Secrets of the Hanged Man (Icarus Fell #3) (An Icarus Fell Novel)

by Blake, Bruce

  Murder scenes are not pleasant places. This is a fact I should have known, having attended more than one, including my own, yet they continued to shock me.

  As I walked through, I held my breath to keep the coppery tang of death from clogging my throat. I checked the three bedrooms—apparently the Trounces were either planning another child or didn’t mind having guests—as well as the bathroom and closets. Nothing. No basement, no attic, nowhere else to hide.

  I found myself standing in the doorway between the hall and the living room, hands in pockets, pondering how horrible it must have been for the Trounces to be held captive by a madman with a gun. I tried not to dwell on the emotional part of the job, but the impromptu map of the most northern state and the red polka dots speckled across the spines of the books lining the shelf beside the couch made it difficult. After a moment, doing so prompted my mind to come full-circle to my own death, the panic and despair of being threatened at knife point, the pain of the blade transforming my kidney into a sieve.

  “Fuck this,” I muttered aloud and turned my back on the murder-suicide to exit through the front door. Didn’t matter if anyone witnessed my presence now.

  The soles of my shoes slapped against the uneven walk as I headed toward the street, anxious to remove myself from the stench of death and knowing more lay in my immediate future. One other place came to mind to search for the girl, which worked out, because I needed to make a trip to Meg’s, anyway.

  ***

  For the second time in a day, I found myself sneaking into the house of a dead person. Not my most commendable habit. If I kept this up, I’d develop a reputation.

  I didn’t hold out much hope I’d find Dido at Meg Medlin-Williams’ house, but she’d been pretty concerned over the woman’s statement about her son. Perhaps she’d come looking for clues to his identity, which was the other reason for my presence. If I didn’t find her here, my options fell somewhere between slim and non-existent, and slim was already mounted up and ready to ride. I didn’t have any other idea where to find her and, at some point, I had to consider the other possibilities: I’d lost her to someone else; she left me; the people responsible for trashing my room weren’t after her, but me.

  No police tape hung outside Meg’s house. Are people who choke on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches eligible for the ‘police line - do not cross’ treatment? Probably not—you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out Meg’s cause of death.

  I mounted the steps, surveying the neighborhood before touching the doorknob: no one around. My fingers slipped on the knob as I twisted it and I paused, racking my brain to remember if we locked it when we left the house with Meg in tow.

  Don’t think so.

  Rather than mucking around with my intermittent door unlocking ability, I went around to the rear door. Surely Dido wouldn’t have bothered to lock it, right?

  She didn’t. I entered on my toes and paused in the doorway, listening. Drops of water plunked onto a stack of dirty dishes overflowing the sink; a clock on the wall over my head ticked away the seconds. I counted sixty of them and heard no other sounds, so went into the kitchen, closing the door behind me.

  I stepped up to the counter to scan the plates and cups stacked beside the sink, my nostrils flaring at the rank odor of a kitchen garbage in desperate need of emptying. I found hard food caked on many of the dishes, and those last few stubborn drops of coffee dried and cracked in the bottom of mugs, but nothing fresh. The table in the small dining area off the kitchen was bare except for a vase holding a clutch of wilted carnations that appeared to have died before the lady of the house.

  Apology flowers?

  I glided through the kitchen, keeping my steps light as I passed into a short hallway with the front door straight ahead and the living room to the right. Two doors on the left were both closed, with a semicircular table set against the wall between them. A number of pictures hung on the wall above the table, so I stopped to examine them, hoping for a clue about the woman’s devil-son.

  Meg was in all of the photographs, some of them by herself, others with people I didn’t recognize and who couldn’t be her son, including one of her sitting at a picnic table with an older man and woman I assumed to be her parents, the willow tree and duck pond where Sister Mary-Therese died looming in the background. In another picture, Meg and a man both wore their Sunday best and smiled at a spot off camera. Judging by their hairstyles, the Walmart photo shop portrait was at least twenty years old.

  I leaned closer, noticing a familiarity about the man without knowing why. I squinted, which didn’t help, so I scanned the other photos for his face. Nope.

  I stopped when my gaze found a picture holding a possible clue: Meg seated with a baby on her lap and an over-tired but joyful expression on her face. A man sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders; a piece of black electrician’s tape covered his face.

  Ignoring the man, I took a closer peek at the baby on Meg’s lap—a newborn with a strained face suggesting a good burping might be needed. It would have been encouraging but for the pink dress and the tiny bow in the baby’s hair, proving her either a girl or that Meg and her friend didn’t believe in gender distinction through clothing. Makes it harder on the rest of us.

  I sighed and picked at the corner of the electrical tape until I got my fingernail under it and tore it off, leaving a thin layer of black, tacky glue residue. Not enough to hide the man’s face, but I didn’t know him, anyway.

  No son in any of the other four photos. After straightening one hung askew, I went to the door nearest the back of the house, reached for the knob, but hesitated. Should I throw it open and catch anyone who might be within off guard? Or open it slowly and give myself a chance to sneak back out unnoticed?

  I opted for the sneaky way.

  The hinges creaked and I cringed, but it turned out a wasted cringe—no one inside.

  The room must have been Meg’s. Women’s clothing lay discarded on the floor and an overflowing jewelry box sat atop a chest of drawers that must have been in the family for generations. The necklaces and bracelets spilling out of the box appeared cheap, even to an undiscerning consumer like myself, but if someone had taken care of the dresser, it might have been worth a couple of bucks. The chunks carved out of its edge, its peeled finish and missing drawer pulls did nothing to add to its value.

  I took a cursory glance around but didn’t open any drawers or move things around, deciding to show a modicum of respect for the dead woman. If I didn’t find anything elsewhere, I’d toss the room later.

  The door clicked closed behind me as I made my way down the hall to the other door, my thigh bumping the hall table on the way. Before I entered, I stopped and peered into the living room.

  After no evidence of the police or any other emergency crews, I’d already guessed she’d be on the couch where we left her and, let’s face it, I smelled her halfway down the hall. The TV still blared at her, but the deep purple color had begun to dissipate from her cheeks as blood settled to the lowest point of the body; her ass and the back of her legs probably made her look like a big fan of nasty sex.

  However, I didn’t expect to find Dido sitting on the matching chair, gaze glued to the boob tube.

  “Dal--” I stopped myself and reset. “Dido?”

  She didn’t turn her head. Something’s wrong.

  The movement on the television flickered in the glossy surface of her eyes, but her face was slack and expressionless. Normally, I’d have dropped any soul in my possession off to one of those near-albino escorts long before this point, so I didn’t know if this constituted normal spirit behavior or not.

  “Dido!”

  This time, she blinked and looked away from the TV. It seemed to take her a second to focus, but when she did, she smiled and slid off the chair.

  “Ric!”

  Hearing her address me in the manner I requested made the thought of putting up with her incessant questions a smidge more appealing. It didn’t hu
rt that she hurried past the coffee table to throw her arms around my midsection as though I was her long-lost puppy finally returning home. I didn’t hug her back because that wouldn't be professional. And I didn’t want to get attached to a soul who’d be moving on, one way or another.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked leaning back to gaze up at me.

  “Looking for you. What are you doing here?”

  This manner of conversation made me suspect we were characters in God’s cosmic sitcom.

  She shrugged and moved away. “I didn’t know where to go after the two men broke into your motel room.”

  I stared at her, forgetting for a moment the necessity of breathing.

  “What men?”

  “They looked like you.”

  “Tall and handsome?”

  “No.” She giggled and waved her hand, dismissing my poor humor. “They wore black coats.”

  I looked at my black overcoat and suppressed a shudder. I’d taken it from the remains of a carrion who’d tried to get into my motel room to steal another soul a few months back. Then, he’d been unable to enter and Gabe disposed of him for me. How’d they get in this time?

  No you, dummy. And no Gabe.

  I put my hands on Dido’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “Yep. They didn’t see me.”

  “Were they looking for something?”

  “Maybe.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Carrions were the bad guy versions of me, so they should be able to see a spirit hanging around my motel room. How did they miss her?

  “How did they miss you?”

  “I hid.”

  “Where?”

  She smiled. “Like this.”

  Her form smudged for an instant, the way they block out non-sponsor logos, people’s faces or naughty bits on TV shows, then she disappeared. It shouldn’t have surprised me such a feat was possible, but this type of spirit stuff was new to me. A couple of seconds later, she flickered back into being, but she appeared different: older, taller. It must have been a mirage caused by her disappearance, because after I blinked twice, it was the same Dido.

  “What? How...Hmph.” I didn’t bother finishing the question. If Mikey and his band of merry angels hadn’t told me of the carrions and their powers before one of them came close to flash frying me, why bother mentioning a wayward spirit’s ability to disappear? “Never mind. What were they looking for?”

  “Me, I think.”

  I made a conscious effort to keep my forehead furrow from making an appearance. “You? Are you sure they weren’t looking for me?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure. They did say something like ‘we have to find her,’ though.”

  That meant my life might have just become a whole lot more interesting and dangerous...like I didn’t already have enough of both.

  “Why come here instead of going home?”

  She shuffled foot to foot and looked at the floor, hands clasped in front of her. It took a second for her to answer, but I should have known what she’d say before she did. So much for having a heart.

  “I didn’t want to go back.” When she raised her head, her eyes shone, teetering on the edge of tears. “I’m glad you found me.”

  As is the case with most men when it comes to a female’s tears, I didn’t know what to do. At a bit of a loss, I did what came natural. I put my hand on her shoulder, nodded once, and changed the subject.

  “Have you searched the house?”

  “No. I was watching SpongeBob SquarePants, hoping you’d come.”

  I made a face, because I didn’t know who this sponge person was, and covered my mouth and nose with my hand to block out Mrs. Medlin-Williams' ripeness.

  “Let’s have a look then, shall we?”

  I turned to the second closed door and decided to barge in this time, throwing the door open and jumping in like the guy arriving late to the surprise party. Again, no one.

  The room smelled musty like far too much time had passed since someone last cracked a window. A splinter of light fell across the floor from between the drawn curtains showing the space to be pristine. The bed was made, no clothing on the floor, no pictures on the wall, and no personal effects strewn around the bare top of the dresser. Besides the layer of dust on it and the bedside table, the room sat empty.

  I turned to go back to the living room and nearly walked into Dido standing right behind me. She smiled up at me and I recognized the torrent of questions shining in her eyes, so I decided to take action before the flood came.

  “You check in here,” I said, doing my best to make the task of searching an empty guest bedroom sound important. “Don’t move anything, though. I’ll check the living room.”

  I swallowed hard after saying it because, truthfully, I didn’t want to go back in. Meg’s bouquet bordered on sickening, but I didn’t have any choice, we’d searched everywhere else but Meg’s room. I still wanted to avoid it.

  Breath held, I left Dido peeking under the bed and crossed the hall to the living room. A bookshelf stood against the far wall; I made it my first destination. The selection included a ton of books I had no interest in reading: Danielle Steele, Nora Roberts, Fifty Shades of Grey, Nicholas Sparks. A macramé owl hung on the wall beside it and another shelf held a display of figurines—children dressed in white parkas frolicking in the snow, most of them chipped or glued together.

  Nothing helpful.

  I paused in front of Meg, blocking the corpse’s view of the TV. The cartoon about the guy with square pants had finished and a local news anchor droned on reading the latest headlines. I didn’t care, so I looked around until I spied the remote control sitting on the couch, resting against Meg’s thigh, but I didn’t want to get that close. Where I stood, the stench covered me like a wet blanket and made me suspect I’d have to wash my clothes, I didn’t want to find out how much worse it must be right beside her.

  Where Dido was sitting.

  Apparently, disembodied spirits lack keen olfactory senses.

  I shut up the annoying television newsman by poking the power button on the TV and took a step into the dining room to inhale. With a resigned sigh tasting of rotten meat, I realized I needed to return to the first bedroom to search through her dresser and the dust bunnies trapped beneath her bed. I didn’t relish the thought: who knew what I’d find in the underwear drawer of a woman in her late-thirties who appeared to live alone. Before taking another step, Dido walked in.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  “No. You?”

  “I don’t know what I was looking for.”

  “Something to prove she has—had—a son. Preferably a picture so we have a face.”

  “No. Didn’t find anything like that.”

  She went and sat on the couch beside Meg’s body, her weight squeaking the springs and making the corpse bounce a little. She eyed the remote, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to pick it up. She looked at me and smiled.

  “I don’t know how you can--”

  I meant to finish the sentence with ‘sit beside that stinking piece of meat’ or a line equally as poetic, but when I glanced from her to Meg’s bloated face, what I saw—or rather, didn’t see—stopped me.

  Something different about Meg.

  My breath held to keep the flavor of her death off my tongue, I moved toward the couch with Dido’s eyes on me and sensed her open her mouth to ask a question, but I held my hand up, stopping her while I leaned in to get a better view of dead Meg. Her glazed eyes stared at the blank TV screen, the crust of the murderous sandwich still flirted with the inside of her lips. With the unhealthy purple hue in her cheeks diminished, I became aware of the change in her appearance. The glob of jam was gone from her cheek.

  He’s real, and he’s been here.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Meg.”

  The words had just cleared my lips when the front door knob rattled under someone’s grasp.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I lunged ove
r Meg’s outstretched legs, caught my toe on her knee and nearly ended up in her lap, but maintained my balance. On the way by, I grabbed Dido’s shirt sleeve, heaved her off the sofa and herded her toward the dining room. Part of me wanted to look back to see who’d end up coming through the door, but the smart part, which was hard to find, yet in there somewhere, concluded it wouldn’t be anyone I wanted to confront: cops, carrions, or a kid the dead woman called the devil. Nice choice.

  We stumbled into the kitchen and skidded to a stop, my shoes squeaking on the yellowed linoleum. Dido pulled her sleeve out of my fingers and her eyes shot a question my way.

  “Why did we stop?” her mouth followed up to make sure I understood.

  “Don’t know who it is,” I said, stretching to peek out the kitchen window into the backyard. “Or how many.”

  “It doesn’t--”

  “Sshh.”

  Her expression became reproachful and she crossed her arms so I’d grasp her unhappiness with being interrupted, but she went quiet. I listened intently, sure I’d hear the door swing open, footsteps in the hall, but didn’t. For a second, I doubted my ears. I might have imagined the rattle of the doorknob, or misinterpreted some other sound—a passing car or a kid on a skateboard. The thought seemed appealing until I glimpsed a flicker of movement and black cloth through the curtains.

  Carrion.

  Not happy to see them, but it explained the jiggling doorknob instead of a key entering the lock. Meg’s son would have expected the door to be locked because he'd have been the one to lock it last time he left. I hurried into the dining room ushering the young soul in front of me. She resisted.

  “What are you doing? Stop pushing.”

  “Those are carrions,” I breathed, keeping my voice quiet and hopefully encouraging her to do the same. “The guys who came looking for you at the motel.”

  “Oh.”

  We rushed into the living room on our way to the front door; I forgot to hold my breath and inhaled the fog of Meg’s death stench, gagging and swallowing around my rising lunch. The back door slammed open before we reached our escape.