His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (25 page)

But my smartass response caught in my throat.

You can’t win them all.

The trick is to learn from your mistakes.

A wave of tingling excitement coursed through me.

Make your losses count for something.

Maybe he understood better than I did.

“I need to get out of here, Steve.”

The Reaper might not be invisible, but I could certainly sneak by anyone too busy looking the other way.

My brother tensed.

“And…” I held my breath, “I’ll need a distraction.”

Steve hesitated, his eyes hard. It still wasn’t entirely clear if he believed me, after all. He might choose to deny my need, simply because he needed more proof.

Or, worse, my brother might believe every word I said and still choose to be a cop first.

In which case, I might just be screwed.

I had someplace important to be, and for the first time in days, I knew exactly what to do when I got there.

I took a deep breath, waiting in tense silence.

XXX

The Great Escape

Steve growled, agitated. “You’re asking one hell of a lot, Henry.”

I nodded. “Believe me, I know.”

“You’re a suspect in at least three homicides. There’s a mountain of evidence. I could lose my job.”

“
Now
you’re worried about your job?” I rubbed my chest above the broken ribs.

My brother shrugged, abashed. “I was angry.”

“I noticed.”

He hesitated for longer than I would have liked. “I’ve been a cop a long time.”

“You’ve been my brother longer.”

Pacing in front of the door, Steve ran both hands through his hair. “My brother is dead.”

“Was dead.”

“I was at your damn funeral,” he snapped.

“Me too,” I responded with a smirk.

That drew a weak laugh. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

“Listen, Steve, if I stay locked up here, more people are going to die.”

“So I go pick up this Bradley Kim, bring him in.”

I rolled my eyes. “On what grounds, little brother?”

“Protective custody.” But Steve’s voice sounded weak and uncertain.

“Mr. Kim is only one of many; there are about ten more innocent people on that list, marked for death. You going to bring them all in? Without any reason?”

My brother shrugged, quietly thinking.

“Look, Steve, either you believe me or you don’t.”

“It’s not that simple, Henry.”

I shook my head. “It really is.”

Steve folded his arms stubbornly, leaning back against the door.

“I’m not asking you to sneak me out under your coat. Just cause a little confusion. You can even leave me locked in here. I’ll do the rest.”

My brother’s expression was incredulous. “What makes you think you can handle the door?”

I walked to the door and shoved hard. It swung open behind Steve, dumping him unceremoniously into the hall.

“How the hell…” He trailed off, staring at the door.

I shrugged, smiling.

Steve stood, dusting himself off. The door swung closed behind him, relocking itself. “Okay, fine; you can handle the door, but what then? This room is surrounded by a couple hundred cops. How do you plan to handle them?”

“All I need is a distraction.” Just a moment with no one watching me…to do what I do.

A twinkle lit my brother’s eyes and a mischievous grin spread slowly across his face, wiping away months of anguish and worry. “A distraction…but it doesn’t have to be me, right?”

Relieved, I released a long, slow breath. “What do you have in mind?”

I handed Steve a slip of paper with my phone number and a fake name.

He examined it, shaking his head. “Mr. Griffin Bell, eh?”

I shrugged. “Well, Griffey Ball seemed a little too obvious.”

Steve shook his head again, chuckling. “You’ve changed; subtlety never used to be your thing.”

“Dying will do that to a man.”

My brother sobered quickly. “Be careful, Henry. I’ll kick your ass if you die on me again.” Without skipping a beat, he hit the intercom by the locked interrogation room door and barked in an entirely different voice, “I’m done with this piece of shit.”

Limping back to the table, I settled into a chair opposite the door, facing it.

Steve sauntered over casually, grabbing a fistful of my shirt. “One of these days, you’re going to tell me the rest of what you’re hiding.”

I frowned, shaking my head. “Don’t count on it.”

We waited just over thirty seconds, until we heard someone unlocking the door. Steve started screaming, “You damn son of a bitch, I’ll kill you.” My brother looked enraged, almost homicidal. If I hadn’t known he was acting, I’d have feared for my life.

A shiver ran along my spine all the same.

He threw me back from the table just as the door opened.

I stumbled into the wall furthest from the door, which required no acting whatsoever on my part.

Detective Thomas rushed into the room, throwing himself around his fellow officer. He called frantically for reinforcements as Steve continued to advance despite Erik’s best efforts.

Three other men ran in after him, two in uniform, to pull my brother out. He screamed obscenities and threats the whole time, fighting to get away and attack me.

Or, at least, that’s how it looked to everyone else.

The door slammed and locked behind them.

In the struggle, no one remembered to plug in the room’s only video camera.

I watched the parking lot through a narrow, barred window. My brother appeared, escorted by three uniformed officers, his partner Trey, and his captain.

Just as he’d predicted.

They led him to his car. He continued screaming the whole way, for good measure, but ultimately Trey drove them both away.

Away from the precinct, and suspicion.

Detective Thomas returned five minutes later, his hair and clothing disheveled from the struggle with Steve. A wide, smug smile split his face despite his appearance. “I tried to warn you, Michael. Detective Richards loved his brother very much. You, he’s not quite so fond of.”

I gave Erik my best shocked, wide-eyed stare. “Keep that crazy asshole away from me.”

His smug smile grew wider. “Well, I’m afraid we have to let you go. See, we don’t have enough to hold you. Best of luck.”

He turned to leave, and his eyes fell on the unplugged camera.

“I’ll confess,” I screamed frantically.

“Oh?” He turned back, feigning surprise. “You will?”

Standing, I stumbled slowly toward him. “I just need a couple of things first.”

“Anything, Michael, of course.”

Right where he wanted me.

“Some alcohol, and bandages, before these wounds get infected.”

“Oh, those do look nasty. You should be more careful.”

He left the room, laughing quietly under his breath.

Right where I wanted him.

And, once again, the camera was forgotten.

Steve had given me a couple of suggestions for places to hide in the precinct. He didn’t realize I could hide right here.

Around the room, lights flickered as the bell tolled in my head. If someone were watching, they’d see the transformation…know I was still there.

But no one was watching.

I unbuttoned my shirt to expose the ribs. As I’d feared, one had a hairline fracture; a second, with a more significant break, pointed inward. I’d have to deal with that at some point, later.

I knelt down by the door, riding the wave of nausea, and waited.

It didn’t take long for Detective Erik Thomas to return, his hands laden with bandages, iodine and hydrogen peroxide. He whistled a little tune, smiling.

“So, Michael…” He trailed off, eyes wide. His burden, forgotten, crashed to the floor. Jerking back and forth, Erik examined the room in disbelief. His eyes passed over me unseeing, repeatedly, growing larger on each pass.

He spun from the room, screaming, “The son of a bitch has escaped!”

Behind him, the door closed.

The commotion beyond my interrogation room was instantaneous and intense. Hundreds of voices started screaming in all directions. An alarm bell, like a fire alarm, filled the entire building with its ear-piercing screech. Police sirens spun up in the parking lot as uniformed officers began their patrols of the surrounding streets.

An older officer I didn’t recognize popped her head briefly into the interrogation room, plugged the camera back in, and continued on her way.

I smiled wolfishly.

The camera no longer mattered.

Ten minutes passed as I waited.

Someone eventually turned off the siren, but the cacophony of voices was still clear as the precinct was searched room by room. No doubt, were I just an ordinary criminal, there’d be no hope of escaping detection.

The locked door swung open at my request, allowing me to step into the hallway. This particular area had already been cleared, so there were no police in evidence. After all, this was the very place from which I’d escaped; they wouldn’t find me here, right?

I strolled casually through the hallways, skirting the officers performing their room by room searches.

Without realizing it, they also avoided me, just like every other person I’d encountered as the Reaper. These officers were brave, selfless, and committed professionals, but on some basic level, we all fear death.

At one point, I turned a corner to find Detective Erik Thomas running straight toward me through the hallway. His eyes stared ahead, unaware of my presence.

I easily sidestepped his progress. Unfortunately…
somehow
…the unseen handle of my scythe got tangled in his feet, sending him heavily to the ground.

It was an accident, I swear.

Three minutes later, still chuckling, I stepped nonchalantly out between two officers into an early gray Seattle morning.

XXXI

Cost of Failure

The walk took nearly an hour with my slow, limping gait. I briefly stopped to watch the commotion at Karen’s condo from a safe distance. Numerous police cruisers still sat in the parking lot, their lights flashing. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off most of the complex.

Officers explored the neighboring buildings and grounds in widening circles. On the lake, I could just make out a police boat. They were probably looking for the gun that killed Karen and Detective Steve Richards’ brother.

It would likely end up in their possession soon enough, no doubt in a way that would prove extremely incriminating for me. My adversary didn’t seem the type to overlook such an important detail, or to leave it to chance.

The usual crowd of onlookers and reporters lined the yellow tape, pushing as close as possible to the action. A little morbid for my taste…but Reapers in glass houses, and all that.

There was no coroner’s van—at least none that I could see—which meant Karen was really and truly gone from my life.

A stark, painful reminder of my failure.

Luckily, I’d parked far enough from Karen’s condo that the police hadn’t yet found Robert Winston’s Mustang. Elliott waited for me in the passenger seat, as if we’d planned the rendezvous.

I didn’t bother asking how he knew to be there.

Or how he’d gotten in the locked vehicle.

He was a cat, after all.

“Morning, fur ball.”

“Good morning, Reaper. You are late.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Wasn’t aware we had a timetable.”

“A competent Agent would have escaped hours ago.” He examined me critically. “Before being beaten senseless.”

“You’re suggesting,” I responded slyly, “that I had any sense in the first place.”

“A fair point,” Elliott conceded.

Checking once more for unwanted police interest, I pulled out into the Green Lake morning traffic.

“May I ask where we are going?”

“Seattle Center.”

The cat raised an eyebrow. “Is this really the best time to see the sights?”

The Space Needle, only a few hundred yards away, loomed high above against an ominous cloud-filled sky.

I parked on Warren Avenue North once again, a number of blocks from my destination and about half a block from where Warren curves into Republican Street at the gates of Seattle Center. There was an abundance of closer parking, but each passing day made me more paranoid. To be honest, that paranoia was the only reason I still had a car.

And quite possibly, my life.

“Do you really think he is still alive, Michael?”

I considered the odds. Auras might not all diminish at the same rate, or even a constant rate—I should have asked Joshua for more details when I’d had the chance.

“No,” I admitted bitterly, punching the steering wheel. Karen had been more than a trap—she’d been a distraction. It was no coincidence that their auras ran out at roughly the same time.

It was my naïve ignorance.

“Then why have we come?”

“Because the assassin could have left a clue, or might even still be here.”

Elliott waited patiently, staring at me in that unblinking way that only cats have.

“And because I might just be wrong.”

“Now that, Reaper, is at least plausible.”

I responded gruffly, “Go catch a mouse or something.”

He grinned.

The street appeared deserted, but I slipped into the Reaper guise anyway while sneaking slowly through the car door.

All hail paranoia, Emperor of Rome.

It bothered me briefly that I grew more comfortable with the nausea each time I changed. Soon, I might not notice it at all.

What did that say about me?

I limped three blocks uphill to the apartment building, head on a constant swivel. My breath grew quickly labored and painful as lungs struggled under broken ribs. Hopefully Angels of Death get sick leave, because I’d need some serious R&R after this whole thing was over.

If I survived, at least.

So maybe not, after all.

Nobody appeared along the street as I walked, either looking for me or not. Still, instead of ringing the buzzer, I asked the security door to open and slipped inside.

Dave Clarke wasn’t likely to answer anyway.

And if someone else was waiting, I didn’t want him to know I was coming just yet.

The door to number 3 wasn’t locked, or even completely closed; it pushed open easily without me turning the knob. Inside, the small apartment was cold and dark. The smell of burned coffee hung in the air, almost pungent enough to cover a fouler, coppery odor.

I slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind me before letting the Reaper drop away. Perhaps I should have been more cautious, but it seemed unlikely my adversary would lie in wait behind an unlocked door.

From the front entry, my view of the living room and kitchenette was clear. Both were empty.

Dave lay on the floor of the sleeping area, behind the half wall, in a crumpled heap amidst piles of computer equipment. There were two gunshot wounds in his chest, and a third to his forehead. A large blood pool covered much of the bedroom floor, dried around the edges but still glossy in the middle.

In the center of Dave’s bed sat a large silver handgun with a black rubber grip. It wasn’t gift wrapped, with a shiny pink bow…but with the placement, so ridiculously obvious, it might as well have had a gift tag that read, “Merry Christmas to Seattle PD.”

Someone like Detective Erik Thomas wouldn’t think twice. It was a clear condemnation, and there was no doubt in my mind the same gun would match not only Dave’s attack, but Karen’s, Michelle’s and mine as well. There was no way to link the gun directly to me, but that wouldn’t be necessary for another arrest.

Maybe not even for a conviction.

If things ever even went that far.

I sighed.

Dave was so young—so energetic; his life should have lasted for, at least, decades more. Instead, he was simply discarded…crossed off a list.

And added to another.

I had no room for more anger; it had boiled over days ago. When the opportunity came, though—for retribution and to even the scales—David Clarke would be one more burning memory, driving me forward.

I carefully skirted the edges of the blood pool, doing my best to move without leaving further evidence of my presence. More than anything, I wanted to keep my name clear.

Or, at least, a little less dirty.

Being discovered here, with a dead body crumpled in the corner and the murder weapon laid out in plain sight—that was the last thing I needed.

A loud knock echoed through Dave’s tiny apartment. It wasn’t a casual sound, but rather the three heavy, evenly spaced impacts generally reserved for official business.

Son of a bitch, seriously?

“Mr. Clarke,” a voice of authority called through the door.

Someday, I swear, I’ll learn from my mistakes.

If I live that long.

“Seattle Police,” the voice continued.

A familiar voice.

“We have reason to believe you’re in danger. Please come to the door, or we’ll be forced to let ourselves in.”