“But tonight…” he continued, “tonight someone managed to find Michelle, poison her, and finish a job they started back in January.”
Joshua stopped abruptly. “I want to understand how they found her, Michael, and I want to know why.”
He wasn’t asking.
I began with a sigh. “I can only tell you what I know.”
My collection of information seemed large, but the disjointed bits of knowledge painted an incomplete picture at best: a dying woman’s husband, an abandoned warehouse that really wasn’t, a fiery explosion, a nearly complete hit list, and a connection to my own death that stretched the very definition of coincidence.
Beyond those scattered facts, everything was conjecture and speculation.
Maybe I was getting too close, or the renewed police interest had become an unacceptable risk.
Or Michelle might be just another loose end.
I even knew the son of a bitch’s next two victims, but wasn’t sure if I could effectively use that knowledge to my advantage, or if I should even try.
Joshua reverted to the form of an elderly man. Tonight he wore a simple light-brown suit and tie, apparently rumpled from a long day at work. He began to lean more heavily on the silver-topped cane as he walked. After a glance at the ominous sky, a chocolate-brown overcoat shimmered into being, completing his ensemble.
I too let the Reaper drop away, returning to my jeans, black T, and tan trench coat.
A flash of lightning lit the distant sky, far enough off that no thunder ever reached us.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Joshua looked at me briefly, grunting in a noncommittal way.
I pressed forward. “At Steve’s party, you knew.”
My boss grunted a second time before responding without facing me. “Yes, of course I knew.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
The elder Reaper stopped, turning to me slowly. “I wanted to, almost did a handful of times, but it would have done no good…your aura was black.”
My heart sank. “So black means, ‘no hope?’”
Joshua shrugged. “So little is certain in our work, but I’ve been doing this a very long time, and I’ve never seen a black aura saved.” He started to walk again.
“What about the other colors…and the width. I mean, I think I have an idea, but…”
The older man snorted. “So now you want details?”
It was my turn to shrug. “I’m doing the work, aren’t I?”
Joshua nodded. “That you are, son. Life is a pretty dangerous proposition, Michael; it’s the only thing absolutely guaranteed to kill you. The only question is when. We all have a thousand opportunities to die every day, but most of those opportunities are pretty damn unlikely.”
He sighed. “The Sight shows Reapers when the odds are a little higher. It starts as a very pale, almost transparent yellow—rule of thumb, I’ve found that yellow means about a one-in-ten chance of death. As the odds increase, the aura darkens…until it reaches black.”
“A certainty,” I muttered.
“Or near enough,” Joshua answered. “The thickness tells us how long until…” he sighed, looking for the right words, “until. It gets thinner as the moment approaches—a nasty little countdown timer.”
So, I’d gotten the details basically right. “Could you have warned Michelle?” The question came out sounding harsher than I’d intended.
Joshua stopped once again, turning to face me. “It’s against the rules, Michael. For a son of Eddie Richards, I would have considered risking it; I didn’t know Ms. Harris at all.
“Besides,” he resumed his walk, turning away, “the aura only shows up shortly before…a few days at most. Ms. Harris was almost seven months from death that night; she had no aura at all.”
Robert Winston’s Mustang, no longer pulsing green, came back into view as we completed our circuit of the hospital’s perimeter. I pointed out the car for my companion. “This is me.”
He stopped abruptly. “You must be joking.”
“No,” I answered, confused. “Why?”
“A pale green Mustang? Seriously?” Joshua chuckled as he sat on the car’s hood. “I fear the Moirai are toying with you, Michael.”
I settled beside him, confused. “What exactly is a Moirai?”
Thunder rolled loudly through the hospital grounds.
Joshua laughed. “Not what, who. The Fates—three women who control the destiny of all mortals and gods. Clothos, Lachesis and Atropos: they spin, weave and cut the threads of life, according to legend. They appear as mother, daughter and withered old crone.”
My stomach dropped with a sudden lurch as Joshua’s words struck home. The Moirai. A mother, daughter, and withered old crone.
Toying with me.
Son of a bitch.
“And,” I probed, “you believe they’re real? You’ve seen them?”
“Believe, hell.” Joshua spun his cane as he spoke. “I’ve met them. Atropos is my boss—she runs the whole damn show.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” If Atropos was my boss’s boss, why were they being so secretive?
“Think about it this way, Michael. The deceased usually take ten years, or more, to become an Agent. You skipped a decade-long waiting list to become a Reaper; back in Seattle, no less, despite literally an entire world of other possible assignments. In a few short days, that new job turns into a search for the murderer who just happens to be the man that killed you. Tonight, I received my first assignment in over forty years…forty years, and you arrived just in time to watch that woman, a woman for whom you obviously care deeply, die at the same monster’s hands.”
Joshua shook his head. “You, more than anyone, want this assassin stopped; you, and no one else, are being led straight to him.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “That’s one hell of a pile of coincidence, Michael.”
It certainly was.
“Why would they sneak around, Joshua? Why wouldn’t they come right up and tell me what’s going on?”
Joshua shook his head. “They’re ancient, Michael—some of the earliest Greek gods, predating even the Olympian crowd. They stand for order, but not necessarily for what’s fair or right. It may be impossible for us mere mortals to understand their motives.”
Well, that’s just great.
“And then, of course,” Joshua finished, “there’s the car.”
“Elliott, and now you.” I shook my head, exasperated. “What’s the big deal about the car?”
The senior Reaper chuckled again. “You should read more, my boy.”
Sure, no problem, I’d just add it to my list of priorities: stop an assassin, save countless victims, stop the world from burning.
Read a book.
I’d get right on that.
“Just promise me one thing.”
Despite my swirling thoughts and frustration, I smiled at the sincerity in Joshua’s voice. “What’s that?”
“Be wary of three women who show too much interest. If you see them, don’t stop to fantasize; run like hell the other way.”
I swallowed hard. “Don’t worry, I will.”
“Go home, Michael,” he said, standing. “Get a good night’s sleep. Everything always looks worse in the middle of the night.”
I nodded slowly. “Can I offer you a ride?”
“No.” Joshua shimmered before my eyes, resuming the skull and cowl; the streetlights flickered. “My night’s work is far from done. With two new faces in the ranks, I have mountains to move and limited time to do it.”
“Wait, there’s another new Reaper?”
Joshua shook his head, the skull’s grin wide. “Nope, just you…and an old Reaper with a new body.”
I jerked up, surprised. “Reapers can change bodies?”
“I didn’t say that.” Joshua smiled and winked. “There are some things they don’t even teach you in orientation—things you find out about later.” He bowed formally before striding i
nto the night, cane resting on his shoulder.
My mind was spinning with everything I’d learned.
The Mustang’s door opened at my request, and the engine roared to life; they were both, after all, simply locks. Karen had given me a set of keys, but why bother when the alternative was so much more convenient.
And, well, totally freaking cool.
I slipped into the driver’s seat just as lightning lit Harborview’s grounds like midday, allowing a brief glimpse of Joshua’s robed form slipping back through the main hospital entrance. Thunder filled the world, echoing from the surrounding buildings.
I waited a few minutes for the rain that never came.
A storm was inevitable, but apparently it still wasn’t time.
With a shrug, I pulled out onto the street. Given the surveillance on my apartment, I’d need alternative accommodations tonight.
And some time to think.
Were Chris and the Moirai working together, or were they working toward entirely different ends? Did they even know about each other?
How many games was I a pawn in?
XXVI
The Caller
I am dressed all in black, my face cloaked in shadow. I carry a massive, two-handed sword raised as if to strike. Curling smoke surrounds me. The room has no furniture, walls or floor.
I am thirty-four.
A sudden breeze pushes back the smoke, revealing a man. He wears his best dress blues and, like me, he carries a raised sword. He stares at me, anger bright in his eyes.
It is Steve, my younger brother.
He calls to someone behind me, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
I turn around.
A boy lies on a black sheet. He is thirteen. He is scared.
The boy is also me.
“It’s okay, Henry,” Steve calls to him. “I’ll always be right here.”
I turn back to face my brother.
He charges me, screaming.
Behind him, three women in white watch us.
Laughing.
“Well, it’s certainly nice having a man in the house again. I slept well for the first time in days.” Karen smiled as she refilled my coffee.
With no other good options, I’d gone to Karen’s last night. She was all too happy to let me use her guest room. I repeatedly insisted she not wait on me; I didn’t want her to be put out by making coffee, or breakfast. She refused to listen; my empty plate was testament to both her cooking prowess, and my complete lack of self-control.
Karen’s aura was now half an inch, and roughly the color of the coffee she poured.
“I’ve been doing this a very long time,” Joshua’s words echoed mockingly through my head, “and I’ve never seen a black aura saved.”
The lump in my throat was growing all too familiar. I should just concede defeat and give it a name.
“Me too, Karen.” Unfortunately, I was outright lying. Bad dreams, doubts and memories had plagued me throughout the night, a thousand raucous crows that refused to be ignored. Crows with names like Michelle, Karen, David and Steve.
My host’s beaming smile filled me with guilt.
“Karen, I’d like you to do me a favor today.”
“Of course, Michael. Anything.”
I took a deep breath. “Can you give me a call every few hours? Let me know how things are going, how you’re…feeling.”
Karen paused, considering my words. Her smile dimmed as she nodded, eyes growing vague and unfocused while she stared into the distance at something only she could see. A tear began to rise in the corner of her eye.
“Of course,” she whispered hoarsely.
The building’s security door proved no problem at all. Maybe I should have simply buzzed like yesterday—like any other visitor—but I was growing more paranoid with each passing day.
Being paranoid, of course, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. “They,” obviously, being my brother, Chris, three ancient Greek goddesses in white, a professional assassin, and whoever else I didn’t even know about yet.
And here you might think life’s problems would get just a bit easier when you die.
A quick scan of the surrounding streets didn’t reveal observers, in white or any other color.
I was a few minutes early, but David still answered my knock quickly. His aura was deep black, and maybe just slightly thicker than Karen’s.
David gave me a beaming smile. “Hello again, Mr. Reaper.”
“Michael, please, Mr. Clarke.”
The young man grimaced. “God no, it’s Dave.” He stepped back, motioning me into his small apartment. It was only slightly bigger than a studio, with the two “rooms” separated by a half wall. Piles of computer equipment filled the sleeping area, but the living room and kitchenette were clean and tidy. A pot of coffee was brewing on the kitchenette counter, and the aroma made it clear David Clarke didn’t drink prepackaged, grocery store beans.
“All right, Dave. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Sure. Big fan of the free press. News, you know, it’s important.”
Right, he still thought I was a reporter. “Well, information certainly needs to be shared.”
My phone rang. The caller ID read, “Karen Winston.”
“I’m sorry, Dave. I need to take this.”
He nodded, walking to his kitchenette to pour two cups of coffee, offering what limited privacy he could. Short of ducking into the bathroom, it wouldn’t get much better in his small apartment.
“Hello, Karen.”
“Hello, Michael. It’s nine a.m.; I’m still here.”
I smiled despite myself. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Karen’s chuckle was clear. “Goodness, not nearly as glad as I am to say it. Are you sure it’s today?”
“Not entirely,” I had to admit. “It’s not an exact science.”
The line went silent; the pause before she spoke again was long enough that I began to worry. “Will it be you, Michael? Will you, you know, come…for me?”
“Of course not, Karen…” I swallowed. “If anything, it would be our mutual friend.”
“Right, our mutual friend.” She paused briefly. “I do hope it is our mutual friend. I’d like him here, at…at the end.”
Jesus, could I fool anybody about anything?
“I could change my plans.” I knew her response even before I made the offer. Before leaving, I’d come clean about Dave and my intentions to catch her husband’s assassin.
“Goodness no. What you’re doing is so much more important.”
I didn’t entirely agree, but there was no point in arguing. I’d made my choice, for better or worse. This killer needed to be stopped; like Joshua said, fate (whom it now seemed I knew personally) was driving me inexorably toward that very act. No matter what I did, Karen’s heart was going to kill her. It was only a matter of when.
It’s not like an assassin was coming for her.
If anyone was coming for her, it might just be me.
“Okay.”
Karen’s voice brightened considerably, too much to be believable. “I’ll call after lunch.”
“Perfect, I’ll be waiting.”
And the line went dead…for what I desperately hoped wasn’t the last time.
Dave returned with two cups of coffee, placing one in front of me as he settled in the chair across the table. He didn’t offer cream or sugar, probably considering such accessories an affront to the purity of the bean, or other similar nonsense. People in Seattle can take their coffee very seriously.
“Wife?”
I smirked. “A very good friend.”
The young man nodded, sipping his coffee slowly. He waited patiently for me to take the lead. After all, I’d told him I was a reporter and would like to talk at length, but gave no clue to the topic.
Poor kid.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Dave.”
He tensed visibly. “Oh?”
Bradley Kim repl
ayed continuously through my mind, screaming and slamming his door. Whatever happened, I had to do a better job of handling this guy. Even if Joshua was right, and David couldn’t be saved, there were many more who could be.
Of course, there’s no good way to say, “Gee, sorry, you’re on a hit list and will die today.”
Maybe I should have brought flowers…or scotch.
At least I was inside, so it was already going better than last time.
“I think you’re in danger.”
The coffee cup rattled against the table as David put it down, but his voice remained calm. “What kind of danger?”
“There’s a killer loose in Seattle, and he’s coming for you.”
Okay, fine, maybe subtlety isn’t my thing.
David jumped from the chair, his voice rising. “What the hell…why?”
I waited patiently for the kid to calm down, making no sudden moves. His reaction was understandable and I felt for him. More than anything, I simply needed to keep him from bolting somewhere I couldn’t easily follow.
And I needed him to trust me.
With a mumbled, “Sorry,” Dave settled back into his seat, but the energetic twitching increased tenfold as his head darted around the apartment, searching everywhere for imagined dangers.
“I don’t know why.” I’d wracked my brain for reasons, but the pieces didn’t fit neatly together. Too many seemingly random people, who shared no obvious connections besides being together on the wrong list. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
Dave’s wide eyes swiveled back to me. “For the paper?”
Leaning forward, I patted one of the kid’s shaking hands, nodding. I briefly considered telling him the whole truth, but it didn’t seem like he was well equipped to handle another surprise.
He jumped from his chair again, panicking. “What should I do, call the police?”
I shook my head. “And tell them what: a reporter you just met told you an assassin they don’t believe exists is coming to kill you for some reason you don’t understand? No, I’m afraid we have to figure this out together, just you and me.”
“Then I should run.” Dave grabbed his coat, starting for the door.
“Listen, I understand you’re scared. But if you leave the safety of your secure building and locked apartment for the outside world, danger can pounce from a thousand different directions we can’t even begin to predict.”
His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Page 20
