The one advantage to heading to work over an hour late, I avoided all the heavy traffic associated with a work day and the lights were also in my favour.
I’d always thought of Easton as a chameleon, changing her colours to suit each generation. As I crossed over the bridge to the south side of town, I glanced to the right to where the Riverside Hotel had been razed to the ground to make way for The Bradbury Corporation’s latest project, Riverside Plaza. The idea of casino style accommodation in Easton had me wondering what colour the town would take on next.
I put the new development out of mind and drove to the staff car park for The Chronicle. Like most of the businesses on this side of town, the newspaper was housed in a sandstone building built around the turn of the Twentieth Century. Refurbished and renovated with the assistance of the local Historical Society, the building had been modernised without sacrificing its charm. The large wooden doors were always open during business hours and led into a small foyer with a couch, back issues of the paper, and a noticeboard displaying office hours and directions.
Sliding doors led into the main reception area and I strode through the employee entrance for the Classifieds Office. I tossed my bag down on my desk and put my mobile phone on silent. My boss, Anne Porteous, would freak if it rang during working hours.
My former best friend, Sarah, sat at her desk on the other side of the room but she didn’t look up, long brown ponytail wiggling like a snake with each movement of her shoulders. Anne wasn’t in the office when I logged on to my workstation, but within seconds I heard the familiar click of high heels coming from the staff room.
‘Tyler, what are you doing here? Sarah said you weren’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in today,’ said Anne, a waft of menthol accompanying her words as she stepped into the office.
I glanced over at Sarah but she tapped away on her keyboard as if oblivious to everything going on behind her. She was listening though. I could tell by the stillness of her ponytail, and the room wasn’t big enough to allow a private conversation unless it was in whispers.
I faced Anne and gave a shrug. ‘I started feeling better and thought I should come in. Friday mornings are so busy and I didn’t want to leave you shorthanded.’
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it.’ Anne’s eyes narrowed as she scanned me, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. ‘You don’t look well.’ She took a step back. ‘It’s nothing catching, is it?’
‘I’m sure it’s something I ate.’
‘Hmm. University students will eat anything as long as it’s cheap.’ She gave a delicate shudder, an odd gesture on a woman six feet tall without the heels. ‘You’d be better off taking your own meals rather than risking food poisoning from one of those eateries. You’d save money too, which you’re going to need if you still insist on becoming a journalist.’ She wrinkled her nose.
I hid a grimace. ‘You’re probably right. I’ll make sure I pack a snack for future study sessions from now on.’ If I had done as she suggested, taking some Oddfellows to the library the night before, I’d never have been in the service station when the psycho decided to pay a visit. Hindsight; such a hateful thing.
‘Well then, I’m glad you came in.’ Anne smiled, displaying perfectly aligned teeth not created by nature, the nicotine stains hidden behind veneers. ‘But make sure Sarah handles the front counter. We don’t want you scaring off any of our customers.’ She smoothed down the sides of her tailored black dress, then turned on her six inch heels and headed towards her office.
Most of the work I would usually do on a Friday had already been passed on to Sarah. Anne’s decree for me to avoid the front counter reduced my workload even further. I raced through the tasks only I could accomplish and dealt with any new work until lunchtime.
I clicked Save on the last task in my to-do list and pushed my chair back. Sarah hunched over her workstation, head turned away, when I headed for the staff room shared by all Chronicle employees. On a normal Friday, Sarah and I would to go to Le Café down the mall for lunch. Today I’d make do with as strong a coffee as I could stomach. It would burn on the way down but it might help jolt my brain into working as I tackled the most important task of the day.
I knew next to nothing about reapers and had no idea how to start searching for one who was lost. I planned on letting Sarah take the bulk of the afternoon work load as I concentrated on searching the internet for anything I could find to help me fulfil the task Grimm had set and, more importantly, break the horrifying contract I had entered into. I was not going to reap one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine more souls for him. Reaping one legitimate soul had already brought me to the attention of the police. I couldn’t afford to get myself in even deeper with Detective Lockwood.
I made as strong a coffee as I could stand, stirring in two heaped spoons of sugar, before returning to my desk. Sarah had left the office and Anne appeared engrossed in a conversation with a customer so I settled in at my workstation, pulled my phone out of my bag and typed in ‘reaper’.
Ten minutes later my phone started to vibrate, making me jump. I checked the number and groaned. Dad and Rhonda. I put the phone down on my desk and waited for it to stop ringing. Then I got a ping letting me know I had a new voicemail. I dialled in and put the message on speakerphone.
‘Tyler, it’s your father’s birthday tomorrow. Lunch is at twelve o’clock. Make sure you and Logan are on time. You know your father hates eating cold food. If you’re late we won’t be waiting for you.’
I deleted the message, propped an elbow on the desk and rubbed at my eyes. My cheekbones ached and the base of my skull throbbed.
‘Do you want me to go with you?’
I spun around and stared at Sarah.
‘I know how much you hate family gatherings …’ Sarah shrugged as she fiddled with the large cup of takeaway coffee in her hands.
I snorted. ‘Yeah, and it wouldn’t be awkward at all to have to explain why you were with me and not Logan. Would make for some great lunchtime conversation, don’t you think?’
Sarah flushed. ‘I was trying to help.’
‘Well, don’t. Your kind of help ruins relationships, and mine with my family is already on shaky ground. I don’t need you making it worse.’
I turned my back on Sarah and focused on my phone. It still displayed a website dedicated to reapers and I resisted the urge to close it down. Let Sarah look at it. If she asked I’d say it was for a university project.
But Sarah didn’t ask. I could hear muffled sobs as she disappeared down the hall and gritted my teeth, determined not to let her tears get to me. I had been a real bitch to her and, even though I knew I had every right, I wanted to run after her and apologise for making her cry.
I forced myself to remember what I’d walked in on the night before, but other images flooded in; Sarah and I sharing our lunch in primary school, practicing in her garage before a gymnastics competition in our senior year, picking the furnishings for the flat and giggling over the cute delivery guy. We’d shared so much, but now it was all gone.
I clutched my chest, where it felt like Sarah had stabbed me with a knife just as sharp as the one that had killed the man in the alley. But lamenting what I’d lost wouldn’t free me from Grimm.
I concentrated on the phone, then gave a sigh and closed the search engine down. My search had resulted in thousands of hits, most of them dealing with fictional representations of reapers. I’d had no idea there were so many books, movies and television shows featuring the macabre creatures. If it wasn’t the fictional version of reapers on display, the mythical ones took over. From what I’d gleaned during my short research session, most cultures in the world had at least one myth dealing with the spectre of death. But none of them were relevant to my situation.
I opened up a new search engine and started searching for recent stories of people cheating death. The reaper I needed to find was tangled up in the body of someone whose soul he had reaped, bringing their body back t
o life. Someone may have witnessed this miraculous revival.
This search brought up a stack of entries dealing with near-death experiences, but when I narrowed it down to Easton my options shrank considerably. I flicked through the two choices. One was the blog of a guy who claimed he’d been abducted by aliens. They supposedly took control of his body, therefore absolving him of any culpability when his alien-driven body got drunk and crashed his car into a creek. The aliens then returned him to his body and he was furious the insurance company had denied his claim.
The second entry was equally depressing. A gossip site reported that Chris Bradbury, the rich and self-indulgent playboy, had been put back in charge of the Bradbury Corporation’s hotel development after a suspected stint in rehab.
I dropped the phone on my desk and rubbed at my temples. At this rate my week would be up and I’d have nothing to show for it other than a blinding headache.
I grabbed my coffee mug and headed back into the staff room in search of another caffeine shot. The current newspaper rested on the table and when I saw the headline I froze.
“Deadly Night in Easton.”
Underneath were pictures of the truck driver and the owner of the service station. I read the article and choked on a sob. The old man had no living relatives to mourn his passing, but the truck driver had left behind a wife and two small children. If Grimm had offered him the job those kids would still have a father, even if he did have to be a reaper for a while. Who knows, he might have had better luck than me in fulfilling Grimm’s demands.
I dumped my mug in the sink and bolted back to my desk, shivering, sure I would never be warm again. I sat down and wrapped my arms around my body, jostling the necklace hidden beneath my scarf. Ice seared through me. The cold didn’t emanate from my frozen heart. It came from the necklace.
I groaned, knowing it would be impossible for me to drive to my latest client and get back to work before my lunch break was over.
Then again, this morning I had been transported the final distance when I’d touched my necklace. Maybe I hadn’t had to drive to the scene of the crime after all.
I closed my eyes and grasped the black skull. Immediately my astral form was wrenched out of my body and I steeled myself to meet the latest person to die.
Chapter 7
I rose out of my seat and through the roof before I streamed towards my destination. As I glided along I cast about me for any sign of the shadows from the night before, but in the bright light of day there were none to be seen.
Below me the streets were filled with cars and people, all of them oblivious to my presence as they scurried about. I remained on the Southside, skimming over the public hospital. My pace slowed and I flew lower as I entered the housing area to the left of the hospital. My astral body slipped through the closed front door and I found my client on the lounge room floor.
The dying woman lay on her stomach, one hand reaching for a mobile phone lying on the hardwood floor less than a foot away. Blood covered her face, making it hard for me to distinguish her features. Congealed blood caked her long brown hair, the rug underneath her soaked in red. She wore the remains of a long black negligee, bruises visible on the flesh exposed through tears in the silky fabric. A blood trail led away from her, down the hallway.
I froze, staring into her eyes as she gazed back at me, acceptance of her fate in their dark brown depths. But I wasn’t seeing her. My eyes were filled with the image of my own dead body. This woman was petite, like me, and while I had been stabbed and not beaten to death, the outcome had been the same.
She closed her eyes and my paralysis fled. I clutched my necklace with one hand and placed the other below her neck. The warmth of her soul bathed me in a sea of calm as I drew it forth. She opened her eyes and looked at me one last time before taking her final breath.
I cried ethereal tears. They floated in the air around me, as radiant as rainbows. Her soul was so pure, full of light and love, untainted by the violence she had been a victim of, the condition of her lifeless body a bitter contrast to the bright energy I transferred to my necklace. The house went dim as the light was extinguished and I rose up and away. My astral body held no weight, but the burden of the new soul dragged me down as I skimmed across rooftops back towards the Chronicle’s building.
I wanted time to process the reaping, to scream, cry, do something to make me stop feeling so wretched about my part in the woman’s death. My conscience jabbed at me, telling me I had failed her and it burned that I had no-one to talk to about this, no-one I could trust with my secret.
I entered the office and would have groaned aloud if I’d had working vocal cords. Sarah stood beside my slumped body, shaking my shoulder. Anne had stationed herself two paces behind Sarah. I flitted in between them and settled back into my body.
Sounds, muffled by ears remembering how to listen, came to me and I sifted through the jumble to make sense of them.
‘Tyler, wake up. Tyler, can you hear me?’
‘Ow, there’s no need to tear my arm off.’ I sat up and pulled my shoulder out of Sarah’s grip. ‘I heard you the first time.’
‘Tyler Maree Morgan. You scared the hell out of me.’ Sarah crouched down in front of me, placing a hand on my knee. ‘You freaked me out.’
‘I was having a nap. No big deal. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’ I pushed my chair back and stood, increasing the distance between us.
‘You should have stayed home, not come to work where you could infect others with your germs,’ said Anne, holding a floral handkerchief in front of her face. ‘Sarah, I want you to take Tyler home. I’ll handle the front desk while you’re gone.’
‘No, I’m fine. Just tired.’ I did not want to be stuck in a car with Sarah for the drive home, even though getting out of work for the afternoon sounded heavenly.
A gigantic yawn tore out of me, jaw creaking in protest as my brain fought for more fuel to keep it functioning. Water filled my eyes and my shoulders drooped. The ache at the back of my skull tightened its grip, like a vice turning the screws.
‘You’re not fine,’ said Sarah. ‘I was shaking you for ages, I couldn’t wake you. Something is seriously wrong. I think I should take you to a doctor.’
I straightened out of my slump and pushed passed Sarah to confront Anne, purposefully getting in her personal space. ‘I can take myself home. I don’t need Sarah to drive me.’
Anne backed up. ‘Fine, but I don’t want to see you back here until you are completely cured of whatever is causing you to pass out in the middle of the day.’
Anne sashayed back towards her office and I turned to take care of Sarah, careful to keep my back straight and not give in to another yawn.
She was fishing in her bag. ‘I don’t think you should be driving. Let me take you home.’ She held up her keys and stared at me, eyes full of concern.
A momentary pang of misgiving over what I had to do hit me, then I dredged up the memory of what I’d walked in on the night before and my resolve hardened.
‘You are the last person I would let drive me anywhere. Being in the same room with you is making me sick. As soon as you’re out of my face I’ll be on top of the world.’
Sarah blanched and I could see tears glistening in her eyes.
I fled, grabbing my gear and heading for the front office. Normally the sight of Anne wiping down the counter, a box of anti-bacterial wipes in her hand, would have made me smile. Today I could barely manage a grimace as she stopped to wait for me to pass through the employee gate. She made no effort to hide her actions as she grabbed out another wipe and attacked the handle to remove any trace of germs I might be carrying.
‘If you weren’t spending so much time studying journalism, you wouldn’t need time off work for sick leave. I don’t want this to happen again. You want to keep working here, stay healthy.’ Anne peeled off her gloves and deposited them in the bin before grabbing her packet of wipes and heading back inside the main office.
I h
ad planned on going straight home and crashing for a few hours, but as soon as I started the car I knew I had to make a detour. The image of the dead woman, lying alone in her house, kept bombarding me. I had to go and see if anyone had discovered her body. I couldn’t leave her there, even if I was carrying her soul around with me. Whoever she was, or had been, she deserved better.
I retraced the journey I had made earlier, navigating traffic lights and fellow drivers. I reached the right residential area and slowed down to drive passed the dead woman’s house. It was quiet, like a grave. I shook off my morbid thoughts, at a loss as to what to do next. I’d been hoping to find the house a hive of activity as police and whoever else turned up at homicide scenes bustled about their business, lifting the burden of guilt for playing a part in her death.
I couldn’t leave her there. But I also had to make sure no visible connection existed between the two of us. It would have to be an anonymous tip to the police. I drove towards the outskirts of town, pulling over when I reached the park across the road from the tourist centre on the main highway heading south.
I took off my scarf, grabbed coins out of the ashtray and then headed for the phone box near the park. With trembling hands covered in the scarf, I picked up the handset and dialled the number for the local Crime Stoppers branch, careful to make sure no part of the phone touched my skin as I waited for someone to pick up.
‘Easton Crime Watch, how may I direct your call?’
‘Dead body, one two seven Yarra Ave,’ I whispered into the receiver. Then I hung up and bolted for my car.
Back at the flat, I popped a couple of painkillers and ran a bath, wanting to get rid of my headache before it turned into a migraine. While I soaked, the pain behind my eyes radiated outwards, my neck and shoulder muscles tensing up. The pounding in my head gave a deafening thud with each beat of my pulse. I closed my eyes in a vain effort to dispel the disorientation that always accompanied my migraines. Each time I opened them the floral tiles decorating the wall seemed to move around, fighting for space, even though they were fixed in place.
Lost Reaper (The Reaper Series Book 1) Page 4
