by C. L. Bevill
“Not never. Not in this world and not in the one before it.”
“And you’ve never known someone to ‘die’ here?”
“No, and folks is plumb freaking out about it,” Enoch said. He waved at the audience. “Normally there’d be twice as many people yearning for a drink of coffee. We wouldn’t have gotten more than a little shot glass full, but some people are afraid to come out too much. Mebe a reaper will get them. Mebe something worse.”
“Tell me more about those ‘dark places.’”
“There’s a few of ‘em around,” Enoch said. “They suck up energy. They don’t get lived in. Folks who walk into them walk right out again. They make you feel like fingernails are scratching down your chalkboard.”
Tavie nodded and drank more of the coffee. “How many are there?”
“Them two and a few more asides,” Enoch said. “I ain’t never thought to map them.”
“But you could, right?”
“I could. Folks have tried to make maps of Deadsville and it don’t work well. Things have a way of changing here. I could take you to all of them. The ones I know, anyway.”
“I walked straight across Deadsville in the beginning,” Tavie admitted. “I thought if I could just get out, everything would be all right. Maybe I wouldn’t really be dead. Of course, then I ended up where I woke up after I died.”
“And you don’t remember nothing about dying?”
“I don’t remember,” Tavie said and wondered if she should have googled herself on Peony’s phone. What would she have found? It was a little too much like The Picture of Dorian Gray. If she found out what had happened to her, would she begin to fade away?
“That’s happened a time or two in my mind,” Enoch said. “Like the colonel exceptin’ his case is likely something to do with that disease he had. The ol’ boy liked to dip his wick in the local wax a little too much. Pardon my bluntness.”
“No problem. You ever had a case you couldn’t solve?”
“Mostly I wrote tickets for folks who couldn’t keep their lead foot off the gas pedal. I knew of some burglaries and such, where we were just waitin’ for the next time, so the guy would make a mistake. That’s always bin my experience, you know. Them criminals don’t know when they should quit.”
“We’re going to have to wait for another death,” Tavie stated with a little bitterness. “I’m a little torn. I know these people are already dead. We can’t have a trial trying to convict a person of killing a dead person. Or if we do, we’ll sound like idiots. So we find this person, get him to tell us how he did it, and then lock him up for forever.”
“But it ain’t right,” Enoch stated. He idly swished the remaining coffee around in his cup. “The reapers come to take us away. I know when they come for me, I’ll be goin’ where I’m supposed to go. It’s the right thing. I get the feeling that when Darren and Minh went, they ain’t goin’ nowhere. They just…gone.” He gulped the last bit of coffee and sighed. “It’s like they’ll never have another chance, no matter what they did in their last life. They’re just gone.”
* * *
Enoch thought of a few more people he could ask questions and departed, leaving the cup with Tavie. She returned both cups to the coffee shop, avoiding the envious looks of people who didn’t have the going rate for even a few drops of the aromatic beverage.
Enoch was the perfect sheriff’s deputy. He was on top of everything and he worked well with Tavie. When he had been stabbed by the presently dying Jed Rafferty, the county had lost a good officer. Even good cops made mistakes as evidenced by Enoch’s death. Perhaps he had trusted that Rafferty wasn’t going to do him some harm. It didn’t really seem to matter, unless she wanted to consider him for being a suspect.
When cops started thinking about other cops being the bad guy was when it got convoluted. Enoch certainly hadn’t given Tavie any reason to suspect him. In fact, he’d been at the jail with Tavie and the elders when the first death had been reported. But without a forensic pathologist who could tell her when the deadie had been killed, she wouldn’t know what the range of time for the death. Even if she had known the range of time, it would be useless in Deadsville because working clocks were few and far between and even the only working smart phone she’d seen didn’t have a time on it.
Police work in Deadsville was a whole different ball of wax. The truth was that she’d have to catch the bad guy in the act of doing bad and then take him out.
First, she needed to speak to someone about how a dead person could be killed.
* * *
“Harry,” Tavie said to Harry Radford AKA Little Bunny Foo Foo AKA the man with the silver, ecclesiastical, and heraldic mace from the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge who used it to bop little field mice, and also deadies, on the heads.
“I’m not giving up the mace,” Harry said emphatically. He held it protectively in his two hands, turning his body away from Tavie.
“I see.”
The other deadies watched avidly. The misters Bullet Holes and Slit Throat watched from their cells and remained quiet for the moment. Nate snored as he leaned against the bars, oblivious to everything around him.
“You sound very educated,” Tavie said. She hoped Harry was very educated. An upper crust British accent didn’t mean that a person was well educated, but Harry’s references to the Royal Society and the ability to say the word, ecclesiastical, without tripping on his tongue allowed her to be hopeful.
“I should say so. I am a fellow of the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge.”
“That’s very impressive,” Tavie said. Somewhere she had read about the Royal Society. It was very prestigious to be admitted to their ranks. It included scientists and engineers from the United Kingdom who had made significant contributions to the enhancement of natural awareness. All kinds of sciences were represented. And that was the extent of her knowledge on the subject. She certainly hadn’t known about their ecclesiastical, heraldic, silver maces. Perish the thought.
“Of course, it’s impressive.”
“So what’s your specialty, professor?” Mr. Bullet Holes asked.
“I have degrees in psychology, psychiatry, and sociology,” Harry informed them imperiously.
“Great,” Tavie said before Mr. Bullet Holes could say something derogatory about the soft sciences involved. “I have a need to pick your brains.”
Harry touched his head with one hand, disturbing the comb over there.
“I don’t mean literally,” Tavie said.
“I gather that if I do something for you, then you would do something for myself,” Harry said, “such as letting me out of this enclosure.”
“Good behavior is always a recommendation for early release,” Tavie said.
“Hey, professor,” Mr. Slit Throat said, “I gave my steak knife up and she didn’t let me go.”
“That’s because you have a bad attitude,” Tavie told Mr. Slit Throat. “You were going to use that steak knife on me and probably on poor little Coco, too.” She shook her finger at him warningly. “I don’t think you’re properly rehabilitated, but with a little time, you could be.”
“Anything I did to you or that girl would have come back,” Mr. Slit Throat said. “Just like all the other stuff does. Did you know about that, professor? All them people you clobbered are still walking around the same as they were before, but now they’re also pissed off at you.”
“I shall bonk them with my mace again,” Harry vowed.
“No more bonking,” Tavie said. “Ignore Ray, Harry. He’s still upset about his brother slicing his throat. Was it over a girl?”
“Hash,” Mr. Slit Throat AKA Ray mumbled. “A brick of hash.”
“There you go,” Tavie announced, “another fine reason to avoid illegal drugs.”
“I wish I had a nugget of hash,” Mr. Bullet Holes said. “I remember this one time, my cousin got some from Mexico and we—”
“Anyway,” Tavie
said, “Harry, what do you know about dead people?”
“They’re dead. Then they start to decompose.” Harry fixed his comb over. He adjusted the silver mace under his arm. “Psychologically there’s not much to it. I’m more familiar with the living having to deal with the pain of loss. Stages of grief, separation anxiety, and general depression.”
That wasn’t going to help Tavie. She’d asked the elders about any experts in the area of ghosts, but most deadies weren’t putting their former specialties on a board and hanging it outside their offices in Deadsville. (There was a masseuse who had, however, and Sternstein was happy to tell Tavie about it.)
“What about ghosts?”
“The spectral remnants of those who’ve passed,” Harry said and Tavie didn’t have a problem defining the wry sarcasm in his voice. “I’ve never seen one.”
Misters Slit Throat and Bullet Holes both cackled. “That’s some funny shizz,” Mr. Bullet Holes said.
“Think hypothetically,” Tavie said ignoring the two misters, “because I’m just looking at generalities here. If there were such a thing as ghosts. And I think there is, because we’re all dead, and therefore, are ghosts, so to speak.”
Harry sighed. Even his sighs were arrogant. “Very well. What about them?”
“How would you kill a ghost?”
“Spiritual references indicate that ghosts tend to be the product of human imagination rather than actual entities,” Harry said. He looked at Tavie and she knew her mouth was a flat line. “However, if one were real, then some studies indicate that asking the ghost to leave usually works. Popular belief amongst paranormal ‘hunters’ is that most ghosts do not realize they’re dead, and need to be pointed toward the light.”
“Go toward the light,” Mr. Slit Throat urged Mr. Bullet Holes.
Mr. Bullet Holes said, “I don’t see any light.”
“Then there’s the use of ‘cleansing’ the place where a ghost resides with religious ceremonies or shamanistic practices. Burning sage is a common occurrence with some practitioners.” Harry tapped the end of the mace on a bar. “Again, usage of such practices is an indicator of the placebo effect. If a person believes that they have been helped, then some symptoms tend to vanish. Fascinating psychological studies on that effect.”
“I really don’t mean getting rid of ghosts, Harry,” Tavie said. “I mean killing them. How would someone kill a ghost?”
Harry obviously thought about it for a few moments. “I would believe there would be only one method of eliminating an otherworldly creature.”
Tavie waited a moment and then prompted, “Which would be?”
“An exorcism, of course.”
Chapter 14
Death is concise like a good proverb. – Russian Proverb
~
“Bein’ dead weren’t so hard, but all the politics that went with it, they was pure-D hell.” – Enoch on being in Deadsville.
~
Tavie walked outside the Deadsville Jail and went looking for Thana, or Nica, or anyone who could answer the questions that were bouncing around her head like a particle accelerating inside a super collider. This situation was a cop’s secret nightmare, the one that had made more than a few cops run screaming to their shrinks. It was a crime that would never be solved, a mystery that would never have an ending. It wasn’t because there wasn’t a solution or that she wasn’t doing her due diligence. It was that there were cases that simply couldn’t be cracked. It was the kind of thing that made frustration seem like a red-headed stepchild.
Tavie made a list. She could talk to all the deadies present at the scenes of the crime. She could find a forensics specialist. (There had to be one somewhere in Deadsville; after all, they died just like everyone else.) She could find someone who knew something about killing ghosts. She could put her hands around Thana’s neck and struggle the god of the dead until she spilled the beans.
“Ugg,” Tavie said. “Life was never this hard.”
Coco and Pudd hadn’t returned from wherever the serial killer girls hung out, but Tavie wasn’t concerned. There were a lot of deadies who wanted to pet a dog. Pudd was likely getting enough attention that he wouldn’t want any more for a long, long time. Wait until he figured out that there weren’t bones around Deadsville, or at least the kind of bones that the terrier/Chihuahua mix liked to chew upon.
She noticed as she walked down a street that deadies were avidly avoiding her. They were ducking and slinking like she held a scythe in one hand. Tavie glanced over her shoulder to make sure that a reaper wasn’t coming up behind her, or any other mysterious godly being. They seemed to like to watch her and she didn’t know exactly what to make of it.
“A priest,” Tavie suddenly said. Someone had told her that they had seen a priest at the scene of Minh’s “death.” It had been Gilbert of the Dr. Frank N. Furter outfit. He had said something about a construction worker, a yuppie, and a priest. Then someone had said something about a preacher.
Tavie’s education wasn’t up to par on exorcism, but her one and only viewing of The Exorcist had taught that Catholic priests were the ones who performed the rite. The movie had also taught her that pea soup would never be served at her dinner table, but that was for a whole different reason.
“But that’s not exactly true about exorcisms,” Tavie told herself. There were other religions that performed exorcisms. It wasn’t restricted to Catholics, but ministers of those other religions hadn’t been seen right before Minh had been found.
Furthermore, anyone who had learned how to make a “cover” for themselves could appear to be anyone they wanted. However, the latest of the Deadsville sheriffs could see through covers. She could…look…and…see because that was the trade that Thana had made with her.
The problem with that was that if the person’s natural state of death didn’t include the priest’s robes and collar, then it could be anyone. Well, anyone who knew how to enact a cover in the persona of a priest.
Of course, that led to more questions. Could anyone perform an exorcism or was it supposed to be someone who had been ordained? Furthermore, were special tools needed for such an act?
All to get revenge?
It was convoluted. It was a leap of faith. It was too much of coincidence.
Therefore, it wasn’t a coincidence. Thana had said something to her that she’d forgotten. “I thought you would be easier to find, but you’re as much of a booger dead as you were alive.”
Tavie made for the place where she had met up with Thana and looked around. She didn’t see anyone who even remotely resembled the short, chubby god of death in a purple jogging suit. She realized that she wasn’t far from the place Darren had “died.” When she passed the WWII Avenger, she knew she was on the right track. A little later, she found that the dark place was still there. It made her skin crawl in a way that reminded her of speaking to a man who had confessed to killing and burying four women in his crawlspace.
She looked around. It was an isolated street, chockfull with long shadows. The shadows were haunting figures that reached with blackened fingers threatening a wintry touch. No one was there. No one wanted to be there. She didn’t want to be there.
“You’re so dogged,” said a voice.
Tavie touched her Glock before she wondered if she should. She turned her head and someone was there who hadn’t been there before. “There’s nothing wrong with doggedness,” she answered, congratulating herself on her steadfast tone.
Nearby was a man who seemed to unfold out of the darkness, stepping into the isolated vein of bluish light, apparently so Tavie could see him. He was a short man, no more than a half foot over five feet. His eyes were black and his hair was long, spilling over his shoulders, but where it should have been the color of pitch, it was the shade of a sliver of ice in the sunlight. His clothing was odd. A tunic appeared to be made from hide and his pants were of a similar origin. The boots were clunky and solid. He could have ridden in from any century around the mid
dle of the first millennium. Give or take five hundred years.
The man smiled and it was a chilling expression. “Determination could get you killed or perhaps it got you killed.”
“Do you know how I died?” Tavie asked. She might as well ask. Perhaps she’d run into someone or something who would tell her one day.
“I know everything about death,” he said. “I am Barastyr.”
Tavie popped her lips. “I know that a barrister is a lawyer, especially in the United Kingdom.”
“Barastyr,” he said. He didn’t like to explain. She could see the irritated cloud that passed across his visage. Tavie made a mental note to pat herself on the back later. It wasn’t every day of the week that she could piss off a frightening entity she met in a dark alley where some scary crap had happened.
“Another god of the dead perhaps?” Tavie asked. “I’ve met Thana and Anubis. Then there’s this one guy with a top hat that I was told is Baron Samedi. There was also this skeletal guy. I’m not sure why Deadsville needs so many gods.”
“It’s not the town that needs the gods,” Barastyr said. “It’s the people. The people have gods, not the location.”
“And begging your pardon, but I haven’t heard of you,” Tavie said, thinking she might as well just cut her nose off to spite her face.
“I come from the Caucasus region. The Black Sea is my bathtub. The Caspian Sea is my pool.” Barastyr sighed the words, as if he’d had to explain them many times. “I am like my counterparts here. I allow those people to enter the world of the dead. I pronounce judgment upon them.”
“You wouldn’t have had anything to do with the man they found here, the deadie with the writing on his back?”
“The gods of the dead don’t kill people,” Barastyr said. He didn’t really have an accent but the idea of his origins made Tavie think of a Mongol horde ravaging over the steppes, or whatever it had been that they had ravaged.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” Tavie said. “This is the land of the dead. We’re in a holding position until something else happens. And the gods of the dead wander around the area doing whatever and whatnot until they’re bored.”
