The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy

by Trent Jamieson

  The masked man stands by the tower, waiting for me, shifting his balance from foot to foot.

  I stride toward him. “You!” My hands are balled up at my sides. I’m bigger, meaner, faster. I’m an RM. This is my territory. I loom over him. Finally, I’ll get some answers! A grin goes rictal across my face. “No point in running.”

  “You’re right,” he says, in a voice I can’t quite place, dancing to my left and around me.

  And then I’m on my arse, blinking. My nose is bleeding, my head throbs. I have the far-too-fucking-familiar taste of my own blood in my mouth. Whirring wings flash just outside of my line of vision.

  “You all right?” Wal shouts, his voice thick as treacle in my ears. I blink; he’s blurry and indistinct. And still holding onto the dagwood dog.

  “The prick sucker-punched me!” I say.

  Wal grins. “Well, you have to be a sucker first.”

  Thanks. Yeah, another comment from the poster boy of my fan club. “Do you always have to be like this?”

  “What are you saying? When was I any different? Grow a sense of humor.”

  I have to admit that he does look concerned. You don’t often see an RM stunned and bleeding in their region. It’s not particularly good for my ego, especially as this is the second time in two days. At least no one else has seen me this time. “He seemed to know what he was doing,” I say, as Wal flies around me, searching for any other injuries.

  “No shit.” He lands heavily on my shoulder and I get a spatter of tomato sauce down my shirt front.

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “I don’t have X-ray vision.”

  I sigh. “Just what help are you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Even with a god driving down on us in the dark of the ether, something I’d rather not experience again, by the way—I’m here. And you know I always will be, you whiny bastard. We’re stuck together, and I’ve got your back.”

  “Yeah, look, I’m sorry.” I struggle to my feet. Wal flies from one shoulder to the other. The movement makes my head spin. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Be careful,” Wal says. “I can’t look after you up there.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  18

  Tim’s on the phone shouting at somebody. He hangs up when I slide a chair next to his desk. I look at the dark rings under his red eyes.

  “You really look like you had a big night last night,” I say.

  “And you look like you’ve just been punched in the nose again,” he shoots back.

  I touch my hand to my face. Yep, blood. “Just spent the morning chasing someone through the Underworld. Turns out I should have ducked when I caught up with them.”

  Tim passes me a box of tissues. “Who do you think it was?”

  “Not Rillman, at least. It felt too different from him. An Ankou, I think, but I couldn’t get a good enough fix on them. At least they didn’t stab me. There’s something almost honorable about a good old punch to the face.” I apply tissues. “Talking of Ankous …”

  “Cerbo’s lesson was instructive.”

  “Do you think you could shift?”

  “Give me three weeks, and I’ll be shifting everywhere. Right now, the thought of doing it again makes me want to throw up. Steve, sorry I ever doubted you.”

  “This situation with Rillman is out of control, Tim. What the hell are we supposed to do?”

  Tim shuffles his papers, lifts his eyes to mine. “We keep going. There’s nothing else we can do. We keep going carefully and cautiously, and we do not stop. Whoever Rillman is, and whoever he’s working for, they can get to us anytime they want. They’ve already proven it. And if Rillman can shift then there’s nowhere that’s safe. We just have to keep going, until either we stop him, or he stops us.”

  My mind turns to things that we may have some control over. “How are you going with those Closers?”

  Tim frowns. “I can’t find out anything. People are being very tight-lipped at the Department—and I mean very.” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I came to work with a hangover. I got three of them drunk last night, after the Christmas party, and nothing. Not a bloody peep. But this is my best guess.” He hands me a small sheaf of papers. “These are based on my suggestions, when I was running that portfolio.”

  He looks at his watch. “We’ve a job interview at 11:30. You’ll need to be there, since we’re using your office and all.”

  “Really? This morning’s been busy enough as it is!”

  “Who is it?”

  “Clare Ramage. She looks good, on paper anyway. Lissa found her. I’m surprised she didn’t mention anything, but, then, the week we’ve been having, eh? We won’t know for sure until we can get her into your office, see how she handles the Underworld.”

  “What do you think?” The office is just a formality, both Lissa and Tim can usually tell beforehand.

  “I think she’ll be fine.”

  “OK I’ll see you at 11:30. And I’ll read this, right now. That’s a promise.”

  “Make sure you keep it. None of that slipping a bookmark through it bullshit,” Tim says, and maybe I shouldn’t grin at him. Shit, we’re so good at pushing each other’s buttons we don’t even need to try most of the time. Tim groans. “Now, get out of here. And be careful who you let into your room, unless you don’t intend reading that, because if that’s the case, buddy, I might just have to torture you myself.”

  He sits there, glaring at me. I stare back sheepishly.

  “I’m on it,” I say. “Really.”

  Tim just harrumphs under his breath. “Close the door on your way out.”

  I walk back through to my office, stopping at the kitchen to make some coffee and feeling all those eyes watching me. Maybe I was a little too hard on everyone last night, or maybe it’s that my nose hasn’t quite stopped bleeding yet. I drop Tim’s notes onto the desk: they land with a satisfying and vaguely threatening thump.

  After ten pages I’m glad Tim’s working on my side.

  The first page outlines possible threats to Australia’s population should Mortmax fail. Regional Apocalypse is at the top of it. There’s a half-dozen end-of-world scenarios—some of which I wasn’t even aware were a possibility—and how Mortmax might be involved in them.

  It’s a pretty damning, but I must admit, honest appraisal. And I can see why Tim may have been pushing for closer government ties to Mortmax, and just why he might have been so resistant to the family business.

  And now, since we came so close to a Regional Apocalypse, and streets were crowded with Stirrers, I know why they might just rush through an organization like the Closers.

  I’m twenty pages in when the phone rings.

  It’s Neill. “I heard you had some trouble yesterday,” he says.

  “Yeah, I suppose you could call it trouble.” I find it hard to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

  “Death Moots create a certain…well…chaotic energy, but this is the first time this has happened. Are you sure there’s no one trying to challenge you?”

  “No one’s killed a Pomp yet,” I say. “There’s just been attempts on me.”

  “You sure it’s not that cousin of yours?” Neill asks. “It’s usually the fookin’ Ankous that are the problem.”

  “Not my cousin, I’m sure of that.” I try a different tack. “Do you have a government liaison?” There’s silence down the line for a moment.

  “Yes, it’s only something very new. I never thought we needed it before, but they were quite persuasive.”

  “Define persuasive. Insistent? Or coercive?”

  “Well, it’s certainly made stopping Stirrers much easier,” Neill says. I’m putting my money on the latter.

  “We’ve a group here called the Closers.”

  “What are they?”

  “Police, but a unit devoted to us. You have anything like that there?”

  “Not that I
know of. Just a unit that keeps a closer eye on our paperwork, our visits to morgues and funerals, that sort of thing. But liaison or no, our communications with the government are a little limited. You could say that we both have secrets that the other may not like. Why do you have such a unit there?”

  “The Regional Apocalypse. I think it worried them. I can’t blame them, of course. It worried me.”

  “Times are changing,” Neill says, and there’s more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  “Yeah, they’re changing, all right.”

  I put a few more calls through, speaking as directly as I can to the various RMs. All of them seem to have something of a government presence, several when their territories cover more than one country—some have as many as twenty.

  For most of them, this is something new. And for the ones that it isn’t they’ve noticed an increased scrutiny. But that’s not the only thing. Their lack of concern about the issue is disturbing. Something doesn’t feel right. This is definitely going on the agenda at the Death Moot.

  Talk doesn’t stick to the government departments, though. Every single one of them is pitching an alliance at me, or at the very least a mutual back-scratching sort of set-up. I’m noncommittal.

  I haven’t hung up from the last call for more than a few heartbeats when the phone rings again.

  Alex.

  “Steve, I can’t talk for long,” he says, his voice low. “You’re going to get a call soon. From Solstice. They’ve found the body of the man who tried to shoot you. Well, we think it is.”

  “Where?”

  “Look, when I say they’ve found the body, I mean we did; but they’ve taken it away.”

  “Did you get much of a look? Did it fit my description?”

  “No, I didn’t get a look in. The Closers were already there when I arrived.” Alex’s voice lowers to a whisper. “I really don’t like that crew. There’s something…off about them.”

  “Tim hasn’t been able to find out anything about them, either.”

  “Yeah, no agency is that secret. There’s always someone who knows something, and is willing to talk. Usually, when there isn’t, you have to wonder.” There’s a quiet murmuring in the background. Alex raises his voice. “Look, I’ve got to go. But I will talk to you soon.” He hangs up abruptly.

  There’s another call. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “Nothing to worry about, it’s just Solstice.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Nothing, really, it’s more what I can do for you. I thought I might send some fellas over to keep an eye on your house.”

  “My house, or me? Am I a suspect in my own shooting, Mr. Solstice?”

  Solstice clears his throat. “Of course not, but then again … stranger things, Mr. de Selby, stranger things. It wasn’t your body that they picked up at Toowong Cemetery with injuries that suggest a great fall.”

  Toowong Cemetery sits on Mount Coot-tha, or One Tree Hill, as we know it. One of the many points close to the Underworld, it made sense that my attacker would have used it. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “Have you identified the body?”

  “Well, that’s just it. There’s not a lot to identify, but what we have suggests that this person was a Pomp. I’d like you to take a look at him, so there—I suppose there is something you can do for me.”

  “Where are you?”

  He tells me. It’s an address, just off Milton Road, in the inner city. That’s peculiar. It’s not the usual morgue (or as the government likes to call it, Forensic and Scientific Services) out on Kessels Road to the south of Brisbane. This has gone wide of the usual coronial pathways. I didn’t even know there was a morgue there. I’ll have to check this with Tim. I don’t like the idea of dead bodies being stored where we can’t get at them. It throws me, to be honest.

  But I want to see that body. I shift.

  It’s like any morgue I’ve ever seen, though it smells of new paint and disinfectants. It’s cold, tiled halfway up the walls. A body obscured in black plastic lies on a stainless steel table, and there’s the familiar, thin smell of death that can’t quite be removed, no matter how many cleaning agents you use. Could be worse, Dad had some absolute horror stories about morgues in the fifties, little more than corrugated iron sheds—things started smelling pretty high in there come late spring. And the flies… No flies here, at least.

  Traffic rumbles somewhere in the distance—Milton Road, I guess—though here it’s quiet but for the murmur of refrigeration units, and the chirruping of a computer with what I imagine is some sort of email notification. Someone’s getting a lot of emails.

  Solstice looks pale beneath his tan. Even the dragon tattoo on his forearm has lost its luster. I won’t go so far as to say that he looks sick, but it’s close. I sometimes forget that not everybody deals with death as often as me.

  “When did you start using this place?”

  Solstice smiles. “That’s classified. But it’s new. Not even the coroner knows about this one.”

  “Do any of my people?”

  “No, but we only keep ‘persons of interest’ here. And you know about it, now.”

  I don’t like it. How could we stop a Stirrer from stirring here? “So where is he?”

  Solstice walks to the nearby slab, pulls back the plastic sheeting.

  There really isn’t much to identify. Everything’s there, but it’s pulped. Features are warped and flat, and insects, or some other sort of creature, have had a go at digesting bits of what’s left. The skin is chewed and tunneled, mined as though it was some sort of resource, and I guess it is. All flesh and bone is.

  “Someone had gone to a bit of effort to hide the body. If a maintenance fella hadn’t decided to work on the northwest corner of the cemetery he might have sat there for even longer.”

  I know I’m not getting the full story. I know they snatched this away from the cops, but I try to not let that show on my face.

  “There’s no license or wallet, obviously, and his fingerprints have come up blank. We’re waiting on dental, but I’m not feeling that hopeful. But then there’s this.” He pulls the plastic sheeting down to the waist.

  Interesting.

  Along both of his arms and his chest are a series of interlinking brace tattoos, and a couple of other symbols that may have some esoteric potency, or be a load of bullshit. It’s always hard to tell but they’re certainly the sort of tattoos that a Pomp might have. He even possessed a bit of death iconography on a shoulder blade, a cherub like mine, though his is bigger.

  “If he was a Pomp, he certainly didn’t belong to me. I can feel it when my Pomps die.” It was something I haven’t had to experience yet, but no doubt will, soon enough. Every RM does. “He’s been too long gone for me to tell if he belongs to anyone else.” Could he belong to Suzanne? No, that doesn’t make sense.

  “Do you trust the other RMs?” Solstice asks.

  I snort, can’t help myself. “Do you know how RMs actually become RMs, Mr. Solstice?”

  Solstice shakes his head. “A certain negotiation,” he says. “Something about a tree?”

  Which is pretty good. He certainly knows more than I did when I was just a Pomp. I think back to the Negotiation, wondering why something so bloody had such a civil name. After all, two mumbling death-lusting stone blades were involved. “Let me just say the process doesn’t even begin to encourage trust. I wouldn’t trust those bastards as far as I could throw them. Backstabbers, every one of them. After all, it’s the only way you become RM. Back, front and side-stabbing, with a little slashing thrown in as well.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I never wanted this job. And you know, I hold that as a badge of pride.”

  “Can’t make it easy for you … lacking that ruthlessness. And yet, here you are, RM.”

  “I did what I had to.”

  “I suppose they’d all say that, wouldn’t they?
Doesn’t everyone, who rises to a position of power?”

  I glance at my watch. “Are we done? I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Yeah, we’re done.”

  “And about those fellas you want to send over. Don’t bother, we’ve got our own people.”

  “You trust them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Solstice smiles. “Just turn a blind eye to any cars parked across from your place.”

  “This is inhouse,” I say between gritted teeth.

  Solstice shakes his head. “Not when people die, it isn’t.”

  I grin nastily at him. “That’s how death works.”

  19

  Well, would you look at that?” Tim says. “You’re early.”

  Tim’s sitting in his office and that’s where I’ve shifted again. “Right place, wrong time. At least your pants are on,” I say.

  “You don’t have a clue what’s going on behind this desk.” Tim lights a cigarette. “I thought you were reading those briefing notes.”

  “Funny you should say that. I was interrupted by a call from Solstice.” I open Tim’s door, and wave across the room at Oscar. He grimaces at me. “Tim, I don’t like how the Feds keep poking their noses into our business.”

  Tim sighs. “Steve, it’s all about accountability.”

  “It sounds like you agree with their approach.”

  “No. But I understand it.” He ashes into a Coke can. “You read my notes?”

  “Most of them. But this group doesn’t feel like that. I spoke to Alex, too. He says he can’t get anything on them. This is Australia. We don’t have any covert groups.”

  “What about us?”

  “That’s different. We’re not so much covert as unacknowledged. We’ve been around since life began.”

  Tim walks with me to my office then heads to reception to wait for our possible new recruit.

  Oscar’s waiting outside my door. There’s a certain percentage of rage beneath his professional demeanor.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Had an interview with the police.”