Fifth Grave Past the Light

by Darynda Jones

  “Oh.” She blushed.

  “You only do that when you’re seeing someone.” She’d picked up the habit in grade school, and I quickly learned that when she started drawing infinity symbols, she was secretly in love. I couldn’t believe she still did it. She was like thirty or something. Who did crap like that? I nonchalantly covered the letters R-E-Y-E-S I’d drawn on my knuckles.

  “I do not only do this when I’m seeing someone. I’m thinking about getting some ink. Making this permanent.” When I thinned my mouth, she caved. “Damn it. I’m not seeing him. I just would like to.”

  “Bummer. Unrequited love sucks ass. So, who is this mystery idiot who clearly has no taste if he hasn’t asked you out yet?”

  “No one. And you’re not meeting him. Ever.”

  I placed a hand over my heart. “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” I held up my palm. “Don’t hold back. I can take the truth.”

  “I’m ashamed of you,” she said, sitting behind her desk and shuffling through papers.

  “Give it to me straight.”

  “I’m embarrassed to have you as a sister.”

  I slammed my eyes shut. “Just be honest with me, for the love of applesauce, Gemma.”

  “I’m mortified that we came from the same womb.”

  “So, who’s the cop?” I asked, taking another swig of the good stuff.

  She put down the paper she was studying. “I thought you knew him.”

  “I met him once. On a rainy night. Our love was all-consuming for about five minutes. Then it kind of dwindled. Much like my bank account.”

  She hitched one corner of her mouth. “Didn’t give you the time of day?”

  “Not even when I asked nice. And I was serious. I’d forgotten my watch. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “How did he get those scars?”

  She finally gave me her full attention. “Charley, I can’t talk about my clients.”

  “Just making small talk. Holy cow. Besides, I thought he moved to Montana or something.”

  She gave me her best glower. If I’d had cards to hold up, I’d give it an 8.5 with higher marks for a crisp execution.

  “What’s he need a shrink for?”

  After releasing a long breath, she said, “Since this is nothing you can’t get off the Internet, he had to return fire at a crime scene and an innocent man was killed in the cross fire.”

  “Oh, I remember that. How’d he get the scars?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was lying. Whatever. “So I have a problem.”

  “Just one?” she asked. “Aren’t we being a bit unrealistic?”

  “My apartment has been invaded by a plethora of departed women who seem to have been strangled by a serial killer.”

  She stopped.

  “They are all blond but different ethnicities and ages and such.” She wasn’t a profiler, so I didn’t go into the details much. “But they are absolutely terrified. I need to know how to get through to them. I can’t get any information from them like they are. They won’t talk to me.”

  “What behaviors are they exhibiting?”

  “Think the psych ward from that horror movie we snuck into in grade school.”

  “Holy sh – Really?” Despite her best efforts, her face showed the horror she felt at the memory. She’d never been the same after that movie, which luckily for me made scaring the bejesus out of her all the easier. She cleared her throat and began again. “How many did you say there are?”

  “About twenty. I don’t know for certain. There are more every time I look. They are completely despondent, frantic, and/or catatonic. But there is one, a young girl around seven —”

  “Seven?” she asked, her face the picture of heartbreak.

  “Right? Serial killers are ass-hats. Anyway, she made eye contact. Other than her, however, none of them have made any kind of connection at all. Besides the one who kept her hand on my foot all night. I nigh froze to death.”

  I couldn’t miss the shiver that rushed over her. “Okay, so you need information on what happened to them?”

  “Yes. I mean, why are they in my apartment?”

  “Well, you are the grim reaper.”

  “But none of them seem particularly interested in crossing.”

  “I think your best bet is to focus on the girl who made eye contact. A child’s mind is more pliable than an adult’s. Their brains can heal in ways ours can’t. Maybe you can get through to her.”

  “Okay, focus on the kid. So what do I do? She’s like a little bug, scurrying around, making scratching sounds. They all are, really.”

  “What?”

  A wave of fear hit me. “Well, they’re everywhere. Climbing up my walls. Clinging to the ceiling. One has discovered my shower. Do you know how difficult it is to shower with a departed woman trying to dig through a porcelain tub? It ain’t gonna happen. I tried to tell her that.” I stopped when I noticed Gemma’s face go white. I was freaking her out, but someone had to do it, damn it. “This doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “You are evil.”

  “Me?”

  “Wait. Are you kidding about all of this?”

  “About the women? Why would I kid about something like that?” When she pressed her lips together, I said, “Oh, right, I would, but I’m not. I need to find out what happened to them so they can move on. You know, far away, out of my apartment.”

  “It sounds kind of awful, Charley.”

  “It is. For them. Can you imagine?”

  “Does Uncle Bob have anything?”

  “I heard he has an STD.”

  “I mean, on the women.”

  “Oh, I have no idea if they have any STDs.”

  “You’re still evil. I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”

  “Dude, you take industrial-strength sleeping aids.”

  “And whose fault is that?” she asked, coming out of her seat and slamming a palm on her desk. Unglued would be an accurate term for her condition. It was fun to watch.

  I stood, too, and pretended to get huffy. “You’re always blaming me for your inability to sleep just because I introduced you to a few departed people when we were kids. If I’d known that describing their head wounds as they stood over your bed at night would be so traumatic, I wouldn’t have done it.” When she cast me a look of doubt, I recanted my testimony. “Okay, I would have. Either way, I think you’ll be fine.” I sat back down and crossed my legs. “It’s not like knowing there were really departed people out there stunted your emotional growth or anything.”

  Gemma went back to work while I pondered our sisterhood. Growing up, everyone thought I was the evil sister. I never fell for that story myself. True, I spent my days in school promising not to incite rebellion and to never again bring plastique to school – it wasn’t even real – while she was busy being her perfect little self.

  Maybe a little too perfect, if you know what I mean.

  After harassing Gemma for another half hour or so, I headed to Misery with several options for my Sunday. I could watch the Supernatural marathon and torture Cookie about it later. I could try Gemma’s methods on the kid under my bed. I could try to figure out how to save Reyes, but from what? From whom? I could go talk to Kim about her habit of setting fire to the world, but it was still early. I didn’t want to wake her, to put her on the defensive before I even had a chance to tell her my plan. Or I could try to figure out why Nicolette, the possible zombie, wasn’t dead.

  Since I had a soft spot for zombies and my curiosity was killing me, I opted for plan Z.

  I got a text from Cookie. Misery purred to life as I checked my phone.

  We’re at the firing range. Everyone is doing a drop and roll then shooting the target.

  I texted her back.

  Well, if all the cool kids are doing it.

  Do you think I can do it?

  I see dead people. Anythin
g is possible.

  Okay, I’ll give it a try.

  Then reality sank in. This was Cookie. The last time she did a Dirty Harry impersonation, she came away with a strange bra and a broken ankle.

  But for the love of marinara, I typed, don’t shoot anyone.

  Thanks. That helps.

  Aw, she was so nice. But Nicolette’s state of aliveness was still eating at me. Maybe she was in danger and would die soon. Rocket could predict someone’s death. He knew exactly when it would happen. Maybe Nicolette had predicted her own demise and decided to visit me, the grim reaper, in advance? To what end? This was just so weird.

  I started for the hospital again. Left with no other choice, I would just have to talk to her, to figure out if perhaps she had some kind of supernatural condition.

  I got another text from Cookie as I pulled into the hospital parking lot.

  I did it. I hate you with every fiber of my being.

  Really? With every fiber of your being? R u sure there’s not a little fiber left in u, perhaps compacted in your digestive tract, that still likes me?

  I’m positive.

  Well, she seemed certain.

  Is anything broken?

  Besides my spirit?

  Does anything have a hole in it that shouldn’t?

  Besides my pride?

  She was fine. Or she would be. And thankfully, so was everyone around her. Dodged a bullet there. Literally.

  Chin up, hon. At least u know never to try that again. There’s always a bright side to these things.

  Every. Fiber.

  She was really into the fiber thing. Maybe she had a bran muffin on the way to class.

  Nicolette was just getting off work. I spotted her coming my direction as I headed to the elevator. She pulled on her jacket and took off her lanyard, growling when it got caught up in her hair.

  “Nicolette, right?”

  She stopped and gave me a once-over. “Oh, right, from yesterday afternoon.” She finally pulled her hair free and checked her phone, looking exhausted.

  “I was wondering if we could get a cup of coffee or something.”

  “Now?” She looked devastated that I would even ask. “I just pulled a double shift. Can we set something up for tomorrow?”

  “I’d rather not. It’s just – You came to me yesterday morning. You said you were dead.”

  Surprise rushed through. She hesitated before her curiosity got the better of her. “There’s a coffee shop about two blocks down. I was planning on getting breakfast there anyway, if you want to tag along.”

  “I’m all for tagging. Can I drive you?”

  Her expression screamed possible abduction.

  “Or we could just meet there.”

  I followed Nicolette’s red Volvo to the Frontier, which was only a couple of blocks from my apartment building.

  We ordered, then sat at a table in the back.

  “So, you said I came to you? How?”

  “Well, first let me say that I can see things others can’t.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Okay.”

  “And you showed up at my apartment yesterday morning and told me that you were dead. That your body was under a bridge out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “That’s strange.” She ducked her head as though hiding something.

  “Nicolette, you can tell me anything. I’ll believe you, I promise.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “No, it’s just, that’s strange. I have these dreams, but I don’t tell people about them, so I don’t know how you could possibly know that.”

  “Because you showed up in my apartment and told me you were dead. That’s how.”

  “That’s impossible,” she said, biting her lower lip.

  “I don’t think you believe that any more than I do. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Happens. What happens.”

  “This has happened before?”

  She finally straightened and took a deep breath. “I have these seizure kind of things. It’s weird. And when I come out of them, I remember incidents about other people. I remember how they died. Only I was that person. I was the one who died.”

  “So, you are actually seeing someone else’s death through their eyes?” That was new.

  “No, you don’t understand. The deaths have never actually occurred. I used to check the papers the next day, but there wouldn’t be anything about a death in the way that I saw it. I’ve never found a true connection between what I see and what really happens.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “One hundred percent. I used to check. I used to scour the Internet, do all kinds of searches, check all the news programs and papers. Nothing.”

  This was seriously odd.

  “That’s our number.”

  “I’ll get it.” I jumped up and grabbed our order, then went back to our table with my mouth watering at the scent of Nicolette’s breakfast burrito. I knew I should have ordered one. I handed it over reluctantly. “How about you describe a few of these events,” I said, pouring two pink packages and some creamer into my coffee. “Give me a couple of examples.”

  “Okay.” She spooned salsa onto her burrito. “Well, a couple of weeks ago, I was an elderly man in a hospital and everyone thought I died of natural causes, but my grandson actually killed me. Right there in my hospital bed. He couldn’t wait for his inheritance. Even though I didn’t have that much longer to live, he couldn’t wait.”

  I tore my eyes off her burrito and took out my memo pad and pen. “Do you get names when this happens?”

  She took a bite and shook her head. “Only sometimes. Wait, that time I did get one. Something like Richard or Richardson. But I don’t know if it was the name of the man or the grandson, first name or last. It could have been the name of his nurse, for all I know.”

  “No, that’s great. I can work with that.” I could check this out with Uncle Bob or have Cookie work her magic. If what she described had really happened, I’d find out. “Okay, give me one more.”

  She took a sip of orange juice. “All right, well, a few months ago I had a really bad incident with a woman. It was so weird. I was trying to get out of my apartment, and yet I kept reminding myself to leave the stew I was making boiling on the stove. That was really important. Then I forgot something. I’d left a blanket at the apartment, so I went back after it. And when I tried to leave, my husband came home and caught me.” Her voice softened and a quake of sadness reverberated out of her. “He beat me to death.”

  Cold chills washed over me as I sat there and listened to that story, recognizing every minute of it. Every second. I wasn’t sure what to tell her. How she would take it. Finally, I decided she needed to know. And I needed to know how this was happening.

  “Her name was Rosie,” I said, and watched as Nicolette cast a suspicious gaze at me. “And she was one of my clients. I was trying to help her get out of an abusive relationship and I failed.”

  Worried I was somehow trying to scam her, she hardened. Shrank away from me. “I don’t think I believe you.”

  “The blanket was blue. She was going to have a son, but her husband had beat her and she lost it.”

  Her eyes watered with emotion, but she didn’t want to believe me. “Anyone could have guessed that.”

  “She had dark curly hair and —”

  “I don’t see their faces. I am these people. I see everything else.”

  “Okay, her husband was tall, heavyset with wide shoulders and light hair. He had a birthmark on his jaw and still wore his class ring. It was huge with a ruby in the center.”

  Recognition dawned on her face.

  “When did you have that vision?”

  It took her a moment to shake out of her thoughts. When she did, she took out her phone. “I used to keep a journal on here. I stopped when I realized nothing was coming of them even though they’d always seemed so real.” She thumbed through a couple of pages. “Okay, that was on October fifteenth.”

&nb
sp; I thought back. “You had that vision about four days before it actually happened.”

  “This is not what I want to hear,” she said, shaking her head. “These aren’t real. They’re not real people I’m seeing.”

  I put a hand over hers to calm her. “When did these visions start?”

  “I was nine. I’d drowned in my neighbor’s pool and the paramedics resuscitated me. I started having the seizures soon after.”

  “That seems to be a common catalyst for extrasensory perception of any kind.” I thought about my friend Pari, who began seeing the departed after her near death experience when she was twelve.

  “Is that what happened to you?” Nicolette asked me.

  “No.” I took another sip, then said, “I’m something else.”

  Thankfully, she didn’t seem interested in knowing what that something else was. “It’s so weird,” she said, “because with every death, I get almost the exact same feeling. It’s not what you think.”

  “What feeling do you get?”

  “Relief.” She leaned forward as though telling me a guarded secret. “A release of all burden. With Rosie, her last thought was freedom at last.”

  That realization caused a schism to tear through me. I felt like a piece of paper that someone had ripped down the center, turned over, and ripped again. I’d failed her, and yet she was still free. I didn’t know how to feel about that.

  I cleared my throat and fought for control over my emotions. “Can you tell me about this latest vision?”

  She thought back. “I just remember that bridge. It had metal bracings like an old railroad bridge. I think I could see the metal beams as I died. And I remember blond hair and the number eight. Like a tattoo or a mark of some kind. And I could smell an oil of some kind. Or a gas.”

  My Spidey sense tingled. Maybe the cases were connected. All the women in my apartment had blond hair. It was thin, but I’d done more with less. “Did you get a name?”