Speak the Dead (7 page)

14

S
ally awoke to a persistent rapping of knuckles on her front door.

She yawned and stretched before sliding out of bed and slipping into her bathrobe and slippers. Jiggy, having migrated from the foot of the bed to curl in a fluffy ball with her head on the spare pillow, opened one lazy eye, blinked, yawned, and went back to sleep.

“It's okay for some.” Sally left the bedroom and shuffled to the front door.

JERSEY'S PHONG RANG
as he waited outside Sally's door. When he answered, Amarela said, “We've got a problem.”

“What?”

“The son went nuts when I broke the news. No tears, no quick stop on grief, just straight to pissed. What the fuck is that about? Both your parents are dead, and
I'm
the bad guy.”

“We all react—”

“Save it,” Amarela snapped. “He was a fucking asshole. I told you I hate doing this.”

Jersey turned away from the apartment and headed down the stairs. Sally would have to wait.

“Okay, calm down,” said Jersey. “He's pissed. That's not our problem.”

“No? The lieutenant wants to see us.”

“Why?”

“The asshole called the mayor, direct. Had the number on speed dial. Made me fucking stand there while he did it, too.”

“And the mayor called Morrell?”

“Duh. My phone started ringing at the same time the fucking NOK is slamming the door in my face. I should have Tasered the prick.”

“I'll grab a taxi and meet you at the station.”

“Screw that, I'm not walking in there by myself. Where you at? I'll pick you up, and we'll go in together.”

As he pushed open the lobby door of the low-rise apartment building, Jersey gave his partner the address of a nearby
Grind'm If You Got'm
coffee shop that made a synapses-firing Red Eye. His caffeine level was dropping uncomfortably low.

WHEN SALLY opened
the door, there was nobody there.

With an irritated sigh, she relocked the deadbolt and padded across the room to the front window. She looked down and saw a husky figure walking away. The breadth of his shoulders and the fit of his jeans told her it was Jersey, the detective who had so unexpectedly kissed her on the back steps of the mortuary.

She still didn't know quite what to make of that but, despite the boldness of his actions, his lips had been soft and his eyes so very gentle. Hmm, maybe she did know after all; she liked it… liked him.

She wondered if he had stopped by to ask her out, but lost the courage at the last moment, or if the knock had been strictly work related. If it was business, why had he walked away? And, more importantly, if he hadn't walked away, what answers could she give him without sounding like a complete loon?

Sally snugged her dressing gown tighter at the collar and padded into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. She liked to start the day with a few strong cups while she watched
The View
to catch up on what had annoyed the ladies lately.

She actually had a recurring daydream where she was a guest on the show promoting a small book she had always contemplated writing entitled,
Beauty Tips for the Dead
. The only problem was that she couldn't imagine any living person—outside of the funeral businesses—wanting to buy it, and the dead didn't have active credit cards.

IN THE STAIRWELL
outside the apartment, Aedan descended from the floor above where he had silently fled when the beefy cop arrived unexpectedly. Moving close, he pressed his left ear against Sally's door.

He could hear the television. Women arguing.

He inhaled the air, catching a lingering scent of shampoo and soap.

She was the one. She had to be.

15

W
ith a caffeine buzz from his morning Red Eye—two shots of tar-like espresso topped up with fresh brewed dark roast coffee—Jersey felt bright eyed and hopeful. His partner, however, was floating a dark cloud on his parade as they rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor of the Portland Justice Center.

Located in the heart of downtown, the eighteen-story tower was home to not only the Portland Police Bureau, but also four courtrooms and the maximum-security Multnomah County Detention Center. For criminals, that meant the journey from being arrested to incarcerated was a short one.

“I hate getting called into the boss's office,” Amarela muttered. “Makes me feel like a rookie again.”

“Ah, the good old days,” said Jersey.

“Speak for yourself. Lecherous old men always wanting me to go undercover as a hooker or porn star? It was like walking naked through a safari park.”

Jersey smiled. “Somehow I don't see you as a victim.”

“No, but I had to crush a lot of nutsacks to get that message across.”

“Men are pigs,” said Jersey.

Amarela burst into laughter. “Amen.”

“Shouldn't that be A-wo-men?”

“Damn. When a woman gets elected Pope, she'll need to fix that.”

When the elevator door opened, the partners marched out with sober faces and made their way through a maze of desks to the lieutenant's corner office.

Lieutenant Noel Morrell
steepled his hands as the two detectives entered his office. He still looked as crisp and fresh as he had at four that morning.

“Ah, detectives Castle and Valente,” he began. “Nice to see you finally got dressed, Detective Castle, although a dressier pair of pants, proper fitting shirt, and a decent pair of shoes wouldn't go amiss.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jersey with an unconscious flexing of mouth muscle that hinted at a smile. “But apart from that?”

“You also need a haircut.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You've been investigating this morning's hit-and-run?”

“We have.”

“And your progress?”

“Well, as you know, I was first on the scene after the victim was struck and killed by her husband's car. Detective Valente was on the scene for the recovery of the vehicle and its driver. It appears at this time that the driver committed suicide after killing his wife. However—”

Lieutenant Morrell held up a hand.

“I want to stop you there,” he said. “I have received an urgent request from the son that the bodies of his parents be immediately released to the funeral home. It seems his parents didn't believe in embalming and the family wants an open coffin, so they need to hold the service as quickly as possible.” He flattened his hands on the desk. “The bottom line is this; do you have any evidence that this is anything other than a domestic murder-suicide?”

“Evidence? No,” said Jersey, “but it feels wrong. The location, timing, and choice of weapon don't add up.”

“I agree,” said Amarela. “There's more to this than it appears.”

“But you have no evidence to suggest third-party involvement?”

Jersey shook his head. “Not at this time, but—”

“I'm releasing the bodies to the funeral home,” said Morrell. “The victims' son is a close friend of the mayor's son, and I can't see any benefit to getting into an argument over religious rights and freedoms without something solid to back it up.”

“But,” Jersey protested, “if you release the bodies now, there won't be time for an autopsy. At least let me request a drug screen.”

“The decision is made, detective. That will be all.”

Amarela grabbed Jersey's arm and pulled him toward the door. Before he exited, Jersey turned and asked, “What funeral home are the bodies being shipped to?”

Morrell glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk. “Paynes Funeral Home. Both victims had those pre-paid plans you see advertised on TV. I've actually been thinking of getting one for Mrs. Morrell. Our anniversary is coming up and with the new baby…”

Morrell stopped. He was talking to himself.

16

I
n the chilled basement of Paynes Funeral Home, Sally removed the crisp sheet from the dead woman's face.

The basement felt different during the day—colder somehow. Despite the blacked out windows, Sally could sense movement all around her: creaks, scrapes, and sighs descending from the viewing parlor and sales office above; rumbles, horns, and grumbles colliding on the streets outside.

It was unsettling.

At night, her workshop was a calm oasis—just her and the guests.

But when Mr. Payne phoned with a special request, how could Sally refuse? In fact, she was delighted to help. The Payne family had always been so good to her.

Sally looked down at her guest again. Any sign of recognition that she expected to feel wasn't there. The woman was a stranger.

It disturbed her that she had watched this woman die and yet her face hadn't imprinted itself. Sally mostly remembered her clothes—the periwinkle pantsuit and black raincoat now blood-soaked and bundled in a clear plastic garbage bag under the gurney.

She also recalled in horrifying detail the shock and pain as the woman's neck twisted beyond the breaking point. But everything had been viewed directly through the woman's eyes rather than from a spectator's point of view. Sally had barely looked at her face, except when she touched her mouth. She remembered the mouth.

Jesús had done a wonderful job on her: smashed skull restored with wire mesh and liquid polymer; twisted neck straightened, the metal screws and plastic supports hidden from view so long as nobody rolled her over; flattened nose splintered back into shape; and her broken front teeth hidden behind a thin, opaque mouth guard.

Jesús told her he was trying to convince the Paynes to invest in a 3D printer that would allow him to reconstruct guests' faces from scanned photographs.

“Everyone could have open casket,” he had enthused to her, “even burn victims or those ravaged by disease. Imagine? I could print ears, noses, even whole faces, and you could use your magic to make everything natural.”

Although she didn't quite understand the technology behind three-dimensional printing, Sally had to agree, it was a brilliant idea.

Still, even without a special printer, Jesús's work was that of a master artist. Working underneath the flesh, he left her a clean canvas marred only by tiny stitches in her guest's cheek, forehead, and nose. Even the once-torn scalp was smooth with the skin stretched over the wire frame he'd built, and the stitches as close to the hairline as he could manage.

Sally would be able to cover the stitches with a smudge of wax before she applied the foundation, although she would need to take extra care with her airbrush to remove the harsh bruising around the eyes.

With trepidation, Sally reached out and touched the woman's smooth cheek. The explosion of light and the weightless feeling of leaving her body didn't come. There was no vision, nothing but the stiffness of cold flesh.

Sally sighed with relief. It had just been a fluke, she thought, a glitch, a weird supernatural blip on her otherwise very dull and normal life. The last thing she needed was to be having visions of her guests at their final moments. That was the sort of thing that used to get women burned at the stake.

Without embalming, Sally didn't waste any more time. After plugging her iPod into a portable speaker system and choosing a melodic playlist, she got to work cleaning the body with disinfectant soap, washing and styling the auburn hair and applying foundation. Once all Mrs. Higgins' flaws and stitches were covered, Sally moved on to her true passion of using makeup to achieve a natural look.

When Sally was done, Mrs. Alison Higgins looked serene. To preserve the image, Sally gently covered the woman's face and hands in a layer of fine cheesecloth. As the family hadn't yet delivered any fresh clothes, Sally draped the body in a sheet before wheeling it into the large meat locker on the left. That locker was kept at a colder temperature for the un-embalmed and extra care had to be taken to ensure the flesh didn't overly dehydrate.

As was her habit, Sally brewed a fresh pot of coffee before wheeling out her next guest, Mr. Higgins.

Again, she thought as she sipped her coffee, Jesús had done a wonderful job. Gunshot wounds always brought their own challenges. The small entry wound was usually not a big deal as a simple wax plug and makeup could do wonders, but the large exit wound often posed difficulties depending on its location and the caliber of bullet.

Mr. Higgins was lucky in that the bullet was a small, soft-nosed .38 and it had exited the side of his head above the left ear. This allowed most of the damage to be covered by packing the skull with pressed cotton, stitching the folds of torn scalp back together and adding just a small graft of color-matched wig. The bullet, or more likely a fragment of shattered bone, had nicked the left ear, slicing a healthy chunk from its tip. Jesús had fashioned a replacement out of wax, but it was Sally's job to make the pale addition match the skin tone of the real ear.

Sally stripped the sheet off Mr. Higgins and dressed him in a plastic diaper before filling a small metal basin with warm water and disinfectant soap. She was just about to wash him when there was a loud knock at the rear door.

Sally glanced at the clock. Time had escaped her. It was already after six.

Curious, Sally rested her bowl on the counter, put her iPod on pause, and climbed the concrete steps to the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It's Jersey, Sally. Can I come in?”

Sally unlocked the three deadbolts and opened the door.

Jersey stood in the alley, the collar of his jacket turned up against a cold drizzle, his mouth set in a firm line.

Sally smiled and beckoned him inside.

“I'm afraid it's not much warmer in here,” she said.

“That's okay,” said Jersey. “I dressed in layers.”

As she relocked the deadbolts, Sally felt a coldness emanating from the detective that had nothing to do with the weather. She wondered if he was regretting their stolen kiss.

Jersey walked down the stairs and stopped in front of the body of Mr. Higgins.

“You fixed the wound already,” he said, clearly annoyed. “Can't even tell there was a gaping big hole in his skull.”

“That's Jesús's work,” Sally explained with pride. “He's very skilled. He has an art exhibit opening next week at a small gallery. Sculpture. Metal and clay, I believe.” She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but then the words gushed out. “We could go together if you like? I'd love to see what he creates outside of body parts.”

Jersey turned to stare into Sally's viridescent eyes, but instead of sharing her excitement, his face was as rigid as kiln-fired clay.

“How did you see the license plate?”

Sally took a step back, unsettled by his tone.

“I thought the investigation was closed,” she said. “When your station released the bodies—”

“
I
still want to know.”

“So it's personal?”

“I don't like loose ends. Do you have something to hide?”

Sally crossed to the body of Mr. Higgins and picked up her metal bowl of soapy water.

“I'm not hiding anything,” she said coldly.

“But you're not telling me everything.”

Sally dipped a sponge into the warm water and washed the corpse's chest.

“It's not what you think,” she said.

“And what do I think?”

“That there's something, I dunno, sinister going on.”

“Is there?” Jersey asked. “It seems an odd coincidence that a woman is murdered outside this funeral home and then the very next day she's brought here for burial.”

Sally shrugged. “She bought one of our pre-paid packages, or her husband did. For both of them. They're quite popular.”

Jersey sighed and allowed his face to soften slightly.

“Sally, I want to be honest here. I like you, and I would like to see more of you, but I really need to know what you're hiding.”

Sally's voice became very quiet as she absently dabbed her sponge across Mr. Higgins' stomach. “You'll think I'm weird.”

Jersey's façade crumbled. “How much weirder can it get? Every time we meet there's a dead body between us.”

The birth of a fresh smile froze in place as glowing green words suddenly appeared on Mr. Higgins' flesh.

Written in a childish scrawl, the message read:
He's here. Run!