by Tim Waggoner
Next to one of the tables was a gurney, and lying face up on it, naked, was Mason McKelvey, owner of McKelvey’s Motorama, Brennan’s most successful used car dealership. He’d been brought in less than an hour before, after spending the last nine days of his life in a hospital bed as his kidneys slowly ceased functioning. A shame, really, as he’d only been in his early sixties; not young, but then again, not all that old, either. Harrison had never bought a car from Mason—the funeral business had treated him well, and he could afford to purchase his vehicles new—but he knew the man from both the rotary club and the town’s merchants’ association. A nice enough fellow, if a bit loud and self-serving. Though as he’d been a salesman, and by all accounts, cold-blooded and ruthless when it came to forging a deal, Harrison figured the man’s jovial obnoxiousness was par for the course. When most people came to him, lying naked and statue-still, they seemed diminished somehow; smaller, sunken in on themselves, skin sallow and hard like wax figures. Mason was no exception. A thin man with a surprisingly thick shock of wild white hair, a sharp nose, and oversized ears, he appeared almost comical despite his current surroundings. Down here in the embalming room, there was nothing about Mason McKelvey to indicate the position of power and respect he’d held in life. Not for the first time, Mason thought that death truly was the great equalizer.
Harrison certainly understood how surface appearances didn’t always show the person within, for he himself defied the stereotype that most people had of morticians. Instead of looking like Gomez Addams—grim black suit, corpse-white complexion, mad gleam in his eyes—he was tall, ruddy-faced, and rotund, like a clean-shaven Santa Claus. His demeanor matched his appearance. He had a constant smile on his face, and he laughed often and easily, a loud infectious sound that came from deep in his chest, inviting everyone who heard it to join in.
Harrison shifted Mason from the gurney onto one of the marble tables with an ease born of equal parts strength and long practice. He wheeled the gurney into a corner of the room to get it out of the way, and then returned to consider Mason. The first steps in preparing a client for embalming are simple: scrub the skin, clean the nails, shampoo the hair, and then massage the limbs to break up rigor mortis. Then the mouth is sewn shut and the facial features carefully posed before the body stiffens. After that, the process becomes more involved. The blood is drawn, the stomach emptied, and the body filled with arterial firming fluid, which also gives the skin color. Harrison preferred using Index 32 lithol, which he purchased from a specialist supply company.
The tools of Harrison’s trade surrounded him: the trocar that emptied out his clients’ stomachs, the scalpels he used to dig into their arteries, the Duotronic pump that injected chemicals into their bodies, causing them to give off a vinegar-like scent. But he didn’t reach for any of these. Instead, he pulled open a drawer and removed a makeup kit. He placed it on the table next to Mason’s head, opened it, and went to work.
Half an hour later, he was finished. Harrison stepped back to admire the results.
He had covered Mason’s face, ears, and neck with white, outlined his lips with bright red to create a garish smile, and painted a large black dollar sign over each eye. On the left cheek he’d written the word “Buy” in black, and on the right he’d written “Sell.” He’d combed Mason’s hair up and back, sprayed it so it would remain in place, and then colored it green to represent money.
He removed a hand mirror from the makeup kit and held it in front of Mason’s new face. “What do you think? You’ve heard of a clown car, right? Well, now you’re a car clown!”
Harrison laughed, but evidently Mason didn’t get the joke, for he remained silent. Screw him. Harrison thought it was funny.
He returned the mirror to the kit, walked over to the counter, and picked up his camera. He then spent the next several minutes taking pictures of Mason from different angles.
“You know you’re just going to have to clean all that off.”
The voice startled Harrison, but he recognized it almost immediately. Instead of turning to look at the speaker, he continued shooting photos as he answered.
“I’ll admit that mine is a transitory art, but that’s what makes it so special. I reveal my clients’ inner nature, bring it to the surface for perhaps the first and only time since the day they were born, and then I restore the more familiar appearance their family and friends expect. But for a short interval at least, if only down here with me, they become their truest, most profound selves.”
Satisfied he’d gotten some good shots for his latest scrapbook—he’d already filled seven others—he lowered his camera and finally turned to face Conrad.
Conrad stepped forward from the shadowy corner where he’d been standing and approached the table where Mason lay. Harrison didn’t question how Conrad had managed to enter the embalming room without his hearing him. He knew that he became so focused when practicing his art—which he considered his true vocation—that a bomb could go off behind him and he’d barely notice. Besides, Conrad had a way of moving snake-silent when he wanted to.
Conrad glanced at Mason’s altered face. “I suppose it was his ears and nose that gave you the idea to make him up as a clown.”
“That, and the awful TV commercials he made for his dealership. He was one of those car salesmen who always talk too loud and fast when they’re on camera, you know?”
“Death shouldn’t be mocked like this,” Conrad said. “It is sacred.”
Harrison didn’t attach any mystic or religious significance to death. As far as he was concerned, it was only a biological process, no more important or meaningful than flipping off a light switch when you left a room.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked to change the subject. “Should I assume that you’re in need of the kind of materials that only I can supply?”
“Thank you, but no. At the moment, I happen to be well stocked.”
Harrison frowned. “Nothing personal, but I didn’t take you to be the type to make social calls.”
“I’m not.” Mason’s body lay between them, but now Conrad began slowly walking around the table, approaching Harrison. “Do you remember when I first came to you?”
“Of course.” How could he forget the day a well-dressed, overly formal man entered his parlor and introduced himself as Conrad Dippel? Conrad—who looked far more like an archetypal mortician than Harrison ever would—had brought with him several containers of a material called NuFlesh and a business proposition.
“I sought you out for several reasons. One was your profession. It is an ancient and noble one which my lady well regards. Another was your surname: Bauer. It means brewer in German. My lady has always held a fondness for the Germanic people, and I myself am honored to claim that heritage as well.”
Harrison had heard Conrad speak of his lady before, but he had no idea who he was referring to. Some sort of supervisor, he supposed.
Conrad continued. “Not to mention the fact that you have access to certain ‘materials,’ as you call them, along with facilities suitable for working with them. Also, I asked around town about you and discovered you had a reputation for somewhat eccentric behavior. Not an uncommon prejudice when it comes to those who devote themselves to the funereal arts, I admit, but I found the rumors intriguing.”
Conrad had reached Harrison’s side of the table and now stood only inches from him. Given his height and girth, Harrison rarely felt physically threatened, but even though he outweighed Conrad by a good margin, he felt intimidated by the man, and it was all he could do to keep from shrinking back in his presence.
“However, after working together for several weeks, it became apparent to me that while you have sufficient...” He glanced at Mason’s clown face. “...imagination, you lack another quality vital to the success of my project.” He reached toward Mason’s face, and with his index finger wiped away a portion of white. He then slowly rubbed the makeup between thumb and forefinger, as if taking his ti
me to get a feel for it. “Do you know what that quality is?”
Harrison sensed that something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. The emotional atmosphere in the room was like the building electrical charge in the moments before a thunderstorm broke loose, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
He shook his head.
“Medical training. It’s my own fault, of course. In my day, professions were less specialized than they are now, and scientific advances in biology, anatomy, and medicine, meager as they might have been, were often made by those who worked with the dead. I believed that my experience could make up for what you lacked, but I soon saw that this was hubris on my part. I could not fault your enthusiasm for the work, but our progress was slow, and my lady grows impatient. So when another candidate presented herself, one who had the medical training you lack, I decided to change horses in midstream, as I believe the saying goes.”
Harrison wondered where Conrad was going with all this. Wherever it was, he doubted it was anywhere good.
“I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Besides, you continued to pay me for services rendered, so I figured I couldn’t complain,” Harrison said.
Harvesting organs and even entire limbs from his clients posed little problem. The organs of course were never missed, and as for the limbs and even torsos, mannequin parts were effective substitutes. If necessary, the hands were gloved due to an unfortunate chemical “accident” that took place during the embalming process. Families were extremely unhappy at this—until Harrison offered them a discount to make up for the extra shock during their time of grief.
“But my assessment of your skill level turned out to be premature,” Conrad said. “Have you seen today’s paper?”
Harrison could now guess where the conversation was heading, and he really didn’t like it. “I don’t follow local news. Nothing interesting ever happens in Brennan.”
“Then it’s most fortunate that I happened to stop at a convenience store on my way over and purchase a copy. I discovered an article I think you might find intriguing, and I clipped it out for you.” He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, removed a folded piece of newsprint, and held it out to Harrison.
Harrison didn’t take it right away. He kept the temperature cool in the embalming room—not out of any professional need, simply because he was more comfortable that way—but in the last few minutes the air had grown decidedly chilly. It could have been his imagination, but he didn’t think so. The drop in temperature felt like a sign of danger, the equivalent of an angry rattlesnake shaking its tail in warning. Because of this, Harrison stood frozen, unsure what to do—or not do—next. In the end he reached out and took the clipping from Conrad. He unfolded it, trying to convince himself that he only imagined the newsprint felt cold as ice, and read. It didn’t take long to get through the article, and when he was finished, he looked up and met Conrad’s gaze, although he really didn’t want to.
“I know you’re responsible for this monstrosity,” Conrad said, “so don’t insult my intelligence with a denial. You’re the only person in town, aside from myself and my current colleague, who could’ve hoped to even have a chance at restoring the dead to life, let alone...” His lips pursed in disgust. “...altering their physiognomy.”
Despite Conrad’s warning, Harrison nearly denied it anyway, but chose instead to remain silent.
“I had barely begun tutoring you in the alchemical arts, and the instruction I gave you was minimal at best,” Conrad continued. “You shouldn’t have been able to resurrect an insect, let alone a human.”
“He has two heads,” Harrison said. “Does that mean he counts as two people?”
“I understand why you did it.” Conrad glanced at the clown-faced corpse lying on the marble table. “Perhaps understand is too strong a word. I recognize that you have a proclivity for the outré in your work. What I don’t understand is how you accomplished it on your own. Pray, enlighten me.”
Harrison didn’t see how any good could come from his admitting the truth, but was so thrilled with what he’d done that he had to tell someone—even if that someone might kill him for it.
“I paid attention to you as you worked,” he said. “Much more attention that you realized. You carry an ancient leather-bound notebook with all sorts of alchemical formulae in it. You left it lying on the counter once, and I was able to flip through it while you were busy with other tasks. I may not have an eidetic memory, but my memory is excellent. Plus, I took pictures of the formulae with my phone for later reference. That information was all I needed to begin my search on the Internet. Then, after you moved on to a new assistant, I got to work. Most of the information I found was nonsense, but I knew what to look for, so I recognized it when I came across the real thing. Once I’d amassed enough knowledge about technique, all I needed was some NuFlesh. I paid a call on Dr. Martinez and told him that I was interested in trying out his wonderful new product as an alternative to mortician’s putty. He gladly sold me several boxes of the material. After that, it was mostly a process of trial and error. Getting hold of the proper chemicals, mixing them in the right proportions under the perfect conditions, performing the rites without a flaw...” He trailed off and gave Conrad an embarrassed smile. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?”
“You must have used fresh corpses. If any significant decay sets in—”
“The resurrected’s physical form won’t be stable, and will eventually rot away. I know. Despite the fact that I do have access to the bodies of the recently deceased, families would notice if any of their loved ones turned up missing. So I drove my hearse to Crichton—it’s fifty miles from here—found a pair of donors outside a bar late one night, and picked them up. It really wasn’t any trouble. Ether might be old-fashioned, but it’s a wonderfully effective hunting tool.”
“You assembled the creature here?” Conrad asked.
“Yes. I’ve taken to calling him Byron.” He paused, but Conrad gave no reaction. “By-ron? Bi? As in two? Two heads, get it?”
Conrad looked at him blankly.
Harrison sighed. It seemed neither the living nor the dead appreciated his sense of humor.
“And where is the creature now?”
“How should I know? He’s like a cat, comes and goes as he pleases. He sleeps in an old shed out back where I used to keep lawn equipment. Which works out well. I mean, I can hardly have a naked two-headed man running around inside when there’s a service going on, can I?”
He thought for a moment. “Do you think Byron will eventually become Brennan’s version of Bigfoot? I hope so. It would be good for the tourist—”
Before he could say the word “trade,” Conrad’s right hand shot out and grabbed hold of his throat, cutting off both his voice and his air. Conrad’s hand was so cold it burned Harrison’s flesh. He gripped Conrad’s arm with both of his hands and tried to break free, but even though the man didn’t look all that strong, his grip was like frost-covered iron, and Harrison couldn’t dislodge it.
“While I must admit to being impressed by your initiative, I can’t allow you to interfere with my plans. The last thing I need is any undue attention to be drawn—”
Conrad’s phone went off in his pocket. Harrison was surprised to hear it had a musical ring tone, and even more surprised that it was Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Maybe the grim and oh-so-proper Mr. Dippel had a sense of humor after all.
Conrad maintained his grip on Harrison’s throat as he dug his phone out of his pants pocket with his left hand and answered the call.
“Hello?” He spoke that one word and no more. He just listened, scowl deepening and jaw clenching. His grip tightened too, and Harrison began to feel lightheaded, almost as if he was floating, and gray spots danced in his vision. He heard the sound of a vast amount of water—a river or even an ocean—roaring as it circled an unimaginably large drain, one that led down into a dark
ness blacker than any he’d ever conceived. He knew he’d soon be caught up in the swirling tide and swept down into that endless night. He wasn’t afraid, though, was rather looking forward to it, in fact. After working with death for so long, he was finally going to get to experience it for himself. His only regret was that he hadn’t specified in his will who he wanted to prepare his body for burial. There were a couple other morticians in town, but Harrison wouldn’t trust either of them to stuff a turkey, let alone work on his corpse. He supposed he’d have to take what he could get. It was too late to—
Conrad’s hand sprang open. Released from the man’s grip, Harrison fell to his hands and knees and sucked in wheezing lungfuls of air. It looked like he wasn’t going to die today. He was disappointed, but he consoled himself with the thought that the drain would be there waiting for him when his time came at last.
Into his phone, Conrad said, “You have my gratitude. I shall bring some more unguent by for you later as a thank you. No charge.”
He disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket.
“It seems the undue attention I spoke of has already come to us. You are fortunate the call came when it did, for now I have need of you.” He smiled. “For a while longer, at least. I want you to find this creature of yours, bring it here, confine it, and then contact me immediately.”