Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  Michael wondered what exactly Alex meant when he said, “really die.” Was he implying that now he wasn’t really dead? There were so many questions he needed to ask.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Which one?” Alex asked.

  “What’s it like to be dead?”

  Alex looked straight ahead and into Michael’s eyes. “I can’t answer that. Nothing that’s been programmed into this system is relevant to that question, Michael. But each time we speak, I gain more knowledge, so it’s possible that I’ll be able to give you more information as time goes on. This software is designed to learn faster than we do when we’re alive—especially me, since I didn’t learn too quickly in the first place.”

  Michael was skeptical that any further conversations would open the doors to the ultimate mystery of what happens when you die. Computer software couldn’t possibly unravel the afterlife, he thought. But he would keep those thoughts to himself.

  “What happens between our conversations, when I’ve got your laptop shut down?”

  “Probably the same thing that happens when you go to sleep. As far as I know, nothing. I guess it’s when I rest.”

  “Do you dream? Do you feel or sense anything during that time?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, I have nightmares that I’m getting married again.”

  “No, seriously, what’s this all like? I mean, can you see or speak with other people who are dead?”

  Alex’s face was blank. He appeared to be processing the question.

  “No, not yet anyway. But things will change.”

  Chapter 31

  Chicago, Illinois

  November 26, 2009, Thanksgiving Day

  Sofia Nicholas had her father wrapped around her little finger, and Michael Nicholas liked it just that way.

  “I still don’t really understand why we’re having Thanksgiving dinner here in Chicago instead of Connecticut. I was looking forward to being home. Not to mention, Dad, they’re not even serving a traditional turkey here tonight.”

  She looked like the classic American coed. Preppy but with a sophisticated sense of style, wearing a simple black Ralph Lauren dress and black high heels, she was inches taller than either of her parents. Her hair was a longer and brighter version of her mother’s medium blonde with even lighter highlights. Sofia’s athletic build fit the image of the new captain of the freshman women’s tennis team at Notre Dame. She had particularly light skin, rosy cheeks, and like her father, a vivacious smile. Sofia inherited both a sharp sense of humor and a slight but noticeable edge to her personality from both Michael and Samantha. She was normally even-tempered and easygoing, but with a little provocation, she could direct a single retort or a machine-gun-like stream of subtle mockery—sharp projectiles striking her antagonist.

  “Chicago was so close to your school, and I admit, we wanted to get away for the holidays, so I thought this would be a good solution,” Michael said, twirling his fork around Spiaggia’s al dente spaghetti, delicately covered with a simple tomato and basil sauce. Just before placing the fork in his mouth and with a mischievous look, he added, “And, to your point on the turkey, this is what we’d eat in Italy when we would happen to visit there on Thanksgiving, which as you know we did a number of times.”

  But Michael knew better. Thanksgiving in Chicago was all about shielding Sofia and Samantha from the surreal world he was embroiled in back east.

  “Very good, Dad, an Italian Thanksgiving. Also, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what’s been going on—after all, you’ve told me some of the news already. Plus, I get our local papers online. I mean, our house break-in—or whatever it was—was in the Westport News.” Sofia showed off a self-satisfied smile as she sipped her dirty vodka martini—another inherited custom, if not craving.

  “Not to change the subject, Sofia, but I’m still finding bottles of vodka in our bar at home that seem to have been diluted. How many of them did you and your friends empty when your mom and I were away?”

  Michael too was smiling. The subject was a source of humorous needling since Sofia confessed to raiding the liquor cabinet and replacing the vodka with water during a small party she hosted at home the year before with her closest friends in high school.

  “Oh Dad, I don’t know. But it sounds like you must have a lot of bottles of vodka in your bar, if you’re still discovering them. You don’t have an alcohol problem, do you? I mean, how much vodka does a household need?”

  Michael Nicholas knew when he’d been bested.

  “Sofia, don’t look at me. Your mom’s the one with the vodka obsession,” Michael said, raising an eyebrow in Samantha’s direction.

  “You’re right, darling. Sometimes being married to you, I wonder if I can ever get enough of it.” Samantha was feeling the effects of her second cosmopolitan. “I’m so glad Fletcher introduced me to these,” she said, holding up her martini glass with its pink concoction.

  “By the way, Dad,” Sofia continued, “didn’t you used to tell me that one of the reasons we never saw Uncle Alex a lot was because he hung out with a bunch of shady characters?”

  Michael could see trouble coming. “Yes, why?”

  “Why? Because it looks like you’re hanging out with them now.”

  Michael was relieved as he watched Samantha intercede. “First, Sofia, some of your father’s new friends, like Lester, are people he’s known since he was a child.”

  “Mom, there are two Lesters, Fat and Skinny. Don’t you think that’s a little odd, to have names like that?”

  “Somewhat, but it’s just a reflection of their different physiques and a good way to tell them apart,” Samantha said, somewhat flustered.

  “Sofia, they may be odd characters, but they’re not bad people. Really, just the opposite,” Michael said, before being cut off by a now-agitated Samantha.

  “This is all temporary. Your father is just trying to help Donna sort out your uncle’s affairs.”

  Michael knew he had not yet told Samantha about his second meeting with Sharkey. Although he felt guilty about the omission, he was now even more convinced of its necessity.

  “Uncle Alex did have a lot of affairs, I’m sure. I loved him, but he was some character. Do you realize I’ve had three aunts from him alone?” Sofia said, before rolling right into her next topic. “Do you guys know the actual criteria for sainthood in the Catholic Church?”

  “I haven’t checked it lately,” Michael said.

  “We’re just studying this now in my religious studies class. One of the things that has to happen for someone to be made a saint is that the candidate has to have interceded on someone’s behalf after the potential saint has died,” Sofia said.

  Michael thought about the help he received from his brother in preparing for yesterday’s meeting with Sharkey.

  “That’s fascinating, Sofia, and maybe if we can get your Uncle Alex to magically help me straighten some of his affairs out, we can nominate him for sainthood,” Michael said, knowing he was the only one who would catch the irony.

  * * *

  Later that evening while Samantha was watching a movie in Sofia’s room down the hall, Michael gazed out his wide hotel window at the falling snow illuminated by the night-lights of Chicago. It reminded him of the effects of a strobe lamp, capturing still fragments of moving images, each captured snowflake getting its two seconds in the spotlight.

  The aging elegance of the Drake Hotel suited his mood tonight. He thought about the many times over the years that he had stayed there while on business or on vacations with Samantha and Sofia. Michael looked around at his suite; he was sure he had stayed in this same room at least once before.

  He checked his watch. It would be at least an hour before he would expect Samantha back, assuming she watched the entire movie with Sofia. He finally had some time alone. He opened his briefcase, pulled out Alex’s laptop, clicked onto the Byzantine cross icon, and typed in Alex’s user name and password. Once again, Alex appeared,
the camera moving in for a close-up.

  “I don’t suppose you celebrate Thanksgiving?” Michael said. He wondered whether his attempt at humor was a good idea. And then, he thought, Am I really worried about hurting my brother’s feelings? This is absurd, I think—or maybe it isn’t. I just don’t know.

  But Alex quickly put his mind at ease. “I hope you brought me some turkey.”

  “Actually, we mostly had pasta. I guess it wasn’t a traditional Thanksgiving. You don’t really have an appetite, do you?”

  Alex appeared to be processing the question. “I don’t feel hungry in the sense that you might, but I miss food and I know what I like … or liked.”

  Michael felt unsure again. He wondered about Alex’s range of capabilities. Can he experience physical activities? What are his emotional capabilities? Were they built into the software? If so, is it just how he used to feel about things, or is he capable of changing his feelings? Michael realized that his mind had wandered. Alex was staring at him, almost as though he could read Michael’s mind. Then he remembered reading in Karen’s research about a computer program that could detect a person’s emotions based upon their facial expressions.

  “What’s wrong?” Alex interrupted Michael’s thoughts.

  “Nothing—but let me ask you, can you look at my face and know my emotions? Can you tell what I’m feeling?”

  “Yeah, I know everything, Michael.”

  Michael didn’t know what to say, but Alex’s answer was disconcerting. He wanted his brother back, but not on steroids and not with powers that were abnormal. Because then it wouldn’t really be his brother. But before he could react, Alex spoke up again.

  “Michael, relax, I’m kidding. I can read your mind the same way I always could. The same way you can read mine. I can make guesses based on your expressions, that’s all. Just like everyone else.”

  The answer, Michael thought, was the perfect response to his concern. Except, he thought, I never verbalized it. I only thought it. How did Alex know what I was thinking? Now wasn’t the time to worry about it.

  “Have the police made any progress on figuring out who hired that kid to shoot me?” Alex said. Michael noticed that Alex said, “to shoot me” instead of “to murder or kill me,” or was he simply reading too much into each word?

  “I personally haven’t heard anything much from them. Donna told me they’ve asked her for a list of people that may have owed you money. The detective assured her that they weren’t interested in your illegal businesses; they just wanted to find whoever was behind your murder. So Donna called Skinny Lester to get the names, but Lester told her it wouldn’t be a good idea to give the police the list. So, she just gave the detective a few names, relatives mostly, some of our cousins who owed you some small amounts.”

  “Good idea. I’ll have to think about that list, but I can’t really see of any of those guys who owed me being killers.”

  But as Michael’s mind focused on his brother’s words, he was startled by the suite’s door swinging open as Samantha swiftly entered, a look of confusion on her face.

  “Michael, what’s going on, who are you talking to?”

  He quickly pushed the “Escape” button on the laptop and shut the lid. He could see that he had further aroused Samantha’s suspicions.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t even hear you at the door,” he said.

  “Obviously.” Her tone was curt. “What were you so absorbed in? Were you Skyping with someone?” Samantha was staring at the closed laptop. “You sure ended it rather quickly, didn’t you?”

  Michael was thankful for the Skype idea. He hadn’t thought of using that as an excuse, especially since he rarely used a computer for video calling.

  “Actually, I was playing around with it.”

  Samantha was still staring at the laptop. She seemed to be half listening to Michael’s answer, speaking over him. “And I noticed that you brought Alex’s laptop with you. How come?”

  Michael took a breath and tried to look as nonchalant as possible, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve always wanted an Apple, so I’ve been playing around with Alex’s. It’s a great machine.”

  Samantha appeared to be skeptical. He hoped she wouldn’t want to handle the laptop. Michael knew its weight alone would raise more questions.

  “So whom were you speaking with on it?” she said. “You know, if the voice had been a woman’s, I’d be suspicious.”

  Michael was relieved. “Well, it certainly wasn’t a woman.”

  Samantha smiled and let out a slight laugh. “If I didn’t know better, Michael, I’d have thought it was Alex on the other end. The voice sure sounded like his.”

  Michael looked away, as though his attention had moved on to something else. “I guess that’s not very likely, now is it, dear?”

  Chapter 32

  New York City

  November 29, 2009

  Perhaps it was the allure of the still-unopened Jennifer Walsh icon with the blinking blue eyes that Michael couldn’t get out of his mind. Or was it that he sensed she represented a new doorway to other layers of Alex’s personality? Or, Michael thought, was he simply attracted to his brother’s lover? The reality was that Michael didn’t understand the nature of his attraction to her, and he was comfortable with the uncertainty.

  Although Michael usually drove his own car, “Deacon Dan” had been Michael’s driver for nearly seven years. Michael and Samantha would hire Dan for certain occasions so Michael could enjoy his cocktails, or when the drive, such as the one back and forth from Westport to lower Manhattan, was a long one.

  Besides being a driver, Dan was a friend and an occasional spiritual adviser to Michael, Samantha, and Sofia. A former athlete and coach, he had been a starting guard on the basketball team at the University of Nebraska in the late sixties. Now sixty-five, he worked more than ever as a deacon at the Basilica Assumption Church in Westport and was the owner of Dan’s Driving Service. He presided over Sofia’s baptism and would likely do the same whenever she married.

  Michael sat in the backseat of Dan’s Lincoln Town Car. He thought of Jennifer Walsh and how instrumental her information had been. Without Jennifer’s help, Michael would not have known about Alex’s Apple laptop, and without the password, George would likely still be trying out the thousands of word-and-letter combinations in order to gain access to its contents. Without Jennifer, Michael would never have been able to speak with his brother again. He needed to formally thank her, maybe stop by her salon and see if she was free for lunch.

  It was almost noon. The city air was cool and brisk, despite the blue sky and bright sun. Michael took out his cell phone and dialed Jennifer’s number. “Jennifer, it’s Michael Nicholas. Listen, I’m in the city. I’d like to fill you in on what’s happened since we sat down. You’ve … you’ve really helped me out. Any chance you’re free for me to drop by?”

  “Michael, oh, that’s so nice, and it’s so nice for you to think of me. I’m staying at the Gansevoort downtown. Just give me an hour, and why don’t you come up for a drink or some breakfast or lunch, or whatever. I’m here with a friend. We’re in the penthouse; the room’s under the name of Saint-Laurent.”

  “Great,” Michael said. “I’ll be there in an hour.” Michael wondered who Saint-Laurent might be. The only Saint-Laurent Michael was aware of was the recently deceased French designer.

  An hour later, Michael took the elevator to the penthouse suite. As he exited the elevator, he noticed that the door to the penthouse was slightly open. Room service was being delivered to the room. Michael knocked on the half-open door.

  “Jennifer, it’s Michael. Are you there?” Before Jennifer could respond, the door opened as the room service waiter was leaving with the remaining empty trays. Smiling, he held the door open for Michael to enter the room. He entered a grand living room with an elaborate breakfast spread across a dining room table, anchored at both ends with a silver ice bucket holding the familiar yellow-labeled bottles of Michael
’s favorite champagne, Veuve Clicquot. For an instant, Michael thought of Paris and Samantha. The grand living room, with its high ceilings and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooked a dramatic view of the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond.

  “Jennifer, it’s Michael. Looks like your breakfast is here.” The door to the bedroom was slightly open, although Michael couldn’t see anything from his vantage point.

  But the unmistakable stirrings of a couple in the throes of lovemaking stopped Michael in his tracks. Over their moans and sighs, Michael announced, “Jennifer, I’m going down to the lobby. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Jennifer, perhaps finally recognizing that Michael was indeed in their hotel living room, called out, “No, Michael, oh my God. We’ll be right out. Just give me one minute. Don’t move.” Michael wondered exactly who Jennifer meant when she said “we.” He was curious to see whom Jennifer had chosen to take the place of his brother.

  Michael could hear giggling and sensed some sudden movement from the bedroom. After another brief pause, the bedroom door opened all the way and out walked Jennifer, her blonde hair mischievously astray, but looking tanned, radiant, and beautiful. She was wrapped in the hotel’s white terry cloth bathrobe and tying a belt securely around her waist as she strolled out of the bedroom. She hugged and then kissed Michael on both cheeks in the European style.

  “How great to see you, Michael. I’m so sorry; we kind of got wrapped up in everything. I didn’t realize you were here. I want you to meet a good friend of mine.”

  Michael realized that, in fact, he was not anxious to meet Jennifer’s lover. But he could not have anticipated the figure who now strolled out of the bedroom, also wrapped in another of the hotel’s robes. Although at first he couldn’t quite place her name, he had seen the aging but still beautiful French movie star in many films over the years. She was a glamorous legend.