She was nice, and she was trying to be helpful, but if brains were anchors, she’d float away…pulling the entire crew to their deaths. Of course, I was calling in the middle of the night. If I wanted the number one team, I’d do better calling during business hours.
“And when was she admitted?”
Third time for that question as well.
“Around January fourth.”
“Please hold.”
Classical music came over the earpiece.
I drained my beer, dropping the empty bottle beside its twin on the small kitchen counter.
A few seconds later, the woman returned. “I’m afraid there’s no one by that name in our records. If you had her social security number…”
I disconnected the call.
That was every Seattle hospital. Next, I’d have to start calling nursing homes, but that list was daunting, to say the least.
I opened the refrigerator to peer inside.
“Tough day, Michael?”
Peeking over the open door, I found Elliott sprawled on top of the couch like he’d relaxed there for hours; he hadn’t been home since I arrived earlier tonight. Despite the locked doors and windows, he still managed to come and go as he pleased.
“You could say that.”
I pulled out another bottle, twirling it in my hand as I considered whether I wanted a third. The beer was one of my favorites—Kilt Lifter, a scotch-style ruby ale from the Pike Brewing Company. It was better in their restaurant near Pike Place Market, on tap, but the bottles were more convenient for nights like tonight.
At 6.5%, it was heavier than a Bud or a Coors, and I’d already had two. If I downed a third, my head would complain in the morning.
“I assume, then, that you have been unsuccessful in your search for the assassin?”
With a sigh, I returned the bottle and slammed the refrigerator door.
“You could say that, too.”
“Or for Miss Harris?”
I cocked an eyebrow at the cat. In theory, he shouldn’t even know that Michelle was alive, let alone that I was looking for her.
There was no point in giving him the satisfaction of seeing my shock.
I crossed to the couch, an admittedly short walk, and settled onto a cushion. I felt defeated.
Maybe a fresh idea would present itself tomorrow.
Elliott pushed himself up onto his haunches. He took a deep breath before speaking, the air whistling slightly in his nostrils. “How can I be of assistance?”
My mouth dropped open. “Pardon me?”
The cat hesitated, taking a second long, whistling breath before responding. “I do not believe I stuttered. I wish to help in your endeavors.”
I melodramatically cleaned my ears, using a fingertip. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
Elliott rolled his eyes and mewed. “Please, Reaper, let us not make this a whole production.”
I leaned forward toward him. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
He dipped his head in a shrug. “I have been speaking with Emma. She helped me to understand a few things.”
“Emma…is that right?”
“Yes, she is a remarkable woman.”
“A woman that keeps you stocked in fresh tuna steaks.”
“Well, yes, there is that.”
Scratching behind Elliott’s ear, I smiled for what felt like the first time in days. “Well, please do share.”
The cat purred as I scratched, which lent his voice a deep, gravelly quality. “I originally thought you were simply being irrational, running around on your foolish errand with Mrs. Winston.”
I couldn’t help but smirk as I continued scratching. “Oh, is that so?”
Elliott started to butt his head into my hand, all pretense of dignity discarded. “Yes. Emma explained to me that humans, especially those she described as ‘being of strong character,’ often feel a duty, almost a compulsion, to help others in need.”
For some reason, knowing that Emma felt that way about me helped raise my spirits, if only a little bit. We’d come a long way since I’d run from her screaming, and she’d dumped a bucket of cold water on me.
“You don’t say?”
The cat nodded. “I too was shocked.” He flipped to his back, shamelessly fishing for a good belly scratch.
I stifled a laugh, paying enthusiastic attention to his exposed underside. He writhed in feline ecstasy while batting playfully at my hand.
I laughed outright. “Anything else?”
The cat flipped quickly back to his feet, butting my shoulder once with his forehead. “Well yes, actually. I realized that my feelings for you have grown beyond duty. I daresay I am growing quite fond of you.”
“You needed Emma’s help realizing that?”
“Yes.” The cat hesitated. “I have never before had a friend.”
Okay, the furry little shit got me.
I scratched Elliott in silence a while before responding.
“I’m not buying fresh tuna.”
“Do not worry, we have Emma for that.” My black friend smiled with a wink, which was still more disturbing than I can possibly express.
I had two problems to solve: find the assassin and find Michelle. I couldn’t do both; honestly, it was difficult enough trying to accomplish just one. The right choice was for me to focus on the most important task. Elliott could pursue the other.
I just hated to admit which was which.
“Okay, I do need your help, buddy. Go find Michelle for me.”
I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling as the same list of names ran repeatedly through my head: Walter, Emily, Marcus, Robert, Michelle.
People who should still be healthy and whole.
People who deserved far better than they’d been given.
Walter, Emily, Marcus, Robert, Michelle.
They deserved justice, or at least a little balancing of the scales. Not to mention all of their family and friends, whose lives would never be the same.
Walter, Emily, Marcus, Robert, Michelle.
And Henry.
I am fourteen.
My brother is twelve.
He lies on a black sheet in a room with no furniture, walls or floor. Blue smoke swirls around us both.
He is scared.
“Don’t worry, Stevie. I’ll protect you.”
I carry a massive sword in both hands. I struggle to raise it, but it is so very heavy. This responsibility is not meant to be mine; it is too great. But Dad is gone.
There’s no one else.
Dark shapes move through the smoke, but I am not sure which are friend and which are foe.
I am, after all, only a boy.
Stevie calls out to me, but I can’t hear his words.
“It’s okay, little brother,” I say, smiling. “I’ll always be right here.”
Something knocks me to the ground.
I twist and thrash, straining to see my attacker.
There is nothing there.
I hear Stevie screaming.
The world fades to black.
I jerked up, heart racing, my body awash in a cold sweat. I’d had enough of the damn nightmares. Now I was not only exhausted, but also wide awake.
Checking my phone, I saw it was only four twenty-three. I’d been out for roughly fifteen minutes.
Maybe Reapers just aren’t supposed to sleep at night.
I lay back down, trying to get comfortable. Hopefully I could get a few hours of sleep before picking up Karen in the morning.
Seven hours later, Karen and I sat once again in the pale green Mustang, watching Bradley Kim’s house. Mr. Kim didn’t likely have good memories of either me, or the Mustang, so we’d parked two blocks away.
I’d hate to spook him now without getting a good look.
I yawned loudly.
Dreams had haunted what little sleep I’d gotten. Four nights had come and gone without any decent rest. I was nearly as much of a zombie as Scott White had been in
his blood-soaked, garbage dump of a living room.
I alternated between watching the street, and watching Mr. Kim’s yard. For now, there was nothing else to do.
Watching…
Watching…
“Michael?” Karen was shaking my shoulder.
“Goodness, Michael, are you even still here?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I was just thinking.”
“Do you frequently snore like that when you’re thinking?”
I turned to face Karen, smirking.
The smirk quickly faded.
Her aura was still pitch black, and now had shrunk to well under two inches. She smiled brightly, completely unaware that after over thirty years of struggle, her heart would finally give out tomorrow, or maybe the day after.
Patting her hand, I returned the smile hollowly. “I’m here now.”
Karen nodded to the sidewalk ahead. “So is your friend.”
A golden retriever sat patiently at one end of its leash. At the other end, Mr. ShortBlondPerfectlyPartedHair stared at us incredulously, wearing a different pair of expensive slacks with a crisp, dark blue polo. He carried a green and white golf umbrella under one arm against the threat of the gathered clouds.
His eyes flashed, bright and sharp, as he examined the Mustang and its occupants. The look on his face suggested he might be constipated, and the leash shook in his fist.
I waggled my fingers at him in an exaggerated friendly greeting.
He turned on the spot and strode his uptight ass quickly around the corner.
I’m a people person.
Karen chuckled, then quickly cleared her throat. “When is your courier coming?”
“Eleven-fifteen, in theory.”
My companion checked her watch. “He’s late.”
I pointed three blocks down the street, where a messenger-bag-carrying cyclist was turning the corner. “There she is now. Hand me the binoculars.”
Our cyclist turned up Bradley’s drive and dismounted, slowing to examine the yard with a shake of her head before walking to the front door. She pulled a large manila envelope from her bag and double-checked the address before knocking.
The envelope contained approximately thirty sheets of blank white paper. But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
I slipped lower into the Mustang’s seat, bringing up the binoculars.
When Bradley didn’t answer after roughly sixty seconds, the courier rang the doorbell. She waited another sixty seconds, then left the package ten feet from the door, behind a marble column, and cycled away.
Exactly as instructed.
The street was empty for almost five minutes before the door finally opened a crack. It stayed open like that for another five minutes.
I was starting to think my plan would be a bust.
Finally, Bradley Kim moved slowly and carefully out of his house, creeping toward the package as he looked up and down the street. Today he wore a sky-blue silk shirt and white, skintight jeans.
I smiled in relief. I could clearly see his aura through the binoculars, something of which I hadn’t been sure until then.
It was still pitch black, and had shrunk to two and a half inches.
Bradley popped up suddenly, like a frightened squirrel, looking directly at the Mustang. His eyes grew wide and his skin pale. Abandoning the package, he ducked back into his house and slammed the door.
I dropped the binoculars.
“So, Michael, did you get what you needed?”
I shrugged, then shook my head slowly.
Bradley Kim had at least a day more left than Karen.
“Oh, well. What now?”
Leaning over, I pulled the folded list from the Mustang’s glove box and handed it to Karen.
“We keep looking. The assassin struck last night. My guess is he’ll strike again soon. Maybe we can find the next victim before it’s too late.”
If Bradley Kim was the next victim, it was already too late…at least for Karen.
She nodded, opening the pages to scan her own notes. “I’m sure it will take us no time at all.”
XXII
Reunion
Six hours and countless miles later, Karen looked up from the list one final time.
“This is it, Michael. The last stop.”
I’d lost count of our day’s visits as we skittered about Seattle and its surrounding neighborhoods. A parade of faces: happy, suspicious, even angry—but I saw no more auras and no further clues.
Of course, we hadn’t found everyone at home. There were a few I could go back to visit in a couple of days.
Alone.
I was exhausted and frustrated.
Karen’s smile beamed but her eyes, at the corners, tightened to betray the truth. “Well, I suppose this will just have to be the one.”
My grunt didn’t sound very encouraging, but I nodded all the same. “Do we have any information on this one?”
“Just a name,” Karen responded. “David Clarke, number 3.”
With another nod, I slipped through the driver’s door, pulling my trench coat tight against a chill in the air.
David Clarke lived a few blocks from Seattle Center, in an apartment just off Warren Avenue North. Seattle Center is the home of the world-famous Space Needle, Key Arena, the Pacific Science Center, and EMP (or the Experience Music Project, for those unlucky enough to live in other parts of the world). The area immediately surrounding the Center was heavily commercial, but the buildings faded to a mix of commercial, apartments, and single-family homes just a few blocks away.
Mr. Clarke’s building featured a locked security door. That wouldn’t prove a problem were I in a hurry, but there was no reason to play this any way but straight.
Not yet, at least.
I pressed the button for number 3 and waited.
The wait was short. A tinny voice answered only seconds later. “Uh…hello?” From the sound of his voice, he was not accustomed to unexpected visitors.
“Hello, Mr. Clarke. I’m Michael Reaper, a reporter with the Seattle Times. May I speak with you briefly?”
“Well, uh…yeah, sure.”
The door buzzed, allowing me inside.
David Clarke answered my knock quickly. The kid had shaggy red hair, bright emerald-green eyes, and what might be a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He smiled easily, and constantly twitched with the unspent energy of youth.
His aura was deep black.
Son of a bitch.
Instead of elation, I felt only anger. I’m not sure when I got old enough that early twenties became a kid. I could still remember life at his age, thinking how awesome it was to finally be an adult.
And then learning that being an adult actually just sucks in different ways than not being an adult.
It was hard to believe that David could already have enemies willing to kill him.
His age wasn’t the worst part, though it was certainly bad enough on its own. Much worse was the thickness of his aura.
I’d have to stand them side by side to be certain, but the thickness was almost identical to Karen’s.
They were going to die at roughly the same time.
And I could only be there for one of them.
I climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment in a fog of jumbled emotion.
I’d found tomorrow’s victim. At least, if all auras ticked away at the same rate, he only had about a day left.
Just like Karen.
In her last moments, I didn’t want her to be alone. Though, if you asked Karen, she’d insist I do everything possible to catch Robert’s assassin.
Which meant not being with her.
Me? I was, well…torn.
I’d spoken with David only briefly. We had an appointment for coffee in the morning. Assuming I kept it, I’d have to avoid the mistakes I’d made with Bradley Kim.
For the time being, Mr. Clarke thought I was interviewing him for a newspaper story. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even if ma
ybe a little too trusting.
He certainly didn’t deserve to die tomorrow.
Karen didn’t know; if she found out, my options would become severely limited. It was easy enough to lie and appear dejected.
Not much acting was necessary.
I’d gone to the waterfront after dropping Karen off. Before I died, it was my “go to” thinking spot—sitting in the lounge at Ivar’s Acres of Clams, looking out over the sound, watching the sunset.
It didn’t help this time.
They had to kick me out when they closed for the night, and I was no closer to a decision than when I’d arrived there.
I shook my head slowly to clear it.
The door to 3C swung open before me, revealing the dark room beyond. Everything about being a Reaper was growing more familiar, effortless. I hardly thought about opening doors anymore, or changing the cloak. Every day, Henry Richards slipped a little further away, suffocated by Michael Reaper.
I collapsed on the couch as the door closed behind me. My head was pounding, and I wanted nothing so much as to close my eyes for a few minutes.
“Hello, Michael.” The scent of mint wafted over me from the back of the couch.
“Don’t you knock?”
“I was already here. Technically, if either of us were going to knock…”
“Yeah, yeah.” I nodded, waving him off. Leaning over, I turned on the lamp. It was late, and the clouds outside completely obscured the moon.
“Do you have something important to say, or are you just planning to annoy me?”
Elliott nodded once, smirking. “Must I really choose one or the other?”
The cat’s mood changed suddenly, becoming far more alert. His head snapped around, eyes focusing on our front door. The fur along his spine stood straight up. When he spoke, the words were whispered so quietly I strained to hear them, though I sat only a few inches from his face.
“Michael, are we expecting company?”
“No, why?”
“Someone is here.”
After a few seconds of tense silence, a loud knock echoed through our tiny apartment. It wasn’t a casual sound, but rather the three heavy, evenly spaced impacts generally reserved for official business.
This probably wouldn’t be good.
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 17
