The Dead Detective Agency (The Dead Detective Mysteries)

by Peg Herring

  Tori couldn’t hear him. Having never been hosted by a lower-order vertebrate before, Seamus had no idea what interfered with his ability to communicate, but something did. He’d never asked about jumping between species, and it probably wasn’t intended to happen. If so, he was lucky to have achieved it. Still, he had to move on, had to reach Tori somehow. Seamus needed a human he could jump to. I’d even take one of those jittery teenaged girls at this point. He was careful not to voice his thought, for the rat’s heartbeat had slowed to normal, and it was foraging again. Apparently, finding food was never far down a rat’s to-do list.

  Using the rat’s eyes, he looked around him. They were in the backyard of a home, although it wasn’t much of one. The shack across the expanse of un-mown grass and weeds was low-slung and off-kilter, as if one strong gust of wind would send it to the ground. A single bare bulb shone in one window, and “Keep Out” was spray-painted on scraps of wood nailed up all around. Someone, it seemed, had found a bargain at a hardware store, for the hovel’s color was a shrieking shade of blue. This so-called improvement had been long ago, and no others had been made for a very long time.

  In addition to the signs, the place was enclosed in what might be termed “found fencing.” A complete enclosure had been accomplished, but with bits and pieces of whatever had come to hand: twenty feet of cage-wire fencing, perhaps thirty of bent and battered cyclone, some barbed wire, and intermittent sections of mismatched boards interspersed with upright cedar posts. There was even a short section of vinyl fence, scarred but serviceable. The whole might keep people out, but not rats. Seamus’ host easily found its way in.

  The rat came to rest behind a small shed, the prefabricated kind that creates instant storage. This one was at least second hand and of the earliest vintage of such buildings, now rusted and badly out of square. Of interest to Seamus was a beagle sleeping not three feet away, tied to the shed with a length of rope.

  He spent no time in consideration. A dog was more likely to get close to a human than the rat, and the rat was certain to take off again if the dog so much as flinched. Seamus jumped, more sure of himself this time with a line of sight and an inert host. In an instant he was with the dog and the rat was off again, zig-zagging madly across the yard and under a section of fence opposite. He had a moment of empathy for the creature’s panic, but at least it was over now. The dog’s ordeal, however, was just beginning. It awoke with a start and did what nervous beagles do. It bayed, loudly and mournfully.

  The new sensations weren’t much different from those he’d experienced with the rat. The dog was a little higher off the ground, but no smarter. There was no thought process to follow, only response to stimuli. Seamus sensed anger and a vicious, unreasoning animosity to everything. The phrase “meaner than a junkyard dog” took on a more precise meaning. The creature wanted to attack something, wanted to root out the interloper it sensed rather than saw, but that was impossible, so it complained vociferously instead. If you think a dog’s barking outside your house is annoying, Seamus reflected, try it from inside the dog!

  The beagle was tenacious, baying without pause, never lessening, never changing, until finally the shack’s door opened. A man stood there, the same perpetual anger in his posture the dog evinced. He was about sixty years old, with a once-strong body whose muscles had fallen into the gaunt sag of the unfit elderly. He wore baggy bibbed overalls, a faded flannel shirt, and lace-up boots spattered with substances ranging from paint to mud. Over his gray, haphazardly-cut hair he had tied an unclean and faded bandana. In his hand was an almost inevitable can of beer.

  “Shut up, dog!” he hollered, frowning into the twilight. Swinging one leg painfully along as he balanced on the other, he disappeared from sight.

  The dog stopped all of fifteen seconds before taking up the complaint again. When the barking had gone on for several more minutes, the man again limped to the door and hollered. This time he added a description of the dog’s parentage that was etymologically accurate but not intentionally so.

  “Come this way,” Seamus said aloud, and the dog’s tone rose to a higher pitch in response to the voice inside its head. The man again ordered quiet, peered around the yard, saw nothing unusual, and shut the door.

  It took several tries, and it was dark by the time the man in the house had had enough. By then, Seamus had driven the poor animal half-crazy with muttering about pet owners who, like bad parents, content themselves with yelling orders but never follow through. “Come out and see to it!” he shouted in frustration, sending the pitch of the dog’s yelp even higher. At last the man made his labored way off the porch, his limping gait made more uneven by an obvious drunken state, his face suffused with anger. “That’s it, that’s it,” Seamus encouraged, and the dog twitched maniacally, straining at its rope and yipping as if burned.

  The man, whose face bore out the ignorant cruelty promised by his voice and posture, stopped halfway across the yard, checking carefully around him for anything unusual. When he saw nothing, he made a sudden movement, swooping down to pick up an eighteen-inch, weathered fragment of two-by-four from the ground. Stepping quickly toward the dog, he swung the stick of wood at its head. Apparently anticipating such treatment, the dog managed to slew around despite its tether, taking a glancing blow on its flank with a short yelp of pain.

  “I told you to shut up!” the man hollered. “Stupid son of a bitch!” He took another swing, but in his condition, he could put no strength behind it. With feral cunning, the dog once more eluded him. In its lunge to escape the blow, it wrapped the rope around the man’s legs, causing him to stumble wildly and lose his balance completely. He sat down heavily on the soft ground, dropping the stick on the way. As he let out a string of curses, Seamus took his opportunity and jumped. The dog quieted immediately, looking at his master with that blend of wariness and willingness to please only dogs seem able to accomplish.

  The man reacted to the change inside himself with confusion. He glared threateningly into space but seemed too dazed to remember his intention to beat the dog. Disentangling himself from the rope, he rose clumsily to his feet. Focused on his habitual cure for everything—beer—Seamus’ new host headed unsteadily toward the house, still muttering curses. Behind him, the dog circled once and settled down with a sigh, head on its paws, its recent ordeal forgotten.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I’ve Got Friends in Low Places

  It was not the best hosting Seamus had ever had, but it scored well above rats and dogs. The man’s thought process was slow, both naturally and because of the interference of alcohol, but at least there was thought. He hoped the man’s drunken condition made it likely he’d fall asleep now that the dog was quiet, allowing communication with Tori.

  He inspected the inside of the house through its owner’s bleary eyes. There was only one room with a rough partition in the southwest corner. From the smell, Seamus guessed there were plumbing problems there that had gone on for some time. In the opposite corner sat an ancient refrigerator, a battered kitchen sink, and a small hotplate, plugged into the light fixture in the ceiling by means of an extension cord probably not UL approved. Along the right-hand wall was a bed consisting only of a cockeyed metal frame and a tattered mattress. On the floor at the foot of it, an army surplus sleeping bag lay in a crumpled heap.

  The only surprise in the house hung on the wall. Before an ancient rocker-recliner whose seat was one deep indentation from years of occupancy, there hung a high-definition, large-screen plasma television Seamus guessed hadn’t been purchased by its current owner, at least not from a reputable store. On it, people ran along a beach, dressed in clothing that combined modern chic with primitive utility. None of them looked to be having a good time.

  Seamus’ host plopped into the chair after removing a slightly cold beer from the refrigerator. Once seated, he pulled the handle to raise the footrest, producing a metal-scraping-on-metal sound that was not normal. Ignoring it, the occupant twisted the cap from
the longneck and flipped it in the general direction of the sink, took a long swallow, set the bottle next to four empties on the table beside him, and settled back to see who would be voted off the island.

  He never found out. Before the next commercial break ended, the man began to nod, eyelids intermittently shutting out images of dancing food items on the screen. Finally he slept, and Seamus tried contacting Tori again.

  Awake in Carmon’s dark bedroom, Tori waited for what felt like hours, although it was hard to tell. When she finally heard her name, Seamus’ voice sounded urgent, as if he had despaired of reaching her. “Seamus, where are you?”

  Carmon stirred, and Tori paused until she drifted back to sleep. “Seamus!”

  “Here.” His voice sounded weak, like a transmission from deep space.

  “Where are you? Is Madison asleep?”

  “Not with him. Had to jump. Do you think you can plant an idea in your host?”

  “Me?” The thought was both scary and intriguing.

  “As soon as she wakes up, start concentrating. Think about it, whisper it every few minutes, and keep at it. If you’re lucky, she’ll respond.”

  “And what do I want her to do?”

  “Go to the police station, see Madison’s partner.”

  She searched her memory. “Detective DeMestrie?”

  “Right. Madison’s in trouble.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “You don’t know! How can you not know?” Tori felt Carmon’s unconscious spasm of distress and forced herself to focus. Seamus was not a careless person. If he didn’t know where he was, there was a reason. “What happened? Who did you jump to when you left Madison?” She heard a chuckle, albeit a weak one.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Just try to get her to DeMestrie, okay?”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly he was gone, like a dropped phone call. Tori called his name several times, but there was no answer. She waited in the darkness, wondering where he was, how Madison was, and how in the world she was supposed to help them both.

  Madison woke to darkness and pain. The floor under him was hard and cold, and although he opened his eyes, he saw only gray. He lay face down and rough, grime-encrusted concrete ground into his right cheekbone. He made an effort to push himself up, get his legs under him. It was a mistake. The right leg sent screaming messages to his brain demanding he remain very, very still.

  Still dazed and struggling to remember what had happened, he lay for some time, considering what to do. He pushed his hands up under his face so his nose was out of the dirt and breathing was easier. The back of his head throbbed, and a cautious touch found a huge lump just above the base of his skull. Lucky guy, he told himself. A bit lower and whoever smacked you would have crushed your spinal cord. His sarcastic side added, Of course you broke your leg in the fall and no one knows where you are, so it isn’t all good luck.

  His memory returned in a few moments, which was something to be glad about. He knew where he was, what he had come for, what happened right up to when the lights went out. He was in the grease pit of the old garage, a concrete vault about seven feet deep, four feet wide, and ten feet long. The smooth walls were streaked with decades-old gunk. Turning his head carefully to one side, he could see where a ladder had once been attached. Its outline ran down the spattered walls, but it was gone now. For a guy with a broken leg, the place was a tomb.

  To attack his problems, he had to sit up, and that meant turning over. Exploring carefully with his left hand, he made an amateur diagnosis. The leg bones were definitely broken, not just cracked but totally displaced. He could feel the jagged ends under the skin about halfway between his knee and ankle. Luckily, they hadn’t broken through the skin. In this place that would be a death sentence, since he hadn’t had a tetanus shot in twenty years. He had to move to a position where he could reach his cell phone and call for help, but that wasn’t going to be fun. An exploration of the ground around him revealed nothing useful to his purpose, in fact, nothing whatsoever but dirt.

  Clenching his teeth, Madison acted without giving his mind a chance to anticipate the result. Setting one arm under his torso for stability, he reached backward with the other, grabbed his left pant-leg, bunching it as tightly as he could over the break to minimize movement of the leg inside. He lifted with slow, infinite care until it was a few inches off the floor. The pain was considerable, but in a movement worthy of a contortionist, he turned his body onto his left hip and laid the broken leg as gently as possible on top of the other one.

  He was sweating by the time he released his grip on the pants, moved his hand to the front, and repeated the process, rolling this time onto his backside and setting the broken leg flat on the ground. Hot stabs of agony telegraphed to his brain for a long time, finally subsiding to a throb that was bearable if he stayed perfectly still. From this position, though, he could assess the situation more effectively.

  It wasn’t good. There was no way out, at least not with one useless leg. Slowly and gently, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Once again lifting the broken limb by use of the pants, he slid backward inch by inch until his back rested in one corner of the pit. It wasn’t fun, and when he felt the cold concrete behind his spine, he gave himself a few moments’ rest until the pain dulled down again.

  He had accomplished something, at least, and was feeling almost chipper until he reached to his belt for the phone. One touch told him he had landed directly on it, probably when he was thrown into the pit. The outer cover was shattered, the display screen and touchpad smashed beyond use. Madison beat his fist on the rough concrete in frustration. His painful efforts had accomplished nothing. Sitting up and dying in a grease pit was no better than doing it lying down.

  As his eyes became used to the dimness, he discovered the pit wasn’t completely empty. In one corner was a tangled roll of wire and a small pile of automotive bits and pieces: exhaust pipe, tie rods, and springs, their jagged ends and protruding elbows sticking out from each other. Nothing there would help him climb out of the pit, and he glared at the pile as if it intended to frustrate him.

  He yelled, of course. After five minutes of futile calls for help, it became clear he’d be wise to conserve his voice. Using his watch, he timed the process, yelling for one minute out of every fifteen in hopes that someone might hear him, someone on the way home from work, kids exploring, or lovers looking for a place to be alone. Hell, he’d even welcome a junkie at this point, anyone who might make a call in return for whatever cash he had in his pocket.

  Between times he listened, hearing only the occasional rumble of a vehicle passing by on the street outside and closer, soft, skittering sounds he didn’t like at all. Beating the floor around him with his hands, he kept whatever was there at bay. He had to get out. He checked his watch again: two minutes until his fifteen were up. What the hell, he thought and started yelling anyway.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lyin’ Eyes

  All night long, Seamus’ host switched between dazed TV watching and short bursts of energy. At one a.m., he tinkered with a lawnmower motor that was getting spark but wouldn’t start. When he tired of that, he returned to the chair and drank several beers. Whenever Seamus thought it was safe to speak to Tori again, the man stirred and began another project.

  He had carved a wooden model of a 1958 Ford Thunderbird. About a foot long and very detailed, the car had doors that opened, handles that operated, and a thin dowel attached to the steering wheel that connected to the axle, making the front tires turn right or left. It was in the final stages of completion, and he spent over two hours sanding with great patience, until every surface was smooth to the touch and shiny with the oil from his fingers. At around six a.m., he scratched CHAD on the underside in block letters. Then to Seamus’ relief, he set the car on the stand beside his chair, picked up the sleeping bag from the floor beside the narro
w bed, and settled on the ammonia-tinged mattress to sleep.

  Outside the sun was rising, but inside it stayed dim due to ragged blankets hung over the only two windows in the place. Disgusted with the taste of his host’s beer-soaked body and the man’s eccentric habits, Seamus consoled himself that at least he was free to speak.

  “Tori.”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen carefully. Carmon will probably wake up soon. I don’t know if she will be able to hear me talking. It will probably be like static in her head, and if you don’t answer, she’ll ignore it. Madison is in a garage somewhere on Clingell, not too far off Division, southwest, I think. He was looking for whoever murdered Daryl Talbert.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Don’t talk, listen! The place has been closed for a long time, and there was one of those flying horse signs out in front, all rusty and battered. He’s inside that building, I’m not sure where, but he was alive when I left.” He pictured Tori trying to take all this in. Could she handle it? Rescuing a cop whose life was in peril was a lot to ask of someone so recently dead herself. Having no other option, Seamus had to hope she could. “Do whatever you can, but be careful. You don’t want to convince your host she’s crazy.”