His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (12 page)

I joined in the laughter, and it felt good.

As I got to know her better, my demon neighbor became more of an enigma, not less. Her personality was so incongruous with her job; she seemed smart, warm, and friendly, with a good sense of a humor and a strong spirit. Nothing about her personality suggested evil minion of Hell, let alone sex demon.

And yet, here she was.

“How did you wind up a demon, Emma?” The question slipped out before I thought about it, but it was too late to pull it back now.

Her smile suddenly became hard. “I didn’t exactly have a choice, you know. It was that, or get back in line for five more years.”

“What was so important? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait?”

The smile vanished completely, leaving just the hardness. Her response was clipped and harsh. “It’s rude to ask an Agent about their life, before…” Emma trailed off, her eyes growing distant.

She was quiet for a long time.

I finished my drink slowly, waiting in vain for her to come back. Placing the empty glass at her feet on the massage table, I turned quietly to leave.

Just as I reached the door, she started talking again—more to herself than to me, it seemed. I felt awkward listening, but it felt more awkward to just walk out.

“Dad left shortly after Sydney was born. I always blamed her for that. It wasn’t her fault; I mean I knew that—it’s not like she
wanted
to spend her life in a wheelchair. A real man would have stayed…cared for his family.

“She always idolized me, and I did everything I could to avoid her. It wasn’t that hard. I was eight years older after all—it was easy to make excuses. And as she grew up, she was smart, beautiful, popular, and she got all of Mom’s attention. I was just…me.”

Emma wiped her eyes, the drink spilling from its glass. She didn’t appear to notice.

“Mom always made me promise to take care of my sister, if anything ever happened to her, to make sure Sydney was okay. I thought it was an empty promise. I really didn’t think…”

“Two days.” Emma shook her head slowly. “I died two days after Mom. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been on Sydney—fourteen, wheelchair-bound, and all alone. I fought to get back here as quickly as possible: begged, borrowed and stole—whatever it took to skip ahead in the line, cut a ten-year wait down to five. When they offered me ‘succubus in Seattle,’ I didn’t even hesitate.”

She paused, slowly deflating. “I can’t find her; phone calls, rewards, detectives…the trail is just too damn cold.” Emma looked up to the ceiling above. “She’ll be thirty tomorrow, and I still don’t know if she’s okay.”

Emma looked down into her glass, her hair falling forward to obscure her features. Her voice barely more than a whisper, she said, “I’m sorry, Mom…I failed.” A few tears landed on her hands and arms, but she made no effort to wipe them away.

I snuck out quietly, leaving her to her sorrow. I didn’t think we were close enough for me to comfort her through this. Besides, she probably wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning.

I closed the door as I left, wondering if there was anything I could do to help.

My apartment was cold and dark.

And empty.

I slumped down onto the couch, physically exhausted.

My mind, though, raced incessantly. My last forty-eight hours had been a carnival ride whirlwind: Michelle, Chris, Joshua, Elliott, Emma and her sister Sydney, Scott, Marv, Grace, Karen…and Robert. Plus three invisible women in white, threats from a mysterious photographer, and the whole freaking Grim Reaper thing.

Not to mention I had no damn idea if the world was still barreling toward a fiery end, or if I was even supposed to have an idea. Would I know when I made the decision, or took the action, that saved or doomed us all?

I grunted quietly in the empty dark.

Too many questions, and too few damn answers.

Tomorrow morning, I was picking Karen up from the hospital. Before then, I had a promise to keep.

So I lay back on the couch, in the dark, and began asking questions. I wasn’t sure who I was asking, and I didn’t know if they would answer.

But, as it turned out, I
could
get answers, even when the question had nothing to do with my assignments. The questions had to be simple. They must be specific.

And they must only concern death.

I can’t, for instance, ask why someone was killed, or who pulled the trigger. Those details are irrelevant in my line of work. I cannot put to rest the great debates of government conspiracy versus lone gunmen.

Trust me, I tried.

What, when, where; these are the things that matter to a Reaper.

What killed this man?

When did it happen?

Where did Robert Eugene Winston die?

Those answers did come…dark answers, which told a tragic tale in brief little puffs of black smoke.

XIV

Death of a Salesman

“My goodness, Michael, I’m fine.”

Karen stood at the foot of her hospital bed, fully dressed. She tapped her sensible tan shoe impatiently while fidgeting with her purse. Eyes bright, gaze sharp—it was hard to believe I’d found this woman floundering on her living room floor just twenty-four hours ago.

Her aura was still dark red; the ribbon had shrunk to three fingers overnight.

It had been a struggle in the first place to convince her a night in the hospital was necessary. Now, waiting on a doctor’s ‘all clear’ appeared almost more than she could bear.

My news certainly wouldn’t improve the situation.

Karen might be well rested and anxious, but I was still thoroughly exhausted. My first opportunity at sleep in two days, and I tossed uncomfortably the entire night. The room had been freezing.

I’d left the window open for Elliott.

Not that it mattered; I still woke up alone.

Shaking off my private thoughts, I attempted a reasonable, placating voice. “Karen, please…”

She cut me off. Her tone remained calm and pleasant, but firm. “I’ve been through this before. Robert and I have lived with this our entire adult lives. I’ll be fine.”

Shaking my head, I gazed into her eyes. “It’s different this time, Karen; otherwise, our mutual friend…”

Karen smiled sadly, interrupting me. “I know, Michael. I know.”

“Listen, about Robert…”

A very young doctor swept into the room, engrossed in the file he carried. He exuded the cocky arrogance of someone who hasn’t lived enough adult life for the world to wear him down properly. Every hair was perfectly in place, and his face was completely smooth; I assumed he was old enough to shave, despite the evidence.

His hospital badge read, “D. Hauser.”

Seriously, Hauser.

Sometimes it’s just too easy.

He considered me briefly. With a dismissive shrug, he turned his attention to Karen. “Ms. Winston?”

“Mrs.,” she responded, in a tone that was pleasant but unyielding.

The doctor rechecked his file, shuffling through the first few pages slowly. “Ah yes, here it is,
Mrs
. Winston.”

He glanced up with a smile.

I chuckled.

Karen simply rolled her eyes. “Goodness, how wonderful. May I leave now, Doctor?”

He responded after once again checking his file. “You’re a very sick woman, Mrs. Winston.”

Karen nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes, that’s nothing new.”

“Your heart…”

“It’s a lost cause; yes, I know.”

Young Dr. Doogie glanced up quickly, a faint shadow crossing his features.

Okay, Doogie probably wasn’t his actual name, but seriously…

“We should run some tests…”

“Oh my, how long is that likely to take?”

The doctor rechecked his file listlessly. “If you’ll only stay here a couple days…”

“I’d be a couple days closer to the grave. No, I think not—I have so few left.”

He looked from his file, to Karen, and back.

“Tell me, Doctor,” she asked, reaching out to pointedly close the folder, “if I stay, can you give me a few more months?”

“Well, no,” he stammered. “I…I certainly…”

“How about weeks?”

“Now, Mrs. Winston…”

“Days?”

The young man stared at Karen, perplexed and flustered. “Ma’am, please…”

“Can you even make me just a teeny bit better?”

Stunned silence was the poor doctor’s only reply.

“If you’ll forgive me, then,” Karen stopped to properly hang the purse from her shoulder, “I’ll be leaving.”

She brushed out past the doctor without looking back.

I should have stopped her—or at least tried. I understood the dire situation of Mrs. Karen Winston’s health, likely far better than the doctor and his precious file.

But, with only a few days to live, Karen knew exactly what she had left to accomplish. How many of us will be lucky enough to say as much?

I hadn’t been.

I patted the doctor’s shoulder and gave him my best commiserative smile. I don’t think it looked much like a smirk at all.

“Better luck next time, Doog…Doctor.”

When I caught up to Karen, her tan, sensible shoe tapped double time by the elevator doors.

“I’m not changing my mind, Michael.”

I nodded somberly. “I know.”

“You and your…
friend
…made me a promise.”

“Yes, we did.”

The tapping of her shoe filled the silence as we waited. Protracted minutes passed before the elevator slid open, allowing us to enter. The hospital corridor vanished behind doors of black and chrome, affording some measure of privacy.

Karen turned to face me with a tear poised at the corner of her eye; she was otherwise calm and collected. “Robert’s dead, isn’t he?”

I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Karen.”

“And you’re certain?”

I took a deep breath. “Our mutual friend is.”

“How…how did it happen?” She squeezed her eyes tight, steeling herself against the answer.

“He was shot.”

Karen gasped slightly, squeezing her eyes tighter. “Do you know why?”

“No, but I do know where.”

She turned back to the elevator doors, composing herself. Without looking, a practiced hand deftly pulled a tissue from deep within her purse, dabbing at each eye once before making the tissue vanish again. Despite the frailty of her body, Karen might well be the strongest woman I’ve ever met. “You will show me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Just to the south of downtown, nestled in the shadows of skyscrapers, lies the neighborhood of SoDo. Home to Seattle’s sports stadiums, the corporate headquarters of Starbucks, and the world’s very first Costco, it encompasses much of the city’s industrial district.

In the northern parts of SoDo, especially around the stadiums, the old industrial and warehouse buildings have been largely remodeled, repurposed, or demolished and rebuilt into thriving commercial and residential spaces. However, as you travel south, the old warehouses still stand, some used for their original purposes, others completely abandoned.

It was to one such abandoned warehouse that I brought Karen Winston.

The building was broad but squat: a two-story tan structure with a ring of windows just below the roofline, mostly cracked or busted out. Part of the old sign still hung above a row of three dingy white garage bay doors. Only a few faded red letters remained: r and m above, and a y below.

Behind the warehouse lay a beautiful but empty stretch of Puget Sound coastline. The surrounding city blocks contained only other abandoned buildings. There were no cars besides ours, nor any foot traffic.

It was the perfect place to work without notice, or interruption. The busted windows stared back at us like a hundred black, hungry eyes.

I shivered.

Karen shifted in her seat, looking straight out ahead. We hadn’t spoken since the hospital, but she clearly knew we’d arrived at our destination.

A small parking lot on the street side of the building stood empty, save for two large, rusted dumpsters by the front door. I pulled the Mustang into one of the spots furthest from the entrance and killed the engine. I’m not exactly sure why I chose to park so far away.

Whatever the reason, I’d be grateful later.

My companion opened her door in silence.

I reached out to grab an arm, holding her back. “Karen, I don’t know what’s in there.”

Transfixed, she didn’t take her eyes from the warehouse—but neither did she pull away. “Answers.”

Shaking my head, I shrugged. “Maybe…and maybe not. At least let me take the lead.”

Karen glanced over. Tears still threatened at the corners of her eyes, but did not fall. She nodded hesitantly.

I didn’t give her a chance to reconsider the decision. In one swift motion, I released her, pushed open my door, and slipped out of the car. Doing my best to pretend the spooky warehouse of death looming ominously above did not bother me, I strode confidently forward.

Well, I did my best to at least look confident. In truth, I was scared as hell. I had no idea what waited for us inside.

A car door closed behind me. Footsteps hurried to keep up.

As I approached the dumpsters, I slowed, examining them carefully. Their placement bothered me, as if they’d been left there deliberately—sentinels guarding the fortress. I couldn’t help but feel they were important, or would be.

Of course, I’ve been wrong before.

With a shrug, I continued on.

The front door was metal, rusted but still intact. Deep craters marred the surface, as if from heavy hammer blows. A thick mat of cobwebs covered the door, frame, and even the craters.

Locks squealed and groaned in protest, straining to heed my summons. A section of the frame broke away with a loud crack, allowing the door to swing freely inward. The whine of its hinges echoed into the dark beyond the threshold.

Doors typically relock themselves after I’ve passed; that seemed unlikely this time.

Karen gasped behind me. If she asked, I’d just say I forced the lock.

Hopefully that would be convincing enough.

I turned back to Karen, only two steps behind. She didn’t even mention the door. “Give me a couple…” The words caught in my throat.

Movement across the street had stolen my attention—a flash in an abandoned second-story window. Three figures, dressed all in white, watched over us ominously.

They were too far off to make out details, but it didn’t matter. I was reasonably certain of who it was.

A part of me wanted Karen to look, to confirm I wasn’t going crazy. I knew, though, what she’d see.

The same thing as Elliott.

Nothing.

My spine tingled; it’s not like I wasn’t already nervous enough.

I’d just have to ignore my strange spectators until there was a good reason to do otherwise. I only wished I knew what they meant.

I put a hand on Karen’s shoulder, refocusing my attention. “Give me a couple minutes to check things out.”

She nodded, staring into the dark, oblivious to my distractions.

I had no idea what awaited inside but, while Karen was defenseless, my new job afforded certain skills and protections. I might not be invisible, but I could certainly be sneaky, and the scythe would make for one hell of a weapon should the need arise.

A wave of cold washed over me as I slipped inside the dark entry, which almost masked my tingling apprehension. I stumbled slightly. The nausea of assuming the Reaper’s visage seemed to grow stronger with each transition, as did the tainted lure of attraction. It felt as if two halves of me warred for control. Eventually, one would win, and the other would be lost.

If I didn’t move quickly, my building anxiety would root my feet in place. It seemed the beating of my heart might just echo off the walls.

The hallway ran for perhaps twenty yards before opening into the main body of the warehouse. A single, massive, two-story room filled the majority of the building. Beside the hall, a rusted metal staircase led to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs, a crumbling catwalk ran the perimeter of the building, directly below the ring of windows. Above the hallway sat an office, approximately thirty feet wide, which the catwalk met on both ends.

The windows, dingy from age, provided a muted gray illumination—enough to see by. Three large rolling doors sat in the back of the building, mirroring those in the front. The middle door sat open a few feet, under which a sliver of the Sound glittered in the sun.

A few discarded crates littered the warehouse floor, some intact but most shattered. More likely than not, they served as occasional beds for those with no better place to go.

I shuddered. The scene seemed subtly off, a vague impression I couldn’t quite put my finger on.