Esprit de Corpse trr-3

by Gina X. Grant

  Angus walked back to his desk, checked another form. “Mudders. Theresa Mudders.”

  “Oh, that woman’s a saint. I’m good with her.”

  Down the hall, a door opened and shut, sensible rubber soles squeaking on the worn tiles.

  “Speak of the devil,” Angus said.

  “Where?” Dante and I chorused, standing at attention. I craned my neck, seeking our frumpy Underlord, but instead of Her Satanic Majesty Lucy Phurr, I saw a slim, attractive Asian woman about my own age, or at least the age I’d been when I’d died.

  “Hi, guys. How’s it going?” The new arrival beamed. Her ancestry featured the Philippines, or possibly Thailand. Putting that together with her accent-free English and the Anglo-esque last name, I guessed she was probably mixed race. I’d once had a classmate with similar looks whose folks hailed from Trinidad although she’d grown up in Brampton just outside of Toronto.

  In addition to being pretty, Theresa also appeared intelligent and friendly. I liked her instantly. “What’s up with the media circus in the parking lot?” she asked, accepting the omnipresent clipboard from Angus.

  “Media?” Leo echoed.

  “Circus?” Angus chimed in.

  “Yeah. They’re all abuzz out there because you’ve arrested some big corporate exec’s daughter who’s supposed to have . . .” Theresa trailed off, probably having guessed the daughter in question might be the young woman in the business suit cuffed to the bench. “Uh, hi?”

  “My name is Conrad, I mean Shannon Iver and I demand to be released. This is preposterous. Now if you’ll uncuff me . . .” He tried to hold up his hands, but the short length of chain wouldn’t allow it. He must have been picking at the plastic cuffs, though, because his manicure was now all scuffed and chipped. My friend Charon would never be seen in public like that. His nails were always impeccable.

  “Yes, of course. Got your paperwork right here.” Theresa smiled at Conrad in a warm and comforting way. “They’re bringing up the other woman awaiting transport right now. We can get on the road in a few minutes and then get you settled into your accommodations for the night.”

  This Theresa made me feel better about the whole day. Especially the part where Conrad was going to spend the night in a cell.

  I’d never heard of Vanier, but if it had bars and locks and really bad television, I was good with Conrad having to spend the night there.

  Another officer arrived, one who fit more closely with my personal stereotype of what a female officer should be—big, sturdy, short-haired—with Phelps embroidered across her right breast. She looked strong and competent, which was a good thing considering the prisoner she escorted also better fit my image of a stereotypical criminal.

  The cuffed woman loomed large and menacing. Her hair was cropped into short, sharp spikes dyed a red not found in nature. She wore ripped jeans and a sequined halter top that showcased a bodybuilder physique painted with a swirl of inky tattoos. Half the sequins had fallen off her top, leaving bare patches of too-tight fabric. Charon’s perfect sequined horns glittered in my mind’s eye.

  She looked right through us.

  Well, of course all the living looked right through us, but she looked right through the living as well. And yet I’d describe her eyes as dead. How was that even possible?

  “This here’s Maddy Stryker. You transport?” Phelps asked, obviously bored, tired and anxious to go home.

  Theresa bobbed her head, “Yup. That’s me.” She accepted Stryker’s paperwork with a perkiness that would have done Miss America proud. She was the polar opposite of the tired officer whose only perkiness probably involved coffee.

  While Theresa checked the paperwork for both prisoners, Leo unclipped Conrad from the bench but left the cuffs firmly in place.

  “I’m going to need backup getting these two into the truck. It’s a zoo out there.”

  After some discussion, Theresa led the way, followed by the two prisoners, each in the care of her respective escort: Detective Leo guiding Conrad along by the bicep again, while the scary guard marched the scary prisoner toward the waiting transport van.

  I hopped down off the counter where I’d been perched, trying without luck to get a forgotten paper clip to move. I probably should have started with something even smaller, like a single staple, but I’ve developed an aversion to staples. Go figure.

  Now Dante, Shannon and I traipsed after the prisoners and their escorts. Glad to be on the move, I belted out a show tune I’d learned from Char. “I love a parade, the tramping of feet. I love every beat, I hear of a— What?”

  Shannon gave me a hurt look before turning away.

  “Kirsty, show some decorum. Her father is facing serious charges,” Dante hissed. “Plus he just passed away.”

  I refrained from pointing out the inherent conflict in those two statements, settling for a whiny reply. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” I mumbled. “Like you’re Mr. Sensitivity now.”

  He’d certainly hurt my feelings often enough today.

  As soon as the door to the parking lot opened, the hubbub hit us like a wave. The small group of prisoners and escorts we followed pressed through the ring of reporters waving pens and recording devices in their faces.

  “Detective Leo. Peter Mercer, CBC. Can you give us a statement?”

  “Ms. Iver. Rick Mansbridge, CTV News. Will you be pleading guilty to the murder of your best friend and your father?”

  “Shannon. Over here. Gurvender Awatramani, Sun News Corp. Did you do it? Did you really club her to death with a stapler?”

  Wow. And Dante had called me insensitive. I’d seen this kind of mob scene in movies, but I’d always figured it for a Hollywood invention. These people were serious journalists and here they were practically clubbing each other to get the scoop. I hope there were no staplers out here tonight or someone could get seriously bonked.

  “No statement. No comment.” Detective Leo hustled Conrad toward the waiting van, but Conrad had other ideas.

  With an unexpected jerk, he pulled out of the detective’s grip and sprinted toward a broken lamppost. He looped his cuffed hands over it, shouting: “I’m Con—Shannon Iver. I’d like to make a statement and I want you all to get it down.”

  Of course Theresa and the detective charged after him. I bet they were sorry they’d recuffed him in front. As they tried to get him free without uncuffing him, the media ringed them. And not in a nice way.

  “She’s got a right to be heard.”

  “The public has a right to know.”

  “Ever hear of the First Amendment?”

  “Yes, I have.” Theresa stepped up to the crowd. She displayed a commanding presence, silencing the media by sheer will and seeming much taller than her five-foot-seven frame. “The First Amendment is actually American law, but we do have something similar here in Canada. Ms. Iver, please speak your piece.”

  My ex-boss glared at Leo until the detective took a step back. Unlooping his hands from the broken pole, Conrad turned to face the crowd. He smoothed Shannon’s skirt and straightened her suit jacket as best he could with bound hands. He turned his daughter’s head left, then right, no doubt hoping they’d catch her good side.

  Cameras and camera phones flashed and clicked. All over the parking lot, recording devices switched on.

  “My name is Shannon Iver and I. Am. Innocent!”

  As one, the crowd emitted a gasp. Those who preferred recording methods whose batteries didn’t fail scratched frantically with pen and pencil.

  Conrad’s gaze jumped from reporter to reporter, daring them to challenge him. His expression broadcast arrogance and defiance. Then a light seemed to come on over his head, despite the broken light fixture he stood beneath. One feature at a time, his face crumpled in despair. Well, Shannon’s face, to be exact.

  For one moment, I hoped he might be genuinely sorry, sincerely filled with grief. Then the same light came on over my head. Mr. Manipulative had realized that in order to win sympathy, a you
ng woman must present herself differently than a successful middle-aged man.

  We’ve come a short way, baby.

  Conrad raised his head again, a tear trickling down one cheek, just as he’d done when giving my crappy memorial speech that day. His chin trembled and now he leaned on Detective Leo for support.

  Oh, brother.

  “It . . .” He sobbed once, then faked inner resolve and started over. “It wasn’t me who clubbed Kirsty to death.”

  “One steamboat. Two steamboats.” I counted the beats in my head. He’d taught me a good, dramatic pause must last at least five seconds. “Four steamboats and go!”

  Right on cue, Conrad managed to compose himself enough to continue. “Sadly, when Kirsty d’Arc, my best friend, awoke suddenly from her coma, she became disoriented and attacked me. My father, noble, caring man that he was, leapt to my defense. Using the only tool at hand, he was forced to incapacitate poor, delusional Kirsty with the stapler.”

  What? That’s not how it happened. He’d attacked me!

  What a load of bull-skeg. How dare he? I was about ready to try scything him again when I realized this sympathy thing would work in our favor. Our immediate goal was to get Shannon off the charge of murder, so the more sympathy he gained for her, the better.

  Conrad appeared to be waiting for something. He tapped one high heel on the pavement impatiently, keeping his head down.

  “Ms. Iver, why was there a stapler in a long-term care room?”

  His head shot up. This must have been the question he’d been waiting for.

  “I visited Kirsty often, finding solace in her quiet company. I would bring office work with me to make productive use of the time I spent at her bedside. The doctors say that sometimes coma victims can hear what goes on around them, so I’d read her articles and reports to keep her up to date for when she returned to us.”

  A murmur of approval traveled through the reporters.

  Conrad made a show of using his cuffed hands to wipe a tear from his eye before continuing. “When he realized his blow had accidently ended her life, my father died of grief and guilt and the strain of it all.” By now her voice was cracking in strategic places.

  Conrad turned to Detective Leo. “You can charge him posthumously if you must,” he sobbed, still speaking loudly and clearly enough to be heard and recorded across the parking lot. “But it would be a waste of all our hard-earned tax dollars. And put an unnecessary burden on our overworked law-enforcement officials and court system. I thank you all for coming out this evening to hear the truth about the accidental death of Kirsty d’Arc.”

  I was so blown away by Conrad’s absurd retelling of my death story that I couldn’t even process my feelings. A survey of the news teams showed people hurriedly adding their own tags to their video and audio recordings, or hastily texting or phoning in their notes.

  I glanced at Dante to see if I could determine his reaction. The blood drained from his face as I watched, and he shook with anger. For once he didn’t have his arm around Shannon as he turned to me. “Is that how it happened, Kirsty? Did you attack Shannon?”

  “Did I—? What, no. Of course not. You were there.” But even as I said it, I recalled he’d teleported into the room after I’d died. “No, Dante,” I said coldly. “That’s not what happened and you know it. And you know what? I expected you to be more supportive.”

  “Kirsty, you know that as Reapers, we are out of contact with our superiors much of the time. We are, therefore, required to use our own judgment. To that end, I must gather all the facts. While I know you’re a trustworthy witness, Conrad’s version of events is also plausible. I must listen to and investigate all possibilities without bias.”

  Without bias, my ass. How many times had people told me, “This is Hell, we play favorites”?

  “But Dante, we got Conrad to confess to stealing my soul in the first place. It’s why Judge Julius said you were off the hook about my wrongful reapage.”

  “Yes, but that was clearing the air regarding your reapage a year ago. The reaping we’re concerned with now is Conrad’s own unauthorized scything by you. I need more evidence before I can make up my mind.” Dante held out one hand, as if expecting me to understand.

  “You should take my word for it,” I said, feeling betrayed even as I told myself he was only doing his job. “But seeing as you won’t, let’s ask the other person who was there.” I turned to Shannon, calling her name, but she seemed fixated on her father, who was once again being led toward the van. You’d think a prisoner transport vehicle would have parked closer to the door, but I guess the media had hogged all the better spots.

  “Shannon. Shannon!” She blinked at me, finally, as the van doors slammed shut. Detective Leo and Officer Phelps strode back toward the precinct, once again battling the gang of reporters. “Would you tell Dante what happened at the time of my death, please?”

  Shannon hesitated. She looked lost and scared. “My dad was trying to get me to sign that document. The contract amendment. Then, I think the next thing that happened was that Kirsty woke up. And she fell on the floor, but then she got up and she. . .” Shannon’s eyebrows drew together as she tried to remember. “She came at my dad like the walking dead, arms stretched out before her. He had no choice but to defend himself.”

  Defend himself? From me? He’d been big, strong and healthy, wielding the solid metal stapler. I’d been dazed and weak, my muscles wasted. All I’d had was a few sticky plastic disks.

  “And then,” Shannon continued, sobbing softly. I was a little sick of her veil of tears. “And then, he—He—He died. Of a heart attack they found out later. Yes, it happened just like she—I—Like Dad just said.”

  That wasn’t right. She was upset. She was in shock. She was suffering from schizofriendia.

  Dante glared at me with such malevolence I stepped backward. If he believed Shannon, then he must think our entire relationship was built on lies. He turned Shannon around so both their backs were to me. “Come, Shannon. We must go with them in the van. I cannot teleport you since your body is still alive and your time on the Coil may not yet be done.”

  I remembered Dante and me first figuring that out. Together. Was he thinking about our first meeting as well? Was he getting sentimental? Feeling bad for how he’d treated me?

  “Kirsty can find her own way.”

  I stood there, mouth gaping at what had gone down. When Conrad had manipulated me out of my life, I’d felt used, angry and helpless. I hadn’t imagined I could ever feel worse. When I needed him most, Dante hadn’t just let me down; he’d actually turned on me.

  My hands fisted in anger, while my insides clenched with fear. What if he never believed me? What if I’d lost him for good?

  And lost was exactly what I felt. Lost and alone. So alone I wished I could die.

  Sadly, that was no longer an option for me.

  Chapter 8

  Jails Pitch

  THE TRANSPORT VAN idled in the parking lot, spewing fossil fuel by-products into the air while it waited for the newspeople to clear out. Eventually the last media vehicle sped off into the dusk and the van rumbled across the asphalt and away from the precinct.

  I wished I could have bypassed the awkward journey to Vanier and teleported myself directly there, but oddly enough, as a law-abiding citizen, I had no clue where it was.

  I knew the name Vanier, of course. He’d been governor general or something. He had a high school named after him, the all-important intercollegiate football trophy and now a women’s prison. Did this reflect an expected career path? High school, college, prison? His mother must be so proud. I’d have to ask next time she passed through Hell.

  I waited until the van was almost out of sight before activating my scythe and teleporting into the interior.

  “Ow!”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, having landed half on Dante and half on Shannon. Not the most graceful teleportation, but it was only my second time outside
the classroom exorcises. With burning cheeks (no, not those cheeks; I hadn’t landed that hard), I squeezed into the empty space between Dante and the rear doors. The bench across the way had more space but then I would have had to look Dante and Shannon in the eye. Eyes. Whatever.

  Besides, then I’d be sitting beside the other prisoner, Maddy Stryker, and she scared the bejesus out of me.

  And I’d met Jesus once. Nice guy.

  So the three invisible souls plus Theresa Mudders all crammed on one side of the van, while the two accused murders sat facing us.

  Up front, the radio played a forgotten song as an unseen driver ferried us toward the highway.

  Predictably, Conrad began his litany of lies and self-pity, now directed at Theresa. Unlike the detective who had ignored Conrad’s monologue during the drive from the office to the precinct, Theresa remained focused on Conrad, nodding and commiserating in all the right places. Did some of Conrad’s Deal powers linger or was he just really good at gaining sympathy?

  He’d certainly played those reporters like a lyre.

  The drive through rush-hour traffic to the small city of Milton, where Vanier was located, took forever. Traffic on the 401 grew heavy and aggressive. We’d stop to let one car in only to have three more jam their way in front of us. The words Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services printed on the side of the van didn’t earn us any special treatment.

  Tired of being jostled on the hard metal bench (now those cheeks were burning, as well), I was about to push through the metal mesh to the more comfortable passenger seat up front near the driver when Maddy Stryker suddenly struck.

  Like Conrad, both her hands and feet were chained to a big D-ring welded to the floor of the van so her only remaining weapon was her head. She head-butted Conrad’s shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways before his own chains reined him in. That had to hurt.

  We’d all jumped at the sudden attack, but Theresa quickly regained her composure. “Now, Maddy, that wasn’t necessary. Why did we feel compelled to assault Shannon?”