After passing through two tight-knit trees at the edge of the lot, we found ourselves on the dirt trail. “This trail is expertly maintained year-round. So if you decide upon a dog who needs lots of exercise, you can walk or run him here just fine. And about a mile down the path, you’ll find a cute little dog park.”
“That’s wonderful,” Ally said, probably aware I was being too quiet.
“Or if you are into walking or running yourself, this would be a wonderful outdoor trail for you. Just right outside your door!”
“I only run when my life depends on it,” I mumbled.
“Let’s look at the bedrooms,” Ally said, to cover my sarcasm.
I thought of Rachel. What would she think if she saw this house? It was a big house for just one person. She and I had shared a two-bedroom apartment once. She’d insisted to Brinkley, even though it took us over a month to grow on each other. My apartment has two bedrooms, why wouldn’t she stay with me? In my mind, I saw Rachel turning toward me and smiling.
My chest hurt, and I had a sudden desperate urge to stop thinking about Rachel and about what happened in St. Louis. I wanted to forget what she’d done—almost done—to me.
“I want to make an offer on the house,” I said, interrupting them. “Even if it does have three bedrooms.”
“That’s wonderful,” the realtor said, beaming. No doubt she was already spending her commission in her mind. Ally’s mouth snapped shut, biting down on whatever she was about to say.
“I don’t see what the big deal is?” I asked. “I like the house, I want to buy it. I’d write them a check for 300K if I knew I could move in this weekend.”
This was bravado on my part. I didn’t intend to empty my account so readily. I’d be willing to put half down now and finance the rest. Even so, I wouldn’t be moving this weekend. I’d probably be dead.
“Why are you rushing?” she asked. “We have plenty of time to find the perfect place for you.”
“Why am I rushing?” I said. “You’re the one who scheduled ten viewings right after I mentioned moving!”
“Because you can’t just buy a house. You have to get it inspected and make sure you’re getting the best deal. You have to make an offer and negotiate,” she insisted. “It takes time.”
I was pretty sure I could just buy a house, but instead of fighting with her, I looked out the window and tried not to sulk. Why should buying a house make me sad? I was supposed to be happy to finally have a place of my own, right?
“You don’t have to get a house,” she added. “We can look for apartments in other parts of the city, maybe one in a secured building with a doorman.”
“That’s not going to make me feel better.”
“What’s upsetting you?” she asks.
“Everything,” I admitted. “I hate that I’m even here.”
It was true. I wanted to go back to St. Louis. I wanted Rachel to be OK. I wanted to go home.
Her cheeks turned red and she bit her lip. I was getting the feeling that she would definitely quit by Monday.
“Can we stop at Starbucks again? I need a pick me up,” I said, trying to lessen the awkwardness in the car. “Then what are we doing? Going to the pet store?”
“We aren’t going to the pet store,” she said. Her voice was on the edge of mean. When I shot her a look she forced a smile. “Are we? I thought we’d check with the animal shelters and then maybe a couple of breeders. You can have a dog in your apartment, right? If you have your heart set on one today?”
Oh great, I thought. Now she thinks I’m impulsive and demanding.
“Yeah, I just have to pay a deposit,” I said. “Of course, if I’m moving soon, I may just keep it a secret and save the $300.”
She glanced at me again but said nothing.
“A shelter sounds good,” I said, trying to prove I could think things through. “Or a breeder. Whatever you think is best.”
At least that last part earned me a small smile.
First thing the next morning, we went to what Ally called a high-kill shelter. When she explained what this meant, I was horrified.
“They gas them?” I exclaimed. “Are you serious? Who does that?”
I flung the door open and marched into the shelter determined to find a dog and take it home today.
I didn’t know what I was expecting to find behind the counter, a mean Hilter-esque man choking a puppy maybe. But it was just a girl. She was maybe sixteen or so and clearly only working there as an after school job. Her fingers flew all over the screen of her phone as she texted someone. She didn’t even look up when we came in.
“We would like to see your dogs,” Ally said, catching up to me at the counter.
“No dogs,” she said.
“What do you mean no dogs?” I said. “This is a shelter right? Oh my god, did you put them all in the gas chambers?”
I moved to jump across the counter and slap the phone out of the girl’s hand, but Ally grabbed ahold of me before I could.
“They are at the Adopt-a-thon in Bristol,” the girl replied, without realizing how close to being assaulted she was.
“Oh,” Ally said and gave me an I’m going to let you go now, don’t kill her look.
“So, what, they take all the dogs?”
“Duh,” the girl said. “It’s a big convention. Usually most of the dogs get adopted. It’s a three day event.”
“Oh,” Ally said. “Well that’s nice.”
“It happens twice a year,” the girl replied, and finally glanced up. “So you can check back next week to see who’s left. Unless you want a cat?” the girl offered.
Ally smiled at me. “A guard cat?”
I shook my head no—unless I could train it to leap onto attackers from great heights or maybe go for the eyes. It was a possibility.
“Are you sure?” the girl urged and put her phone in her pocket. “Jingles is so fluffy.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, “but I need a dog who can eat people.”
“We’ll try the humane society,” Ally added.
“No dogs there either,” the girl said, disappointed in our refusal to see Jingles, the fluffiest cat ever. “They’re all at the Adopt-a-thon. You’ll have to drive out to Bristol if you can’t wait until Tuesday.”
“Why Tuesday?” I asked, suspicious that she was just going to kill all the dogs they didn’t get rid of.
“The Adopt-a-thon is Thursday through Saturday. They drive back on Sunday. Monday, we’re closed.”
“For the killing?” I asked, angry.
Ally grabbed ahold of me and forced a smile. “We’ll check back on Tuesday.”
The girl shrugged and pulled her phone from her pocket again. “If you can’t wait, there’s always Jingles! He’s litterbox trained. And you just won’t believe how fluffy he is.”
Ally dragged me away.
Just to be sure, Ally called around to confirm that in fact yes, all the dogs in the Metro area had gone to Bristol. Apparently the Adopt-a-thon was a big deal, sponsored by one of the country’s largest petstore chains. They got stipends and tax write-offs, and the added benefit of adopting out a lot of their animals. Apparently, it wasn’t just people from Bristol adopting. Would-be pet owners drove from all over to take their pick. That was good for the pups at least. But you’d best believe I was going to be there Tuesday morning, my adoption fee in hand.
In the meantime, I decided to do some research.
I spun in my desk chair, waiting for the webpage to load. Ally was at the sink across from me making coffee. I took a moment to appreciate how tidy the office was. That was certainly one thing the new assistant was doing right. I hated cleaning. I’d rather die.
She was doing a lot of other things right too. When the phone rang, she answered it. When I wanted a coffee, it just magically appeared in my hand. Same was true for food. When something needed to be done, it was. Bills were paid and went into the mailbox. Appointments confirmed. Email checked. Everything was just happening,
and all I had to do was sit here and think about what kind of dog I wanted.
In fact, having an assistant was so nice, that I was really hoping that after this next death Ally wouldn’t take one look at my corpse and say peace out.
A web page popped up for Best Guard Dogs.
“OK,” I said. “According to this, I need a Bullmastiff, Doberman, Rottweiler, or a—what the hell is this? It looks like a mop!”
Ally came around behind my desk and placed an iced coffee on the coaster.
“Are you looking at the Puli or the Komondor?” she asked.
“They both look like mops,” I said. “Who is going to run scared from a mop?”
“Shelter dogs will probably be mixed. But you may find a Rottweiler there,” she said. “People often discriminate against black dogs.”
“What?” I said and iced coffee went up my nose. “People are racist about dogs? What is wrong with people?”
She gave my shoulder a squeeze, as if she agreed with me about how stupid people could be.
“Oh this looks interesting,” I said. “What Your Dog Breed Says About You.”
“They say people look like their dogs.” Ally rinsed out the coffee pot in the sink and washed the spoon she’d used to stir my cream and sugar. Then she refilled the ice tray and put it back in the mini-fridge.
“Really?” I asked. “What kind of dog do I look like?”
She considered me for a moment then smiled. “A Border Collie.”
“Hey!” I said, offended even though I had no idea what a Border Collie looked like.
“What do I look like?” she asked and arched an eyebrow, as if daring me to say something mean.
“A Golden Retriever.” It was true.
Before I could say anything more, the phone on my desk rang. Of course, Ally was the one who answered.
She handed over the receiver. “It’s for you.”
“We have a problem,” Brinkley said. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”
“What do you mean three deaths?” I said, my jaw dropping. “I can only replace one person at a time!”
“I know,” Brinkley said, his hands on his hips. His shoulders arched under his leather jacket. With an exaggerated exhale, he eased them down away from his ears. “That’s what I’m saying. Cooper and Cindy will be there.”
“At my replacement?” I said. “You know I don’t play well with others!”
“You worked fine with Rachel,” he said.
Something changed at the mention of her name. Both Brinkley and I went very still as silence bubbled around us.
Brinkley was the first to speak. “When the child came up as positive, the family screened everyone.”
“Standard,” I interjected, happy to be talking again, though the image of Rachel holding a large knife and charging at my throat blazed against the backdrop of my mind. I saw Rachel sitting in her dark living room with bloody fingerprints on her face and a circle of smeared blood drying on the carpet around her, blood pouring from the slashes on her arms. I could still see the moment she looked up at me, realizing I was there, the way her eyes went wide just before she got up and charged me, knife in hand.
She’d just died too many times, too many replacements, the doctors had told us. Because that was what happened when death replacement agents worked too hard, for too long. And Rachel had over 200 replacements, a record by anyone’s count.
Someday that will be me—batshit crazy. After all, death replacement agents have a high institutionalization rate. 85% of us get killed or end up in a mental institution.
I know she wouldn’t have tried to hurt me if she had been in her right mind.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
“The father and mother also came up positive for the same day,” Brinkley said. “The whole family is going to die.”
“So what are we thinking?” I asked, and tried to shake Rachel from my thoughts. “Car crash? Bomb?” I could prevent or postpone their death, but if they had some horrendous injury, they would need medical attention. I tried to protect their bodies as much as possible from physical injury, often sacrificing my own in the process—but I couldn’t do everything.
“Just keep your eyes open for anything,” he said and turned away from me. I expected him to just go get into his Impala and drive away.
With the door open he looked back once more. “I saw Rachel.”
The mention of her made my throat go all tight.
“How is she?” I asked.
He looked out over the hood of his car, then down at his boots. “About the same.”
“OK, can we run through it one more time?” Ally asked.
“Sure. The first ten times don’t count anyway,” I said.
She sighed. “You’re right, never mind. You must be tired of explaining this to me.”
“It’s OK. It’s normal to be nervous,” I said and unfastened the seatbelt around me. I turned toward her from the passenger seat. “Let’s go over it one more time if it will make you feel better.”
She exhaled, visibly relieved. “So you will follow this person around and eventually something will happen.”
“They will start to die,” I said.
“How?” she asked.
“We won’t know how exactly, it will just start to happen, and I’ll have to stop it.”
“Right,” she said and then showed me her cell phone. “At that point, when you are dying, I’ll call the emergency services and give them the replacement information.”
“Perfect,” I said, and because I didn’t want her to freak out I had to ask. “You’re not weird about blood, are you? Because sometimes things can get pretty messy.”
Her mouth opened and closed until she actually managed to speak. “So you’re actually going to die die? Perhaps violently?”
I took a breath and considered how to answer. I didn’t want her to run away screaming now. I needed someone to handle the post-death cleanup and field any complications. Brinkley was my usual standby—since Rachel got sick—but I’d told him Ally could do this. I wouldn’t be able to convince him to hire her if she couldn’t handle a replacement. “Yeah, sometimes deaths are graphic. Like once I had a leg come off, and another time I was hit by a bus. I was all over the street.”
Her jaw hung open until she managed to pin it shut again. She looked at the dark house in front of us.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “I know it’s crazy. It took me a minute to adjust to all of it too. If you want to just do something else—”
“No,” she blurted and her hand gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles blanched. “I can do this.”
I grinned. “Good! Let’s do it.”
I checked the clock on my phone once more and saw it was 11:59. Show time!
Before I reached the dark front door, it cracked open. A painted peacock greeted us. Well, not a peacock exactly, but a woman with platinum hair and a shimmery dress that only went as low as mid-thigh. A white fluffy plume shot out from behind her right ear. Who wears a headpiece to a death-replacement? This wasn’t the bar.
“Uh—” I began, suddenly at a loss for words. I felt like I was at the door of a cabaret rather than a family home.
“You’re late,” the woman said in a thick Texan accent. “Jesse, right?”
“And you are?”
She extended her hand to me, her acrylic nails sparkling in the porch light. “Cindy St. Clair. Why are you so late?”
“The day doesn’t start until midnight,” I said. Why should I come to work hours early?
“Oh,” Cindy said and opened the door wider just as Ally came up behind me. “I always come a few hours early, introduce myself to the client and settle in. It makes them more comfortable, I believe.”
“That’s nice,” Ally said and stepped inside. I shot her a look to discourage any crazy ideas that might be settling into her mind. Shadowing someone for 24 hours was bad enough. I was not adding a few more to
each job just to make the client more comfortable.
“If you’re Cindy, then where is Cooper?” I asked.
Cindy motioned toward the living room and we followed her in. Cooper sat on the sofa, a beer bottle between his legs. When he caught me looking at it, he grinned and gave his pelvis a little thrust. Gee-zus.
“Want one?” he asked, grinning down at his crotch before meeting my eyes again.
“Uh, no, I don’t usually drink on the job,” I said.
“This is Jesse,” Cindy said, sneering at Cooper as if he were covered in filth. “The new agent.”
Cooper looked me up and down then huffed.
“Nice to meet you too,” I grumbled and suppressed the urge to give him the finger. I turned to Cindy. “Where’s the family?”
“Upstairs asleep,” she said.
“Shouldn’t you be upstairs with them?” Ally asked, making no effort to hide her disappointment in all of us. “What if they’re dying right now?”
Cooper flipped over his watch and read the time. Then he shrugged. “I’ll take the dad. Unless any of you want the job of carrying around his fat ass.”
No one said anything.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Cooper replied and finished off his beer in one final drawl. He sat the empty bottle on the coffee table and left the room.
Cindy forced a smile. “He’s tired. He’s just come off another replacement.”
“No need to make excuses for him,” I said.
She changed the subject. “Do you want the momma or the kid?” Before I could answer, she went on. “I’ll take the momma, shall I? If this gets physical, it will be easier for me to carry her. I’m taller.”
“I’m 5’3,” I grumbled.
Cindy wasn’t impressed. “And there’s a dog.”
“Oh a dog,” Ally smiled and nudged me as if I should be equally excited.
“Is it a nice dog?” I asked, suspicious. I wasn’t interested in being bitten.
She’d already disappeared toward the bedroom where Cooper presumably waited with the father.
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