His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1)

by J. Eric Hance

  Lily would run down the hallway, screaming, “Uncle Henry,” and Hannah would toddle along behind adding her own, “Unca Henny.” Lily would always hug my legs; Hannah wasn’t satisfied until I picked her up.

  I would always oblige.

  We would all laugh.

  The flowerbed under the windows was lined with bricks. I lifted the third brick from the walkway; the front door key sat nestled beneath.

  Sure, I could open the door without a key, but that felt…well, wrong here.

  Nothing of consequence had changed. There was the same brown leather sectional, just a little too big for the living room. Steve’s handmade bookshelves in the office still weren’t finished. I ran my hand along the drywall gouge left by Lily’s trike, almost two years ago now.

  It was a beautiful house, but it was also well loved.

  In the kitchen, children’s artwork adorned the refrigerator, all the pieces I knew long since retired. A page drawn by a shaky, three-year-old’s hand depicted the artist’s family. Stick figures for “Mom,” “Dad,” “Lily” and “Me” were there, all standing in the grass beneath a cloudy sky. In the clouds hovered a stick figure with wings.

  It was labeled, “Uncle Henry.”

  I stepped out onto the deck to catch my breath.

  I’d give almost anything to regain my old life—to once again be nothing more than Unca Henny. To drop by four or five nights a week for dinner and spoil my nieces.

  Could I leave my new life behind, find what I’d lost?

  I sighed, looking around.

  This was the place it all started.

  The place I’d first met her.

  The beginning of the end.

  The Space Needle loomed deceptively still and tranquil in the distance; at its base, the Seattle Center celebration should be in full swing. Lake Union’s surface calmly reflected the Needle and the night sky above.

  The air was still, damp and crisp. Small, shallow puddles dotted the surface of the deck. It had rained earlier but the sky was now free of clouds, and a large, bright moon clearly lit the world. They were predicting snow, but that hardly ever came to anything.

  It felt good to be free of the pressing throng inside, if only for a few minutes. It felt good to be alone.

  I took a long, deep breath. I love the smell of rain.

  “It does smell wonderful.” The unexpected voice was light, wistful, and distinctly feminine.

  I froze in surprise.

  The house was packed with revelers. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t stopped to think someone else might come outside.

  Stupid, really.

  Composing myself, I turned around.

  The voice had rich brown skin and large, dark eyes. Hair, black and wavy, cascaded over one shoulder halfway to the woman’s waist. She was probably a few years younger than me—late twenties. Thirty at most.

  Her dress was deep pink and sleeveless, with a thin black ribbon tied around the waist. It covered a body both slender and athletic, but curvy in all the right places. The clothing was modest; it revealed no cleavage, and draped slightly below the knees. The woman’s figure was forced to speak for itself.

  And it spoke fluently.

  I cleared my throat repeatedly before my voice cooperated. “I…uh…me too. I think it’s best…”

  “In the early morning,” the woman interrupted. She smiled shyly, but didn’t apologize. Reflections danced playfully on her check as she lifted her wineglass, moonlight through the ripples on the white wine’s surface. “I’m Michelle.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Michelle. I’m Henry.”

  Michelle sipped her wine, returning the glass to its perch. She frowned, contemplating me. “You don’t look like a Henry.” Her tone was playful and mischievous.

  I laughed. “Well, maybe I’ll have to change my name someday.”

  She laughed lightly. “What brings you here?”

  I shrugged. “This is my brother’s party.”

  Michelle nodded with a slight frown of resignation. “My friends brought me. I was hoping for a quiet night alone.” She turned to look out over the water.

  My heart sank. I hadn’t expected a clandestine slip into the night to resuscitate my terminal love life; that’s certainly not why I’d come out in the first place. Still, when you meet a beautiful woman alone in the moonlight, you can’t help but hope.

  Damn romantic comedies.

  “Well, I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just…” I shrugged, turning toward the house. “…hiding.”

  “Oh?”

  I cringed.

  Joshua Black was drunk tonight, to a point where his cane failed to steady him. In his inebriation, he’d taken an unusual and intense interest in me, asking endless questions, staring constantly from across the room.

  He acted like he was seeing a ghost.

  “It’s a long story.” My hand wrapped around the door handle.

  Michelle spoke quietly, a slight waver to her voice. “You know, I have plenty of time to kill.”

  I then did something completely out of character—something that very few people who knew me, especially myself, would ever expect.

  I turned around.

  I sighed again, looking once more around the deck.

  What was I doing?

  Feeling sorry for myself. Stalling.

  Michelle was amazing, but Michelle wasn’t here.

  No matter what I did, I could never bring her back, no more than I could erase that stick figure in the clouds. Unca Henny was, and always would be, gone.

  This house had once felt like home, but it no longer did. Nothing here had changed.

  But I had.

  Henry Richards was dead.

  It was time to stop stalling.

  Michael Reaper had work to do.

  XIX

  Close to Home

  The day had grown overcast. It might even rain, but it was too early to tell.

  Karen smiled to me from the Mustang, parked on the street. The explosion at the warehouse had clearly shaken her—how could it not? We’d spent half an hour watching coverage on the news, haunting footage that looked more like some third world warzone than downtown in a major US city. They were calling it an industrial accident…no evidence of foul play.

  Karen hadn’t said much, though I did notice her shaking several times as we watched. But then she turned off the TV, stood, and told me it was time to go.

  That woman was made of steel.

  I turned back to the door and knocked.

  Inside, a small dog yipped frantically. No doubt it imagined itself a mighty protector of its home and family—instead of the fluffy, white, pink-ribbon-adorned football it probably was.

  The door opened two inches. Through the crack, a woman’s eye examined me accusingly. At her foot, a small hyper white dog gave me the same look.

  My mistake…the ribbons were blue.

  “May I help you?”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Michael Reaper, from the Department of Health.” I flashed some fake credentials, provided by the robe. “I have a couple of brief questions about Walter Scott.”

  It’s amazing what you can find on the internet.

  Karen spent I don’t know how many hours online last night, researching a few entries from the list. WMS was Walter M. Scott, age seventy-two. He died just over three weeks ago.

  And he was checked off the list.

  The door opened slightly, letting little Fluffy out to sniff my tennis shoe. Within the house, an attractive, middle-aged brunette, wearing her bathrobe, examined me.

  “The police already investigated my father-in-law’s death.” Her tone made it clear she considered the matter settled.

  My response was apologetic. “I know, Mrs. Scott, I’m sorry to bother you again.” I leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “You see, I really dropped the ball on this one. My supervisor’s in the car back there. She’s had it in for me for months, and if I
don’t straighten this out, she’ll have my ass.”

  Mrs. Scott straightened to consider Karen in the Mustang’s passenger seat. She waved, and Karen returned it enthusiastically.

  After a silent pause, she opened the door and beckoned me inside, her voice sharp. “She looks like a real bitch.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “Would you like some lemonade?”

  “Four days’ worth, you said?”

  Maria nodded sadly, holding her glass of lemonade. “We had one of those seven-day pill containers for him. You know, the ones with the weekdays marked on all the little doors?”

  I nodded, sipping my own glass.

  “My father-in-law would get confused sometimes, but he never had any problems like that before.” The woman sniffled quietly, her eyes moist.

  “Did the police suspect foul play?”

  Maria’s expression was briefly shocked. “Walter was seventy—sick and senile. Who would hurt a man like that?” She looked out the window, fidgeting with her glass. “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

  I set my lemonade on the coffee table and placed one of my hands over both of hers. “It wasn’t your fault, Maria. Don’t blame yourself.”

  She graced me with the hint of a smile, not convinced but comforted nonetheless.

  “I only have a couple more quick questions. Do you know the name Emily Panner?”

  Emily was a woman in her early twenties. She’d been training for a triathlon, and was prone to take long runs, swims and bike rides alone. One early morning in March, she went out for a swim on Lake Washington. A few people saw her get into the water.

  She was never seen again.

  No body was found, but then Lake Washington is almost thirty-four square miles, with heavy boat traffic and a long canal that runs through Lake Union out to Puget Sound. Bodies disappear in its waters for months, or even years. Emily’s official cause of death was drowning.

  She was also checked off the list.

  I’d already talked to Emily’s sister that morning.

  Karen planned three other stops for today. Two were unchecked entries, one nearby and another up north in Everett. The third was neither checked nor unchecked; instead, it bore a scribbled question mark.

  That one, in particular, interested me.

  After those five stops, we’d regroup and decide how best to proceed.

  Maria shook her head slowly. “No, it doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “How about Robert Winston? Perhaps your father-in-law knew him, or your husband.”

  “No.” She shook her head again. “I’m afraid that doesn’t ring any bells.”

  I stood, giving a smile I didn’t feel. She’d been completely cooperative, but this conversation was no more productive than the one with Emily’s sister. “Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Scott.”

  “You’ll call me if you need anything else?”

  I nodded. “Of course,” I said, turning to leave. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “I’m sure this will be the one.” Karen smiled encouragingly.

  I looked at her, doing my best not to cringe.

  Overnight, her aura had shrunk to two, maybe two and a half inches. It was starting to feel a bit like a gruesome little egg timer, ticking down the seconds until she was “done.” If it continued at the same rate, she didn’t have even three days left.

  At least the color was still dark red. I had a feeling that darker would be a bad sign. The souls I’d collected so far all had deep black auras.

  I faked a smile of my own. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  I slipped quickly from the car, before my face betrayed my thoughts.

  This area of Magnolia Hill was a clearly affluent neighborhood. Large, stately houses with impressive grounds overlooked Seattle and the Sound. The Mustang, with its faded and peeling paint, stuck out like an entire fist full of sore thumbs.

  A man walked his dog briskly across the street, what appeared to be a purebred golden retriever. He wore expensive slacks and a crisp dress shirt without a tie. His hair was short, blond, and perfectly parted on the left side. He was maybe 5’10”, and had the kind of handsomely chiseled but unremarkable features one expects of a secret agent, or the dad in a coffee commercial.

  He examined me with piercing blue eyes that clearly suggested I didn’t belong.

  And, well, frankly, in a neighborhood where you walk your dog dressed like that at eleven-thirty on a workday, he was probably right.

  I turned up the collar of my trench coat against a growing chill.

  I surveyed my surroundings as I walked to the door. Fountains of differing styles dotted the front yard, surrounded by hedges shaped into fantastical animal and mythological forms. The walkway had been replaced by marble blocks, and purely ornamental marble columns flanked the front door.

  Two cars sat in the driveway: a BMW convertible and a Rolls Royce. They displayed the license plates, “His 1” and “His 3,” respectively.

  Great.

  Chuckling, I knocked.

  The door swung open suddenly, revealing a short Asian man in his early forties. He wore khakis and a pink polo with a cream sweater vest over it. Overly large sunglasses perched precariously on top of his head.

  He looked me up and down once with a dismissive expression, puffed out his chest and strained to stand tall. The attempt failed miserably. When he spoke, the accent was thick—Korean, I think, though I’m horrible with accents. “Go away. I not interested.”

  For a moment, I stood dumbstruck. Not because of the man himself; there was nothing imposing about him, and I couldn’t care less about his rude arrogance. Frankly, I’d expected as much.

  A three-and-a-half-inch black line hugged his body.

  Jackpot.

  “Sir, I…I’m not here to sell you anything.”

  Uh…dammit.

  Mr. Sweater Vest started to close his door, my presence already dismissed.

  “Wait!” I said. “Are you KKD?”

  I already knew the answer. His aura left no doubt.

  Unfortunately, Karen hadn’t been able to find his name online.

  The door’s motion stopped. It hovered halfway open, on the brink of decision, then reopened ponderously. Eyes, narrowed in suspicion, reexamined me with greater consideration.

  “In Korea, not here—I Bradley Kim here. What do you want?”

  He was on the list.

  He could call himself Princess Leia for all I cared.

  “You’re in grave danger, Mr. Kim, and I’d like to understand why.”

  His eyes narrowed still further as his suspicion grew. “What kind of danger?”

  “Someone is trying to kill you.”

  He leaned forward intently, almost whispering. “Who?” His tone wasn’t one of surprise, but rather conspiratorial self-interest.

  “I don’t know, but together we can figure it out.”

  The marked man straightened himself with a laugh, his features relaxing. He glanced quickly around his yard, and then to Robert’s Mustang parked on the street.

  “Go away,” he said confidently, “or I call police.” With a quick step, Mr. Kim ducked behind his door.

  Or, rather, he tried.

  Exasperated, I grabbed a handful of his sweater vest, pulling his face to mine. “I’m trying to help you.”

  The man wiggled in my grasp, straining to pull away. He yelled, “I will not give you money!”

  Apparently, he wasn’t taking me seriously. He needed convincing. Frigid cold washed over me in a wave as the bell sounded inside my head. Oily seduction enveloped me, fueling my frustration and my anger.

  The Reaper visage settled over my face and hands, while the sky darkened further. To anyone other than Bradley Kim, I would appear completely normal.

  We both jerked in surprise; I hadn’t intended to change. The robe eagerly responded to my anger and frustration in the worst possible way…by breaking one of the three cardinal rules
. But the damage was done; there was no going back. With fingers of bone wrapped around the front of his vest, I pulled Mr. Kim forward until I could feel my own breath reflecting off his face.

  His skin went ghostly white and a gurgling whimper escaped his throat.

  I did my best to ignore the growing puddle at his feet.

  “I am trying to keep you alive.”

  Mr. Kim convulsed once before he tore away from my grip, screaming incoherently. The door was slammed and locked before I could react.

  Dammit.

  It just wasn’t going to be my day.

  I briefly considered pursuit; the locked door wasn’t an obstacle. At this point, though, I wasn’t sure what it would accomplish.

  Dammit all to hell.

  The Reaper dropped away as I turned from the house. Discouraged, I limped up the driveway on an ankle still sore from yesterday’s dumpster dive.

  “My goodness, that didn’t go at all well.” Karen leaned out the passenger window as I shambled to the car.

  Grumbling, I ignored her while climbing into the driver’s side. “Yes and no,” I finally acknowledged, exasperated. “I think Mr. Kim may be a victim in a few days, but he has no interest in talking.” Three or four days, to be exact, but I couldn’t explain to Karen how I knew that so precisely.

  Karen contemplated the house. “So what now?”

  I studied her aura before answering. Outwardly, she looked healthy; it was a lie.

  Karen didn’t have three or four days.

  “Keep going down the list. Maybe we’ll find a better lead. We can always check on Mr. Kim in a couple of days.”

  At least, I could.

  The next address was only a few blocks away. It was the one I’d been anticipating.

  The question mark.

  As we drove, Karen gave directions from a map she’d printed the night before.

  You’ve just gotta love the internet.

  Maybe Elliott could get me a laptop, or something.

  “Hey—how many other question marks are on the list?”

  “Oh my, I think…” Trailing off, Karen dug quickly through her purse. She sat back, holding the stack of folded sheets. She searched through them carefully before responding. “Just the one, Michael.”