Angel of Death

by Ferguson, Alane

  “Not that big.”

  “Thank you for that, thin one. If folks would just examine their history, they’d see that larger girls like moi used to be the standard for beauty. It wasn’t until the flapper era that skinny chicks like you pushed us out. You’ve ruined the curve, Cameryn. You and your legion of anorexic cousins.”

  It was true that Lyric took up space, but contrary to what she thought, it wasn’t so much her shape as her personality. A gifted student, an artist, a mystic, Lyric was in many ways Cameryn’s opposite, the fire to her ice, the yin to her yang. Outsiders would never have put the two of them together if they’d seen them on the street. With her blue hair and wild clothes, Lyric had a super-sized personality. She towered over Cameryn in height and in attitude. A crystal chanter, a New Ager, a spiritualist, Lyric often turned up her nose at Cameryn’s beloved science, fought against Cammie’s Catholicism, talked right over her when they were together, and made Cameryn laugh like no one else. The bond they’d formed on the playground had never been shaken. They were split-aparts—chosen sisters in the truest sense.

  Lyric jumped onto Cameryn’s bed and dropped the laundry basket on the floor with a resounding thud. Unlike Cameryn, Lyric wasn’t known for being fussy.

  “So! You weren’t at work today. I came by, and they said they sent you home early. Playing hooky, huh?” Lyric accused.

  “Nothing like that. Justin came by and convinced me I had to go with him to check out a body. Turned out it was a dead dog.” Twirling her finger in the air, Cameryn said, “Big whoop. Or maybe—big woof.”

  Lyric grinned. “That man will use any excuse to be with you. You realize he’s in love with you.”

  “You are, as always, delusional.”

  “Deny it if you must, but you know I’m right,” Lyric claimed. “I also detect a hint of reciprocation. Are my psychic powers still cranked?”

  “They are nonexistent. And since you’re being such a pain, I must ask the requisite question. Why are you here?”

  “Because,” Lyric answered, suddenly serious, “I have a message from your mother.”

  Cameryn felt a chill spread through her, seeping from her heart to her extremities. Hardly daring to breathe, she asked, “When did she call?”

  “Today. Just now, actually. The call came into the Grand. Adam was there and he took it, but he couldn’t get ahold of you. He tried—”

  “I turned off my cell.”

  “So here I am, delivering the message.”

  Saying nothing, Cameryn walked to the window and looked out.

  “Cammie,” Lyric spoke low, “are you sure you don’t want to tell your dad what’s going on? I feel like we’re spies or something.”

  “I told you, my dad checks my cell records. He checks our caller ID. If Hannah called here, he’d know.”

  “Tell me again why that would be such a bad thing.”

  “It just would, that’s all,” Cameryn insisted. “What did Hannah say?” Still staring out the dormer window, she watched the orange-gold sun paint the tips of the mountains as she waited to hear the newest message. She had meant to let Hannah go, just like her father and grandmother wanted . . . until that day at the Grand when the first phone call came while she was working her night shift. That was the night her mother arose once more, the night when the real secrets had started.

  “Hey, kid, what are you doing staring out the window?” her father asked from the doorway. “I thought you were supposed to be folding laundry.”

  Startled, Cameryn snapped to attention. "Dad! ” she said. “Um . . . hi.”

  “And hello to you, Lyric,” Patrick added. “Long time no see.”

  Lyric’s eyes had gone wide with panic. “Hello, Mr. Mahoney,” she answered. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Yes, I’m very sneaky. What on earth were you two talking about? Cameryn’s lost every ounce of blood from her face.”

  “Boys,” Lyric said brightly. “We were talking about boys.” Cameryn had to hand it to her: Lyric could think fast.

  “Ah, that explains it. We’re strange creatures, we who are the home of the Y chromosome.” Leaning against the doorframe, wearing jeans and a black cable-knit turtleneck, Patrick Mahoney smiled at the girls. Then he straightened, pulling his shoulder from the doorframe. “I don’t mean to rush you, Lyric, but I need to talk to the kid alone. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Mahoney. I’m actually running off to meet Adam.” Lyric’s pale eyes shifted to Cameryn, silently apologizing, and then she gathered herself and hopped onto the floor. “I’ll talk to you later, Cammie. Don’t forget to fold the rest of your laundry.”

  “I won’t,” said Cameryn. “See ya.”

  “Yeah. Later. Good-bye, Mr. Mahoney.” Lyric’s blue hair disappeared down the hallway, like a wave retreating from the shore.

  “So, Cammie, do you have a minute?” her father asked.

  “I guess.” Since there was only one chair in the room, she sat on her bed and pulled up her legs, yoga-style. But her father surprised her. Instead of the chair, he gestured at her bed. “Mind if I sit by you?”

  Without a word, she planted her hands on her bed and raised her body so that she could scoot back into her pillows. Her father sank onto the edge of the mattress, and when he did, she noticed he looked different somehow. It took her a moment to register: Patrick, who had never been a man who would “slick himself up,” as he called it, now looked as though he’d been polished. Gone was the old, thick brown leather belt, cracked and scored like elephant skin. Gone, too, were his old work boots. Today he wore new hiking boots made of fawn-colored suede and a smooth leather belt with a silver buckle. His hair seemed strangely controlled, and it took a minute before Cameryn detected the difference. His neck, which usually bristled with straggly white hairs, had been recently shaved. She thought she smelled the barest whiff of hair gel.

  “How come you’re so fancied up?” she asked.

  “I had a meeting in Ouray.”

  “With who?”

  “A judge.”

  “What judge?”

  “I—it doesn’t matter,” he said, waving her off. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, Cammie. Couple of things. First, I wanted to talk to you about your job.”

  “My job at the Grand?” She knew she was being cagey, but she didn’t like the look of intensity in her father’s eyes. Just the night before, she’d overheard Mammaw’s exasperated voice from behind the bedroom wall: “Patrick, your daughter needs you now more than ever. Stop putting this off—talk to the girl already!”

  “What’s wrong with my job at the Grand?” she asked.

  “No, no, no, I’m not talking about your job as a waitress—”

  “Server,” she corrected.

  “Server, right. What I mean is”—he took a breath— “your job as assistant to the coroner. Your job working for me. Mammaw tells me Justin dragged you off to look at some carcass. Did that upset you?” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Because I’m wondering if looking at bodies is the reason you seem . . . off . . . lately.”

  At this point it seemed best to stay quiet. So she just stared at him.

  “Okay, ’off’ may not be the right word. ‘Stressed’ might be better. But the point is that I can tell something’s wrong. It’s like you’re . . . pulling away.” He looked at her, his eyes anxious. “Is it all the death?”

  “I still want to be a forensic pathologist,” she insisted, a little too loudly. She tried again in a quieter voice. “Being assistant to the coroner is going to help me get into medical school. It’ll give me an edge. You know I’m good—”

  “You’re about the best I’ve seen,” he agreed, “which is pretty amazing since you’re only seventeen. But your mammaw’s worried that forensics is to blame for your moodiness.”

  “Mammaw’s wrong,” she answered. “If I’m moody it’s my age. Teenagers are by definition grumpy. It’s written on our DNA.”

  Nodding tersely, he sa
id, “All right then. So we’ll leave our forensic life as it is.” He picked up an old stuffed animal she kept on her bed, the puppy dog she’d named Rags, then absently set it back down. “Now, for the other matter. I want to talk to you . . . about Hannah.”

  Cameryn felt the panic rise. Had he heard the conversation with Lyric? Did he know about the telephone call? But a quick check of his eyes told her he didn’t know a thing.

  She fought to keep her own expression under control. Emotions existed beneath her surface, gliding unseen through her own dark inner waters. But if her father looked at her face closely, he might be able to see what moved beneath. She knew she couldn’t risk it. Everything concerning Hannah had to remain hidden—she’d promised her mother that much. Swallowing, Cameryn tried to make her face smooth. “I just had this same conversation with Mammaw,” she told him. “I don’t want to have it again.”

  “I know. It’s a subject I’d rather forget about myself,” he replied. “But that may have been a mistake.” His hand floated to the top of her head, and she felt it press down, gently, tenderly. “You’re so much like her, you know,” he said. “I don’t know how she looks now, but back then, your mother wore her hair long. Long and dark and curly. She was small like you, too. I didn’t know how she could carry twins in that tiny body.”

  “Dad—stop. I don’t want to talk about this.” Cameryn pulled away from his touch, something she had never done before. He stared at her, his mouth agape for seconds or a minute, Cameryn wasn’t sure which.

  “Cammie,” he asked, “what is going on?” He started to say something more, but the telephone rang, and a moment later Mammaw called shrilly, “Patrick! It’s for you.”

  Her father didn’t move.

  Cameryn said, “Go ahead and take it.”

  “No. No, we need to finish this.” Turning toward the door he called out, “Tell whoever it is I’ll call them back, Ma.” Although his head turned slightly, he kept his eyes locked onto Cameryn’s as he spoke, and Cameryn returned his gaze.

  Her grandmother’s voice shot up again. “It’s the sheriff. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Hold on, Cammie, this should just take a minute.” Reaching past her for her bedside phone, he punched the TALK button and barked, “What is it, John?”

  Patrick’s brows knit together as he twisted away from Cameryn. “When? . . . Are you sure?” A beat later he added, “Of course. . . . Yes, right away. We’ll be right over,” then tossed the phone onto the bed. He blinked hard and ran a hand through his hair, destroying its sheen.

  “Dad—what happened?”

  “You know Brad Oakes?” His voice was tight. It seemed he had to push from his diaphragm to get the words out.

  “Yeah, I had him last year for Advanced English. Why? ”

  “Some kid just found him.”

  “Found him?” She echoed the words, buying time to stall the next words she already knew were coming.

  “Sheriff says it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen, and I need to get right over to make sense of it. He’s dead, Cammie. Brad Oakes is dead.”

  Chapter Three

  “MR. OAKES WAS the greatest teacher,” Cameryn told her father. “He really was amazing. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  Patrick nodded as he rolled the gurney toward the back of the family station wagon. Perched on the gurney was his “death bag,” a black gear bag with the word STREETPRO stamped on the side. In it were all the tools he needed to process a scene: latex gloves, a gunshot-residue kit, paper and plastic bags, shoe covers, medical tape. Next to the death bag was a new body bag, still in its plastic, set on top of a clean white sheet that her mammaw had washed and folded. Although most body bags were not reused, the sheets always were. Mammaw bleached and cleaned them after every death and stacked them in the garage on the shelf.

  “I’ll wash them for you, son, but I don’t want those sheets in my house,” she’d declared. “They give me the willies. And don’t tell me any details about what happened to the poor souls. Remember, Pat, I don’t want to know.”

  That was another big difference between her mammaw and herself. Cameryn always wanted to know. Her father said those who worked with the dead were the last ones to hear them speak because their remains told the story, however softly spoken. If Patrick didn’t hear their final whispers, no one would.

  “Brad Oakes was a fairly young man,” he told Cameryn now, “which makes it an even greater tragedy.”

  “Was it a heart attack?”

  “Here, smooth the tarp down. No, I don’t think it was his heart—Jacobs was going on and on about the bizarre condition of the body, whatever that means. I’m confident we’ll be taking a trip to Durango for an autopsy. You got the tarp all the way in the corner?”

  “Got it,” Cameryn grunted, smoothing the heavy plastic—the one to protect against body-fluid leakage—into the edges of their station wagon. Since Silverton was so small and its budget so tight, the old Mahoney family station wagon had been pressed into duty, at times doubling as the county hearse. When her father was called on a case, he’d slap a long rectangular magnet, which sported the words SAN JUAN COUNTY CORONER in thick red letters, onto the driver’s-side door. Once, though, her father had forgotten to put the sign on their car. She had been riding with him when they’d stopped on Greene Street, where they were approached by a tourist wanting directions. Her father had blandly explained how to get to the store named Fetch’s, and the woman thanked him and walked away, oblivious to the corpse zippered into a body bag in the station wagon’s bay.

  Cameryn loaded the satchel, sheet, and body bag into the back of their car while her father collapsed the gurney. In sync, she helped her father slide it inside and slam the hatch shut. Then, putting his arm around her, he pulled her close and kissed her roughly on the top of the head.

  “You’re sure you’re ready for this?” he asked. “Since he was your teacher and all?”

  “I’m just glad I can help.”

  “It’s all we can do for him now.”

  It was strange, Cameryn thought, the way life could change so suddenly. Ten minutes ago all she could think about was the tragedy of her mother, and here was another, more immediate heartbreak that had plunged her feelings further into the depths. Get professional, she told herself. Someone has died. Do the work.

  Her analytical mind resurfaced, ready to interpret the scene and sift for clues. Patrick, too, seemed to have shoved their prior conversation into his own personal underground. Though they were father and daughter, they were now coroner and assistant to the coroner, and, most importantly, a forensic team.

  Cameryn had barely slammed the door before her father backed the car out of their driveway and headed for River Street and the tiny blue home where Mr. Oakes lived. Had lived. Patrick’s eyebrows, thick as awnings, came together as his fingers tapped the steering wheel. He was nervous, that much was clear. Whatever Sheriff Jacobs said had rattled him, which surprised Cameryn since her father didn’t rattle easily.

  Bizarre condition? What did that mean, exactly? Cameryn wondered. What were they walking into? Mostly Patrick Mahoney dealt with the garden variety passings, when ancient Silverton residents expired in sad but not unexpected ways. Those required nothing more than signing a release that allowed the departed to be taken away to a mortuary. But a questionable death like this meant pressure. From this point on, Cameryn knew, everything she and her father did would count. The coroner couldn’t make a mistake because every move would be scrutinized by judges and lawyers. In the game of death, you played for keeps.

  She pressed her forehead against the window and felt the chill of the glass, wishing it could cool her mind and the thoughts that seemed to fever her. The station wagon passed brightly painted, jellybean-colored houses as they headed east to Silverton’s foothills. Most of the trees out here were evergreen, although every once in a while they’d pass clumps of aspen stripped bare by the cold November wind. She remembered Mr. Oak
es reading a poem about seasons and how in nature things seem to die, only to be reborn in the spring. But Mr. Oakes wouldn’t be reborn. He’d be buried and stay in the ground or maybe blow away in ashes. There would be no spring for him, ever again.