by C. J. Parker
“That’s enough, Edda.” The Charge Nurse pointed her long finger at her. “Watch your mouth and get back to work.”
“No, that’s all right.” Tabatha strove for a kind, reassuring smile hoping it hid the nervousness that threatened to make her sweat. “Where are you from, Edda?”
The woman tossed her corn rowed, black hair over her shoulder and looked down her nose at Tabatha. “Jamaica.”
Tabatha wasn’t sure if she felt pity or disdain for the woman. Raised in Jamaica, Edda had been around Voodoo every day of her life. “I know what you mean about people talking.” She swatted away a strand of hair that had worked its way out of the bun on the nape of her neck and fluttered against her cheek. “They say everyone in Jamaica practices Voodoo.”
The woman clutched her cross, sputtered then looked away.
“Don’t worry, Edda, I’m way too smart to believe everything I hear.” Edda’s face reddened. Tabatha held back the smile of triumph. “Lead the way, Bobbie?”
Bobbie pointed down the hall. “We’ll take the service elevator.”
The nurse reached out to touch a stack of papers. “Bobbie, take these discharge prescriptions to the out-patient pharmacy. You’ll be in the basement anyway.”
Bobbie pulled off one latex glove to take the prescriptions and stuffed them into her pocket. “Do I need to wait for the medications?”
“No. The pharmacy tech will run them up during his rounds.”
Bobbie and Tabatha arranged the gurneys in the large service elevator. Bobbie pressed the down button with her elbow, and they watched the numbers on the display count down.
An uncomfortable silence settled over them. Tabatha looked at Bobbie. Her ebony hair had escaped her ponytail sending strands cascading down her back. High cheekbones, flawless skin, dark brown eyes and lips that curved in a perpetual smile came together to form a beautiful face. Tabatha envied her. Compared to Bobbie she was a blank slate. Silver white hair, ice blue eyes, pale skin, she’d been told more than once she looked like walking death. She cleared her throat. “Edda really freaked.”
Bobbie cut her gaze speculatively at Tabatha. “Edda hates working around the dead.”
Tabatha straightened the sheet over the body nearest to her and changed the subject. “Have their families been called?”
“Yours is a John Doe. No ID, no wallet. Nothing.”
Tabatha warred with herself whether to lower her psychic shields and ask his name, but with Bobbie in the elevator, she didn’t dare. Bobbie was the closest thing she had to a friend. She didn’t want to blow it by letting her little secret out in the open. “Sad. Someone could be worried about him.”
When the elevator stopped, they pushed the gurneys to the morgue. Bobbie punched the access code into the keypad, and the heavy door opened to the anteroom.
Tabatha didn’t want to leave the John Doe without a name so she found a way to prevent that. “Looks like the staff is busy. I’ll stay with the bodies until someone can come out and sign for them. You run those prescriptions, and then I’ll help you return the gurneys to the ER.”
Bobbie nodded. “Great. Thanks.”
The quiet of the morgue held an odd sense of peace for Tabatha. The cold stainless steel room smelled acrid, sour. She peeked inside the first autopsy room and found it as silent as Central Park after midnight. Each table had its own hanging scale for weighing excised organs and hoses for rinsing waste and body fluids away. Trays of instruments—retractors, saws, scalpels—all the necessary accouterments lay nearby. Tabatha walked to the door of the isolation room, peeked in the small window and saw three people wearing protective paper suits and headgear. She pressed the intercom. “I have two customers for you.”
A voice blurted through the speaker. “You’ll have to wait. We’re finishing up here. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”
Approaching the John Doe, Tabatha looked around to make sure no one lurked in the shadows. She lowered the sheet wanting a closer look. The first thing she noticed was his shoulder length light brown hair. It lay around his bloodied head in soft waves. Tabatha ran her finger over the scar above his left eyebrow. A vision of a little league game and a baseball bat flying toward him seconds before it struck made her withdraw her touch before she felt the pain it had inflicted upon him. She drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment and opened her mind to his soul. A combination of cold and heat settled over her like a warm blanket in an air-conditioned room. Her senses sharpened, waiting for that first hint of his presence.
“Who are you?”
David Pike. His voice vibrated across her brain like a plucked guitar string.
She looked at his lips, wishing them to move—to prove the doctor wrong. Wishing him to be alive. But David remained still, the stillness only death brought. “What happened to you, David?”
I’d just gotten home and was jumped while I unlocked my door. “Who did it and what did they look like?”
Three men—two white, one with short dark hair, the other with blond, one Hispanic, black hair, tall, walked with a limp.
“Did you know any of them?”
No. Where am I?
Tabatha glanced around again to make sure Bobbie or the morgue workers hadn’t walked in. “Hospital morgue. You’re dead, David,” she said gently.
A strong coppery-scented mist surrounded him, the thickness of it robbing the room of oxygen. She ran her gloved fingers through his bloodstained hair and spoke softly. “Be at peace, David. It’s a beginning of a new life.”
Tabatha turned away and was met with a solid wall of cold, dry flesh. She fought the scream building in her lungs. Shit. This isn’t good. She glanced around to see if anyone had seen.
She stepped back and looked at him from head to toe. Good grief he was big—everywhere. Women must have loved him. Italian, she’d bet. Black hair, olive skin. He’d been shot more than once in his lifetime, not counting the new bullet holes scattered about his torso. “Oh, hell. Where did you come from?”
His head tilted to one side as if trying to understand her question. His arm lifted, and he pointed toward an open cooler drawer. The long, crudely sewn autopsy incisions clashed against his white skin. He was young, probably not more than twenty-three or four. In life he had been strong and healthy, good looking.
Damn, she hated when they showed up like this. She always felt sorry for them. Their lives were cut short too early, too violently. They were confused by what happened. Most didn’t even know they were dead. Years of dealing with this type of situation had not lessened her concern for them. She still wanted to put them at ease—to help them accept what had happened to them and make their transitions go quickly.
“What’s your name?”
“Francis Wade.” His voice escaped in a shaky rasp.
“Well, Francis, you have to go back. You’re dead.”
He glanced down at his nakedness then at her. “Dead?”
Tabatha looked into his eyes and saw nothing but death’s black void. His soul gone, only an empty shell remained. She took him by the hand and led him to the cooler. The cold of his fingers ran a chill over her skin. “Lie down, Francis.”
He did as she said.
“Go to sleep and wake only when God calls you.”
Before turning to leave, she watched his face immobilize into a lifeless mask. Closing the drawer, she turned. Bobbie stood next to the other body- draped gurney. Sweat broke out on Tabatha’s forehead. Her breath caught in her chest.
Though Bobbie tried to appear nonchalant, standing with arms crossed, leaning against the morgue entry, her expression was almost comical, wide- eyed and slack jawed. “I knew it. Damn, Tabatha, the rumors are true, aren’t they?”
One friend down, none left. “I’ll be gone in a couple of days. It won’t be your problem. I’ve never hurt anyone, and I’d never hurt you. I only wanted to help our John Doe. We needed to know how to contact his family. But that one,” Tabatha pointed toward Francis’ temporary resting place, “I didn’t mean
for that to happen. Sometimes the power breaks free when I have my guard down.”
Bobbie took several steps back until she stood in the hallway, looked one way then the other. “Power? You mean you can raise anyone. Talk to anyone who’s dead?”
Fatigue and disappointment weighted Tabatha’s heart. Bobbie was the only friend she’d made since she’d come to New York, and now she’d managed to screw that up. “Only the first three days after death.”
“How could you talk to the cool pop? Wade’s been dead for over a week.” Tabatha rubbed her forefinger over her eyebrow. “A soul remains with the body for three days. I can hear their voices calling, asking for my help.
Once a soul is gone, they’re silenced. But sometimes when I’m really tired, a corpse will rise without my trying. Mr. Wade’s body rose, but his soul is gone. I can talk to him but only his memories are available to me. With no soul, there is no emotion, no passion.”
“I see, but how...”
“I was born with this—ability to raise the dead. I’ve spent years learning to control it.”
Bobbie seemed to think about that for a moment then nodded, averting her eyes. “Do they know what’s going on during their autopsy?”
“I know they don’t feel pain, but do they know what’s going on? I don’t know.” Tabatha sighed. “Want me to raise another and ask?”
Bobbie raised her hands in front of her. “No! I’d rather not see any more dead bodies walking around, if you don’t mind.”
So she wouldn’t have to look Bobbie in the eye, Tabatha filled out an identification tag and slipped it onto David’s big toe. Bobbie glanced back down the hall again. “I never see you at the hangouts. Do you ever go out?”
“No.”
Stepping from the hallway into the room, Bobbie stopped next to the gurney holding David Pike’s remains. “Look. We all have our secrets. I can live with this secret as long as you don’t pull that stunt again—at least not with me around. Creepy.” She shuddered.
Bobbie’s eyes filled with so much sincerity Tabatha nearly wept with relief. “Thank you.” Bobbie started for the door, but Tabatha couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “What’s your secret?”
Bobbie did a quick turn-about. “What?”
“You said we all have secrets. What’s yours?”
A smile lit Bobbie’s face. “That’s a story for another day. Not here.” She laid her hand atop the second body and a rush of sadness filled her eyes. “This is my brother. He was murdered this morning. I have to take him home to New Orleans for his ceremony.”
A surge of happiness rushed Tabatha’s veins. “New Orleans? That’s where I’m going. Do you have family and friends there?”
“A few.” Bobbie drew a deep breath and released it. “Maybe we’ll..”
Two men entered from the isolation room. “What do you have for us?”
~
Tabatha guided her black Grand AM into the drive and slowed to a stop. Fifteen years had passed since she’d last been to New Orleans.
Cold crept up her spine like winter-chilled fingers and into the dark recesses of her mind. New Orleans was known by many as the paranormal capital of the world. The dead roamed the cemeteries, the streets, searching for people like her—someone who could hear their pleas. The death angel himself drew near, shrouding the scenery in an otherworldly hue of blues and gray. It searched for those who tried to escape his grip. But why here? She closed her eyes and forced her shields up to stop what would come next. The voices. Voices of a soul not yet passed over to the next realm. A slight hum drifted though her head not unlike that of an elevator racing to the top of a tall building. The pressure built until she no longer felt Death’s cold presence. No voices. No fear. Peace returned. Her shield, firmly in place, would give her the respite she longed for.
After a moment, with her psychic shields in place, a consoling quiet flowed over her soul like the warmth of morning sunshine, chasing away the darkness trying to envelop her.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, raking her gaze over her childhood home. The six Doric columns, supporting the overhanging roof, were in dire need of repair. Four narrow picture windows flanked the front door, their green hurricane shutters off-kilter, and great spans of paint were missing from the brick façade.
“Paw-Paw must be pacing in his crypt.” She released a harsh breath. This was unacceptable.
Located in the Garden District, the old mansion sat in the center of two acres of perfectly manicured landscape. Centuries-old oaks spread their limbs offering a green canopy of shaded relief from New Orleans’ summers.
Movement to her left caught Tabatha’s attention, and goose bumps of excitement covered her skin despite the ninety-plus-degree temperature. Nyssa Bouchard ran toward her as fast as the woman’s old legs would carry her, and she waved her arms wildly and called Tabatha’s name. Nyssa had been the groundskeeper at Gray Manor practically forever and was Tabatha’s lifelong friend.
Tabatha jumped from the car and threw herself into Nyssa’s embrace.
“A doctor.” A myriad of emotions laced the old woman’s tear-streaked face. “I’m so proud of you. But why have you stayed gone so long? I’ve missed you.”
Tabatha struggled to understand Nyssa’s sobbed words. “I’ve missed you, too.” She jutted her chin out toward the house. “Why has she let it get so run down?”
Nyssa shrugged her thin shoulders and stepped from Tabatha’s embrace. She swiped away the tears from her cheeks, and drew a deep breath. She became so composed, so quickly Tabatha was taken aback. “Carla still can’t accept that your grandfather left Gray Manor to you. She was angry when she lost the last appeal. Thinks it should be hers.”
She didn’t understand her mother’s anger. If she could, Tabatha would give it all to her. But her grandfather had made that impossible. “It is Mom’s home, Nyssa.”
“It’s not enough to live here.” Nyssa glanced at the second floor, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You must be careful while you’re home. I think she wishes you bad gris-gris.”
Tabatha smiled and ran her fingers through her friend’s long black hair. “No Voodoo spells can harm me. You should know that.”
She sighed and shrugged her rail thin shoulder. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Your powers are still strong. Even now, I can feel them surging from you.” A frown caused deep creases to form at the corners of the old woman’s mouth. Something was different in Nyssa’s demeanor. Her disapproval drifted off her in waves of heat.
Tabatha cocked her head and tried to understand. “Something wrong?”
“Who taught you to dress, girl?” Nyssa tugged on the sleeve of Tabatha’s black silk bomber jacket while glaring at the torn knees of her jeans.
Tabatha raised a brow at the comment. Her friend wore clothing beyond that of a groundskeeper. The cut and style of an Armani suit was unmistakable. “You’re one to talk. When did you become such a clotheshorse?” Black and tailored to fit like a glove, the suit gave Nyssa the aura of a wealthy professional. Tabatha smiled and winked. “I must be paying you too much.”
“My salary is set firm in your grandfather’s will. You have no power to change it.” She frowned but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Now, stop changing the subject. Why are you dressed like a beggar?”
Tabatha shrugged away her confusion over Nyssa’s anger. When had she lost her sense of humor? “I should have changed into something else when I stopped for the night but didn’t have the energy to pull any luggage out of the trunk. And, I’ll have you know I paid a pretty penny for these jeans.” Tabatha glanced up at the house in time to see the bedroom drapes being pulled aside, and she caught a glimpse of her mother before the older woman turned and vanished into the darkness beyond the curtains. Disappointment, anger, acceptance blended into normalcy as Tabatha once again accepted her mother’s rejection of her. “Why don’t we go in?”
Nyssa made an unladylike sound, crossed her arms over her chest, and mumbled some
thing about ungrateful, but Tabatha wasn’t sure what she’d said. “Let’s go to my place. We can talk there without her listening.”
Tabatha ran an alert eye over Nyssa. She was holding something back. But what? And why? “What’s wrong? Why don’t you want me in the house?”
Nyssa glossed her tongue over her lips, slumped her shoulders, drew a deep breath through her nose and slowly released it. “You’re right. Might as well get it over with.” She hooked her arm into the crook of Tabatha’s and strolled forward.
The sight that greeted Tabatha upon entering the great room of the mansion infuriated her. She blinked away the scene, hoping when she opened her eyes, she’d find everything as it should be. But it wasn’t. The once-beautiful ivory ceiling medallions looked as though someone had tried to pry them off, leaving the old plaster decorations beyond repair. The hardwood floors were marred with scuffmarks and deep gouges, and the raised paneled walls were in no better shape. The only places to sit were two old kitchen chairs sitting in the center of the room. “Where is Grandfather’s furniture? Where is the clock, the artwork, the damn rug?” The hot rush of anger built with every question. She wanted to storm up the stairs and demand her mother explain. To tell Tabatha where the furniture had gone and praying her mother would say it was in storage.
A knock at the door drew a curse from deep inside her. “What now?” she mumbled and crossed the room in long exaggerated strides, impatience building with each step. She’d fully intended to send away whoever was there, but when she opened the door the shock of seeing the woman replaced her impatience with curiosity.
She’d not seen that face since grade school. Memories of the girl’s ugly, taunting words rose afresh inside Tabatha’s mind and brought a rush of old resentments. She hadn’t changed much since Tabatha had seen her last. Her red hair hung unkempt past her shoulders, a sprinkling of freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and her overlarge clothing hung in unflattering sags and folds on her thin frame.
