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

by J. Eric Hance

  “I suspect you also have no evidence to disprove it.”

  Detective Thomas smiled again in that same predatory fashion. Opening his file, he turned it toward me, revealing the final picture.

  My stomach lurched.

  Another pool of blood beside Michelle’s—a man lay dead on her bedroom carpet. I knew, obviously, how I’d died. Somehow seeing it here—being confronted with it—was far more disturbing.

  “Do you know this man?”

  I shook my head, taking those precious seconds to regain composure. “We’ve never been introduced.”

  Which was, you know, technically the truth.

  “His name was Henry Richards. He was the brother of Detective Steve Richards. I believe you two have met.”

  Erik Thomas paused melodramatically. Perhaps he thought that as the full weight of his momentous revelation struck home, his prey would begin to break down, start to sweat.

  Maybe he was even hoping for a tearful confession.

  “Huh, is that right?”

  My interrogator’s eyes narrowed until he was squinting at me. Whatever he’d been expecting, he was clearly disappointed. Erik pointed at my last, gruesome portrait, “I’d hate to be the guy responsible. That guy, he’ll need protection—he’ll need to cooperate. Steve, you see, is pretty damn pissed.”

  Detective Thomas just knew I was guilty, of course. He was trying to whip up my fear, my survival instincts. No doubt the detective intended to use it as a basis for an entire line of intimidation.

  It wasn’t going to work.

  I silently started to laugh.

  Deep down inside, where no one but me would ever know, I turned a corner. My life had been sliding downhill for so long, and I’d let it happen—sat back and watched it, if I’m going to be honest. Hell, I probably even helped it along.

  No more.

  One way or another, I was going to recover, I would escape, and damn it I would see this thing through.

  Even if it killed me.

  You know—again.

  “Let me tell you what I think happened.”

  “Please do, Detective.” My voice quivered on the edge of a chuckle.

  Which was, I admit, completely inappropriate.

  My interrogator sneered, his self-control momentarily slipping. He probably meant well, and his heart might even be in the right place. I could honestly see the situation from his point of view. But right now, he was just another obstacle to overcome.

  And I would overcome him.

  “I think you and Michelle were an item. Maybe you thought exclusive; maybe she didn’t. You drop by one day and find her fucking Henry Richards. You shoot them both in a jealous rage.”

  “Oh…so close,” I quipped. “It was the revolver, and it was in the bedroom, but we were actually looking for Colonel Mustard. Better luck next time.”

  The detective stood up quickly, slamming his fists down on the table, his carefully orchestrated façade dissolving.

  What can I say? I’m a people person.

  His voice dropped to a low growl. “Confess now and things will go much easier.”

  I stood as well, displaying my best friendly smile. “For you, maybe. I’m pretty sure, for me, things would just get harder.”

  Erik leaned forward until our eyes were mere inches apart; his were watering slightly. “My Captain wants a confession tonight, and he’s going to get one.”

  “All right.” I nodded, leaning in further. “But I don’t think he’ll believe you. I mean, seriously, do you even have a motive?”

  The detective’s mouth worked soundlessly while searching for the right words. His cheeks flushed in anger, but he apparently couldn’t form a coherent response. Once more, he opened his mouth to speak.

  And sneezed instead.

  He slammed the table with his fist and strode to the door.

  Where he sneezed a second time.

  And a third.

  He knocked loudly. The door opened quickly, allowing Detective Erik Thomas to stomp out of the room, sneezing repeatedly.

  “That poor man. You really can be quite infuriating.”

  The commiserative whisper was laced with the scent of mint.

  I turned to find my furry black friend at the foot of the table. He stood where furniture obscured him completely from the unblinking red eye of the room’s only camera.

  “I’m not the one that ran him off sneezing,” I whispered back.

  Elliott’s voice was laced heavily with suffering. “I am most certainly not responsible for that either.”

  I bent over as if to tie my shoe. Elliott was hidden, but I was not. The last thing I needed was for the cops to see me talking to myself.

  Not that things could get much worse at this point.

  “I suspect Detective Thomas is allergic to cats.”

  The cat’s large, yellow eyes nearly tripled their size in shock. “How can someone live that way?”

  I shook my head, suppressing a smirk. “What the hell are you even doing here, fur ball?”

  “You are my Reaper. It is my job to come when you are in need.”

  “So where were you when the cops surrounded Karen’s condo?”

  “Neither of us realized you were in need,” he responded haughtily.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Or, put another way, he got caught with his tail down.

  “Okay, great, wise and mighty feline friend, what do you think I need?”

  The black mountain of fur glanced lazily around the room. “You need to escape, and quickly, too.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I responded dryly.

  Elliott considered silently before answering. “Your brother will be in presently.”

  “What?” I barked, caught off guard.

  “It is something you did not know.”

  “That can’t be right. He’s too close to the case. It has to be against the rules, and monumentally stupid.”

  The cat dipped his head in a shrug. “And dangerous, but nonetheless, your brother is very angry, and very persuasive. The captain is listening; he does not seem to like you much.”

  “Okay, escape it is. What’s the plan?”

  Elliott stared at me blankly.

  “You don’t have a plan?”

  The cat shrugged again. “I provide ideas; you are the Reaper.”

  “Thanks for the clarification.” I shook my head and sighed. “All right, how did you get in here?”

  “I am a cat,” he answered simply.

  Strangling someone in a police station is probably a bad idea.

  Though no jury would convict me.

  “Can I escape the same way?”

  Elliott’s shocked expression was nearly comical. Under different circumstances, I might even have laughed. “You are not a cat.”

  I took several deep, calming breaths before continuing. “Any suggestions?”

  The cat contemplated for nearly a minute before responding, “Sneak out as the Reaper?”

  “Aren’t you the one who loves to constantly remind me the Reaper is not actually invisible?”

  His head bobbed in a nod. “Yes, but it might work.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  Elliot considered the question. “That would be bad.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You would likely be shot.”

  “Got that.”

  “Repeatedly.”

  I put up my hands. “Understood, thanks; let’s call that plan B.”

  Voices in the hallway briefly diverted my attention. The wall muffled the words, but one man worked ineffectively at calming the hot anger of a second.

  When I looked back, Elliott was gone.

  Just perfect.

  I stepped to one of the narrow, barred windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of my fleeing friend. I was disappointed in more ways the one.

  Elliott was nowhere to be seen. Three women in white, however, stood in the parking lot watching the station intently.

&nb
sp; Damn it. Could my night get any worse?

  The room’s only door swung wide. Steve stood on the other side, framed by harsh light from the hall. His breath was quick and shallow, his bloodshot eyes focused on me without blinking, and his fists clenched repeatedly.

  I won’t deny that I looked like a horror movie killer, but Steve had clearly gone round the bend and straight past Bates Motel insane.

  Pushing myself away from the wall, I addressed him in my least aggressive voice. “Hello, Detective Richards. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  My brother didn’t respond.

  I’m not even certain he heard me.

  Steve stepped into the interrogation room, letting the door swing shut slowly behind him. Without looking back, he reached up to unplug the video camera; the bright red eye faded quickly to black.

  I swallowed slowly. That wasn’t at all creepy.

  His lips parted in a wide, manic grin.

  And those bloodshot eyes…they still hadn’t blinked.

  XXIX

  You Can’t Win Them All

  Only Steve’s shallow breath broke the silence. His approach was relentless, like a slow motion freight train unable to jump the track.

  And I was the only thing in its path.

  A tiny, panicked voice screamed in the back of my mind, pleading with me to run.

  But there was nowhere to go.

  My hand itched for the familiar, comforting weight of the scythe.

  But this was my brother, and I refused to attack him…no matter what that might ultimately mean.

  And, of course, the scythe would be useless anyway.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Detective?”

  Again flashing his disturbed grin, Steve continued to advance.

  My brother has always held a tight rein on his emotions. I can’t remember a single time he’d lost his temper. Even when Dad died, he didn’t get angry, and he didn’t cry. Little Stevie, at eleven years old, instead threw himself into sports; the routine, the structure and the clear goals gave him a single-minded purpose that drowned out his grief.

  When he got a little older, he refocused that energy on law enforcement.

  I’d always known that if my brother finally cracked, someone would pay a very heavy price.

  A shiver ran along my spine.

  Why the hell wouldn’t he blink?

  Ahead of his approach, I backed slowly away until my retreat was halted by an unyielding section of wall. The room’s two windows flanked my head.

  I cringed in anticipation.

  His right fist took me hard beneath the chin, snapping my head back into the bricks. Bright flashes filled my vision. A second punch, with his left, caught the right cheek and eye; a loud crack filled the silence as my head was forcefully twisted to the side.

  Blood flew through the air.

  I dropped to one knee as the flashes dimmed and my vision blurred. A warm throbbing spread through my skull.

  Two hands pulled me roughly to my feet. They slammed my body back into the wall, snapping my head into the bricks for a second time.

  Whether from shock or resignation, I felt no pain—only a pervasive, lethargic heat.

  A knee swung hard into my abdomen, doubling me over as the wind rushed from my lungs.

  Steve wasn’t interested in confessions, answers or trials. He was no longer Detective Richards, pursuing truth and justice; he was only Henry’s little brother, and he was seriously pissed off. There might not be even a single rational thought left.

  Another fist caught my left cheek and sent me sprawling to the ground.

  And the world went black.

  I was roused by a metallic slide and click.

  On waking, the first thing I noticed was pain; now that I was no longer in the adrenaline-filled shock of the moment, agony arrived in full force. My head throbbed as if something desperately struggled to break out from the inside.

  The world looked overexposed—washed out and a little too bright. My left eye was slow to focus. A mix of blood and spittle pooled on the concrete floor around the right side of my face.

  With difficulty, I pushed myself to all fours. A strained groan echoed through the interrogation room.

  It was probably mine.

  After a long, deep breath, I looked up.

  Directly into the barrel of Steve’s sidearm.

  I’ve always feared guns, but it had been subsiding some over the previous few days. Firearms, it seemed, were a recurring, unavoidable theme in my new line of work. Hell, I’d even been murdered by three gunshots, and managed to survive that just fine.

  All of which is significantly different than staring down the barrel of your own imminent death.

  Given the situation, my reaction surprised me.

  I didn’t get scared. I didn’t try to run.

  I just got angry as hell.

  And not for myself. If I died today, it would be frustrating and unfortunate, but I’d already escaped death once. I was living on borrowed time and it would have to end sooner or later.

  What truly pissed me off was how my death would impact Steve. By pulling that trigger, he would throw his career, his family, and his entire future away.

  It would destroy him.

  And I refused to let that happen to my little brother.

  “God damn it, Stevie. What in the hell is going through your head?”

  My brother recoiled from the words as if slapped. The gun’s barrel hesitantly dipped downward, more toward the floor than my favorite vital organs. Still a threat, but no longer immediately lethal. A look of confusion clouded Steve’s features.

  “Ex…excuse me?” he stammered.

  As slowly and steadily as possible, I climbed to my feet. A sharp pain in my side suggested at least one broken rib, and my ankle felt freshly sprained. The room swam as I straightened. Without the support of the wall, I’d have fallen right back to the ground.

  “This,” I said harshly, pointing at the puddle on the floor, “is not you.”

  Steve’s eyes flitted to the gruesome fluids I’d left behind, then examined my body thoroughly.

  Undoubtedly I looked terrible, but I didn’t dare glance away from Steve long enough to check the mirror.

  “You think I killed your brother? Fine. Arrest me; try and convict me. Lock my ass away until I’m old and gray.”

  I took two unsteady steps, leaving the comfort of the wall to approach Steve.

  He matched me step for step, keeping the distance constant as I advanced. The gun began to shake in his hand, his certainty cracking.

  “Only a selfish bastard,” I pressed, “would steal a loving father and devoted husband from Jamie and the girls. Your family needs you.”

  The gun stayed low, but my brother’s eyes narrowed angrily—suspiciously.

  “What kind of sick trick is this?”

  Maybe I’d gone too far.

  But I was committed now.

  I shook my head as I continued to advance. “No trick, just the voice of reason. Get over your fucking self long enough to listen.”

  Steve’s arm dropped to his side, the gun pointing at the floor. His face displayed a conflicting mix of primal emotions: rage and joy, confusion and understanding. A war played out across his features.

  “Henry?” The voice was that of an eleven-year-old Stevie Richards, lost and scared, but full of hope.

  Shocked, I stumbled to a halt.

  Damn it, in the heat of the moment, I’d completely forgotten about Elliott’s warning…about the Possession Effect. I couldn’t let Steve know the truth. The truth was too dangerous.

  “Your dead brother?” I forced a laugh, but it came off sounding flat, and awkward. “Of course not.”

  Steve shook his head, trying to clear it. His eyes glittered with a mix of rage and hope; he still tottered on the edge of insanity. His voice barked out angrily, “How are you doing this?”

  My second attempt at a laugh was more successful, but only barely. “
I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  My brother stepped tentatively toward me now. I would have withdrawn, but my balance was tenuous at best. Really, my forward progress had been little more than a well-controlled fall.

  He grabbed my collar with his left hand, raising his gun with the right. The barrel once again came up to point between my eyes. Steve’s voice sounded controlled, and quiet in a very eerie way. “Either you’re my dead brother, or you’re playing a very sick game. If it’s the first, you’d better convince me. If it’s the second,” he pushed the barrel hard against my forehead, “I have no further use for you.”

  I swallowed, my throat very dry. The truth might be dangerous for my brother; it looked like the lie, though, would be lethal…maybe for both us. “Okay, Stevie.” I spoke very carefully. “It is me, it’s Henry—but I don’t know how to prove it.”

  Steve’s eyes searched my face, neither hand relaxing. After long minutes, his lips split in a sly grin.

  “Okay, big brother, tell me—what did I put in Dad’s coffin?”

  A storm raged above the rain-soaked canopy. Within its shelter, the open grave, coffin and rows of chairs remained dry. The funeral wasn’t for an hour yet, but I wanted to say my goodbyes in private; my brother tagged along.

  But he didn’t really count.

  I was thirteen.

  Stevie was eleven.

  I brought a creased and worn photograph—Dad and me on our last fishing trip. Stevie brought a baseball, his most prized possession: a walk off home run from the bat of Griffey himself. They were our best memories from a life before a nameless attacker stole our dad.

  Stevie froze at the front row of seats. Faced with the open coffin, he couldn’t go any further.

  I understood.

  I quietly took the ball from my brother’s hands and continued to the coffin alone.

  I was the man now; he could be a boy as long as he needed to.

  His secret was safe with me.

  As long as I lived, I would never forget that day.

  “Nothing,” I said to my brother, my voice cracking. “Nothing at all. Your Griffey ball, my picture…I did it for both of us.”

  Tense silence filled the space between us as we faced off. We might have stayed like that for minutes, or even hours, under normal circumstances. Unfortunately, what little strength I did have gave out quickly. I collapsed.