"I'll get it!" Micky shouted, sliding down the railing of the spiral staircase. Fortunately for him, nobody was waiting at the bottom of it with a cake this time.
Peter looked up from his position at the edge of the stage, then, realizing that nothing interesting had happened, returned to strumming his banjo softly.
Micky opened the door, the smile instantly leaving his face, "Oh, hey, what do you want?"
A tall, very pale-skinned man drifted past Micky and stood just inside the pad, "I... I need to talk with you..." he blurted out, seeming to be in some pain.
Micky closed the door behind the man, but said nothing, which prompted Peter to set his banjo down and walk over to the newcomer.
"Are you alright? Would you like a glass of water or something?" As he said this, the fair-haired boy cast a disapproving look at Micky, who seemed to shrink a little.
"No... I just... just want... to explain..."
Suddenly, the man dropped to the ground. Peter knelt down beside him and started to shake him, "Mister? Mister! Micky, call an ambulance! Call a firetruck! Call anybody!"
But Micky just stood there by the door like a statue. His face could have been made of granite, and Peter turned to see why he hadn't reached for the phone.
"Mick!" he shouted frantically.
"It's too late, Peter. I think he's dead," Micky said, without any hint of emotion. Peter stood slowly, and tried to remain calm.
"Why didn't you help me?!"
"Because that's Mr. Webster," was the reply.
"Mr. Webster! But why would he come here? How did he die?"
Micky scoffed, "He couldn't die... never had a heart in the first place, so how could it suddenly stop?"
"Well, I'm going to call the police," Peter said, striding over to the red telephone. Micky reached out as if to stop him, a look of fright on his face.
"No, Pete! You - you can't do that! I mean, you shouldn't!"
"Why not?" Peter asked, becoming confused as he realized that Micky wasn't saying that to be dramatic, like he normally said things to be. He was really and truly scared.
"Peter, I told you about Mr. Webster a long time ago. Do you remember what I said?"
"Um, uh... a rose by any other pencil must be led?"
"No, Peter."
"Take time to stop and smell the roots of all evil?"
"No, Peter," Micky repeated, shaking his head. Sometimes he wished that the blond boy would pick up on things a little faster than he actually did, "Say, what's with all the stuff about flower quotes, anyways?"
"I've been learning to juggle," Peter told him, as if that explained everything.
"Oh," said Micky, not bothering to question his friend about it any further, "Well, it's like this. Everyone in town knows Mr. Webster. Well, I mean... I do, and I'm pretty sure he knows a lot of other people, too. Do you at least remember what I told you about the experiment?"
"I wish I didn't, Mick, but I do," Peter replied, sitting down beside the table and dejectedly propping his head up with a hand.
"Aw, I'm sorry, Pete. I guess I shouldn't have confided in you... after all, now you have to carry it around with you."
"I don't mind too much."
"Mr. Webster knew about it too. He seemed to know everything about me."
"Do you mean he was black-nailing you?"
"Mailing, Peter. Blackmailing. Yes, in a way. I didn't have to pay him money, though. He had me do some things for him... terrible things, but I had to. Otherwise, he might have hurt you or Mike or Davy. I couldn't let that happen, I just couldn't."
Micky turned away and stared at Mr. Webster's body, before giving it a vicious kick, "That's for all you made me go through," he sneered, every word dripping with contempt.
"Micky!" Peter exclaimed, standing and walking quickly over to the curly-haired boy, "Micky, it's fine. He's dead and you don't have to worry anymore. But what are we going to do about him? Why won't you let me call the police?"
"They would find out about me, I'm sure of it. They would think that I killed him. I'd have so many things stacked up against me... I'm just scared, Peter."
"I know you are, Micky. But it's okay. I'm here and I know that you didn't kill him."
"I could have poisoned him earlier, knowing that I could get an alibi from you later on," Micky pointed out angrily. Peter backed away a little.
"But I believe you... and your heart. You could never kill someone."
"Like killing anyone is worse than what I did to people. I wish -"
The door of the pad opened quickly, cutting of whatever Micky was about to say, and Mike rushed a glassy-eyed Davy through the doorway, turning to shut the door. He slumped up against it and sighed in relief.
"That sure was close," Mike announced, as Peter stepped in front of Mr. Webster in a feeble attempt to hide the dead man. Mike, however, noticed this maneuver, "Say, Pete, what's that on the floor behind you?"
"Well, I, it's... it's a new rug we got for the living room, and we didn't want you to see it just yet, because, uh, it's blue, and, uh, it might stain the floor, so we were going to go have it burned - cleaned! Yeah, we were gonna have it cleaned, but the cleaner cleaned too many rosebuds, so... uh, um... Micky!" Peter wailed, having gotten the story totally mixed up.
"Yeah, you see, the cleaner likes to garden," Micky intervened hastily, "and he was watering his roses when we got there, so he told us to bring it back on Monday, when the roses wouldn't be so thirsty..."
He trailed off, realizing the attempt to fool Mike was completely hopeless. The Texan frowned and stepped to the side, in order to see what it was the two boys were hiding from him. Davy continued to stand there, giving no indication that he had heard anything. But then, he wouldn't, since he was a man in love. Again.
"For Pete's sake, guys! What did you do to him?" Mike exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
"Nothing. He just sort of... died," Peter said lamely.
"Yeah, he knocked on the door and the second he came in... well, you see what happened," Micky added.
Mike knelt and rolled Mr. Webster, who had fallen face-first, over, with the intent to search through his pockets. Instead, however, he gasped and straightened back up.
"Did he tell you who he was?" He asked suspiciously, looking to Micky.
Micky tried to catch Peter's eye, but, for some reason, the blond refused to meet his gaze. Somehow, Mike knew Mr. Webster, too, and Peter seemed to know more than he was telling.
The blonde cleared his throat nervously, "Uh, no, Mike. Just said he wanted to talk to someone here."
Mike's face went white, and he quickly turned back to Davy, "Well, I can't worry about him right now. Davy's in love with a mobster's girlfriend. I had a hard time getting him away all in one piece."
Micky stepped over Mr. Webster's body and waved a hand in front of Davy, "Hey, Davy? Davy? There's a dead guy on our floor."
The little Englishman didn't even blink. Stars were twinkling in his eyes. Micky tried again, "Davy? Your hair is all messed up."
Davy gave a start, let out an "oh," and raced into the bathroom. Within a few seconds he was back, glaring daggers at Micky, "It is not. Why'd you 'ave to go an' say that to a poor fella, never did you no wrong?"
"Because he had to snap you out of it, Davy. We've got ourselves a little situation here... y'see, there's this man that's - "
"Well, if 'e's botherin' you, call the bloomin' cops!" Davy said, obviously irritated.
"Only flowers bloom," Peter remarked, and received a playful punch on the arm from Micky.
"This is a serious matter, man. He's dead," Micky said, indicating Mr. Webster's motionless figure. Davy let out a yelp.
"What the bloody 'ell 'appened to 'im?! Why 'asn't anybody called the police?" He exclaimed, examining Mr. Webster without having to lean over. There were advantages to being short.
Suddenly, Davy took a step backwards. In his scrutiny of the deceased man, he had recognized the familiar features of someone he had hoped to never see again.
"Get 'im out of 'ere," he demanded, narrowing his eyes, "Don't call anybody. Just get 'im out of 'ere."
"But, Davy..." Peter protested. Mike held up a hand to stop him.
"Listen, guys. I don't think we should do anythin' just yet. Let's just sit on this fer a little while."
The others looked confused, but nodded in agreement.
"Sounds like a plan. Meanwhile, I've, uh, got to go see my sick aunt. Oh, she's dying. I haven't seen her in years, and I've got to go see her. I'll be back in a bit. Bye!" Micky announced, dashing out the door. As he watched Micky leave, Peter thought he remembered an incident awhile back involving Micky's aunt, but he couldn't quite grasp what had happened. Maybe that "seductive memory" thing was happening to him. He shrugged and went back to his banjo, forgetting for the time being that Mr. Webster even existed.
Davy stormed upstairs into the bedroom and slammed the door, but Mike, long after everyone had dispersed from around the body, remained where he was, staring at Mr. Webster and wondering how bad things would get from that point on.
