Life Among the Tombstones

by H. R. Boldwood

  Farragut was a big dude. And he was bound to wake up miffed. I needed to confiscate his gun. It lay in front of him, out of his reach. He still hadn’t moved. His breathing was rhythmic and steady. There’d be no better time.

  I stepped across Farragut, bent down and reached for the Glock.

  He punched the back of my knee, bringing me down.

  I lunged for the gun, but he flipped me over onto my back. A seven-inch Ka-Bar knife, just like mine, flanked my jaw.

  Damn, Cap. Where the hell are you?

  Farragut pushed the tip of the knife into my neck and drew a bead of blood. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the day we met.”

  The storm door exploded into a thousand shards of glass as Headbutt sailed into the house like an eighty-pound, sausage-shaped cannon ball. He clamped onto Farragut’s knife hand and shook him like a rag doll. Kulu went into Pterodactyl mode and tag teamed for an assist, swooping in and pecking at the DA’s face and eyes.

  Farragut screamed.

  A car door slammed outside. Seconds later, Cap burst through the shattered storm door, gun drawn. His eyes dove straight to Kulu and Headbutt, gnawing on Cincinnati’s District Attorney.

  “Don’t shoot my dog! Or my bird!” I screamed. “Headbutt, stop.”

  For the first time in his life, Headbutt obeyed me. He let go of Farragut’s arm, trotted to my side and lay down. Kulu fluttered away and perched on the living room curtain rod.

  Cap eyed me, then Farragut, then me again. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Our friendly DA here murdered Veronica Henry.”

  “That’s an outright lie,” Farragut shouted. “I had no reason to kill that woman.”

  My jaw dropped. “You were into her for twenty grand. She had you by the balls. I’d call that plenty of motive.”

  “You lying little—”

  “And then you killed Harry, you son of a bitch.”

  “You’re delusional,” Farragut said, climbing to his feet. He darted his eyes to Cap. “I’d be very careful with your next move, Captain. Your career is at stake.”

  “Don’t let him go. I’ve got proof!” I said, racing to my computer.

  Cap grudgingly held his gun on Farragut while I played the video and turned over Veronica’s book. Nighthawk: One. Farragut: Zero. The DA was going down for the count.

  After the video ended, while Cap was slapping his cuffs on the city’s district attorney, I set Kulu’s cage upright.

  “Harry’s killer,” the mouthy feather duster shrieked. “Harry’s killer!”

  I was about to ask Cap if Kulu could testify in court, when Nonnie Nussbaum charged through my kitchen door. “Mrs. Nighthawk! Headbutt dig hole under fence. Is running loose. Naughty, naughty golem!”

  So, that’s how my favorite chonk of a zombie hunter got loose and crashed through the storm door. (For those counting, that was the second time he’d saved my ass.) As I escorted Nonnie back outside, her eyes darted into the living room, scanning the sea of broken glass and two strange men she’d never seen before.

  “Who dose mens?”

  “Plumbers.”

  “Again, with the plumbers? And why the glass—”

  “Bye, bye, Nonnie,” I said, closing the door with a sigh.

  Someday, heaven forbid, I might have to tell her what I really do for a living.

  24

  I’m Just Wild About Harry

  The following weekend, Dallas held a wake for Harry Delk, complete with bar food, half-priced drinks, and a framed picture of the old dinosaur, hunched in his favorite stool at the end of the bar. Harry would have approved. Even if I did have a hard time drinking to his memory.

  Harry’s brother, Ralph, had already left town, so the gathering was small. Jimmy McQueen and Hank Bowers popped in. Tiffany, who’d only been out the hospital for a couple of days, stopped by, wearing a gold lamé mini-dress and purple stilettos. She wanted to toast Harry, plus she had some exciting news to share.

  “I’m done with the streets. Too much drama-rama, baby. Got me an agent, now — says I’m wrestlicious.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  “Wrestlicious. Lady wrestling, girl.” She clawed the air with her flaming red nails. “He’s gonna pimp me out to the WWE. Travel the world, make me some big bucks.”

  Who was I to judge? Wrestling might be the perfect fit for her, not to mention legal. She had a good six inches and seventy-pounds on me. Her metallic bustier and fishnet hose would look normal for a change. And she could trash talk with the best. I should know.

  Opie showed up to pay his respects too, with Cap dragging in, not far behind. Opie had some interesting gossip of his own.

  “Word on the street is Mark Andrews will take over for Farragut.”

  “The senior ADA.” Cap whistled. “Nighthawk, the two of you are going to be like oil and water.”

  “No surprise, there. Haven’t met a DA yet I can get along with.”

  Opie snorted. “Is there anyone you do get along with?”

  I thought about that question and then raised my Jack Daniel’s high. “To Harry Delk. The best partner I ever had, that I never wanted in the first place. He was funny, smart, and a damn fine zombie hunter. I liked Harry. I…I got along with Harry.”

  “To Harry,” came the universal reply.

  We clinked glasses, and I turned to swipe my eyes. Tough as nails Harry wouldn’t have appreciated tears.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Opie said, “with Farragut going away, and Andrews likely taking over, there’ll be some openings in the DA’s office. I might apply.”

  “Doesn’t the defense side pay better?” I asked.

  “You were my first case in months, courtesy of Harry. And you didn’t pay squat. To Harry,” Opie said, raising his glass.

  I joined Opie’s toast for Harry’s sake, but that toast was just plain mean.

  “Now that you’re all together,” Dallas said, “I have an announcement. I got a brother down in Florida. He and his twenty-seven-footer’s been calling my name for years. I’m closing up shop here, for now. But I’m not going to sell the place. I want to keep my options open. Sorry, Allie Cat. Looks like you’re out of a job, for now. You’re a damn fine bartender. Be happy to give you a good reference.”

  Perfect. I’d come back into town with two packs of Ramen Noodles in my pocket. Since then, I’d accumulated a sausage-shaped cannonball and a foul-mouthed feather duster to feed. I was cash poor and ‘animals with attitudes’ rich.

  Like I said before, zombie hunting isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.

  About nine o’clock, Cap checked his watch and slid off his bar stool. He laid his money on the bar and headed to the door.

  “Where you think you’re going?” I asked.

  “Got a date,” he said with a wink.

  That got my vote for the most surprising news of the night.

  After Jimmy, Hank, and most of the other regulars had paid their tabs and gone home, Dallas strolled to the juke box and slipped in a quarter. Peggy Lee started crooning, “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”

  Now that. That was the classiest tribute of the night.

  Dallas, Opie, Tiffany and I lost ourselves in Harry stories, and before I knew it, midnight had arrived. The phone rang, catching us all by surprise.

  Dallas answered, then handed the call to me with a whisper, “It’s the precinct.”

  Shit shit shitty-shit shit. “Ah…huh. Ah huh.” I held the phone away from my ear while I listened. “Yes. But I’m freaking always on call. I’ve been at a wake for Harry Delk all night. Can’t one of the uniforms take it?”

  Cap’s second in command, Lieutenant Benson, wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  I hopped off my stool. “Where’d you say this was? Yeah. Okay. Be there as soon as I can.”

  I walked into Dallas’s office to get my coat and weapons. I sheathed my knife, and slipped into my holster. When I came back out and rounded the bar, Dallas looked disappointed.


  “Sorry. Gotta go,” I said, throwing on my duster. “There’s a biter call at Spring Grove Cemetery.”

  25

  Life Among the Tombstones

  Rain sprinkled my face as I walked out of The Blue Note. A storm was rolling in from the west — exactly where I was headed. I pulled on my rain gear, watched lightning split the night sky, then counted Mississippi’s and waited for thunder. Good, I thought, tilting my face to the sky, and letting the cold drops energize me. The storm was still miles off. With any luck, I’d reach the cemetery before that lightning found me and my bike.

  I pulled out of the parking lot with my eyes glued to the road. Once I reached cruising speed, I eased back on the throttle and relaxed. There are two things that can get a person killed on a bike: overconfidence and fear. I had way too much to do to wake up dead.

  Sprinkles turned into showers. The brain bitch hounded me as I drove down I-75. Something’s wrong. No shit, Sherlock. The last time I’d taken a late night biter call in an obscure place it turned out to be a set up. Harry and I had to hold off a freaking horde before CPD showed up to help us out.

  Harry isn’t here to hold your hand this time, the head hag wheedled.

  The whiny little bitch could pound salt. This run wouldn’t be any different than a thousand other calls I’d successfully handled on my own. Self-doubt was another thing that could get me killed. Perfect time to second guess me, you loud-mouthed earwig.

  The wind began to gust as I pulled up to the main gate of Spring Grove Cemetery, where the security guard paced back and forth, waiting for me. Benny, as he introduced himself, had already unlocked and opened the gate.

  “The security cameras picked up the rotter in section twenty,” he said, pointing into the distance. “Straight ahead, then to the left. Just north of Geyser Lake.”

  My gut instantly soured, and I wondered why. It’s not like this was my first rodeo. Stormy, late night cemetery runs are what you’d call my wheelhouse.

  Little Allie scoffed. You know perfectly well why.

  I booted her and her snarky bullshit into a dusty corner of my mind, and threatened to lock them away forever. When I turned to ask Benny if he could stick around in case things went sideways, he was halfway back to his security shack. The freaking weasel.

  I climbed off the Lowrider, switched on my flashlight and trudged through the darkness.

  The serene, well-tended grounds looked different at night. Almost…alive. The earth rose and fell, twisted and turned, like a tilt-a-whirl in a funhouse. Rain showers morphed into downpours. Drops pelted my eyes and ricocheted off tree limbs. Lightning snaked across the sky followed by an instantaneous, earthshaking boom. Shapeless shadows darted through the trees. Whispers whirred around me.

  My neck prickled and I jumped at the snap of my own footfalls.

  Why? Why was I so afraid?

  The brain bitch’s words haunted me. You know perfectly well why.

  “Enough,” I shouted into the storm. “Enough already.”

  For crap’s sake. I’d lived my entire life among the tombstones. I’d raised and put down the dead in the shadow of monuments and markers since I was eleven years old. I am my mother’s daughter — a corpse whisperer. And there wasn’t one damn thing different about tonight than any other night.

  So why did my stomach ache with dread?

  You know why.

  That thought hadn’t sprung from inside me. And it hadn’t come from Little Allie, either.

  Open your eyes, an intruder whispered in my mind. See the ruin that awaits you. Open your eyes and SEE.

  Lightning breeched the sky as I peered through the storm. Beneath the brilliant flash appeared an empty grave. Beside it, lay a mound of dirt and a broken headstone. I squinted through the rain and spotted a deadhead that idled there, on the hallowed ground of section 20.

  Section 20… No. Oh, God. No. No…

  Surely, you remember section twenty.

  Lightning flashed again, revealing the name on the toppled tombstone. But I didn’t need to read it. The corpse that hovered mere yards away was that of my father.

  Three years, he’d been dead and buried. But in my mind’s eye, his cheeks were flush with life. His navy blue blazer hung crisp and straight. His blue checked shirt was clean and pressed, and his striped tie sharply knotted.

  A low dark laugh rose through the air, followed by a chorus of cackles that sprang from beneath my feet. The dead were awake — but I hadn’t done the waking. Lightning struck again, closer, bathing the sky electric blue and knocking me to the ground. Thunder roared. A tree exploded nearby and burst into flames. By the light of that blaze, I saw my father’s corpse had moved.

  The sickly smell of decay filled my nose and I knew, without knowing, where he’d gone. Tears welled in my eyes as his moldering hand grabbed my shoulder from behind. I wrenched away sobbing and scrambled to find my footing. Summoning every ounce of strength inside me, I turned to face my father. A sunken mush of brown and black covered his skull, which featured bottomless holes where his eyes had once been. Mummified lips pulled back from his teeth in a hellish grin. His burial clothes hung in tatters, loosely held in place by the rotting waistband of his slacks.

  And yet… This monster, this thing, was still my father.

  Not some nameless, faceless bag of bones. The man who had loved me more than life itself. The man who’d never understood this gift of mine but had sacrificed everything to make sure that I would.

  Put him down! the brain bitch screamed.

  A muted whimpering whirred in my ears. I couldn’t place it, but suddenly realized that the sound was coming from me. I fumbled drawing Hawk from my holster. With shaking hands, I swiped tears from my face, leveled Hawk and flipped off the safety.

  Oh, Dear God. How can I do this?

  How can you not? Little Allie whispered.

  Do it, the intruder growled. You owe me.

  The biter, little more than sinew and bone, shuffled forward, clacking his jaws.

  That thing is not your father, Little Allie cried. Shoot!

  I sobbed and lowered my gun, then stumbled away, with my father snapping at my heels.

  Do it! shrieked the brain bitch. Do it. Now!

  I turned, raised the gun and fired. The crack of my 9mm roared above the storm. My father’s corpse crumpled to the ground, with me beside him. The wind howled on. And the storm continued to rage, as if the last few minutes could be swept away. As if the torrents could cleanse me of the horrible thing I’d done. The horrible thing the intruder had made me do.

  But rain could never scour away this nightmare. Or my anger.

  My father hadn’t raised himself. I knew who the intruder had been. I knew precisely who had turned my father into a shambling, rotting perversion of the man he had been in life. And I knew why he had done it. The deluded bastard may have thought he was collecting a debt, but I had news for him. I owed him nothing. And paybacks are hell.

  “I’m coming for you,” I whispered into the storm. “I’m coming.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who helped bring this book to life:

  * * *

  Christiana Miller and the talented folks associated with Third Street Press. Your drive and focus have given The Corpse Whisperer series wings. Thanks for believing in me and Allie Nighthawk.

  * * *

  Robert M. Burdick, who reviewed, suggested, and corrected this manuscript—thanks for giving Life Among the Tombstones copious amounts of your time, your literary expertise, and your devotion.

  * * *

  Officer Scott Burdick who has stepped into his father’s shoes as my police/weapons expert. You really know your stuff!

  * * *

  And a special shout out to Don Moon and the network of friends and fans who encouraged me. You are too numerous to mention individually, but you know who you are. I will treasure your support and friendship always.

  About the Author
>
  H.R. Boldwood, author of the Corpse Whisperer series, and finalist in the 2019 Imadjinn Awards, is a writer of horror and speculative fiction. In another incarnation, Boldwood is a Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the 2009 Bilbo Award for creative writing by Thomas More College.

  * * *

  Boldwood’s characters are often disreputable and not to be trusted. They are kicked to the curb at every conceivable opportunity when some poor unsuspecting publisher welcomes them with open arms. No responsibility is taken by this author for the dastardly and sometimes criminal acts committed by this ragtag group of miscreants.

  You can send H.R. Boldwood a message at hrboldwood@gmail.com

  * * *

  To learn more about H.R. Boldwood, visit her website at: www.hrboldwood.com

  Also By H.R. Boldwood

  Ally Nighthawk Novels

  Life Among the Tombstones

  The Corpse Whisperer

  Corpse Whisperer Sworn

  * * *

  Anthologies

  Killing it Softly (Volume One)

  Killing it Softly (Volume Two)

  Hyperion and Theia’s Saturnalia