His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (18 page)

Eventually, he’d grow to doubt what had happened tonight. One day, he would convince himself I was nothing more than a hallucination.

I just hoped Marcus’s mother would have enough time to straighten herself out first.

The folded list on the passenger seat taunted me.

I itched to be back at my International District home, making phone calls and finding Michelle. What I’d do about her then, I wasn’t sure; that didn’t matter yet.

First, I had to find her.

I ran my fingertips over the stack of papers, emotions roiling in frustration.

We’d only visited four of the five addresses on today’s itinerary. Karen had picked an unchecked Everett address for the fifth stop. Now that I was here anyway, it wouldn’t take very long to swing by—maybe even stumble on a useful clue.

I needed to find Michelle, but I didn’t intend to abandon Karen in the process.

She only had a couple of days left.

The pages were covered with Karen’s notes in a neat, precise hand. Stop one was Emily Panner in Wedgewood, followed by Walter Scott in Ballard. Third was KKD in Magnolia, which ended up being the shifty little Bradley Kim. Fourth had been Michelle.

It took a minute to find the fifth entry, near the bottom of the second to last page. When I did, my blood turned to ice.

The initials were MCO, with an address on Rucker Avenue in Everett; someone had drawn a line through that address, writing in another. The print was large and far less precise than Karen’s.

It read, “Honey Pot Motel, Room 227.”

XXI

A New Plan

“Yes, again, Michelle Harris…coma.”

“Well,” the woman responded, a little tinny over my low end, disposable cell. “What’s her social security number?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Twice…she’d asked that twice already. “I’m afraid I still don’t have it.”

She was nice, and she was trying to be helpful, but if brains were anchors, she’d float away…pulling the entire crew to their deaths. Of course, I was calling in the middle of the night. If I wanted the number one team, I’d do better calling during business hours.

“And when was she admitted?”

Third time for that question as well.

“Around January fourth.”

“Please hold.”

Classical music came over the earpiece.

I drained my beer, dropping the empty bottle beside its twin on the small kitchen counter.

A few seconds later, the woman returned. “I’m afraid there’s no one by that name in our records. If you had her social security number…”

I disconnected the call.

That was every Seattle hospital. Next, I’d have to start calling nursing homes, but that list was daunting, to say the least.

I opened the refrigerator to peer inside.

“Tough day, Michael?”

Peeking over the open door, I found Elliott sprawled on top of the couch like he’d relaxed there for hours; he hadn’t been home since I arrived earlier tonight. Despite the locked doors and windows, he still managed to come and go as he pleased.

“You could say that.”

I pulled out another bottle, twirling it in my hand as I considered whether I wanted a third. The beer was one of my favorites—Kilt Lifter, a scotch-style ruby ale from the Pike Brewing Company. It was better in their restaurant near Pike Place Market, on tap, but the bottles were more convenient for nights like tonight.

At 6.5%, it was heavier than a Bud or a Coors, and I’d already had two. If I downed a third, my head would complain in the morning.

“I assume, then, that you have been unsuccessful in your search for the assassin?”

With a sigh, I returned the bottle and slammed the refrigerator door.

“You could say that, too.”

“Or for Miss Harris?”

I cocked an eyebrow at the cat. In theory, he shouldn’t even know that Michelle was alive, let alone that I was looking for her.

There was no point in giving him the satisfaction of seeing my shock.

I crossed to the couch, an admittedly short walk, and settled onto a cushion. I felt defeated.

Maybe a fresh idea would present itself tomorrow.

Elliott pushed himself up onto his haunches. He took a deep breath before speaking, the air whistling slightly in his nostrils. “How can I be of assistance?”

My mouth dropped open. “Pardon me?”

The cat hesitated, taking a second long, whistling breath before responding. “I do not believe I stuttered. I wish to help in your endeavors.”

I melodramatically cleaned my ears, using a fingertip. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

Elliott rolled his eyes and mewed. “Please, Reaper, let us not make this a whole production.”

I leaned forward toward him. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

He dipped his head in a shrug. “I have been speaking with Emma. She helped me to understand a few things.”

“Emma…is that right?”

“Yes, she is a remarkable woman.”

“A woman that keeps you stocked in fresh tuna steaks.”

“Well, yes, there is that.”

Scratching behind Elliott’s ear, I smiled for what felt like the first time in days. “Well, please do share.”

The cat purred as I scratched, which lent his voice a deep, gravelly quality. “I originally thought you were simply being irrational, running around on your foolish errand with Mrs. Winston.”

I couldn’t help but smirk as I continued scratching. “Oh, is that so?”

Elliott started to butt his head into my hand, all pretense of dignity discarded. “Yes. Emma explained to me that humans, especially those she described as ‘being of strong character,’ often feel a duty, almost a compulsion, to help others in need.”

For some reason, knowing that Emma felt that way about me helped raise my spirits, if only a little bit. We’d come a long way since I’d run from her screaming, and she’d dumped a bucket of cold water on me.

“You don’t say?”

The cat nodded. “I too was shocked.” He flipped to his back, shamelessly fishing for a good belly scratch.

I stifled a laugh, paying enthusiastic attention to his exposed underside. He writhed in feline ecstasy while batting playfully at my hand.

I laughed outright. “Anything else?”

The cat flipped quickly back to his feet, butting my shoulder once with his forehead. “Well yes, actually. I realized that my feelings for you have grown beyond duty. I daresay I am growing quite fond of you.”

“You needed Emma’s help realizing that?”

“Yes.” The cat hesitated. “I have never before had a friend.”

Okay, the furry little shit got me.

I scratched Elliott in silence a while before responding.

“I’m not buying fresh tuna.”

“Do not worry, we have Emma for that.” My black friend smiled with a wink, which was still more disturbing than I can possibly express.

I had two problems to solve: find the assassin and find Michelle. I couldn’t do both; honestly, it was difficult enough trying to accomplish just one. The right choice was for me to focus on the most important task. Elliott could pursue the other.

I just hated to admit which was which.

“Okay, I do need your help, buddy. Go find Michelle for me.”

I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling as the same list of names ran repeatedly through my head: Walter, Emily, Marcus, Robert, Michelle.

People who should still be healthy and whole.

People who deserved far better than they’d been given.

Walter, Emily, Marcus, Robert, Michelle.

They deserved justice, or at least a little balancing of the scales. Not to mention all of their family and friends, whose lives would never be the same.

Walter, Emily, Marcus, Robert, Michelle.

And Henry.

I am fourteen.

My brother is twelve.

He lies on a black sheet in a room with no furniture, walls or floor. Blue smoke swirls around us both.

He is scared.

“Don’t worry, Stevie. I’ll protect you.”

I carry a massive sword in both hands. I struggle to raise it, but it is so very heavy. This responsibility is not meant to be mine; it is too great. But Dad is gone.

There’s no one else.

Dark shapes move through the smoke, but I am not sure which are friend and which are foe.

I am, after all, only a boy.

Stevie calls out to me, but I can’t hear his words.

“It’s okay, little brother,” I say, smiling. “I’ll always be right here.”

Something knocks me to the ground.

I twist and thrash, straining to see my attacker.

There is nothing there.

I hear Stevie screaming.

The world fades to black.

I jerked up, heart racing, my body awash in a cold sweat. I’d had enough of the damn nightmares.  Now I was not only exhausted, but also wide awake.

Checking my phone, I saw it was only four twenty-three. I’d been out for roughly fifteen minutes.

Maybe Reapers just aren’t supposed to sleep at night.

I lay back down, trying to get comfortable.  Hopefully I could get a few hours of sleep before picking up Karen in the morning.

Seven hours later, Karen and I sat once again in the pale green Mustang, watching Bradley Kim’s house. Mr. Kim didn’t likely have good memories of either me, or the Mustang, so we’d parked two blocks away.

I’d hate to spook him now without getting a good look.

I yawned loudly.

Dreams had haunted what little sleep I’d gotten. Four nights had come and gone without any decent rest. I was nearly as much of a zombie as Scott White had been in his blood-soaked, garbage dump of a living room.

I alternated between watching the street, and watching Mr. Kim’s yard.  For now, there was nothing else to do.

Watching…

Watching…

“Michael?” Karen was shaking my shoulder.
“Goodness, Michael, are you even still here?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I was just thinking.”

“Do you frequently snore like that when you’re thinking?”

I turned to face Karen, smirking.

The smirk quickly faded.

Her aura was still pitch black, and now had shrunk to well under two inches. She smiled brightly, completely unaware that after over thirty years of struggle, her heart would finally give out tomorrow, or maybe the day after.

Patting her hand, I returned the smile hollowly. “I’m here now.”

Karen nodded to the sidewalk ahead. “So is your friend.”

A golden retriever sat patiently at one end of its leash. At the other end, Mr. ShortBlondPerfectlyPartedHair stared at us incredulously, wearing a different pair of expensive slacks with a crisp, dark blue polo. He carried a green and white golf umbrella under one arm against the threat of the gathered clouds.

His eyes flashed, bright and sharp, as he examined the Mustang and its occupants. The look on his face suggested he might be constipated, and the leash shook in his fist.

I waggled my fingers at him in an exaggerated friendly greeting.

He turned on the spot and strode his uptight ass quickly around the corner.

I’m a people person.

Karen chuckled, then quickly cleared her throat. “When is your courier coming?”

“Eleven-fifteen, in theory.”

My companion checked her watch. “He’s late.”

I pointed three blocks down the street, where a messenger-bag-carrying cyclist was turning the corner. “There
she
is now. Hand me the binoculars.”

Our cyclist turned up Bradley’s drive and dismounted, slowing to examine the yard with a shake of her head before walking to the front door. She pulled a large manila envelope from her bag and double-checked the address before knocking.

The envelope contained approximately thirty sheets of blank white paper. But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

I slipped lower into the Mustang’s seat, bringing up the binoculars.

When Bradley didn’t answer after roughly sixty seconds, the courier rang the doorbell. She waited another sixty seconds, then left the package ten feet from the door, behind a marble column, and cycled away.

Exactly as instructed.

The street was empty for almost five minutes before the door finally opened a crack. It stayed open like that for another five minutes.