His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (2 page)

II

The Cadaver’s New Clothes

The moon, barely a sliver, casts a stark, cold light on the blanket of snow below. It’s only three inches deep, but even that much is rare in Seattle. Moonlight reflects from the surface, shimmering as if from a million tiny diamonds; the night is bright, but still and quiet.

We are alone.

I wrap my arms around Michelle and she nuzzles into my chest before looking up. She bites her lower lip; she’s nervous. I’ve only known her four days, just since New Year’s Eve, but I already read her better than anyone else I know.

She nods, smiling for a moment, as if reading my thoughts in return.

Michelle takes a deep, halting breath. “Would you like to come up for a minute?” She blurts it out all at once, as if afraid she might lose her courage somewhere in the middle.

My heart races. “Sure,” I say, smirking with a forced bravado. “But just for a minute. I’ve got plans tonight.”

She slaps my arm playfully, laughing.

The snow crunches beneath our feet as we walk, hand in hand. It’s the only sound in the world, not counting the thunderous beating of my heart—but I’m sure no one can hear that but me.

You know, probably.

I climb the stairs in a daze, my thoughts a tumultuous jumble. Michelle is amazing: smart and funny, compassionate and loving, and quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. She’s the kind of woman that changes a man’s life.

We stop before door 3C while she fumbles for keys. The doormat is a stylized owl, in brown and gray wicker. It asks the question, “Who’s there?”

I cock an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” she says, smiling. “It was a gift.”

The door swings open; the apartment inside is dark. Michelle slips quickly through, leaving me alone to contemplate the black, yawning maw of destiny.

One part of me is giddy schoolboy eager to rush forward, while the other is cautious, anxiously hanging back. My heart struggles to play mediator, beating wildly between the two.

The door closes behind me—almost, it seems, before I make my decision.

Michelle glances back over her shoulder, face framed by cascades of long black hair. She smiles with a confidence absent only moments before.

I swallow hard.

“I’ll be right here,” I say.

Her smile widens. “Not for long, I hope.” Perhaps it is my imagination, or maybe she is simply more comfortable at home, but her hips sway far more than I previously noticed.

Maybe she just knows I’m watching.

Michelle turns away, her rich brown skin vanishing quickly into the dark.

Harsh light spills from her bedroom a few seconds later. The bed’s corner is just visible, with a soft pink flowered bedspread; at its side stands a dark cherry nightstand. The light does little to brighten the room where I wait.

My heart beats like fevered jungle drums; a shiver runs the length of my body and my breath quickens. Michelle Harris is an amazing woman, better than I deserve. I’ve dated off and on, but I haven’t felt this way since Sarah Carlton.

Sarah…

If not for Sarah’s accident, I’d have never met Michelle; Sarah and I would likely be married today.

I shake my head, clearing out the ghosts. Tonight is about the future, not a ten-year-old, tragic past. I’ve known Michelle only a few days, but tonight, I can feel, the story of my life will take a dramatic new turn.

A sharp sound comes from the bedroom—like the pop of a small balloon.

I jump. The noise seems out of place, punctuated by the ominous stillness that follows.

“Michelle?”

Silence.

The warmth drains quickly away, replaced by an icy, tingling dread. I take one tentative step down the hall, and then another. “Is everything all right?”

Panic flares, but I can’t seem to stop now. A few more steps bring her room fully into view.

Michelle sits, slumped forward, on the corner of the bed. Her jeans and t-shirt lie discarded on the floor; her bra, unclasped, hangs loosely from her arms. She has the look of a broken doll, dropped by a distracted child.

Normally beautiful eyes, wide in shock, sit sunken in a face drained of color. Michelle’s dark, rich brown skin is unnaturally pale. Both hands are pressed to her abdomen, just below the bare left breast; blood, thick and red, spills over them.

I sat straight up, instantly wide awake. My heart raced; my palms were coated with sweat.

Michelle
.

“Joshua,” I called out. Panicked, my eyes darted about the morgue. “Where is she?” They settled on the wall of body drawers.
Not there
, I thought, frantically.
Please not there.

Joshua walked into view, leaning on his cane. “She who, exactly?”

I stood slowly, staring at the drawers. The sheet slipped down to the floor, leaving me naked. I didn’t care. The debilitating pain of earlier was all but gone; my joints and muscles felt tight and fatigued, but grudgingly serviceable.

“Michelle.” I spoke the name softly, almost a whisper, as I stepped forward.

Joshua followed along, content for the moment to let me take the lead. “Michelle?”

I spun, turning on him angrily. “Damn it, Joshua…Michelle!  Michelle Harris!  I met her at Steve’s party!  You were right there, for God’s sake!”

He stood resolute in the heat of my anger, searching my face. The gears turned almost visibly as he processed my venomous words.

And then his eyes went wide.

“Henry?” he asked tentatively. “Henry Richards?”

Something in my mind clicked.

Yes, that was my name…Henry Michael Richards. A sudden spike of joy pushed its way roughly between the fear for Michelle and my own anger and confusion. The resulting mix of emotion was dizzying. I barely managed a single slight nod before turning back toward the drawers.

Joshua grasped my shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand, halting my forward progress. “She’s not there,” he said. “It’s been six months.”

I faced him slowly, my mouth growing dry. “Excuse me?”

“It’s July, Henry; you’ve been gone since January.”

Six months.

It wasn’t possible.

I’d been with Michelle just minutes ago. The scent of her perfume still lingered in my thoughts. The memory of her fingertips tickled at the back of my hand.

Joshua led me again to the autopsy table, where I sank down without struggle or complaint, lost in my own thoughts.

Had I been in a coma? That could explain losing six months. He might be lying, of course, but what would he stand to gain? And there was my new, strange reflection…

Plastic surgery? Some sort of accident?

But then, how did I end up in the morgue, and why hadn’t Joshua known who I was?

And where was Michelle?

I opened my mouth to start asking questions, but Joshua beat me to the punch.

“It’s only been six months, Henry. How did you get back so damn fast?”

I was caught off guard by his incomprehensible question; my mouth still hanging open. I finally managed an, “Uh, what?”

He continued on as if I hadn’t said anything at all, speaking to himself more than me. “The waiting list was almost ten years last time I checked. Hell, you can barely cross over in six months.”

The more Joshua said, the less I understood.

“Cross over?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Into the afterlife.”

A flood of ice water spilled through my veins, chilling me to the very core. “Afterlife…you mean I’m dead?”

Joshua shrugged. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”

The flames of anger began to grow once again. “A matter of…are you kidding me?”

I pinched a generous amount of arm skin in demonstration. “I’m here, flesh and blood, talking to you. How can I possibly be dead?”

He sighed heavily, settling onto the autopsy table beside me. “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you, son?”

The fire inside died as quickly as it had flamed into life, leaving a void filled only with loss and hopelessness. I shook my head slowly.

Joshua grabbed a small mirror from the tray of surgical instruments, handing it to me. “You’re here, flesh and blood, Henry…but’s it’s not your flesh and it’s not your blood.”

I raised the mirror slowly.

The stranger once again stared back from the reflection.

My new hair, while still brown, was shorter and a little lighter; it stood in a cool, slightly spiky style that the old me could never pull off. As before, I was probably a couple inches over six foot and about two hundred pounds, but the outline of my body appeared more chiseled, with better definition.

I’d been heavily freckled my entire life, but my complexion was now even and clear. The face was thinner, and more ruggedly handsome. The old me was thirty-four; the new Henry might be the same age, but he was less worn down by the years.

This was not plastic surgery. Really and truly, I was in a new body.

Another person’s body.

A wave of revulsion washed over me.

I laid the mirror on the table between us, glass down. “What the hell is going on, Joshua?”

“You died on the fourth of January, Henry. I attended your funeral…they buried you right beside your father.” Joshua stopped for a minute, tears filling his eyes.

It had never occurred to me that he and my dad might have been close; as a child, you fail to notice those sorts of things.

He wiped his eyes and continued on. “When a person dies, their soul crosses over. That usually takes six to nine months, but can take years for some people. When they arrive on the other side, they’re given a choice: continue on to their faith-specific final destination or, as an Agent, return here to Earth. There’s a wide variety of very necessary jobs among the living filled by Agents from the afterlife.”

“Like Reapers?” I asked doubtfully.

Joshua nodded. “Yes, and angels, and demons, and so many others you’d never imagine. Most souls choose to continue on, but a lot want to come back; there’s a waiting list years long. When your turn comes up, you either accept the position you’re offered or go back to the end of the line to start waiting all over again.”

I could feel the corners of my lips pull down and my forehead furrow. “But it’s always a choice?”

He nodded again. “Yes, your choice to be on the waiting list, your choice to accept a position or not.”

“So,” I took a long, deep breath, “why didn’t I get a choice?”

Joshua frowned again, deeply. “Of course you got a choice, Henry. You just don’t remember it, right now.”

I shook my head. “I was drifting upward—I remember that. I remember the sudden change in direction—the painful tumble back down. There was no one else until I woke up here, with you.”

He looked shocked. “But they must have given you a choice. They couldn’t…” He trailed off, thinking for a moment. “Are you sure?”

I locked eyes with Joshua. “No one gave me a choice—and I want to know what’s going on.”

Joshua shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, and that…well, damn it, Henry, that worries me.”

The ensuing silence was long and heavy, almost oppressive. It was all so much to process; I didn’t know where to begin. The idea of wearing another man’s body made my skin crawl—and then I realized it wasn’t my skin crawling, which only made the whole thing worse.

“There’s clearly been a mistake, Joshua. I’m no Reaper.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “At the very least, there’s something damn unusual going on.” Joshua looked thoughtfully across the room. “But there is one quick way to get some answers now.” Using his cane to help him stand, he walked to a desk by the door. Bending down, he pulled a large bundle wrapped in brown paper from beneath it. “Try this on.” He tossed the package across the room.

It was much too large for jeans and a t-shirt, landing heavily in my hands. I tore away the paper to reveal enough rough black canvas to cover an elephant.

“You seriously want me to wear a tent?”

Joshua shook his head. “Put it on.”

“A damn morbid
circus
tent.” Shaking out the folds of canvas exposed a monstrous black robe with two arms and a hood. It might actually be fairly stylish, were I a twelve-foot-tall, penniless monk.

In the Middle Ages.

I glanced up, ready to object again.

Joshua glowered at me, nervousness tightening the corners of his eyes.

His tension was infectious, making me nervous as I slipped into the robe. Only, by the time I’d pulled both arms into the prodigious sleeves, it inexplicably fit as if it had been tailored for me. The cut was so perfect that the front stayed firmly closed without buttons or latches.

“Well.” He gave a deep sigh. “That answers one question, at least.”

“It does?” I asked, confused.

Joshua nodded. “The robe, as you may have gathered, is not your garden variety garment. It is a Reaper’s uniform, and only a Reaper can wear it.”