, stinking.
    Finally he said, “I’ve waited, year after year, to figure outhow it happened. Worked to put together pieces. But the death kept creeping up. And fingers have begun to point at you. I used to think you were the killer. I don’t think so anymore, though, because you’re not as done in as some of the others. If you were blacking out, or out of control, maybe, but you’re not. So unless it’s premeditated, it’s not you.” He smacked his cane against the floor. “We don’t know who the killer is. That’s the main reason we keep coming back here. You know. This thing stopped being fun almost from the first year. From this point on, it’s nothing but work. We’ve all been trying to piece things together to figure out what happened. So if we can’t provide you with answers, it’s because we worked hard to keep from upsetting the balance of things.” He pointed the cane at me, and I didn’t care for how sharp it looked at the end. “We maintained the balance, until you. Balance is something you didn’t care for, and at this stage the apples are bouncing from the applecart too quick to count. Well done. Now, if you don’t think you can stop bitching about having to save our life”—and he gestured from Screwdriver to the Body to himself, his finger swirling to include the floors beneath us—“then maybe you could just focus on saving your own.”
    Seventy turned and left. Screwdriver watched me for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it. He held up the door key and smiled. He placed it in the keyhole and walked away. The key, the room, the Body were mine now, my responsibility.
    I felt awkward staying there with him. I walked to the hall, shut the door, and locked it.
    From the stairway I heard echoed laughter. The movies had begun.

ON MY WAY to the ballroom, following the sounds of films I knew too well to want to see again, I passed the men’s room. I ducked in to wash my face, clean my head wound, try to find something in the mirror that reminded me of me. What I found was a flooded floor, blood on a sink, and signs of epic