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

by J. Eric Hance

“Mr. Reaper,” a voice called through the door, “Seattle Police. I have a few questions.”

  My blood turned to ice.

  In general, I have no problem with cops. I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen. Heck, I don’t even jaywalk.

  Unless, of course, I have a good reason.

  Or I’m in a hurry.

  Okay, fine, I do jaywalk—but I don’t do anything worse.

  The cop at the door, though—I recognized his voice. This officer in particular was going to be a problem.

  I crossed the room slowly, hoping the whole way that it was no more than my imagination. A lot of voices sound alike, after all, and this one was muffled by two inches of solid wood.

  It could be almost anyone.

  Except that it wasn’t. This was a voice I knew very well.

  With a deep breath, I swung the door open.

  On the other side stood Detective Steve Richards.

  My brother.

  Or rather, the man in the hallway was a poor, watered-down version of my brother. Steve was always a polished, well-dressed, impressively attractive man. This person had disheveled hair, a rumpled gray suit, breath heavy with alcohol, and a shadow from 5 o’clock the day before yesterday.

  Large dark bags sat beneath haunted eyes which darted about my small apartment. The months since my passing had not been kind to my brother. I knew with sudden certainty that my unsolved murder would drive him like little else could.

  We’d lost our father to an unknown gunman; that single fact was ultimately enough to push Steve into Dad’s footsteps—into the Seattle PD.

  And then, in January, he’d lost me the same way.

  I should have contacted him before now.

  Of course, that would mean convincing him that I was actually Henry Richards, his murdered brother—with a new voice, body and face. At the best of times, he would be…skeptical, to say the least.

  Clearly, these were not the best of times for Detective Steve Richards.

  And, well, Joshua had been unequivocal that my old life was best left dead…that the truth would put Steve’s life in danger. And, according to Elliott, telling him would put my own in jeopardy. With so many swirling changes, I’d accepted both without much argument.

  Without enough argument.

  Not that it mattered; that die was cast, now.

  Steve held his credentials before him in plain sight. He wasn’t here to tearfully reunite with long-lost family. On the job, my brother intended to question a stranger.

  I made a show of examining the badge and identification, though there was no need. If I didn’t behave as expected he’d get suspicious; for now, I didn’t know what his suspicion would mean.

  “Detective Richards.” I nodded. “How can I assist the Seattle PD?”

  “Are you Michael Reaper?” Steve’s tone was crisp and abrupt. None of his usually jovial nature was evident. To be fair, I’ve seldom seen him in his official capacity, but I knew him well enough to read the mood nonetheless.

  I’d been wrong. My brother wasn’t here just to question a stranger.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Steve leaned forward, his eyes searching the apartment with undisguised caution. “I heard…voices. Who else is here?”

  “No one, Detective. It’s just me and the cat.”

  On cue, Elliott meowed loudly from the back of the couch before bounding past Steve into the hallway. I’m not sure who was more shocked: my brother at seeing what could nearly pass for a small black lion, or me for hearing Elliott sound just like a normal house cat.

  Only after he vanished down the stairway did the conversation continue. “May I come in, Mr. Reaper? This should be quick.”

  My brother’s presence made me nervous. I felt suddenly on the defensive, as if there was something to hide. It didn’t help that he glowered at me from the hallway.

  “Yes, of course. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  Steve closed the door as he entered. Walking a slow circle, he examined my apartment thoroughly, paying particular attention to the single bedroom. Pulling a notebook from his pocket, he stopped at the center of the living room, facing me.

  “No thank you, Mr. Reaper.”

  “Please, call me Michael.”

  My brother’s head tilted to one side as he examined my face. “Have we met before, Mr. Reaper? You look familiar.”

  I shook my head, swallowing.

  Steve shrugged, dismissing it. With exaggerated care, he thumbed through the notebook’s pages until he found what was, apparently, the right one. “You were in the apartment of Miss Michelle Harris yesterday, Mr. Reaper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Inside the apartment.”

  I cringed before responding, but a lie would be pointless. No doubt he’d spoken at length with a certain nosy neighbor of Michelle’s. “As I said, yes.”

  Steve nodded while flipping to the next page. “And, Mr. Reaper, why exactly were you there?”

  “I’ve been out of town. I stopped by to visit.”

  “I see.” Steve pulled a pen from the same jackpot pocket, making a quick notation. “Out of town…on business?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Since…January?”

  “Yes, Detective.”

  Nodding again, Steve made a second notation and flipped the page. “Haven’t been back to visit in all that time?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “And yet, you felt it appropriate to enter Miss Harris’s locked apartment, uninvited, when she wasn’t at home?”

  There wasn’t a good excuse, at least not one I could share. “I knocked; there was no answer. I let myself in.”

  Steve made another notation with melodramatic care. “With a key?”

  “Correct,” I answered, swallowing the building lump in my throat.

  “A key that Michelle Harris gave you, I presume, in or before January?”

  I nodded, feeling more defensive as the questions continued.

  With another page flip, my brother read a few words before continuing. “Hospitals have reported receiving calls regarding Miss Harris—many hospitals. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Yes.” I again nodded. “I’ve been trying to find her.”

  “To what end?”

  “To visit my friend, of course.”

  Steve made a final notation, returning the notebook and pen to his jacket pocket with a practiced, deliberate care. “Victims of violent crimes are often hospitalized under pseudonyms while the investigation is ongoing, especially when there are suspicious circumstances. Did you know that, Mr. Reaper?”

  I shook my head. “No, I did not.”

  “It’s a precaution, in certain cases, to protect them from…the wrong people.” Steve’s eyes settled on me, heavy with meaning.

  Son of a bitch.

  “What kind of business?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “What business kept you out of town since January—over six months?”

  My mind went blank. I couldn’t very well tell him the truth: dying, floating briefly through the afterlife, becoming undead, and reaping souls for fun and profit.

  Could I?

  “Consulting.”

  “Ah, of course. Travel a lot, do you?”

  My thoughts drifted to everything I’d been through. “At times, Detective Richards.”

  Steve frowned, nodding. “Back in town for a while this time?”

  The noose was tightening—I could feel it. “I certainly hope so.”

  My brother’s frown deepened. “Where are your clothes?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Steve shrugged, obviously feigning confusion. “Your clothes, Mr. Reaper. I see no dresser, no closet, and no suitcase. Certainly you travel with more than the clothes on your back.”

  Well no, actually, but I couldn’t exactly say that out loud. “They’re at the cleaners,” I responded lamely.

  “Yes, of course.” My brother—my accuser�
��crossed back to the front door, laying his hand on the knob. “Please stay close to home, Mr. Reaper. We’ll be talking again…very soon.”

  Steve opened the door to leave, but paused—addressing me without looking back. “Do be careful. An innocent person, in the wrong place at the wrong time…he might just get shot dead in the middle of the night.”

  I stared in disbelief. Of all the unlikely, asinine, imbecilic…

  “Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Reaper.” My brother glanced briefly over his shoulder, smiling a dark, cold smile.

  I swallowed. “Yes, Detective Richards?”

  “Those locks…they were changed almost six months ago.”

  XXIII

  The Good, the Bad, and the Distraction

  Steve swept from the apartment without another look, leaving me dumbfounded in his wake.

  He thought I’d done it.

  In his mind, he knew I was guilty.

  And the evidence certainly did me no favors.

  Elliott sauntered into view as Steve passed, settling onto his haunches in the middle of the hall, halfway between our door and Emma’s. He cleaned himself nonchalantly, occasionally glancing toward the stairs.

  Keeping tabs on my brother’s departure.

  After nearly two minutes, he looked up at me and meowed plaintively.

  I crossed to the open door and asked, “What?”

  He scowled, meowing a second time.

  “Gee, girl—is Timmy trapped in the well?”

  Elliott rolled his eyes and mewed. He crossed the hallway to Emma’s apartment, put his front paws on the door, and meowed loudly.

  “Isn’t it a little late for tuna?”

  My distinguished advisor lowered his head to a paw, shaking it slowly. He mewed again, then melodramatically mimed knocking on the door in slow motion.

  “All right, fine. We’ll do it your way.” I crossed to Emma’s door and knocked.

  She answered immediately, almost as if she’d been waiting for us. Tonight she wore light blue jeans, a simple gray blouse, no shoes and no makeup. Her hair was pulled back in the ponytail she often wore when not heading to…work.

  I’d seen her primped and prepared for her second-floor employment, provocatively dressed with hair and makeup done to perfection. There’s no doubt that, on those occasions, she was the epitome of every teenage boy’s fantasy. Honestly, I found her far more attractive this way—innocent and casual.

  Not that I didn’t enjoy the sex-demon pinup-girl look.

  Emma smiled, finding us at her door. I felt my own smile spread in return.

  Elliott shot past us both, into the apartment, meowing loudly.

  “Mind if we come in for a minute?” I asked sarcastically.

  My neighbor laughed. “Is it your turn to bring the 30k bottle of booze?” She stepped back, inviting me into her home.

  I’d never seen beyond her threshold before. In shape and size, her apartment resembled mine, but that’s where the similarities ended. There were curtains and art, a throw rug, and decent furniture, including a small kitchen table with two chairs. Everywhere you looked there were subtle, personal, feminine touches. Her apartment felt like a home.

  Mine felt like a sleazy motel room you’d rent by the hour.

  Maybe I should do something about that.

  Elliott turned to scold me the instant Emma closed her door. “Honestly, Reaper, do all humans strive for denseness as a virtue, or are you unique in that regard?”

  “I’m sorry,” I responded sarcastically. “I didn’t wear my secret arrogant cat decoder ring today.”

  “Do you know what you should be wearing, Reaper?” Elliott stopped abruptly when Emma raised her arms between us.

  “Now boys…” She waited, ensuring she had our full attention. “Not that I don’t appreciate this surprise, late-night visit from my two favorite neighbors, but perhaps we could stop bickering like children and get to the point?”

  Elliott looked quickly away with a cough.

  An unpleasant warm sensation crept up my neck and cheeks. I hoped it was less visible than it felt.

  With another cough, Elliott turned back. “I have both good and bad news, Michael. With which would you prefer I start?”

  I shrugged, thankful for the change in subject. “Start with the bad, I suppose.”

  Elliott nodded, hopping onto one of Emma’s dining chairs. “There is a surveillance van outside. They are watching both the front door and the alley. I believe Detective Richards placed a listening device in our apartment.”

  Emma frowned, shaking her head. “That cop that came to your door?”

  I cocked an eyebrow questioningly. “Yes…”

  “The walls are thin and I’m nosy.” She smirked. “Deal with it.”

  I thought about it for a moment before shaking my head. “I don’t think so, Elliott. I was with Steve the whole time.”

  “Steve?” Emma asked playfully. “You’re on a first-name basis with the Seattle PD now?”

  “Detective Richards is my brother.”

  Emma and Elliott both exclaimed, in shocked, near-perfect unison, “Your brother?”

  I nodded. “He thinks I killed myself, too. No, wait—murdered myself? I’m a…uh…suspect…in my own shooting?”

  There isn’t a right way to express that thought.

  “Did he recognize you?” Elliott’s tone was uncharacteristically tense and concerned.

  “How the hell could he recognize me?”

  It was Emma that responded. “It’s called the Possession Effect, Michael.” She crossed her arms, staring at me. “You didn’t go through orientation, did you?”

  I swallowed hard, nervous. I was just starting to consider Emma a friend, but I could never let myself forget she was a demon, an Agent of the very forces that wanted to destroy me. “Of course I did; I’m just a bad student.”

  She shook her head, eyes narrowing. “No, there are just too many things. If you were really that bad, they’d have never sent you down.”

  I laughed, but I don’t think it sounded very convincing. “Come on, Emma. Every Agent goes through orientation.”

  She nodded slowly, drawing the motion out. “Yes, Michael, every Agent does…so what are you?”

  We stood for several seconds of tense silence, staring at each other.

  “I don’t know,” I finally admitted.

  Elliott mewed behind me.

  Emma nodded again. “You’re the one they’re looking for, aren’t you?”

  Deny it—that would be the smartest course of action. It was really the only reasonable thing to do.

  “Yes. Do you know why?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  Elliott interjected, “Pardon me, Michael, but who exactly is looking for you?”

  I shushed him quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”

  After that, the silence stretched out for several more seconds.

  Emma smiled sadly. “I’ll keep your secret, but we both know you won’t trust me.”

  I nodded. “I’d like to.”

  Now more awkward than tense, the silence returned.

  Elliott broke it by clearing his throat. He forced through the awkward tension by doing what he did best…lecturing. “Tell me, Michael, have you ever recognized someone from across a crowded room, after only catching a momentary glimpse of their back?”

  I shook my head, clearing it. “Sure, I guess.”

  Elliott nodded. “Human beings tend to think of appearance as the key factor in recognizing other human beings, but it turns out they are wrong. The most important thing is that ineffable quality that makes them a unique person: their personality, their mannerisms, the way they walk, and a thousand other things that have nothing to do with hairstyle and eye color—the kinds of things you can see from across a crowded room.”

  “Unfortunately,” Elliott sighed, “those are the very qualities that follow an Agent into their new body. We do not worry about anybody recognizing the body; if they knew the
person, they will quickly dismiss the resemblance as uncanny.

  “But people who knew you before, especially those who knew you well, will quickly become convinced of the truth despite all logic and evidence to the contrary. That is the Possession Effect.”

  “So if I spend much time around Steve…” I trailed off.

  “He will become convinced that you are…you.”

  “At which point,” Emma interjected, “he’s walking a fine, dangerous line. The magic will destroy him if he figures out too much, Michael.”

  I frowned, shaking my head. “I don’t buy it. Someone my brother doesn’t know just happens to act like me, even though he knows I’m dead, and he’ll just suddenly decide they’re me?”

  “Not someone that acts like you, Michael…you.”

  “It’s the difference between looking at a picture, and looking out the window,” Emma offered. “You may not understand how, but you instinctively know the difference.”

  I sighed. “Okay, well, just one more problem on a long list.” I didn’t want to dwell on another thing keeping Steve out of my life. “What about the men watching the apartment? Surveillance is no big deal, right? I can suit up and slip past them undetected.”

  “Maybe.” Elliott pondered. “They are watching very hard, and you are not actually invisible. They might notice evidence of your passing, even if they do not see you.”

  “And shoot,” Emma chimed in, helpfully.

  “Right, shoot.” I nodded. Why had guns become such a regular part of my life? “Well, I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “I think you have likely come to it, Michael. I ascertained the whereabouts of Miss Harris.”

  “You found Michelle? Already? How?”

  Elliott spread his lips in one of those disturbing grins. “I am a cat.”

  Like that answered everything.

  “And who is Michelle?” Emma asked curiously.

  “She’s…uh…well, she’s a…friend.” I wanted to say more, wanted to trust Emma, but right now I just didn’t know if I could.

  “In a coma,” Elliott offered helpfully.

  “Right,” I agreed, pointing at him overenthusiastically. “In a coma. She was shot.”

  Emma dropped her eyes, clearly sensing I was holding information back. She sighed sadly and withdrew into the bedroom.

  I watched in silence as she walked away. The sound of her closing door hit me like a lead weight.