Soul Scent: A Zackie Story (The Zackie Stories Book 2)

by Reyna Favis

  Breathing heavily, Cam slumped to the ground with his back against the trunk and put his head between his knees. “Crikey, it gets worse every time.”

  I tasted sour stomach acid and the funky mushroomy residue in my mouth and was in no shape to respond without retching. Walking a few paces away, I spat and tried to clear my mouth.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it wasn’t ladylike to spit?” Cam’s eyes were shut and his head was bowed, so it was useless to flip him the bird.

  “That Lenape bastard did this to her.” I spat again.

  Cam looked up and his eyes were bloodshot. “She did use a Lenape phrase. That would seem to implicate him.”

  “You think?” I rolled my eyes and that made me feel a little dizzy. Hobbling over, I sat down next to Cam. “What are we going to do about it?”

  Cam snorted. “We do what we always do and try to get him to move on. How exactly that happens and what happens afterward, that’s Zackie’s department.”

  I stared at the psychopomp. She was facing us, lying on the forest floor like a sphinx, relaxed and unperturbed. After who knows how many millennia, it was impossible that this situation was a first for her. I was ready to trust the process, but I was still pissed.

  “Why would this guy be such a major league asshat? What did Maggie ever do to him?”

  “Remember your early lessons. ‘As in life, so in death.’”

  “So, he was a major league asshat in life and never lost the habit when he died?” I blew out a breath. “Somehow, that’s completely unsatisfying. I’m thinking I should maybe kick his ass a little the next time we see him.”

  “Hey, none of this is meant to satisfy you. Do not go around picking fights.” Cam raised his eyebrows and nodded sharply at me, holding my gaze until I acquiesced.

  “All right. Whatever.” I crossed my arms over my chest and slumped down. The posture made my stomach feel better, so I stayed in the slouch after my moment of petulance had passed. When the adrenaline wore off, I checked on Cam. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Should we try to make it back to the parking lot?”

  “Are you going to throw up again?”

  “Probably not.” I sat up straighter to test this hypothesis. “Are you?”

  “Probably not.”

  I got to my feet and extended a hand to pull Cam up. We made it back to the parking lot, guzzled some coconut water and headed home. Our systems were drained and we needed some time to recover before we could do any more spirit work.

  # # #

  After waking up groggy and a little disoriented, I ate a tuna sandwich and felt better about my world. I checked my phone while I munched and found five messages. The first was from Jill. She had called me while we were dealing with Maggie and I probably missed her because of the sound distortion Maggie produces. Hearing a ringtone while under water was not something I was good at. As expected, Maggie’s autopsy revealed nothing unusual. The death was declared a suicide. I forwarded the message to Cam.

  The next two messages were from Peyton asking for a call back. She didn’t give any details, so I figured it was just Peyton being herself, high-drive and unrelenting. It probably wasn’t life-or-death urgent and I made a mental note to get back to her later. Next up was Lucas and my heart beat an irregular tattoo. He must have been driving somewhere because the message was garbled, like he was drifting in and out of reception areas. As far as I could tell, he had a local job where he thought we could collaborate. He probably left a message with Cam too, so I decided to let him deal with it. The last call was from my boss and my heart dropped back to an all-business, money-to-pay-my-rent pace. Gander had another job for me and I needed to call back to confirm availability. I hit redial and let him know I would do it and he let me know I had to be onsite in two hours. And so began the first of many showers that day.

  When I arrived at the scene, I was delighted to learn that this was one of the few cases where no fatalities were involved. I was not delighted to learn that this job involved a sewage backup in a residential property. But luckily for me, after having a lifetime of experience with the various stages of post mortem decay, I was already accustomed to the sights and smells that greeted me on this job.

  The plumbers had come and gone, first removing the tree roots responsible for wrapping around and crushing the sewer line and then installing a new pipe. All that remained was for us to cleanse the house of human waste and sanitize or dispose of everything that the waste had touched.

  Gander pointed to a pile of heavy duty plastic bags labeled with biohazard symbols and a collection of shovels in an adjacent pile. “Lady and gentlemen, the first order of business is to remove the solids. There is absorbent material in the truck that you will then use to sop up any liquid. Tear up and dispose of all carpeting, if you please.” Patting the side of one of the wet/dry vac units, Gander continued. “Any remaining liquid will be suctioned using this device.”

  After several long hours spent eliminating the foul contamination, we piled the waste into a van that JoJo would take to our decon facility. The family, respecting the unstoppable force of the sewage overflow, had managed to remove all the furniture to safety. Thanks to their quick action, the only thing ruined was the flooring. While we were busy shoveling and tearing up carpet, JoJo had filled buckets with a mixed solution of TR-32 deodorizer and Thermo-55 disinfectant and then added bundles of clean, commercial grade, white terry-cloth rags to let them soak.

  Gander surveyed the crew and then gave his next set of instructions. “We will now start decontaminating the home. Please fish out a rag from the bucket and clean the surfaces. Do not put used rags back in the bucket. Dispose of them in biohazard bags.”

  Following his instructions, I bent down on hands and knees near one of the toilets and began wiping the tiles. The only solace in the job was that at this point, I felt like I was making progress. I could hear Goose singing to himself as he scrubbed the hallway. “…and the toilet blew up later on the next day…”

  “What are you singing, Goose?” I called from the bathroom.

  “Just a little Zappa tune I thought was appropriate.”

  I shook my head and kept scrubbing, eventually leaving the bathroom and heading up the hall from Goose to start scrubbing one of the rooms. As I was finishing the room and backing up into the hallway, I sensed someone behind me. I figured it was Goose and didn’t pay it any mind. While I was scrubbing the threshold and crawling backwards into the hall, the someone I sensed grabbed my butt. Before I could even react, the dead hand reached back, grabbed the man by an ankle and, with a strength I did not possess, yanked both his feet out from under him. There was a resounding crash as he hit the floor and both Goose and Gander came running to see what had happened.

  Gander eyed my flushed face under the respirator and goggles and then directed his comments to Rory Craymore, lying on the floor and looking stunned. “Everything all right over here? What happened?”

  I was still on my knees as I answered. Biting down hard on my growing fury, I forced my voice to a normal volume and it only shook a little when I spoke. “He must have tripped over me.” I didn’t want to start a major incident. Gander would have a ton of paperwork to file if I screamed sexual harassment and my boss didn’t deserve that. Beyond these mundane problems, I had to get a tight grip on my emotions or I risked inciting the dead hand into doing something violent in front of witnesses. I had a mental image of it suddenly snaking out and disemboweling that little shit. My imagination painted a vivid picture of the horrified look on Rory’s face as his intestines spilled onto the floor and I briefly closed my eyes to dispel these bloody thoughts.

  Goose narrowed his eyes, stared at the back of my hazmat suit and then glared at Rory. “Is that what happened, grommet?” Glancing behind me as Gander also took a look, I noticed an incriminating, dirty hand print on my posterior.

  Rory swallowed and then responded in a small voice. “Yeah, I tripped ov
er her.”

  “Get up.” Gander did not extend a hand to help him. Once he was on his feet, Gander inspected his suit for any damage that would compromise its function. A small tear was visible near the ankle that the dead hand had grabbed. “You’re done for the day. Get out.”

  Without saying a word, Rory turned on his heel and left. Gander reached out to me and helped me to stand. “Are you all right, Fia?”

  Goose checked my suit for tears and found none. “He didn’t hurt you when he ‘fell,’ did he?” Goose didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.

  I could feel my cheeks burning as my anger seethed and I gritted my teeth. “I’m all right. Let’s just get the job done and forget about this.” I hadn’t been on the job long enough for them to really know me and this was not how I wanted them to think about me. I wanted them to forget about it, but that guy humiliated me and I was not going to be able to just let it go.

  Gander and Goose exchanged a look, but then decided to do things my way. When they turned their attention back to the work, I cleaned my suit with a towel and then, breathing hard as I exorcised the anger, began wiping down the floor again. We finished the initial scrubbing and then did a final pass with Spray &Wipe. As the last step, Gander set up an ozone machine that he was going to let run overnight to finally kill the odor. Once we were out of the house, there was no sign of Rory. JoJo helped us to remove the duct tape on the suits and then gathered up the items slated for either decontamination or disposal. I stepped into the truck, stripped down and threw my fouled gear as hard as I could against the wall. I stood with hands on hips and my head bowed as I again fought down the rage, now tinged with resentment that I always had to be the one with controlled emotions. Just once, I wanted to cut loose and let someone have it, say what I really thought and smack people silly if they deserved it. After a few moments, I regained my composure, slipped a nitrile glove on the dead hand and entered the shower. Between the sewage and Rory, I had never felt as filthy as I did right then. The shower was a real blessing.

  I thought about what the dead hand did as I got wet, turned the water off and then soaped up and scrubbed vigorously. Maybe this thing helped me at a moment of vulnerability, but my stomach soured when I thought about its intrusion and my lack of autonomy. Turning the water back on for a final rinse, I decided to go to Cam and tell him about this latest fiasco. What if the dead hand hadn’t stopped with slamming Rory to the ground? What if it had grabbed him by the throat and choked the life out of him? With my history of psychiatric problems, I’d be charged with his death and locked up for good. I dried off, put on my street clothes and left the truck open for the guys. Telling them I’d see them next time, I headed for my car, dialing Cam as I walked.

  # # #

  Cam handed me a mug of coffee as I came through the door. “Tell it to me from the beginning.” I told Cam exactly what happened and did not spare him the swearing, the fury over being pawed and my fears of what the dead hand might do next.

  Grabbing my mug for a refill, Cam slid from his stool at the breakfast island and poured us both another cup. “I think he got a little bit of what he deserved.”

  “But what if this escalates? I can’t stop the dead hand from doing things. I have absolutely no forewarning that something is going to happen, so it’s not like I can walk away to stop it from reacting to a situation.”

  “It appears to me that it could very well have done anything to this Rory person as he lay helpless on the floor. It didn’t.”

  “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t worry?”

  “Oh, no, go ahead and worry. And try to keep yourself out of situations where the hand could react.”

  I looked at him bleary eyed and then rubbed at my face in frustration. “I have no idea what its triggers are.”

  “You know that it doesn’t like Rory, so stay clear of him. At the very least, do that for your own sake.”

  I rolled my eyes, but then nodded agreement at this bit of common sense and took the mug he offered. Relaxing my shoulders, I took a sip and then took a cleansing breath. “I’ll just have to be really careful on the next job. I can’t have that guy near me, but it’s easier said than done, depending on what we’re working on.” Maybe I would have to file a complaint after all. That would force the company to keep that guy away from me until they did an investigation. The prospect of having to talk to management about that little shit made my belly curdle.

  My thoughts were interrupted by my In the Mood ringtone. Peyton was calling. Crap. I was supposed to have called her back. “Cam, it’s Peyton.”

  “Answer it and put her on speaker. Maybe we’re lucky and the Lenape spirit found peace and left on his own.”

  I slit my eyes at Cam and shook my head, that he would harbor such fantasies. Tapping the phone, I let Peyton’s call through. “Peyton, what’s up?”

  “The booming is getting worse.”

  Cam sat forward and his eyes narrowed. “Worse how?”

  “Is that you, Cam?” Cam let her know that we were on speaker and she continued. “Well, it’s not just loud anymore. The booming is starting to get rhythmic. How can a raccoon do that?”

  Cam’s eyes shifted in my direction as he began to confabulate a rationale. “Well, it’s later in the day and the surface of the roof is metal. The sun could have caused it to heat up and now we’re getting intermittent heat and the surface is expanding and contracting. That could cause a rhythmic booming, couldn’t it?” Cam silently mouthed to me, ‘Do you think she’s buying it?’

  I started to shake my head as Peyton responded. “No.”

  Cam’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean ‘No?’ I just gave you a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “No. I’m not stupid. I know how metal materials react to temperature shifts. This explanation is not the slightest bit plausible. The trailer’s hide is too thick.”

  “Bollocks…” Cam folded his arms across his chest and he pursed his lips in a sour expression. He’d given up trying to be persuasive.

  “Well, what do you think is happening?” I asked her. Sometimes it helped to try to get people to think rationally and insert their own perfectly reasonable explanation.

  “I can’t explain it and I don’t like it.” Peyton huffed out a frustrated breath. “If I had some answers, maybe I could find a way to deal with it. As things stand, there’s no good way to resolve the situation. Pisses me off, Fia. This is bullshit.”

  The little hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. On some level, Peyton recognized that we knew more than we were telling her and subconsciously, it was coming through in how she expressed herself. She was just sensitive enough to feel something wasn’t right, but not sensitive enough to put her finger on it. This had loose cannon written all over it.

  “What are you going to do?” My eyes slid to Cam, who leaned forward, listening attentively with furrowed brows.

  Peyton’s voice was shrill when she answered. “I’m going to do what everyone does. I’ll search on the internet to see if anyone else had this happen and see what they did about it.”

  Cam pulled out his phone and placed it on the counter, so I could see as he put in the search term ‘trailer making banging noises.’ I kept Peyton talking. “Sounds like a plan. Let us know if you find anything useful.” Reading the search results, there were over three million hits, the first page of which showed all manner of mechanical failure leading to thumping sounds. This should keep her busy while we waited for Ron Falling-Leaf to arrive.

  “Yeah, I’ll let you know if I need any help.” Peyton’s voice was barbed with sarcasm and she hung up without saying good-bye. She was frustrated with us, but probably unable to understand why. My stomach felt like I had swallowed shards of glass and I knew exactly why. I was a big-ass failure for hanging a friend out to dry.

  “Stop looking like that.” Cam stared at me, narrowing his eyes.

  “Like what? What am I looking like?”

  “Like the world uses you for a punch
ing bag and it all makes sense now.”

  “What am I supposed to look like?” I forced the bangs from my eyes and stood up. “We’re not helping Peyton or any of the spirits under our care and I have a dead hand that does whatever it wants. I’ve gotta be doing something wrong here, Cam.”

  “You’re assuming things are under your control. That’s a thinking error.”

  His words stopped me in mid expletive. “Are you telling me that nothing I do matters?”

  “No, I’m saying that there are too many variables for outcomes to be predictable. You can avoid some problems by making smart decisions, but there’s always going to be unintended consequences, even with the smart decisions.”

  I sat back down and mulled this over. “So, all I can do is the best I can under the circumstances and no one will blame me?”

  “No, where’d you ever get that idea?” Cam chuckled without mirth. “There will be plenty of finger pointing when things go wrong. The best you can hope for is a clear conscience.”

  I stared at Cam wide-eyed and then my lips quirked. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  “Always.”

  “Then how do I know this isn’t just anecdotal? Results may vary, right?” Maybe this was the way the world operated, but it was a sucky way to do business.

  Cam paused and gave me a careful assessment before answering. Every wrinkle on his face showed in stark relief and each gray hair had a story to tell. “Try it your way and let me know how it goes for you.”

  I grunted a noncommittal reply and then exercised my right to remain silent.

  # # #

  The callout came as I was about to eat lunch. I crammed the peanut butter and jelly sandwich into my mouth and gummed it viciously as I ran to my bedroom to change into a high visibility orange shirt, tactical pants and hiking boots. Everything else I needed was in my car trunk. With a quick swig of milk to wash down my lunch, I ran out the door with my cheeks bulging and slid in behind the steering wheel. Catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I hastened to wipe away the milk mustache and stray bits of peanut butter before I started the car.