“I’m not asking you to accept it,” I said flatly. “I know that these pictures defy all logic and reason, but they’re real – it doesn’t matter what your belief system is, okay?”
“I need a freaking drink.”
“I’ll buy you a forty-ounce bottle of whatever you need to get you through this, Sparks. Just tell me that you’ll help me.”
She let out a weary sigh and returned to her chair. “I’m not even going to ask for the cause of death. Do you have anything in the way of forensic evidence?”
I grabbed the file and sat down in the chair next to her, beyond an arm’s reach. I pulled out a forensics report and handed it to her. She slipped on a pair of glasses and started reading. After about ten minutes of silence, she stood up and once again looked over the photos. She then carefully stacked them into four separate piles and grabbed her pen out of her blazer.
“Okay, this pile is St. Catherine of Alexandria Parish in Mexico City. The next one is St. Margaret of Antioch Church in New Orleans. This one was found at St. Cyriacus Catholic Church in Boston and the last one was found at St. Christophorus Basilica in New York City. The forensics report doesn’t list a cause of death for any of them.”
I grunted. “They’re angels, Sparks. I doubt there’s a medical examiner in this galaxy who could figure out what killed them.”
“Yet it says here their hearts were removed post mortem, but the bodies don’t show any signs of a conventional violent death. No entry or exit wounds from small arms ammunition. They weren’t stabbed or bludgeoned. If these bodies are angels, how in the hell would the Church know a thing about their anatomy? For all we know, having their hearts ripped out is the cause of death.”
I shrugged. “Beats the shit out of me … unless.”
“Unless what?”
“Well outside of the big hole in each of their chests, they all share one thing in common.”
She spun around and gave me a knowing look. “You don’t think those bloody stumps on their backs have anything to do with how they died, do you?”
I pointed to the pile of pictures from New York and spread them out. “There’s a hell of a lot of blood on those feathers, Sparks. You and I have both gone to some pretty horrific crime scenes where there was a ton of blood. What do you think?”
“I think that you actually want me to believe they bled out after someone cut off their wings.” She gave me a wild look. “I can’t believe I even said that! Their freaking wings? Come on, Reaper, how can you expect me to believe that these four victims are angels? If word got out that I was helping you on this, they’ll start sizing me up for a straightjacket. Christ, the only reason I’m here is because for some bizarre reason, I actually believe you might possibly be force for good provided that someone keeps you on a short leash.”
This wasn’t going over as well as I’d hoped.
Okay, maybe I was being naïve because I was expecting Sparks to believe in the unbelievable. I threw her a sympathetic nod and then decided to try a different approach. I just hoped she wouldn’t shoot me for doing it.
“Sparks – do you remember that night last year when-“
“I don’t want to talk about it, Reaper,” she spat out the words.
“But you know what you saw when I touched you. You got a ringside seat to your own death. It was my fault for letting that happen – I should never have done it, but here we are. You know what I am, Sparks. If you’re going to deny that those four victims are angels, then you’re going to have to deny that what I showed you was real as well. And I know that you believe it. But I need you to trust me again, Sparks. Give me your hand.”
“Not on your bloody life, Reaper,” she snapped as she pulled her hand away. “I haven’t slept a full night ever since, and when I do sleep, I have fucking nightmares about it.”
“So … on some level you’re acknowledging that what you saw was real. But your future can be changed because of what you saw that night. All you have to do is avoid that convenience store and what you saw won’t happen.”
She immediately bolted up from her chair. “And if I do, that armed robbery is going to happen and that store owner might wind up shot dead! You’re telling me I should let someone else die instead of me? You’re a supreme asshole, Reaper, and this conversation is over!”
Our meeting was going over about as well as a drag queen at a Hell’s Angel’s meeting, so I did the only thing I could do. I clamped my hand down on Sparks’ right wrist. She stood frozen in place as my essence coursed through her body like bullet train and within seconds, we stood together as shadows in time. A young black woman was lying in a hospital bed, her face twisted in pain and dripping with sweat. A handsome black man in short sleeves held her hand as she bore down in her labour, her breath shooting out of her mouth with sharp puffs of air.
“Push, Elizabeth,” the Doctor said. “The baby is crowning. Just three or four more good and hard pushes until it’s over.”
“Hang in there, baby, you’re almost done,” the father to be said tenderly. “I love you so much, Elizabeth.”
The mother drew on her last reserves of energy with an almighty roar. Her head dropped back down onto the pillow as the Doctor reached down underneath the sheet that covered her legs. In seconds a baby’s cry filled the room and he reappeared with the tiny infant in hand. A nurse quickly cleaned out the baby’s mouth and nostrils as the Doctor cut and clamped the umbilical cord and then she wrapped the infant tightly in a thick flannel blanket. She carried the child over to the new mother and father and said, “Your daughter wants to see you Mr. and Mrs. Sparks. Congratulations.”
I released my grip from Sparks and she slumped back into her chair as her eyes slowly filled with tears.
“Those … those were my parents. That was my birth – I-I saw my own birth!”
I knelt down and placed a firm hand on the arm rest of her chair. Sparks didn’t recoil this time. She ran the sleeve of her blazer across her eyes to wipe away her tears and then gazed at me with a look of bewilderment on her face. I said nothing and slowly nodded.
“You’re truly not human, are you?” she said, more as a statement than a question.
My lips arched up into the closest thing to a sympathetic smile that I could muster and I said, “I try to be, Carol. Most of the time my attempts at becoming human blow up in my face.”
“Then … what are you, Reaper because you sure as shit look human to me.”
I could have stood up and made a cryptic pronouncement about time and space and infinite destiny, but Sparks had just experienced the closest thing in her life to a religious moment and I’m not one for blowing my own horn. Instead I remained kneeling before her, unsure of what to say to her in a way that wouldn’t destroy the moment or possibly scare the living shit out of her any more than she already was. I searched her face for a clue as to how I could reply to her question and all I saw was confusion mixed with a healthy dose of fear. But Sparks is a smart woman. She’s always been a straight shooter in all her dealings with me and I had a grudging admiration not only for her skills as a detective, but also for intellect. I decided to take a gamble and I hoped like hell it wouldn’t backfire.
“The truth of what I am is clouded for me, Sparks,” I said slowly. “What you just saw was nothing more than a shadow in time, but it was your time and nobody else’s. I’m not an angel – I am what my name implies. I’m death itself, just dressed up in second-hand clothing from the thrift store. I don’t carry a sickle and I don’t have a hooded robe hidden away behind the seat of my pickup truck. I’m a function of lives-lived … or at least I used to be. Every human being dies eventually and it is my kind that claims them for the next stage in their journey.”
She blinked a few times as she absorbed what I’d just revealed. “So you’re the grim reaper then?” she sniffled. “Are there others like you?”
I nodded. “There isn’t just one of us, there are legions of reapers. More than you can possibly imagine. More than all the
stars in the sky on a clear night. I made a terrible mistake once and that’s why I’m now living among you.”
“Do you have a name? Do they have names?”
I nodded again. “Probably. We don’t exactly hang out at the bar after work or join a death-dealer bowling league … it’s complicated.”
“Because of you, I’ve now seen my birth and my death. I can’t deal with this, Reaper. How am I supposed to just get on with my life knowing what I know – seeing my own end?”
I shrugged and said, “I screwed up, Carol. But I’m going to make you a promise and I hope that you’ll believe me.”
“What’s that?”
I placed a tentative hand on her knee. She didn’t try to remove it. “I won’t allow anything to happen to you or anyone on the night you’re supposed to die. Do you understand? You’ll be safe.”
I searched her eyes for a sign that I’d gotten through to her and she avoided my gaze. Still, she didn’t remove my hand so that was a positive development because she could easily have been beating me on the head with her chair. She took a deep breath and composed herself as she turned to face me again.
“God help me for saying this,” she exhaled. “I’ve faced death dozens of times in my career but I’ve never shared a room with it. If you are what you say you are, then what’s in those pictures must also be real.”
“They’re as real as the day you were born, Sparks. And someone is killing them. I need to find whoever it is and stop them because you aren’t the only one who’s looked into the future. Normally I can find any killer and-“
“Just how do you do that, anyway?” she asked.
“It’s what I do, Sparks. I’m connected with all living beings because my kind is a part of the cycle of life and death. Besides, we can’t exactly ask for directions to the next death waiting to happen.”
“So you just knew where that guy who killed those girls was? You could have prevented him from killing Bonnie Teller and Elaine Lahey. Why didn’t you?”
“Because screwing around with the natural order of life and death is what got me kicked out of my order in the first place. Nobody gets to decide who lives or who dies other than the guy with the big white beard. I know that sounds cold as hell, but that’s how it works. Other reapers claimed them. Those two girls were killed because it was their time and nobody else’s.”
“So you just got your marching orders and went after him?”
I stood up and pushed my hands into the pockets of my trench coat. “Nobody gave me any marching orders. It took me a bit of work to locate him and because serial killers are an aberration – a cosmic mistake. They are soulless creatures and thankfully very few and far between. But when I concentrate hard enough, I can find them. I want to find them all because that kind of evil isn’t fit to live.”
“We have a justice system, Reaper,” she said flatly. “People need to see these murderers pay for their crimes.”
“Yeah, well sometimes cops don’t have enough evidence to nail someone they know is a killer – that’s one of the ways I’ve earned a living over the years. I get paid for doing a lot of things you probably wouldn’t approve of, Sparks, but I don’t technically exist and a guy needs money to survive.”
She gave her head a hard shake. “Unreal. All of this is unreal.”
“It’s real, Sparks,” I said pointing at the photos. “Will you help me find this guy?”
“Assuming it’s a guy – for all I know the killer is someone like-”
“Like me?” I said, finishing her sentence. “Look, if he is human then it’s a big-ass mystery as to how he’s able to kill an angel. It’s an even bigger mystery as to why I can’t locate him what with not having a soul and all.”
She rose from her chair and stooped over the photos again. “If we forget for a moment that what we’re looking at is supposed to be angels, then we have to look for clues on the bodies.”
“How come?”
She pointed to the Mexico City victim and then to the body found in New Orleans. “This one has its left arm draped over its eyes. This one here has a hand covering its mouth.”
“See no evil, speak no evil?” I mused.
“The ones in Boston don’t. They’re both laid out with their arms extended wide.”
“And you think it means something?”
She clenched her jaw and said, “Serial killers are all about symbolism and we just need to figure out what the symbols are in these photos. If the first two are see and speak no evil, then the last two with their arms outstretched – that has to mean something. This guy is talking to us, Reaper. We have to learn his language … wait a minute.”
“What have you got?”
She pointed to the Boston and New York photos. “Arms outstretched – isn’t that a symbol for prayer?”
“You’re asking me? The last thing I want to do is get into a conversation with the divine.”
“It has to be,” she said, pulling her smart phone out of her purse. “Maybe he’s mocking the Church. Damn – I wish I had an internet connection in here because I’ll bet you ten bucks that his message has to do with the patron saints those churches are named after.”
“And if we can figure out who these saints are we’ll have our first real clue. Not bad, Detective. So I take it you’re cool with helping me on this?”
She slipped her smart phone back in her purse and grunted. “Reaper, I don’t know if these are angels or not. But someone killed them and my job is to catch whoever did it before they have a chance to kill again. I’ll work with you on this, but according to my rules.”
“And those would be?”
“You follow my lead. You steer clear of the homicide division and you don’t go off with your guns blazing. We’re going to catch this guy and then we’ll decide what to do with him.”
I nodded. “That’s fine with me but just remember that you can’t prosecute someone for killing angels since technically, they don’t exist. If anything we’ll hand whoever it is over to the Vatican Police.”
Sparks headed for the door. “Alright. I’ll research those patron saints and get back to you. And Reaper?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t kill anyone between now and the next time we meet.”
“Who me?” I said, pointing to my chest. “That really hurts, Sparks – I’m just a guy who does odd jobs.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I’ll call you tonight.”
9
I stood alongside the statue of Winston Churchill and watched Sparks’ Crown Victoria as it sped away up Spring Garden Road. I counted myself as being unbelievably lucky in securing Sparks help for this job because I have about as much skill at being a detective as I do at being a counsellor at a summer camp for special needs kids. I slipped my pickup into gear and it lurched ahead with a loud clunk, narrowly avoiding a passerby whose head was a rat’s nest of dreadlocks and beads.
I’d just turned onto Robie Street, a mild breeze flowing through my window, when my eyes panned over to the Halifax Common, a huge urban park that attracts everyone from skateboarders to softball teams. A family friendly place at first glance, but once darkness sets in, you’re basically nuts to set foot in the Common because it’s swarming with drug dealers, petty thieves and young gang bangers.
I stared at the empty jungle gym and scratched my head because it’s always teeming with kids even on rainy days. Naturally I decided to investigate, so I pulled my pickup behind a beat up Toyota minivan and slipped it into park as I scanned the area for any sign of life.
And there wasn’t a soul in sight. Nobody. It was mid-morning and the park should have at least been filled with kids from the daycare center at the YWCA just down the street.
“This ain’t right,” I grumbled as I hopped out of my truck and jogged across the road. As soon as my feet touched the park’s grass, I heard a little girl’s high pitched voice singing happily in the distance. The air should have been filled with the sounds of dozens of kids on a sunny spr
ing morning. I followed the beautiful song until I’d climbed a small knoll overlooking a new toddler swing set the city had installed. A little girl of no more than four or five years of age was laughing away as if she didn’t have a care in the world. That wouldn’t have been much problem save for the fact that the guy pushing the swing set had a look about him and my bad guy radar is generally bang on when it comes to locating scum bags.
It was the kind of look that screamed kiddie-diddler.
I freaking loathe pedophiles. Thanks to the Internet, there are secret societies of the bastards that barter and trade in everything from kiddie porn to human trafficking. They are a special kind of scum who don’t deserve a nine millimeter bullet in the back of their heads, and it’s for this reason alone that I keep a buck knife attached to my belt and a blow torch underneath the seat of my pickup.
I hadn’t used either on pedophile. Yet.
The little girl was dressed in a pink wind breaker and jeans with pink butterflies embroidered on the knees. Her long blonde hair was bound tightly in two pig tails and she had a smile on her face that could melt a foot of snow as she pumped her body, willing herself to go higher and higher. The man behind giving her the occasional push was sporting at least a two-day growth of beard. He was wearing a denim blazer and he bore no physical resemblance to the little girl who had now begun to sing a nonsense song at the top of her lungs.
My eyes narrowed as I approached the pair. The man gave me a quick once over and then lowered his gaze, focusing instead on pushing the swing. The little girl paid me no attention, she was lost in the upward motion of the swing and from the look on her face it could have been anyone pushing her. She was awash in the sheer joy of seeing her feet sweeping high in the air.
“How old is your daughter?” I called out to the man as I took a seat on bench facing the swing set. “She’s cute as all hell!”
He blinked a couple of times and looked to my right and left. “She’s my niece,” he said shakily. “Her mom gave her to me for the afternoon, so we decided the park was a pretty good place to kill a few hours.”
Immortal Remains: A Tim Reaper Novel Page 7