Undeath and Taxes

by Drew Hayes

  Personally, I was content to enjoy the artfully prepared meal and let Mr. Price drone on about his latest fishing trip with the other partners (a tale which, surprisingly, involved no accounts of giant catches, as he admitted to hooking nothing the entire outing). The others, particularly Troy, were a bit more eager to see the show get on the road. I was surprised at his presumptiveness, though I supposed the right employers could see his attempts to steer things in a business direction as aggressiveness. As a salesman and representative, it was surely a desirable trait, but I personally believed accountants best served our craft by being conscientious and deliberate.

  “—and that’s just one of the exclusive services you’ll find at Torvald & Torvald.” Troy slid his half-eaten fish plate onto the cart as the waiter walked by. The rest of us had cleaned the moderate portions without hesitation, but he’d been too busy talking to pay it proper attention.

  “I’m sure Mr. Price is already aware,” Asha said. She’d been doing her best to keep him reined in; no doubt that was part of the very reason they were assigned to work as a team. Of course, having both a lawyer and an accountant to speak to all sides of the business was also a strong move, as was using an aesthetically pleasing male and female. No matter the client or situation, they had the deck stacked in their favor.

  “It’s fine, I was planning to hit the main topic over the steak course anyway.” Mr. Price added his own plate to the cart, and the waiter moved soundlessly into the kitchen. Something about him—about all of the staff—was still off, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place what it was. To be fair, I wasn’t trying terribly hard. Tonight was not about parahuman weirdness; it was about business, pure and simple.

  “Let’s start with why I’m looking to expand our current accounting partners. I already gave Mr. Fletcher a bit of a hint, but I think we’ve reached the point where I can lay things on the table.” As Mr. Price paused to drink his wine, Troy shot me a glare of unmasked anger and Asha eyed me with suspicion. Even Cliff seemed to be giving me a sideways glance, as though I’d been working with a secret leg-up instead of some cryptic clue.

  “Our investment company has decided it’s time to start rebranding Winslow, Colorado. Time to take it into the new century. Sure, our downtown is nice, and we’ve got more than a few companies with major offices here, but that’s small potatoes. I’m talking about busting through the burbs, building a true metropolis to rival New York and LA.”

  “You think we can do that in Winslow?” Cliff asked. I was glad he’d voiced the skepticism that I also felt, but was too reticent to speak out loud.

  “Not easily, no,” Mr. Price said. “It’s going to take a lot of money, a bit of time, and a fair amount of . . . let’s call it ‘economic landscaping’ for now. Winslow has a good climate, and a nice proximity to lots of major attractions; our biggest weakness is how stuck in the past we are. For example, this whole neighborhood used to belong to a small farming community. Now, the only thing that matters for miles in any direction is this bed and breakfast. That’s loads of property waiting to be bought up and turned into something worthwhile.”

  “And what would you propose doing with it, sir?” Had Troy been wearing a checkered sports coat and tried to sell me a “mint” Cadillac off the lot, he couldn’t have come off as more slimy. Sadly, Mr. Price either didn’t share my assessment or didn’t care, as he went right on talking.

  “First and foremost, we cut the history out of this town: gut the good stuff and repackage it into a modern brand. No one cares about old bed and breakfasts anymore, or about the historical windmills to the south, or our old churches scattered through downtown. We’re not New Orleans; we don’t have enough salacious history to turn it into a marketable aspect. Best to torch it all and turn ourselves into a sleek, modern destination. Take this place for example; there’s a reason I brought you here.”

  Mr. Price raised his hands, nearly clipping one of the waiters who were setting down fresh steak knives in preparation for the next course. They moved so silently, it was hard to blame him; even I had scarcely noticed their return to the room. Again, something in the depths of my mind tried to rise to the surface, but I was too busy listening to Mr. Price’s plan to pay it any heed.

  “This whole place is fantastic; the service is perfect, the food is amazing, and whoever runs it gets every detail right. Been coming here off and on for years; it’s one of the best kept secrets in Winslow. Why? Because there’s no reason anyone else would come here, not unless they were dragged by an ex-wife for a ‘romantic’ weekend like I was. Yet, the whole thing is wonderful. If it was a little more updated and centrally located, it could be a top-tier hotel. In fact, I love this place so much that I did a little digging into who owns it.”

  One of the waiters fumbled slightly, nearly dropping a knife in Asha’s lap. Before she even had time to gasp, the young man’s hand snapped out and grabbed the blade, setting it gently down on the place setting in front of her. I braced myself, waiting for the scent of blood to invade my nostrils and try to steal my attention, but it never came. Somehow, that waiter had grabbed a sharp knife in mid-air and managed to avoid even a scratch. The nagging suspicion in the back of my head suddenly became much more difficult to ignore.

  “Turns out, it’s owned by some fourth cousin of the original owner’s grandson. No luck running him down yet, but someone keeps mailing in taxes on the place every year. Just an envelope full of cash; shows up at the tax office at the same time annually. I’ve tried talking to the staff, but none of them are keen on telling me about the owner or who runs the place. I’ve got a few of our people working on sussing it out, though. Once I find the owner, I’ll make him a great offer and turn this place into a prime example of what we plan to do.”

  The waiters were coming out of the kitchen again, this time wheeling a cart with what appeared to be delectable pieces of tenderloin on each plate. Unlike before, however, they seemed less graceful and removed. Now, they were all watching Mr. Price from the corner of their eyes, clearly hanging on every word he had to say. At the thought of them listening, the spark of insight that had been clamoring about the back of my brain finally leapt to the forefront, making me realize what my subconscious had noticed since I first saw them.

  None of the waiters, not a single one, had a heartbeat. Though I dislike admitting it, I am usually keenly aware of the sound of blood pumping through a living person’s veins, something I’ve used selective attention to willfully tune out. Once I was listening, it was, unfortunately, unmistakable. Whoever these men were, they certainly weren’t alive.

  “When we own the place, we take all the stuff that makes it special: the cook, the staff, the general manager, everybody who turns this musty old building into a nice place to stay. Then we set them up with a proper establishment downtown, tear this place to the ground, and buy up the surrounding property to use for one of the expansion projects. Nothing is wasted, and we make our town just a little bit more exceptional.”

  “Mr. Price, I dearly wish you hadn’t just said that.” The voice came from one of the waiters, speaking as he stepped around to the end of the table opposite Mr. Price. Despite the fact that it was the first words any of them had uttered, there was something about his voice that struck me as just a touch familiar. “I’ve enjoyed having you here over the years, and greatly appreciated the dinner parties you threw. It livened things up.”

  “Don’t worry, son. Like I said, the staff makes this place incredible. You’ll all be moving on to better facilities with a nice bump in pay.”

  “Unfortunately, that proposal is unacceptable.” As he spoke, the other waiters kept moving, setting the food down in front of us. “I cannot allow anyone to take ownership of this house, nor will I permit anything to happen to it. This means, much as it saddens me, that your plans must die here, tonight.”

  “Look, kid, I get that you’re upset—” Mr. Price’s words cut off as another waiter grabbed his chair and thrust it forward, jamming the ed
ge of the table into his diaphragm.

  “I am not a kid. In truth, I’ve been alive far longer than any of you, and I have no desire to meet my end quite yet. You have my dearest apologies, Mr. Price, but I’ve gotten to know you too well after all your years visiting here. You’re a stubborn man, so no amount of things I could do to you or promises I might extract would stop you from doing whatever you wanted once you were outside these walls.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  The doors to the dining room slammed themselves shut just as the lights flickered out, leaving us trapped in darkness.

  “I am saying that Theodore Price is never leaving this house.”

  4.

  It is with considerable shame that, when the lights burned away into the darkness and the doors shut on their own, my first thoughts were not ones of safety for those around me. Nor were they, I can say with a touch more pride, fear for my own safety. To be completely frank, as we sat there, steaks growing cold on our plates and fear blooming in the heart of my human companions, I only had one simple thought:

  Not again.

  If this seems callous, try to remember that the parahuman side of my life was one I had neither asked for, nor intentionally pursued, yet it had invaded all the same. While I accepted the weirdness and occasional bit of danger as a price for the friends I held dear, I also enjoyed keeping some parts of my life sectioned off from it. True, I undertook some risk of the unnatural with my parahuman clients, but such was not the case with Mr. Price. What had happened to us was more than just a threat; it was the supernatural invading a new territory of my fragile world, one I was not keen to give up easily.

  “I won’t be unreasonable about this,” the waiter said. The others had vanished in the chaos of the door closing and lights flickering away, though I was likely the only one who could see that. There was enough light spilling through the windows that their eyes would adjust eventually, but mine needed no such accommodation. If anything, my senses were better in the dark.

  “Locking us in seems pretty damn unreasonable,” Mr. Price choked out, finally getting his wind back after the shove.

  “A detestable, but necessary, precaution. What I meant was that there’s no need for me to hold everyone here. Only you pose a threat, Mr. Price. Only you need stay.”

  “You mean you’ll let us go as long as he stays?” Troy asked. The fear in his voice might have been the most genuine thing I’d heard from him all night.

  “So you can go alert others and try to mount a rescue? Certainly not. But if Mr. Price is willing to permanently silence himself, to save me the trouble, then I see no reason to detain the rest of you.”

  Asha stood up, her eyes scanning the dark for the waiter’s location. “You’re out of your mind. You can’t honestly expect him to kill himself over a few parlor tricks and a lame threat. There’s no way your entire staff will go along with this, and even if they do, we’ll still find a way to take them.”

  “A very brave, but perfectly incorrect statement. There is only one of me, my dear guest, but I am so much bigger than the rest of you. Take your time and consider the offer. I’d rather not take matters upon myself, but if you wait too long . . . forgive me, I’ve kept you from your fourth course. Please, enjoy.”

  The lights flared back on, blinding all of us. When our eyes readjusted, the waiter was gone, as if he’d never been there in the first place. Everyone else rose from their seats, save for myself and Cliff. He seemed to be overwhelmed by the situation, whilst I was merely trying a bit of the steak while it was still warm. I already had a plan for what to do; it started and ended with calling Krystal. A few nibbles of well-prepared meat wouldn’t affect the outcome of whatever siege she laid to the place.

  “Windows are locked,” Asha called, pulling against the wooden-framed panes of glass as hard as she could. “It’s actually more like they’re painted shut or something; I can’t even get a wiggle.”

  “Same for the kitchen.” Troy pushed against the door with all his might, which, in fairness, was muscular and considerable, yet it had no effect.

  “Hall doors too,” Mr. Price confirmed. “I don’t how that kid is doing this, but it’s a hell of a trick. Someone must have gotten wind of the deal and set all this up.” He walked back over to the table, shaking his bearded head. “I really didn’t think the staff would object so much to raises and better facilities.”

  “People can grow very fond of the familiar, even when change would be objectively better for them,” I said, setting down my utensils. “I loathe being the one to suggest wanton destruction, but since those who usually would aren’t with me today, I’ll take the burden. Perhaps we should try breaking one of the windows.”

  “Hate to say it, but I’m with Fred.” Troy picked up the chair he’d been sitting in—a wooden piece with considerable heft—and headed toward the nearest windows. “These assholes think they’re going to trap Troy Warner that easy? They’ve got another thing coming!”

  He reared back, then swung over his shoulder, slamming the chair into the clear pane of glass with considerable force. Unfortunately, that force sent him tumbling to the ground when the chair bounced off the window and twisted back over his shoulder. Both Troy and the chair hit the floor in a heap, though the chair seemed relatively unscathed by comparison.

  “Fuck!” Troy was grabbing his left shoulder, rocking on the carpet from side to side. “Goddamnit, I think I tore something.”

  “How the hell did they do that?” Cliff muttered next to me. “Are the windows plastic?”

  “It seems they prepared for us more thoroughly than we anticipated.” I patted his shoulder for comfort, though I myself had very little. This didn’t strike me as premeditated at all, if anything, it seemed to have come about in hurried response to Mr. Price’s proposal. I highly doubted those windows were made of anything besides glass, which made their imperviousness to damage all the more impressive. By wild conjecture, I guessed that we were dealing with a spirit of some kind, a type of parahuman that I knew precious little about. Luckily, there was a way to change that.

  As casually as I could, I removed my cell phone from my pocket and looked for Krystal’s number. Before I’d even finished selecting her from the list of contacts, I realized my efforts were for naught. The icon at the top of my phone indicated that I had no service whatsoever. Still, I finished the attempt just in the case, but I wasn’t surprised to find that the call was unable to connect.

  “Does anyone have a signal?” Asha asked. Glancing up, I saw that she had produced her own phone as well, apparently meeting with similar results. Cliff, Troy, and Mr. Price all tried theirs, and not a one of us had so much as a single bar.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Mr. Price said. “I’ve stayed here lots of times and never had a problem getting a signal.”

  “They must have bought a cell-phone jammer,” Troy suggested.

  “This is getting a little ridiculous.” Mr. Price walked back over to the table and retook his seat. “Indestructible windows, cell-phone jamming technology, automatic lights and doors . . . if someone had the kind of money and skill to turn this quaint place into a deathtrap, why wouldn’t they just decline my offer? It’s a free country; I couldn’t have made the guy sell.”

  “If I were to wager a guess, I would say that the person keeping us locked up and the person who actually owns this property are entirely different people,” I said. “In fact, I daresay that if you finally found the technical owner, he’d have no idea such a place even existed or was tied to his name.”

  It seemed prudent to keep them from probing too deeply into how all of this was being accomplished, so supplying some threads of reason, no matter how tenuous, would hopefully keep their ignorance aloft until we could get out of there. It helped that I really did believe my theory to be true; I was just leaving out the part about how I thought the bed and breakfast was being run by ghosts.

  “I get it, you think this place is a front for some cartel or s
omething,” Troy said. He and Asha walked back over to the table as well. “Like they put on this show for guests, but in the basement they’re cooking meth and dealing hookers. That’s why the place can be locked down like this.”

  “Yes, I suppose, something along those lines.” Had I really been as gullible as these people before I was turned? Obviously, the answer was yes, but it was still strange to see the way they clung to the most absurd explanations in order to avoid the obvious ones right in front of them.

  “Then why are they letting us live?” Cliff’s voice was growing slowly more erratic, the fear worming its way through him. I felt for the man; truly, I did. Had Krystal not gotten me acclimated to the unusual, or were the threats leveled at me instead of Mr. Price, I might very easily have been in his emotional state as well.

  “I don’t know . . . it doesn’t make any sense,” Asha said. Her eyes had a distant gleam in them, her mind clearly far away from what was in front of her. “One body is easier to dispose of than five, but having witnesses would be much more trouble to deal with. If they were going to kill us, why not just do it? What point does asking Mr. Price to kill himself serve? None of this is adding up.”

  “To be fair, you’re trying to ascribe sanity to the actions of a man who takes five innocent people prisoner in a booby-trapped house,” I pointed out. “A lack of logic might be something we have to make peace with.”

  “Maybe . . .” Asha clearly wasn’t convinced, but since she didn’t have any better leads, she seemed content to concede the point to me.

  “So, what we supposed to do?” Troy was staring down at his plate, the now lukewarm steak looking back up at him.

  “For the moment, it seems like our best bet is to follow instructions,” I said. “The waiter mentioned the fourth course, so perhaps we should finish our dinner.”

  “If I eat anything, I’m going to puke.” From the look on Cliff’s face, it seemed that might be a possibility whether he took a bite or not.