His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) (27 page)

At least the topical Gandalf quote should help assuage his fears that I was me.

But then, was I me anymore? Really?

I wished my own fears were so readily dealt with.

Minutes passed, but nothing else came to mind. With a feeling of resignation, I signed the note, “Griffin Bell,” and slipped it inside the envelope.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked tentatively.

Elliott, in the passenger seat, rolled his eyes. “This is my job. I assure you I will deliver the package.”

I hefted the gun in one hand with a grunt, being careful to keep it hidden from the street. “It’s pretty damn heavy. Gonna carry it in your teeth the whole way?”

The cat mewed, shaking his head. “Worry about your duties, Reaper—let me worry about mine.”

“All right, fur ball.” I lifted the envelope, preparing to seal the gun inside. An image flashed briefly in my mind: Elliott in a brown ball cap, brown button-down shirt and brown cargo shorts.

With a little yellow logo: UCS.

Elliott stiffened, and I briefly wondered if he could read my thoughts. His attention, however, was instead fixed down the street, toward the Seattle Center entrance. “Is that a friend of yours, Michael?”

A man stood half a block away, frozen mid-step, ready to slip through the concrete and steel arches into Seattle Center. He was perhaps 5’10”, and had the kind of handsomely chiseled, but unremarkable features one expects of a secret agent, or the dad in a coffee commercial. His piercing blue eyes stared directly at me, expression painted with incredulity.

He wore torn jeans, a simple gray t-shirt, and a blue flannel jacket. That made sense, since his expensive slacks wouldn’t blend in nearly as well here as they had on Magnolia Hill. This was a man who preferred not to draw attention, and would dress accordingly.

His golden retriever was nowhere to be seen.

The dog was probably just part of his disguise.

“That’s no friend of mine.”

I slipped slowly from the Mustang. My emotions roiled, tumultuous and dangerous, held tenuously behind a dam of numb shock.

He stood not more than a hundred feet away, appearing calm and casual. We might easily be old acquaintances, unexpectedly meeting after years apart.

Unless you actually paid attention.

His muscles were tense, his constantly searching eyes alert. The fingers of his right hand flexed repeatedly, hovering inches above the buttons of his open jacket.

He was a coiled viper, poised to strike.

“Hello, Michael,” he called over the milling crowd.

He laughed briefly, but it wasn’t a joyful sound. It was the same humorless chuckle that had taunted me on the phone just last night.

My emotional dam began to crack; the full intensity of my hatred fought to break through.

“I must say,” the murderous bastard called again, “this
is
a surprise.”

XXXIII

Cat and Mouse

A screaming mob gathered inside my head, a few faces of which I recognized: Marcus Olsen, Walter Scott, David Clarke, Robert and Karen Winston, Michelle Harris.

A ten-year-old boy whose name I never even knew.

And, cold and alone, in the very back of the mob, Henry Michael Richards.

“Yes,” I heard myself respond hollowly, as if through a great, long tunnel. “The feeling’s mutual.”

The assassin patted the left breast of his jacket meaningfully. “Unfortunately, I am ill prepared to offer you a proper greeting.” He sighed melodramatically.

More than a few bystanders stopped to watch us curiously, sensing the tension.

“You just carry the one, then?”

He shrugged with a smirk. “I like to travel light—and I typically only need the one.”

I pulled his gun slowly from behind my back, training it as best I could between his eyes.

“Good to know.”

Screams filled the air as the crowd scattered in search of shelter.

I waited patiently for the area to clear. My aim, undoubtedly, would be awful; the gun’s size, though, meant accuracy was unlikely to be an issue.

When firing a cannon at a ragdoll, it doesn’t really matter what part you hit.

So long as there were no other ragdolls in the way.

With wide, twinkling eyes, my adversary smiled. “Well, you’re just full of surprises this morning.”

“I hate being predictable.”

He turned casually away, presenting his back. “Admit it, Michael…we both know you’re no killer.”

“You’re right.”

I shrugged as two crowds silently held their breath, both the real one and the one in my head.

“I wasn’t.”

And I squeezed the trigger.

I’m not sure exactly what I expected. As I may have mentioned before, guns aren’t my thing. The only experience I had was TV and the movies, which range from mildly inaccurate to completely ridiculous.

Not counting Scott White, of course, but that was a shotgun and I wasn’t the one firing it.

I’d set my feet in anticipation of the violent explosion, and turned my head to shield both eyes from the muzzle flash and at least one ear from the thunderclap.

My whole body tensed.

The gun’s futile click was, to say the least, a disappointment.

Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.

I pulled the trigger twice more, desperately hoping for a different result.

The assassin burst out laughing as he walked slowly away beneath the rolling metal waves into Seattle Center. This time the sound was full, rich, hearty and genuine.

The dam finally burst.

An incoherent scream rushed from my lips like a flood. In a fit of rage, I very nearly threw the gun at the smug son of a bitch’s head. I stopped, barely, mid windup, realizing that giving the assassin his gun was probably a poor choice.

You know, the guy that wanted to kill me.

Instead, I tossed the gun back onto the Mustang’s driver’s seat. “Take care of that.”

Elliott hissed and mewed venomously as I turned away.

In the distance, the assassin walked nonchalant and unhurried through the trees in a brick courtyard, without looking back.

I managed a fast and painful shuffling gait, despite my bad ankle. In no time at all, I had crossed the street and was passing under the rolling metal waves onto the bricks. The dark, ominous clouds still hadn’t delivered their threatened rain, but the air was cool and damp.

The bricks of the courtyard were wet, and far slicker than I’d expected. Unsteady on my ankle, I slipped frequently, losing ground on my quarry.

The assassin stopped at the top of a staircase which paralleled the north wall of Key Arena, studying my flailing progress. With a wink and a quick, nasty grin, he started down the stairs at a full run.

I darted in pursuit, and instantly dropped to one knee, screaming out in frustration. My ankle throbbed painfully. My lungs burned under the broken ribs, from just that small exertion.

Something needed to change…and quickly.

I imagined a tight, stiff bandage wrapping my ankle. Nothing as restrictive as a cast, but enough to provide some support and protection.

A humming vibration filled my head as a warm wave passed over my ankle. I stood, testing the makeshift splint. It sacrificed some flexibility, but the pain was significantly less and my footing more sure.

A second thought, a second wave, and my torso was bandaged the same way. I didn’t have the medical knowledge to understand why that might help, but they always did that to the wounded in war movies and, whether or not there was any logic to it, the bandages seemed to ease the pain in my ribs.

The third, and final, wave filled my hand with a singular walking staff. Standing over seven feet tall, it was highly polished and carved from a single piece of black oak. It twisted in an odd helix that would allow me to swing it easily, two handed, around my entire body. The handle’s length was carved with a twisted rope pattern that gave my hands a secure grip no matter how I held it. There was no blade, but anyone who saw the staff would have no doubt about what piece was missing.

There were sirens in the distance now.

We’d shortly have company neither of us would welcome.

Freshly bandaged, and using the scythe handle for support, I renewed my pursuit with an odd, three-legged, loping run.

The wide concrete steps dropped two flights beneath one of the massive stone columns supporting the sides of Key Arena. At the far end of the twenty-foot sunken walkway, a mirror image staircase rose two flights back to street level.

The man I pursued was already mounting the top of the second stairway.

I ran as best I could down the first set of stairs and up the second, straining to breathe against the tight bandages. By the time I reached street level at the far end, my assassin was rounding the corner of the buildings that surrounded Key Arena on the north side, disappearing behind the greenery there.

Throwing caution to the wind, I strained for every last bit of speed I could muster. Within seconds, wheezing and panting, I rounded the corner.

I had a good view of the Seattle Center grounds. A large crowd milled around the thirty-foot metal hemisphere of International Fountain. I searched frantically for jeans and blue flannel.

Nothing.

A few shoppers walked among food and souvenir vendors to the right. I didn’t see the assassin there either.

Steps beyond that led to Pacific Science Center and the Space Needle. Empty. My head swiveled, my view clear for hundreds of feet in all directions. Lots of people, but no jeans and blue flannel.

Well, in
almost
all directions.

Apprehension chilled me; I turned quickly around, swinging the scythe handle like a cudgel.

A fist caught me hard in the stomach, sending me to my knees. The scythe handle connected with a satisfying crack, but tore from my hands and skittered away before vanishing in a puff of black smoke.

The assassin danced backward behind the building’s corner, massaging his right elbow. His laughter filled the air, but once again the humor was gone. “Hell, Michael, you really are one pathetic piece of shit.”

He stood out of easy reach, and out of view from the grounds. His smile was wide, but it didn’t match the eyes; they looked wary.

Meanwhile, the sirens had gone silent.

Stifling a groan, I pushed myself back to my feet.

“I’d normally be happy to fix that problem for you, but…” he paused, raising his hands in an expansive gesture meant to encompass all our surroundings. “Spontaneous public violence by the light of day—that’s not really my style.”

“No,” I said in a biting tone. “You slink in shadows, preying on the helpless and innocent.”

My adversary dropped the fake smile and laugh. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Michael, and I can tell you one thing for certain.”

His eyes grew small, and glittered like sharp, dark diamonds. “No one is innocent.”

The tone of his voice, the certainty, the absolute finality, sent a shiver along my spine. I swallowed twice before responding. “I
am
going to stop you.”

The chuckle returned. “I don’t think so, Michael. Someone dies each time you try. Walk away now, or death is coming for you next.”

It was my turn to smile. “If I were you, I wouldn’t assume Death is on
your
side.”

The assassin froze, sensing my tone, his eyes narrowing. For the very first time, he looked nervous.

It didn’t last.

“Michael Reaper…” a deep, authority-laced voice called from behind me, “Seattle PD. Lie on the ground with your hands behind your head.”

The assassin’s expression turned quickly to amusement. Still hidden from the grounds proper by the buildings surrounding Key Arena, he nodded slightly and waved before spinning on his right foot to walk away.

“Down now, with your hands behind your head, or we will fire.”

I turned back toward the Seattle Center grounds, where four uniformed officers stood thirty feet away, their guns drawn.

You know, just once, I was going to make things go my way.

Or die trying.

XXXIV

Turning Tables

My ribs screamed in protest as two uniformed police officers handcuffed me and hauled me roughly to my feet. Splinted or not, my body was broken and battered.

A large crowd gathered to watch the proceedings.

I hung my head, doing my best to appear compliant and defeated as the officers led me through the Center grounds to the waiting patrol cars.

It wasn’t hard.

Periodically, as we walked, I snuck brief glances at the crowd. My adversary was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he was satisfied with the capabilities of the Seattle PD to handle me or, at the very least, delay me long enough to make good his escape.

Only two officers walked with me now, one on each arm. The other two had broken away at the International Fountain, going in opposite directions.

On my left was Officer Johnson from David Clarke’s apartment, with his red hair and two days’ worth of yellow aura. To the other side was a female officer whose face I recognized, but could not place. After years of first Dad, and then Steve, working for the Seattle Police Department, that wasn’t uncommon.

Two police cruisers sat parked, lights flashing but sirens silenced, in a turnaround beside the EMP. The crowd swelled considerably as we approached the cars. A KOMO 4 news van arrived just in time to film the dangerous criminal being pushed into the back seat of one of the cars.

After a brief conversation between the two officers, Johnson slid into the driver’s seat.

I’d been holding my breath expectantly, but it now escaped in a relieved rush.

I didn’t know the man, and there was no reason to think he’d help me. His aura, though…that I might be able to use.

Officer Johnson keyed up his radio. “Charlie three seven.”

The static-filled reply came quickly. “Go ahead, Charlie three seven.”

“I’m ten-fifteen at Seattle Center. Returning to station.”

“Ten four, Charlie three seven.”

Another voice burst out over the speaker. “Listen here, Johnson, Reaper’s one slippery son of a bitch. Don’t let your guard down.”

“Acknowledged, Detective Thomas. I’ll do my best to keep the handcuffed suspect who can barely walk in the back of my locked patrol car.”

As he hung the radio back on its clip, Officer Johnson muttered a single word under his breath.

I’m not positive, but I think it was “prick.”

It was too bad I’d have to escape; I could really end up liking this guy.

“You know,” I began two blocks later, as we sat at a red light, “I’m not the man you want.”

“Of course,” Officer Johnson responded. “They never are.”

The second officer had driven in another direction, and no other police cars were nearby. “Seriously, though, we want the same thing…the responsible party, the bad guy.”

He nodded in the front seat, dismissing me. Waiting for the light, he couldn’t care less what I did—helpless in the back seat.

Perfect.

As the light changed, and the car first started to accelerate, I made my move.

The door burst open at my command. The handcuffs fell away and I rolled once on the pavement, gaining my feet and stumbling shakily into an awkward, shambling run.

Behind me, Officer Johnson barked, “Son of a bitch,” as he slammed on the brakes and struggled to get through his seatbelt and car door.

I slipped into the narrow gap I’d seen between two buildings, only to find it dead ended at a dumpster and a two-story fence.

Shit.

I ducked behind the dumpster. It was time for Plan B.

“Michael Reaper, this is the end. Come out with your hands above your head.”

“Yes, Officer Samuel Johnson. We
have
reached the end.”

A bell tolled inside my head; a frigid wave washed over me. Nausea descended like an old, uninvited friend.

I really hadn’t expected to outrun anyone in my condition anyway.

When I emerged, scythe in hand, Officer Johnson stood, shaking and ghost white, staring at me.

“Michael warned you, Sam. May I call you Sam?”

He nodded numbly.

“Michael warned you, Sam. He’s not the man you want. And now here we are.”

“I…” And he ran out of words.

It was a valiant effort, under the circumstances.

Officer Sam Johnson lowered his pistol, defeated.

I advanced slowly, not wanting to spook him. He seemed like a good man, and he was still armed, after all. I placed a bony hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, but didn’t jerk away.

“You are scheduled to die two days from now, Sam. Not today, but two days from now, do you understand me?”

He nodded shakily.

“Scheduled” was an exaggeration, I knew that. His aura was yellow, and probably more likely to vanish than darken. Still, it wasn’t technically a lie.

And I was in no position to quibble over technicalities.

“Get out of town for a few days. Stop chasing my friend, Michael, and I promise not to chase you.”

Again, not exactly a lie.

“Agreed?”

Officer Samuel Johnson slid his gun back into its holster, turned, and walked from the alley without a word.

Two hours later, I sat in the Mustang, looking down an empty alleyway. No garbage cans dotted this well-kept, hidden thoroughfare; no broken-down cars littered the shoulder; no weeds graced the yards. The impressive but featureless backsides of expansive homes stared back, offering neither company nor solace.

Who in the hell was I becoming?

Henry Michael Richards would never chase a mass murderer, let alone lock with him,
intentionally,
in mortal battle. Mislead the police towards his own ends? Certainly not. Scare an innocent man, all but threaten to kill him, just to get away? Never.

Henry Michael Richards really was dead. But who was Michael Reaper? Was I still a good man? Could I be?

When it really mattered, would I get a choice?

Would I even want one?

Elliott leaped through the open passenger window and landed on the seat, his weight rocking the entire car. He mewed, then hissed, and finally mewed a second time.

I shook off my melancholy mood; it served no purpose anyway. “Problem?”

“Someone must teach the felines of this neighborhood common manners. They are insufferable, self-important, know-it-all snobs who talk incessantly and have no notion of a simple, straight answer.”

I laid my cell phone at Elliott’s front paws with a smile.

“What is that for, Reaper?”

“Oh, just in case you planned on calling the kettle.”

Elliott mewed again.

“So, nothing then?”

“On the contrary.” Elliott grinned. “I had much success.”

“With the insufferable, self-important, know-it-all snobs?”

“I am very large.” Elliott’s grin turned decidedly predatory as he spoke. “Size beats pigheaded snobbery nearly every time.”

Laughing, I scratched Elliott between the ears, my concerns momentarily pushed once again into the background. “And what did you learn?”

“Not much about the golden retriever, I am afraid. She, and the man walking her, first appeared about two weeks ago. They arrive in a nondescript white van every couple of days, parking in a different place each time, and stay for only a few minutes each visit. Neither are from around here.”

Nothing surprising and, unfortunately, nothing particularly useful.

“And the other thing?”

Elliott smirked, and his minty breath filled the air. “Tan two-story, four houses down on the left. The family is in Europe for another week.”

“The view?”

Elliott’s smirk grew into his full-blown, disturbing smile. “It is precisely what you wanted.”