Dead Man Walking: Nick Holleran Series A Paranormal Investigator Book One

by David Green

  Her eyes narrow at my remark, but she sits down anyway. Staring at me, she strips off the gloves. The skin beneath is gnarled and twisted, like acid stripped the flesh from her hands. Next, the mask comes off, and even though I half-expect what I’ll see, my heart goes out to her.

  A scar runs from ear-to-ear, straight through the corners of her mouth. Her lips look chewed up, shredded, like she’s been force-fed glass. I stare into those beautiful eyes of hers and she looks back without flinching, tall and poised in her chair. Despite the scars, there’s strength there, cold as iron and just as hard.

  Or maybe it’s because of the scars.

  “Are you done with the wise-guy routine?” she asks, and I glimpse the spaces where she’s missing teeth.

  It ain’t from some accident. Someone’s tortured this woman, used her flesh like a canvas.

  I nod. Definitely done. “You are?”

  “That can wait. You’ll understand why. I want you to hear me out first.”

  I glance at my computer screen. An email from a source in the Haven Police Department is open, my most recent care package of cold cases and unexplainable shit from the HPD archives. I still have some contacts that send cases my way, ones that are just too odd to spend manpower on.

  Ain’t all roses, though. There’s more than a few folk on the force who are nothing but a serious pain in my ass.

  Something about this woman tickles my mind. Grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels, I refill my glass and pour some into another for her. She offers me a slight smile, scars pulling tighter, and takes a sip.

  “How can I help you?” I ask, holding the tumbler in my hand, without drinking.

  I’ve found over the years other people unwind if it looks like I’m joining them, and this woman looks like she could do with a little something. So I hold it and I let her drink. Don’t wanna get loaded.

  Even if it is my anniversary.

  “Someone is following me,” she replies, in an even tone. She tosses her hood back and her hair, thick and lustrous, spills out in a wave of chocolate running down to her waist.

  “Don’t take those sorts of cases anymore,” I say. I reach for a cigarette but have second thoughts. Smoking can wait. For now. “Tried the police?”

  “I can’t do that,” she replies, puckered lips twitching.

  There’s something here, beneath the surface, that’s pulling at me. It makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle under my collar. I don’t get walk-ins often—I mostly work referrals now—and when I do I tend to turn them down. The ones who seek me out are looking for something I can’t give them.

  There are people who work those mundane cases but, far as I can tell, I’m the only one who specializes in the paranormal. HPD turns to me when they’ve exhausted their possibilities, not that the boys at the precinct call them paranormal cases. I haven’t worked a straight case since the guy I got paid to tail left three holes in my chest and left me for dead. But…

  “Any idea why someone would want to follow you?”

  She takes another sip.

  “I could think of a dozen reasons, but that doesn’t concern me. It’s the ‘who’ that bothers me.”

  “Wait,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “You’re not ‘concerned’ about being followed?”

  “No.” She gives me that tight smile again. “It’s expected. I’ve always been careful, and I can see the signs. A bad tail is good company, they say. But not this time. They follow me everywhere and they followed me here too.”

  I roll my eyes and spin my chair, taking a glance out the window. I should be used to riddles by now. For a guy who works with ghosts and demons, I get my share of cryptic answers. Some of the folks I’ve met make spirit boards look eloquent.

  Below, on the sidewalk, a man stares at my window with no pretense.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter, turning back to her and throwing a thumb over my shoulder. “Looks like you were right. There’s your stalker, out on the street. Either he got sloppy, or you forgot ‘the signs’.”

  She springs to her feet and strides to the window, gripping the ledge and narrowing her eyes. I watch her sweep the sidewalk, straight past the guy I pointed out.

  “Where?” she bites out. “I don’t see him.”

  “There,” I reply, pointing down at the figure.

  Then I realize my mistake.

  The rain doesn’t trouble him. Instead, it appears to fall around and through him. I squint. Can’t make out his face—the haze of rain and distance obscure it—but his skin and the clothes he’s wearing look drained of color, like cheap fabric washed one too many times. If I had a swatch, I’d call his shade ‘Darcy’.

  The woman returns to her seat and crosses her legs, looking like the cat that got the cream and a little extra on top. The look of triumph on her face doesn’t match the scar tissue all over.

  “So, what I’ve heard about you is true,” she says.

  It’s my turn to take a drink. “Who do you think’s following you?” I ask, tapping a finger against my desk, frustrated at the ruse.

  She coulda just asked if I were legit.

  “My husband.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Four weeks ago,” she replies, without a hint of grief, “and he’s been trailing me ever since. I didn’t notice him the first week, just a chill. You know that feeling you get when someone stares at you? Then the presence grew. I can’t explain it, but I sense him everywhere. It terrifies me.”

  Silence falls, except for the pitter-patter against my window. A thought batters against my brain, but I don’t want to listen to it.

  “Huh,” I breathe, just to say something. I know there’s a question I should ask, but my tongue knots up and refuses.

  “Is it true what they say? That spirits remain when they have unfinished business?”

  She motions at her glass with a gnarled finger, interested in both kinds of spirits. I refill it. Mine too.

  “Kinda.”

  My admiration of this woman increases with my intrigue and they combine to swat away my anger. She’s done her research and having her suspicions confirmed doesn’t make her panic, even for a moment. Even so, I can tell by the tightness around her eyes it’s a facade. She’s scared.

  Still, she’d make a Hell of a P.I. and a damn good poker player.

  “They stick around if they have a purpose, but once the purpose is done, they fade. Others need to be forced to fade, if they’ve turned malevolent. And then there are the ones who just…hang around.”

  “Ask your question, Mr. Holleran. I can see it on the tip of your tongue.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask, and I can feel three blooms of pain burning in my chest.

  He died four weeks ago. The man who killed me.

  “My name is Michelle Wheeler.”

  “Wheeler?” I ask. The bullet wounds pin me to the back of my chair.

  “Yes, my husband is Dean Wheeler.”

  It’s five years ago and I’m staring into that alley again, deciding on my next move. Dean Wheeler headed in here and he hasn’t come back out. A voice inside tells me it’s a bad idea to follow him; another reminds me I’m due a payday. Like an idiot, I listen to the second one and I strut right on in. Only it’s a dead end.

  I turn, and there he is, gun leveled at me. Safety off, hammer cocked. My stomach lurches. I’m shit outta luck.

  “Who hired you?” he asks, taking a step forward.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, holding my hands above my head. “I came down here to take a leak.”

  Once again, money has made an asshole out of me. My clients offered me hard cash for photos of Wheeler’s every movement, so long as I got them quick. Haste makes sloppy work.

  “Last mistake you’ll ever make, friend.”

  Wheeler p
ulls the trigger and the muzzle flashes. The gunshot echoes through the alley before he even finishes his sentence. I glance down and see the blood spreading across my white shirt. I’m aware it’s ruined now. I taste iron, but I feel no pain.

  Another gunshot comes less than a second later, and my body jolts with the impact. The agony is instant this time and I fall onto my back in the garbage.

  Tears trickle from my eyes and I thank God it’s a clear night. I can see the stars. Wheeler stands over me and smiles. He aims the gun at my chest and fires a third time.

  Michelle Wheeler watches me, the tumbler of Jack held to her lips. I never saw the woman when I worked the Wheeler case, though I heard her name. A simple job, or so I thought. I’d cut corners and paid the ultimate price.

  Or I would have, if it hadn’t been for Rosa—the woman who’d held the blood inside me, who’d dialed 911. I haven’t spoken to her in too long. Guilt rises, and I snarl inside as I shove it back where it came from.

  I turn to my window. The ghost’s face is clear now. Dean Wheeler’s vacant eyes peer up at me. Fear whispers to me. He’s there, staring at me. The man who killed me.

  I catch myself, shake my head, throwing the memories out and pulling my thoughts back to the matter at hand.

  “You know your husband shot me?” I ask.

  It isn’t a well-known fact. When I regained consciousness, I told the cops it’d been a mugging gone wrong. Dean Wheeler had his fingers in Haven’s organized crime. In deep. Even in the state Wheeler had left me in, my employers, a rival crime family, wouldn’t have wanted me blabbing.

  They sent me a bottle of twenty-year-old whisky, a bouquet, and a ten-thousand-dollar check for services rendered. I haven’t cashed it. Drank the whisky though.

  Wheeler never tried to finish me off. Guess I never mattered much to him. The bug crushed underfoot; he knew I wouldn’t talk. I’ll admit, revenge crossed my mind, but it’s a sin. I’ve seen Heaven, or at least a glimpse of it, and I want a place there when I pass.

  “He shot a lot of people,” she replied, placing the glass on my desk. “And he always got away with it. You see why I ruled out the police, other than the fact they wouldn’t believe him, or be able to stop him? I need you to find out why his ghost is following me. Can you do it?”

  “Depends,” I reply, looking out of the window while I consider my next words.

  I half-expect to see Dean Wheeler looming behind me in the reflection. He isn’t there, and his spirit’s vanished from the sidewalk. Some dead are aware straight away; others grow into it. Looks like Wheeler is Strengthening, able to understand what he is and act on his own. And that ain’t good.

  “Why would your husband want to haunt you?”

  “Let’s see.” Michelle leans forward and places her twisted hands on the desk in front of me. Exhibit A. “He tortured me, and worse. He needed to possess me in life. My husband’s brutality terrified me, and I wasn’t the only one. Why would it be any different now that he’s dead? You of all people should know that, sometimes, death doesn’t change anything.”

  She waits for an answer, staring with such intense heat. I give two fucks to politeness and pull out a cigarette, taking my time to light it. That first drag is exquisite, like a rush of hot silk into my lungs. That sweet fucking nicotine halts the tremble in my fingers as it hits my bloodstream. I feel warm. Steady. Clear. I shut my eyes and let the smoke linger in my mouth just a little. I let it curl out of me and it trails my upper lip like a loving fingertip.

  “Listen,” I say, watching the smoke tie a grey ribbon around the ceiling fan. “This could get worse. If he’s hurt you before, you could be his unfinished business. Dean could stay a regular ghost—harmless. But, if he Strengthens, meaning his personality returns and he can affect the living, you’re not safe. If you’re right, that possessing you is the end goal, there’s only one way he gets to do that, and that’s if you’re there with him in the afterlife. We can’t let that happen.”

  I’m surprised at my fervor. I can’t get the image of Dean gunning me down out of my head, and this damaged, but unbroken, woman in front of me is galvanizing the anger I thought I’d put to bed.

  “There’s no time, is what you’re saying,” she says, biting her torn lip. “Will you help me?”

  “That’s not even the question. I’ll help you, but we’ll have to work fast. Wheeler may be here for another reason and I have to find what that is. There are ways I can convince him to leave but that’s messy, and it’s a last resort. Either way, I’m going to need materials that aren’t easy to come by.”

  Haste makes sloppy work, Nick.

  Yeah, and dragging our feet is going to make us both corpses.

  “Money isn’t an issue,” she breathes.

  I notice her shoulders droop as the tension leaves her body. She’s convinced me now. Hard part’s over. Still, there’s more to this case than she’s letting on. I’m just finding it hard to care. All I see is Wheeler, gunning me down in that alley.

  “It is for some, sweetheart,” I say, sliding over a piece of card and a pen. “I’ve another client due, but leave me your cell. I’ll have more questions for you. Where can I find you?”

  Michelle pinches the pen in four fingers—articulating her mutilated hands like claws—and scrawls her number, then passes it across to me. She holds my stare again.

  Those shining eyes.

  “Home. I’ve nowhere else to go. I’ll speak with you soon, Mister Holleran.”

  She takes my card from the stack on the desk and leaves without a backward glance. I stare out the window, smoking my cigarette. I see her stride down the sidewalk, hood, mask and gloves back in place.

  Darcy and I are alone again. She didn’t stop staring at the wall for even a moment. Does she listen to my conversations? Can she even hear them? Does she care what goes on beyond that space?

  I don’t have another client coming. I wanted Michelle to leave so that I can plan. I’ve said I’ll take the case. It should buy me a day or two’s grace so I can investigate Dean Wheeler’s death myself.

  Even without what he did to her, how could I turn it down? It’s personal.

  TROUBLE AT THE STYX

  Reaching out to my sources unearths information. Police ruled Wheeler’s death a suicide, but the crew Dean ran with don’t believe it. Michelle Wheeler is a person of interest and the local PD is keeping tabs.

  They like to keep an eye on me too. In particular, Detectives Henry Butler and Lori Gavin. They never liked me when I took regular P.I. work from the department. Now that I show up in the unlikeliest of places with no credible reason for being there, it’s gone from professional distaste to outright suspicion.

  From time to time, they come by my office to shake me down, but I know my rights and I still have friends. It pisses them off but, I have to admit, it amuses me. And in Hell, I’ll take my kicks where I can get ‘em.

  Still, no one likes being followed by paranoid cops.

  Then there’s the matter of Dean Wheeler.

  What does the dead sonofabitch want? Spirits manifest in unique ways, but they all start the same way. There’s some instinct that drives them. In Wheeler’s case, it seems to be stalking his wife. Some ghosts stay like that—living a half-forgotten echo of their life—like Darcy. Others Strengthen, and that can get interesting. They accept their new existence and enjoy the liberation death grants them. I know one or two.

  Not that the liberation of death is good for everyone. Some folks come back angry and hateful, maybe because they were in life.

  Wheeler strikes me as the angry and hateful type, and they need dealing with. The sooner, the better.

  Malevolent ghosts can exert their will on Hell, interact with it just like the living can. I mean, they live here, right? Why shouldn’t they?

  Ghosts can touch things to varying degrees, depending on their will, th
eir fortitude. The longer they exist in Hell, the easier it gets for them, but those that Strengthen early and have nefarious purposes can cause all kinds of goddamned trouble.

  And let me tell you, ghosts are the least of the entities I worry about round here.

  Going outside is something I hated doing after I died. It took a lot of getting used to. I’d walk with my eyes down, shoulders slumped and narrow, avoiding the living and the dead. Now, the scenes are as familiar to me as the bullet wounds in my chest. Leaving my office, I stroll past the washed-out figure of a man with a long beard in shirtsleeves and braces. He kneels, staring at the palms of his hands, and weeps. A specter from another era, locked in grief since I first laid eyes on him five years ago, and only God knows how long he’s been there.

  Well, maybe Satan does too. We’re all down here in his joint.

  Ghosts come and go. It depends on how present they are. The fact Wheeler vanished from the sidewalk is the first sign of both Awareness and Strengthening.

  It’s normal for them to leave the living to themselves, even the ghosts who are Aware. There are exceptions of course; there always are. One guy I know, Eddy, died in 1927. He doesn’t remember why he stuck around, though from the stories he tells, I reckon he enjoyed a straight flush of sins. Nice fella, checks in on his family line once a week. None of them lived when he walked the earth, but it’s a gracious gesture all the same.

  I make my way to the Styx Bar. Place is a dive, but the goths love it; black wallpaper, black carpets, and apathy on tap. The owner, Ruby, is like me. She died for four minutes as a child, swallowed something she shouldn’t have and choked. Course, her old man brought her back, and she’s lived knowing the truth ever since.

  Almost sixty goddamn years. And I think five’s been a burden.

  I learned a lot from Ruby, and from the Styx. Most of Haven’s sentient supernatural know it as a place for the weird and wonderful denizens of the Underworld to hang out together, swap news and stories and have a good time. Hell, I like the place. Ruby split the joint into two floors before I was even born. Upstairs for the living, a classic dive that doesn’t attract a lot of patrons. The real business is downstairs, where the dead, the demons and other denizens lurk. The Tomb of Nick Cage are the house band, and the basement customers are, for the most part, my kind of people. Dead people.