His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (10 page)

Or maybe they were just fun fruit flavors.

The bouncing red light led me to a building of condos roughly two blocks from the lake. A faded sign named them the Parkview Condominiums. If they’d ever had a view of the park, closer developments had long since eclipsed it. They appeared well maintained and cozy though, if not as upscale as some of the neighboring buildings.

My destination was on the second floor—number 214. After making certain no one would notice, I unlocked the door and peered inside.

The thumping from my heart drowned out nearly all sound, and my breath grew quick and shallow. My anxiety can be bad on its own, but after last night it was going off the chart.

“It is all right, Reaper,” Elliott whispered. “Last night was particularly difficult, but most collections are much safer.”

I nodded, working to take a deep breath. As quietly as possible, I crept inside. The cat followed silently on his padded feline paws, clearly sneaking despite his words of encouragement.

As it turns out, our caution was unwarranted.

Two shelves in the foyer held a large collection of assorted figurines, mostly ceramic and glass puppies in various poses and states of play. Elliott sniffed indignantly.

I couldn’t help but smile.

A line of photographs hung above the puppy shrine, images of two people aging through their lifetime together. The first showed a couple in their early twenties, dressed in Washington State University sweatshirts, standing before a football stadium I didn’t recognize. The last revealed them, what must have been over thirty years later, having a picnic on the shores of Green Lake.

The woman from the pictures now lay on the floor of her own living room, gasping for air like a fish stranded on dry land. She wore only a threadbare pink bathrobe which did little for the sake of modesty; her convulsions had thrown it open wide. A cordless phone lay a few feet from her hand, though it wasn’t clear if she’d been reaching for it, or if it dropped as she fell.

I started asking questions, getting my answers in little puffs of black smoke.

Her name was Karen Winston.

Karen had spent her entire adult life struggling with a failing heart. She was a little more than twenty years my senior, but her condition had aged her cruelly. Without the
Sight
, I would have placed her at close to seventy, not her actual age of fifty-five.

Roughly three hours ago, she’d suffered a minor heart attack and collapsed to the floor.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t the heart attack that was killing her, at least not directly. Fluid was building up around her lungs, resulting in critical respiratory distress. The woman was basically drowning, struggling for every breath.

And she was losing that struggle.

Her aura was barely visible; the hair-thin line glowed a dark red. She was close to death. Left on her own, she would very soon die.

Still, it wasn’t black.

From what the
Sight
revealed, she’d live only a few more days regardless of what I did now.

Were those few days worthwhile?

“Karen Margaret Winston.”

Unlike Scott White, Karen did not fight the power in my summons. Her soul sat up from her body. With wide, surprised eyes, she examined herself flailing on the floor. Her ghostly hands shot out in an attempt to close the body’s robe and restore its modesty. She struggled fervently, at length, her efforts steadily slowing as she was reluctantly forced to admit the attempts could not affect the physical world.

I crouched beside the struggling soul to close the robe.

She looked up into my eyes, only a few inches from her own, and did not flinch. “My goodness, but that was embarrassing. Thank you.”

I jerked in surprise. Her name hadn’t jogged my memory, probably because of my exhaustion, or maybe just because I’m horrible with names. That voice, though, was unforgettable. Karen was the woman from the morgue, the one Joshua had found so frustrating—the one looking for her husband.

Elliott prowled the perimeter of the room, extra vigilant. I was fairly certain we’d find no trouble here. “Of course, Karen.”

The woman smiled at me. Now that she had calmed down, her shoulder-length white hair framed her face prettily; I could see a glimpse of the fresh young girl from the photographs in the entry.

Divorced from her body’s physical pain, she looked down sadly at her own struggles. The emotion was still hers, though: the fear, anguish, and whatever drove a desperate need to live. Those were still evident in her eyes.

Karen looked at me again. Beneath her soft, frail exterior, I could detect an iron will. “I know why you’re here but I’m not ready; goodness no. Come back later; I won’t be dying just now.”

I couldn’t help but smile, despite the gruesome effect it probably created, what with my exposed skull and all.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she neither flinched nor looked away. “No one else is looking for Robert.” She broke down and started to cry.

I glanced at Elliott, who only shrugged before resuming his patrol of the living room’s perimeter. The
Sight
said nothing about Robert, but it seemed to only answer questions in a very narrow band. When time permitted, I needed to explore those limits.

No doubt Robert was the man from the photographs—her missing husband.

“What’s happened, Karen?”

She fixed me with a fierce stare of iron and fire. “Oh, my goodness, don’t you taunt me too. I hear the snickers behind my back. I’m the only one that knows my Robert, the only one that believes in him. He’s in trouble. They’re…
both…
in trouble.”

Her words made no sense to me; I put my hands up, hoping to placate her. “Both, Karen?”

“Robert and his…oh my, his secretary.” The soul appeared to deflate, growing smaller at the pain of the admission. “They’ve vanished…together.”

And everything clicked.

Karen needed answers—simple reassurance she hadn’t been living a lie. She was driving herself into the ground, seeking the truth.

I didn’t have it.

Elliott, oblivious to our conversation, pounced on a floating dust mote at the edge of my vision.

Which wasn’t particularly useful.

Karen would catch her breath if I sat her up, or so the
Sight
seemed to suggest. A trip to the ER would be in order—probably an overnight stay. That would buy, at most, a week. Left on her own, she’d work herself back into this state long before that.

She needed more. The woman needed help.

All she had was me.

As gently as possible, I scooped her body into my arms and carried it to the couch. The soul vanished within, no longer held by the power in my voice. With all the care I could manage, I laid her into a sitting position.

Her breath began to settle.

Elliott mewed at my elbow as I knelt beside Karen, not nearly as distracted as he would have me believe. “What are you doing, if I may ask?”

I watched Karen intently, waiting for signs that she might recover. Her aura appeared to be thickening, but still glowed an angry dark red. “My job.”

“Pardon me; I believed you a Reaper, not a nursemaid.”

The annoyance in Elliott’s voice surprised and angered me. I should have understood. He was exhausted.

As was I.

“At least I’m not furry black comic relief.”

Elliott hissed and yowled in response.

“You told me,” I continued angrily, “that I couldn’t reap or save an unassigned soul. She’s assigned, so I can save her.”

He turned abruptly. “It seems you do not need me anymore, Reaper. Good day to you,
sir
.” He stalked toward the foyer.

“Wait,” I called after him mockingly. “You
can’t
abandon me. I might forget how to walk, or scratch my ass!”

Elliott ignored my taunts. He disappeared from the room without another word.

And without looking back.

I’d never admit it to the pompous little bastard, but I missed him already.

“Oh my, your cat seemed a bit angry.”

Karen was awake. Though her speech was still a bit slurred, her eyes looked sharp and clear.

“Elliott gets that way. He’ll recover.”

At least I hoped that was true.

Karen bit her lip nervously. “Will you help me find my Robert?”

The rules rattled around inside my head. I couldn’t do much for her as the Grim Reaper, but I wasn’t allowed to reveal I was anything else.

I took her frail hand between my bony fingers. “I can’t, Karen, but I will send for an acquaintance of mine, a man that will help if he can.”

She smiled gratefully. “What is your friend’s name?”

I sighed heavily, finally accepting what had probably been inevitable all along.

“Michael Reaper.”

XI

Photograph

As Michael Reaper, I took Karen to the hospital. We sat in the waiting room for a couple of hours, and for another hour in the ER itself while they got Karen admitted. I knew Elliott wouldn’t consider it the proper use of a Reaper’s time, and I had no idea how Joshua would feel. Emma, though, would approve.

I was choosing to do good.

Everyone agreed that the worst of Karen’s episode had passed, but that she still warranted a night of observation.

Everyone except Karen, at least.

Her aura had grown to roughly a hand’s width, which seemed like a good sign, but it remained a dark red, which didn’t. Of course, I couldn’t discuss those details with the medical staff.

Once Karen was settled, I left. She only made me promise three times that I’d pick her up tomorrow.

I should have gone home; I needed the sleep. I just wasn’t ready to face what might be waiting for me there.

Or, even worse, what might not.

So I drove first to King Street Station, downtown’s Amtrak terminal. That stop had proven fruitless; no one there recognized Robert. So I decided to try the bus station.

Becky, the Greyhound ticket clerk, appeared roughly twelve. She had an annoying habit of popping her bright pink bubble gum on every fourth word, and paid far more attention to the texts on her cell phone than our conversation.

She glanced briefly at the picture before responding with, “I, uh…huh. (pop)”

I wanted to strangle her.

“Please take a good look. This man is missing, and I’m trying to find him.” I pushed Robert’s photo a little further across the counter.

Her vacant brown eyes flicked briefly from the telephone screen to the picture. “You know, I’ve been (pop) off a few days. You should (pop) probably talk to Ross (pop).” Her attention was drawn quickly back into the digital black hole.

I waited a few seconds, breathing deeply. “And would he be available?”

“What?” Becky smiled sweetly enough, but there just didn’t seem to be anything behind it.

“Ross, would he be available?”

“Oh, Ross? He’s on break (pop). He’ll be right back.”

I struggled mightily to keep my voice neutral. “Okay, great. I’ll wait right over there.”

Becky responded with a pop of her gum and a single syllable which I’m fairly certain wasn’t even attempting to be a word.

The bus terminal was largely empty. A Greyhound from Portland was due in thirty minutes, but there were only a couple of people who seemed to care.

I slipped into an empty seat to wait for Ross.

Exhaustion quickly overwhelmed me.

My last thoughts were of Becky—bless her vacant, gum-popping, annoying little heart.

Two pops sound from the dark.

(pop)

(pop)

Despair registers clearly in Michelle’s eyes; a thick, deep red fluid splashes across her body and stains the bedding.

It looks like blood.

It isn’t hers.

In the back of my mind, a panicked voice begins to scream.

The room grows dim and indistinct, the light tinged with red. I drop slowly to one knee.

Michelle’s eyes fill with tears.

Another balloon pops behind me.

(pop)

My eyes grow heavy, sliding closed of their own accord. My left cheek settles against the carpet. I barely notice the pop of two more balloons…

(pop)

(pop)

…or the heavy impact at my side.

The panicked voice continues to scream, but I ignore it; a lethargic peace washes over me.

It doesn’t hurt.

Not at first, anyway.

There is only the black void, through which I travel…alone.

My own snoring woke me.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but the Portland bus had come and gone, all passengers dispersed; the terminal was empty again. Becky had been replaced by a tall, skinny man who was graying at the temples.

I stood and stretched, shaking off the last vestiges of the dream, before sauntering to the counter.

The man’s nametag read, “Russ.”

I’d have to cut Becky a little slack on that one. I’m not very good with names either. Of course, I at least try.

Usually.

“Excuse me, Russ?”

The man’s head popped up immediately, his eyes much sharper and more alert than his female counterpart’s.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you?”

I pushed Robert’s photograph across the counter. “I’m looking for this man. His name is Robert Winston. He’s been missing for almost a week and his wife, Karen, is very worried.”

Russ examined the picture at length before responding. “I don’t remember seeing him, but then things get pretty hectic around here. You said Robert Winston?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

Russ typed on his computer, concentrating. “No one by that name boarded here in the last week, but then, if they pay cash we don’t always have an accurate name.”

“Thanks anyway.” I grimaced, reaching for the picture.

“Tell you what, I’ll make a copy and hang it in our break room. We do that for the police sometimes. If anybody knows anything, they can give you a call.”

“Sure. Becky didn’t recognize him, but maybe someone will.”

Russ rolled his eyes melodramatically. “Well, Becky wouldn’t, would she?”

A few minutes later, I walked out into the setting sun.

I didn’t expect a call from Russ’s co-workers. My suspicion was the majority were more like Becky, just passing the time until something better came along.

Honestly, even if they were all extremely bright and alert, I wasn’t likely to hear anything. Should I choose to disappear with my secretary, I certainly wouldn’t take a Greyhound, or probably even the train. I’d either fly someplace tropical, or find myself a nice little local love nest.

Of course, it was always possible Karen was right, and her husband was actually in trouble. As much as I hated to admit it, though, I would tend to agree with the police. Man disappears with his young, beautiful secretary, leaving behind a sick, aging wife—that equation doesn’t typically add up to foul play.

Besides, if something more ominous was really afoot, I wasn’t the right guy to help her anyway.

I’d parked Robert Winston’s car three blocks away, in a lot on Boren Avenue. It was a pale green 1968 Ford Mustang GT 390 Fastback, the same car Steve McQueen famously drove through the streets of San Francisco…just a few shades lighter. The paint was faded, and starting to peel in places, but otherwise the body was straight and the interior perfect. Despite the car’s sickly look, the engine purred and had that trademark power of the early American muscle cars.

At Karen’s insistence, I’d been driving it since I took her to the hospital.

She didn’t need to insist much.

If Dad were still alive, he’d be green with envy.

Sliding into the driver’s side felt like pulling on a glove. Everything fit perfectly, as if the car were made for me. I hadn’t adjusted anything; there was no need.

And each time I felt a little guilt over delighting in a missing man’s pride and joy, a tap of the accelerator washed it all away.

He was probably in Cancun anyway, having a much better evening than me.

I smiled as the engine roared to life. It was time to go home. Tomorrow’s agenda included getting Karen from the hospital and passing Robert’s picture around the airport. It would probably be a good idea to get a picture of his secretary as well, since men notice young, beautiful women much more than other men.

Before then, though, I needed a good night’s sleep, assuming the nightmares would allow it.

I turned the wheel, preparing to pull into traffic.

A rectangle of white fluttered on the windshield, tucked under the driver’s side wiper.

Annoyed, I killed the engine and stepped out onto the street, tugging an unmarked white envelope away from the glass.

It was sealed. I ripped it open.

Inside were two photographs.

The first picture was of me helping Karen into Robert’s Mustang, about one o’clock this afternoon. We were on our way to the hospital.

But that wasn’t the disturbing one.

The second picture was of me, just a few minutes ago, asleep in the bus station.

Across the bottom of the second picture, the photographer had written, “Back off,” in small red letters.

My adrenalin kicked into overdrive, and I quickly scanned the street. There were lots of people, but no obvious suspects; no one appeared to watch me, and no one hurried away.

I’m not a detective like my brother Steve, and I’ve never been a hero. I’d offered to help Karen because I felt sorry for her. I never thought things would turn dangerous.

Now, though, it seemed likely that the police were wrong and Karen was right. Robert hadn’t just skipped town.

I swallowed nervously. This was more than I’d bargained for.

Could I be in real danger?

It’s a big step from threats to violence, but Robert had been missing for a week, which suggested it was a step the photographer might be willing to take.

And, as a Reaper, the danger was far more serious…far more permanent.

The safest thing would be to tell Karen I couldn’t help. Maybe that’s what I should do.

But then, as a Reaper I also had certain gifts—certain protections. I was never going to be defenseless or unarmed. Now, more than at any time before my death, I was equipped to defend my life.

And I desperately wanted—even needed—to “choose to do good,” as Emma had said. Otherwise, I was just a poor, helpless schmuck stuck in this life.

Tomorrow I would be picking Karen up from the hospital. I’d have to make a decision before then.

A bright white light flashed inside my eyes; the Mustang began to pulse red.

I’d never been so happy to have someplace else to be.