His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1)

by J. Eric Hance

  Robert Winston’s Mustang sat in an alley two blocks from the hospital. My little red guide had brought me here, where no one would see me change to the Reaper.

  I slipped back into the driver’s seat now, a little after ten-thirty at night, just three collections and twenty-six hours since I’d last slept.

  Over six months since I’d slept well.

  It was time to go home.

  Funny that I should already think of it that way, having stayed in the apartment just the one night. Very little of that was even spent awake.

  If nothing else, it had the benefit of being only a few minutes away.

  And it had a bed.

  The Mustang roared eagerly to life. I pulled slowly out onto a deserted city street.

  As I drove, Marv and Grace Adams permeated my thoughts. Theirs was a true love story—not the kind that Hollywood likes to tell, with flashy special effects and evil ex-wives, or ruthless kidnappers, or drunken nights of extra-marital debauchery.

  Though, for all I knew, the Adams story might have all that in abundance.

  Theirs was a love that had stood the test of time. Seventy years, according to Marv. And still, at the end, his last thoughts were of her, and her place was as close to his side as she could manage.

  Two halves of a whole.

  I’d never had that.

  Certainly, Michelle and I had a connection; my feelings for her were growing strong, and all signs said she felt the same way. I don’t toss the “L-Word” around lightly, but it might not have been out of place.

  Still, we dated less than a week—three dates total, not counting the night we met at Steve’s New Year’s party.

  And now we were both dead.

  That made things at least difficult, if not a little creepy.

  Sarah had been over a decade before Michelle. She and I dated on and off for roughly ten years after Dad’s death, but rarely more than a few months at a time. Our longest stretch, our final one, lasted almost two years.

  I’d been getting ready to propose.

  And then bad brakes on a cold, rainy night took her from me.

  There’d been a few women in between, of course. Nothing I’d consider serious; a handful of dates here and there. Probably no one that would come to my funeral.

  Or rather, no one that had.

  And now my future prospects seemed grim. I’m guessing that “Angel of Death and Harvester of Wayward Souls” wouldn’t get a lot of positive traction on E-Harmony.

  Or whatever Agents used instead of E-Harmony.

  Marv and Grace had a kind of love that I would never know.

  But Karen knew that love…all too well.

  I exhaled slowly.

  Whatever Robert had been mixed up in hadn’t gone well, that much was clear. Karen was frantic to find the love of her life, a man with whom she’d spent over thirty years.

  I originally thought she needed the truth—reassurance that she wasn’t living a lie. What she really needed, though, was to find her missing half.

  To be made whole.

  I grabbed the envelope from the passenger seat. I didn’t need to see the pictures, or the threat, again—I didn’t think I’d ever forget them. Here was someone who wanted me to run—who wanted me scared, or maybe far worse.

  I was tired of running.

  I was tired of being scared.

  Michael Reaper would choose to do good.

  I crumpled the envelope and threw it out the car window.

  Damn it.

  I might have to keep my promise after all.

  928 South Lane Street no longer seemed quite so uninviting. Sure, it was still gloomy and unpleasant, with a few nasty surprises…but then, so was I. It suited me more now than it did two days ago.

  Maybe that’s why it felt like home.

  The second floor offices were nearly all dark, Al and Mr. Kingston having long since departed for the day. 2E, though, was dimly lit. The door was slightly open, and a sliver of the light, carrying soft harp and guitar, spilled into the empty hallway.

  Emma sat cross-legged on her massage table, a glass of scotch in her hand and the bottle in her lap. She stared down at the glass, her expression melancholy.

  At least now she was back to her casual dress: a long pink t-shirt and black yoga pants. And still, thank goodness, no horns or tail.

  I knocked gently at the door.

  Her head came up slowly, eyes glistening. Emma smiled at me crookedly, and her speech was slightly slurred. “Howdy, neighbor, want a drink?”

  “Sure.” I stepped inside. “Everything all right?”

  Emma slid off the table, shrugging. She crossed to the counter to grab a second glass. “I got stood up tonight. Most of my clients are real assholes, I can’t stand them, but…” she shrugged again, “it still gets to me, you know?”

  As she poured me a glass, I got a good look at the bottle. It was a seventy-year-old scotch whiskey. I didn’t recognize the brand, but then I’m not exactly a scotch snob; I did know enough to realize it was probably a bottle of booze worth thousands of dollars.

  Emma arched her eyebrow as she poured. “Got a name yet?”

  I nodded, no longer hesitating. “Michael…Michael Reaper.”

  She raised her glass, nodding. “Here’s to you, Michael.”

  I raised my glass in response before taking a sip. I whistled appreciatively. “That’s…impressive.”

  Emma sneered. “My clients bring all kinds of weird shit, trying to impress me. Most of it I politely decline. Occasionally, though…” she eyed the bottle with a smirk, “it’s worth keeping.”

  It seemed unlikely any of my “clients” would ever bring me gifts—at least, nothing I’d want. “What’s the weirdest?”

  She thought for a moment, then burst out laughing. “A live ostrich with a diamond-studded collar!”

  It warmed my heart to see her mood lifting. “Seriously?”

  Emma nodded emphatically. “I thought about keeping it, you know, for the omelets.” She mimed cracking a giant egg, then laughed out loud.

  I joined in the laughter, and it felt good.

  As I got to know her better, my demon neighbor became more of an enigma, not less. Her personality was so incongruous with her job; she seemed smart, warm, and friendly, with a good sense of a humor and a strong spirit. Nothing about her personality suggested evil minion of Hell, let alone sex demon.

  And yet, here she was.

  “How did you wind up a demon, Emma?” The question slipped out before I thought about it, but it was too late to pull it back now.

  Her smile suddenly became hard. “I didn’t exactly have a choice, you know. It was that, or get back in line for five more years.”

  “What was so important? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait?”

  The smile vanished completely, leaving just the hardness. Her response was clipped and harsh. “It’s rude to ask an Agent about their life, before…” Emma trailed off, her eyes growing distant.

  She was quiet for a long time.

  I finished my drink slowly, waiting in vain for her to come back. Placing the empty glass at her feet on the massage table, I turned quietly to leave.

  Just as I reached the door, she started talking again—more to herself than to me, it seemed. I felt awkward listening, but it felt more awkward to just walk out.

  “Dad left shortly after Sydney was born. I always blamed her for that. It wasn’t her fault; I mean I knew that—it’s not like she wanted to spend her life in a wheelchair. A real man would have stayed…cared for his family.

  “She always idolized me, and I did everything I could to avoid her. It wasn’t that hard. I was eight years older after all—it was easy to make excuses. And as she grew up, she was smart, beautiful, popular, and she got all of Mom’s attention. I was just…me.”

  Emma wiped her eyes, the drink spilling from its glass. She didn’t appear to notice.

  “Mom always made me promise to take care of my sister, if anything ever
happened to her, to make sure Sydney was okay. I thought it was an empty promise. I really didn’t think…”

  “Two days.” Emma shook her head slowly. “I died two days after Mom. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been on Sydney—fourteen, wheelchair-bound, and all alone. I fought to get back here as quickly as possible: begged, borrowed and stole—whatever it took to skip ahead in the line, cut a ten-year wait down to five. When they offered me ‘succubus in Seattle,’ I didn’t even hesitate.”

  She paused, slowly deflating. “I can’t find her; phone calls, rewards, detectives…the trail is just too damn cold.” Emma looked up to the ceiling above. “She’ll be thirty tomorrow, and I still don’t know if she’s okay.”

  Emma looked down into her glass, her hair falling forward to obscure her features. Her voice barely more than a whisper, she said, “I’m sorry, Mom…I failed.” A few tears landed on her hands and arms, but she made no effort to wipe them away.

  I snuck out quietly, leaving her to her sorrow. I didn’t think we were close enough for me to comfort her through this. Besides, she probably wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning.

  I closed the door as I left, wondering if there was anything I could do to help.

  My apartment was cold and dark.

  And empty.

  I slumped down onto the couch, physically exhausted.

  My mind, though, raced incessantly. My last forty-eight hours had been a carnival ride whirlwind: Michelle, Chris, Joshua, Elliott, Emma and her sister Sydney, Scott, Marv, Grace, Karen…and Robert. Plus three invisible women in white, threats from a mysterious photographer, and the whole freaking Grim Reaper thing.

  Not to mention I had no damn idea if the world was still barreling toward a fiery end, or if I was even supposed to have an idea. Would I know when I made the decision, or took the action, that saved or doomed us all?

  I grunted quietly in the empty dark.

  Too many questions, and too few damn answers.

  Tomorrow morning, I was picking Karen up from the hospital. Before then, I had a promise to keep.

  So I lay back on the couch, in the dark, and began asking questions. I wasn’t sure who I was asking, and I didn’t know if they would answer.

  But, as it turned out, I could get answers, even when the question had nothing to do with my assignments. The questions had to be simple. They must be specific.

  And they must only concern death.

  I can’t, for instance, ask why someone was killed, or who pulled the trigger. Those details are irrelevant in my line of work. I cannot put to rest the great debates of government conspiracy versus lone gunmen.

  Trust me, I tried.

  What, when, where; these are the things that matter to a Reaper.

  What killed this man?

  When did it happen?

  Where did Robert Eugene Winston die?

  Those answers did come…dark answers, which told a tragic tale in brief little puffs of black smoke.

  XIV

  Death of a Salesman

  “My goodness, Michael, I’m fine.”

  Karen stood at the foot of her hospital bed, fully dressed. She tapped her sensible tan shoe impatiently while fidgeting with her purse. Eyes bright, gaze sharp—it was hard to believe I’d found this woman floundering on her living room floor just twenty-four hours ago.

  Her aura was still dark red; the ribbon had shrunk to three fingers overnight.

  It had been a struggle in the first place to convince her a night in the hospital was necessary. Now, waiting on a doctor’s ‘all clear’ appeared almost more than she could bear.

  My news certainly wouldn’t improve the situation.

  Karen might be well rested and anxious, but I was still thoroughly exhausted. My first opportunity at sleep in two days, and I tossed uncomfortably the entire night. The room had been freezing.

  I’d left the window open for Elliott.

  Not that it mattered; I still woke up alone.

  Shaking off my private thoughts, I attempted a reasonable, placating voice. “Karen, please…”

  She cut me off. Her tone remained calm and pleasant, but firm. “I’ve been through this before. Robert and I have lived with this our entire adult lives. I’ll be fine.”

  Shaking my head, I gazed into her eyes. “It’s different this time, Karen; otherwise, our mutual friend…”

  Karen smiled sadly, interrupting me. “I know, Michael. I know.”

  “Listen, about Robert…”

  A very young doctor swept into the room, engrossed in the file he carried. He exuded the cocky arrogance of someone who hasn’t lived enough adult life for the world to wear him down properly. Every hair was perfectly in place, and his face was completely smooth; I assumed he was old enough to shave, despite the evidence.

  His hospital badge read, “D. Hauser.”

  Seriously, Hauser.

  Sometimes it’s just too easy.

  He considered me briefly. With a dismissive shrug, he turned his attention to Karen. “Ms. Winston?”

  “Mrs.,” she responded, in a tone that was pleasant but unyielding.

  The doctor rechecked his file, shuffling through the first few pages slowly. “Ah yes, here it is, Mrs. Winston.”

  He glanced up with a smile.

  I chuckled.

  Karen simply rolled her eyes. “Goodness, how wonderful. May I leave now, Doctor?”

  He responded after once again checking his file. “You’re a very sick woman, Mrs. Winston.”

  Karen nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes, that’s nothing new.”

  “Your heart…”

  “It’s a lost cause; yes, I know.”

  Young Dr. Doogie glanced up quickly, a faint shadow crossing his features.

  Okay, Doogie probably wasn’t his actual name, but seriously…

  “We should run some tests…”

  “Oh my, how long is that likely to take?”

  The doctor rechecked his file listlessly. “If you’ll only stay here a couple days…”

  “I’d be a couple days closer to the grave. No, I think not—I have so few left.”

  He looked from his file, to Karen, and back.

  “Tell me, Doctor,” she asked, reaching out to pointedly close the folder, “if I stay, can you give me a few more months?”

  “Well, no,” he stammered. “I…I certainly…”

  “How about weeks?”

  “Now, Mrs. Winston…”

  “Days?”

  The young man stared at Karen, perplexed and flustered. “Ma’am, please…”

  “Can you even make me just a teeny bit better?”

  Stunned silence was the poor doctor’s only reply.

  “If you’ll forgive me, then,” Karen stopped to properly hang the purse from her shoulder, “I’ll be leaving.”

  She brushed out past the doctor without looking back.

  I should have stopped her—or at least tried. I understood the dire situation of Mrs. Karen Winston’s health, likely far better than the doctor and his precious file.

  But, with only a few days to live, Karen knew exactly what she had left to accomplish. How many of us will be lucky enough to say as much?

  I hadn’t been.

  I patted the doctor’s shoulder and gave him my best commiserative smile. I don’t think it looked much like a smirk at all.

  “Better luck next time, Doog…Doctor.”

  When I caught up to Karen, her tan, sensible shoe tapped double time by the elevator doors.

  “I’m not changing my mind, Michael.”

  I nodded somberly. “I know.”

  “You and your…friend…made me a promise.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  The tapping of her shoe filled the silence as we waited. Protracted minutes passed before the elevator slid open, allowing us to enter. The hospital corridor vanished behind doors of black and chrome, affording some measure of privacy.

  Karen turned to face me with a tear poised at the c
orner of her eye; she was otherwise calm and collected. “Robert’s dead, isn’t he?”

  I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Karen.”

  “And you’re certain?”

  I took a deep breath. “Our mutual friend is.”

  “How…how did it happen?” She squeezed her eyes tight, steeling herself against the answer.

  “He was shot.”

  Karen gasped slightly, squeezing her eyes tighter. “Do you know why?”

  “No, but I do know where.”

  She turned back to the elevator doors, composing herself. Without looking, a practiced hand deftly pulled a tissue from deep within her purse, dabbing at each eye once before making the tissue vanish again. Despite the frailty of her body, Karen might well be the strongest woman I’ve ever met. “You will show me.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Just to the south of downtown, nestled in the shadows of skyscrapers, lies the neighborhood of SoDo. Home to Seattle’s sports stadiums, the corporate headquarters of Starbucks, and the world’s very first Costco, it encompasses much of the city’s industrial district.

  In the northern parts of SoDo, especially around the stadiums, the old industrial and warehouse buildings have been largely remodeled, repurposed, or demolished and rebuilt into thriving commercial and residential spaces. However, as you travel south, the old warehouses still stand, some used for their original purposes, others completely abandoned.

  It was to one such abandoned warehouse that I brought Karen Winston.

  The building was broad but squat: a two-story tan structure with a ring of windows just below the roofline, mostly cracked or busted out. Part of the old sign still hung above a row of three dingy white garage bay doors. Only a few faded red letters remained: r and m above, and a y below.

  Behind the warehouse lay a beautiful but empty stretch of Puget Sound coastline. The surrounding city blocks contained only other abandoned buildings. There were no cars besides ours, nor any foot traffic.

  It was the perfect place to work without notice, or interruption. The busted windows stared back at us like a hundred black, hungry eyes.

  I shivered.