Now Stay Dead
by Jaxine Daniels

The Sheriff said Gordon Richards died of a self-inflicted gunshot to the
head. All I knew was that the ambulance was never dispatched. I was on
call at the time, listening to my radio, waiting for the call, my
adrenaline pumping. It's a small town and it was clear who the victim
was. I heard the Sheriff arrive on scene, to be followed forty-five
minutes later by a call for the coroner.

Gordon Richards was a horse's ass, a bossy know-it-all. I never
understood why no one ever called his bluff. People seemed okay with
him lording it over them. Our mutual loathing went back years. It came
to a head when I questioned one of his more ridiculous decisions. He
sidestepped my probe with a sarcastic sneer and muttered something about
me never leaving well-enough alone. He was right about that. I did
have trouble ignoring stupidity.

Now, I sat with my fellow medics, all of us wearing crisply pressed
uniforms. The firefighters and deputies too. Out of respect. Excuse
me while I spew.

The Sheriff stood at the lectern, all brass and spitshine, lauding
Gordon's efforts on behalf of Emergency Services county-wide. He failed
to mention that Gordon's own company profited from the building projects
he'd so beneficently undertaken.

Next, the Fire Chief spoke of Gordon's dedication to service as training
officer on the Fire Department. I nearly choked. The Fire Chief had,
on two occasions that I knew of, asked Gordon to leave the department,
only to reconsider when Gordon threw a tantrum.

Finally, the head of Search and Rescue told stories of heroism that I
knew for a fact were complete horse doo-doo. Gordon only played when he
could ride in on his fancy four-wheeler, save the day, and ride out again.

The tear-stained wife and the Sheriff, standing shoulder to shoulder,
thanked us for coming as we filed from the church. Most of the
emergency personnel ended up at Pizza Madness after, but no one really
talked about Gordon. It was late when I got home so I went straight to bed.

The dream was so real. Gordon lay on the floor, blood pooled around his
head. I felt his pulse and confirmed the obvious. And then the dream
took a weird turn. Just as I was pulling my had away, Gordon's eyes
flew open. He grabbed my wrist.

“You have to help me,” he whispered.

“You're dead, Gordon,” I replied.

“Fabulous grasp of the obvious. Of course I'm dead.”

“Then I can't really help you.”

“You have to.”

“Seriously, Gordon? Let go!”

He merely blinked at me, but held fast to my arm.

Again, I was in a standoff with the jerk.

“Whatever. If I help you, you'll let go?”

He shrugged.

“Fine, then. What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Count.”

Nice time for him to be cryptic.

“Count what, Gordon.”

“Count the holes,” he said, with a sneer.

“What?”

“In my head.”

“What?”

“Look, dumbass,” he said, “wouldn't it be hard for me to shoot myself in
the head twice?”

He let go of my hand. I looked more closely. He was right. Two
entrance wounds. Damn it, the jerk was right.

“Why me, I whispered?”

“Because you never leave well-enough alone,” he said, and resumed dead.