Immortal Remains: A Tim Reaper Novel

by Sean Cummings

  “Can you cook?” I shouted. “This is important.”

  She stood up and wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. “Yeah – I can cook,” she shouted back, her voice shaking. “Sort of.”

  I took another deep breath and kicked at the pavement with the heel of my boot. “Look, Amy – it’s only going to be a couple of days, right?”

  She nodded. “Just until I can get in touch with my family – I won’t stay long.”

  I fished another cigarette out of my trench coat and lit it. I gestured for her to follow me, and then headed back to my pickup. A meeting with Dane Woollcott would have to wait.

  I hopped in and unlocked the passenger door as Amy hustled across the street. She swung open the door and pulled off the fake diamond ring she was wearing. She thrust out her hand and said, “Here – I’m not looking for charity. This is payment, okay?”

  My eyes panned down to the ring and then back to her. “Keep the stupid ring,” I said, shaking my head. “Get in the truck and I’ll get you situated.”

  “I want you to have it, Reaper. I’m not a freeloader, so just take it.”

  “Never said you were,” as I slipped my truck into gear. “You can pay me by making me some breakfast when we get back to my place. Deal?”

  She climbed in and threw me a warm smile. “It’s a deal.”

  13

  When we arrived back at my flat, I excused myself to have a shower. The hot water splashing down my aching body felt good, but it offered little in the way of relief for a guy who’d been shot to shit only a few hours ago. I gazed down at my chest and ran my finger along a small indentation in the skin, a tiny scar-covered reminder of my run-in with a nameless, faceless sniper.

  Oh, and there was a massive plum-coloured bruise about the size of a basketball, too.

  I scrubbed a handful of shampoo in my hair and lathered up as I contemplated precisely why I’d offered temporary shelter to a wayward working girl. The last thing I needed was a perky looking distraction with a pretty face when I was knee-deep in a case involving elemental forces who could burn the planet to a cinder with little more than a wave of a hand. So far I’d learned that whoever was killing angels was also killing demons and for some reason, Halifax was relevant. The question of why it was relevant gnawed at me as I threw on a bathrobe and headed down the hall to the kitchen. The smell of grease and burnt-to-a-crisp bacon filled the air as I took a seat at my dinette.

  “I thought you said you could cook,” I said with a grimace as I gulped back a mouthful of coffee swimming with coffee grounds.

  Amy hopped up on the counter and gave me a little shrug of her shoulders. “I said I could sort-of cook.”

  “Uh-huh … so if you can’t cook, what are you good at?” I asked, spitting the coffee grounds into a paper napkin.

  She arched an eyebrow and her lips curved up into sultry looking smile. “Do you really need to ask?”

  “Yeah – duh. I mean besides boinking.” I said flatly. “Girls from Toronto don’t usually wind up working the streets of Halifax. As a matter of fact, it’s the other way around – most girls your age want to get out of Dodge as quickly as possible. So why are you here?”

  Her sultry smile dissolved and she gave me a little shrug. “It’s a movie-of-the-week. I came out for university – Dalhousie. Anyway, too much partying my first year led to a heap of trouble for me and naturally I just had to party into my second year. My grades were terrible, I cut myself off from my family and of course, there was a boy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And he was a dealer, right?”

  She raised a finger to her nose and pointed at me. “Bingo. I started using and pretty soon I needed more money to support my habit. That led to me becoming a … anyway, I’ve been clean for a year now. I go to NA meetings and I have a sponsor.”

  “Why aren’t you staying at your sponsor’s place instead of gracing me with your company?” I asked, surprised by her candor.

  “Well,” she said, half-groaning. “He knows what I do for a living and he’s been trying to get into my pants for more than a year. If I were to stay at his place, he’d expect me to … well, you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. “Oh, right – you’d have to put out. Well you are a hooker – you should expect as much.”

  She flashed me an icy glare and hopped off the counter. Her eyes bore into me as she stomped across the kitchen floor and dug a finger into my chest. “You’re a huge asshole, did you know that?”

  I swiped her hand away and took another swig of the worst cup of coffee known to man. “Maybe I am, but I deal in reality and everyone has a shit story about their past. People piss and moan about how hard their lives are and half the time they forget that choices they make are responsible for their lot in life. Listen, you’d better not be lying to me when you say that you’ve been clean for a year.”

  She crossed her chest. “Scout’s honour. Tell me … what is it that you do to afford such luxury trappings? You carry a gun but there’s nothing about you that comes close to law enforcement. And you still haven’t explained the bullet holes and blood.”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, as I gnawed at a strip of nearly incinerated bacon. “And my place isn’t luxurious. It’s a flat – a boring old flat in a crummy part of town.”

  “I was being facetious,” she clucked. “You say your name is Reaper. I’m thinking you’re involved with organized crime somehow. Are you a cleaner or what do they call it … a fixer?”

  “I do odd jobs for money – that’s all you need to know.”

  She pursed her lips tightly and her eyes narrowed as she hopped back up on the counter. “Sounds like you’re a private investigator. I’ve never met a P.I. before – everything I know about them comes from television.”

  “I’m not a P.I. and TV shows bear little resemblance to my life, trust me. Anyway, I’m dealing with something right now that would probably make your eyeballs bleed if you ever found out about it. The fewer questions about me, the better things will be for everyone involved. Got it?”

  “Got it – well it is kind of late. I guess I’ll just crash on your couch then?”

  “This is a one bedroom flat and in the shape I’m in, I wouldn’t survive a night on my couch. There’s food in the fridge and a carton of smokes in the crisper – keeps ‘em fresh. Seeing as how we’re going to be roommates for a couple of days, it’s probably best to set down some ground rules.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Alright,” I said, gesturing for her to follow me. “Rule one is you clean as you go. Don’t leave your junk lying around because I’m a neat freak. Rule two is that you don’t answer the phone or the door. Ever. Rule three is I make the rules and I can add or subtract rules as long as you’re staying here.”

  “Sounds fair enough,” she said as she sat down on my sofa. “I have a question, though.”

  “Another one? Rule four is that you stop asking me questions – it’s giving me a headache.”

  She stretched her long legs across the sofa and said, “Why did you help me? You don’t seem to have an agenda that involves getting free sex, so what gives?”

  I yawned as I leaned against the doorway leading to my bedroom. “That French bastard Emil needs to be reminded once in a while that he’s not untouchable. There’s that and the fact that I’m not a fan of anyone who goes around slapping women – hookers or not. I mean, I ain’t a social worker or anything, but I know that women don’t make a conscious choice to do what you do. There’s always a reason for it that has to do with lives falling apart and no shortage of desperation. I might come off like a hard-ass most of the time, but I’m not entirely without compassion.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Is that what this is? Compassion? You don’t have any ulterior motives?”

  “The only motive I have right now is sleep. Look, I said my life was complicated and I meant it. But I do have a pretty strict code when it comes to the ladies. You don’t beat up women �
�� ever.”

  She gave her head a little shake. “Chivalry is alive and well in Halifax, it seems. Is it okay if I take a shower before crashing?”

  “Go nuts. There’s a linen closet next to the bathroom and there’s a big ass comforter and a couple of pillows in there. I’m going to bed.”

  She got up from the sofa and gave me a soft smile – it was genuine and honest and actually kind of beautiful to look at. Her eyes twinkled amid the ambient glow from the lamp and I decided I’d made the right decision in helping her get away from the French prick. She was too young to face the kind of hardship that consumes most girls who work the street. Too innocent to get slapped around by an asshole like Emil Vachon, and way too pretty to be in the same room with a guy like me.

  “Thanks for helping me,” she said quietly. “Emil really meant to hurt me tonight and you saved me from that. You got me away from him.”

  “The next step is up to you, Amy,” I said. “You get yourself back with your family and people who care about you. I’ve been around a long time and one thing I’ve learned is that it’s never too late to start over.”

  ***

  I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling in the darkness. I’d been lying there for more than an hour, my head swimming with unanswered questions about dead angels and motive. Clearly the Church decided that whoever was behind the four deaths bore the hallmarks of a serial killer but how could Father Butler have known how to find me? The only people alive who knew about my extracurricular activities were Dane Woollcott and Carol Sparks, two people I trusted. There was no way on earth they’d tip anyone off because each had a personal stake in the people I’d whacked over the years – they both had skin in the game.

  But how could the Church have known?

  “Ezekiel,” I whispered.

  It seemed far-fetched, but maybe he told them about me – or maybe another angel. Now I’m not saying that the Angel of Death and Transformation appeared in the Pope’s office one morning to Holy trumpets blowing – maybe he’d adopted a human guise like Jael had done back at the Halifax Common. I’d already decided that whoever shot the shit out of me back at the cemetery was probably the guy who’d inquired about my whereabouts at Boyzies, but damned if I knew who’d hired him to try and take me out of the picture.

  I chewed on that question for a couple of minutes when my bedroom door opened. The silhouette of a female in a t-shirt appeared from the shadows. I could make out the shape of her breasts and I noticed her erect nipples.

  So sue me. I’m a guy … kind of.

  She crossed the room and crawled into the bed next to me, slipping an arm underneath my shoulders.

  “What are you doing, Amy?” I whispered, as her scent filled my nostrils. I could feel my heart beginning to beat a little bit faster as I breathed her in.

  “I don’t ever forget to repay a kindness, Reaper,” she said. Her voice was smooth, like liquid smoke.

  She buried her face into the nape of my neck, her hot tongue manipulating my skin with the skill of a surgeon and sending waves of pleasure throughout my body.

  “I have a thing for bad boys and you’re as bad as they come.”

  She ran her fingers across my chest, stopping to twirl her index finger around my navel.

  “I swear to shit, I’ll never understand women,” I said, as her lips worked their way down the side of my neck. “Amy, listen … I wasn’t asking for payment to let you stay here like your NA sponsor … I just-“

  She kissed me again and then leaned over to my ear. “Shhh – you did something nice for me now let me do something nice for you,” she whispered, her voice laced with the tiniest hint of mischief. “I feel safe now … I haven’t felt safe for a long time.”

  “You think you’re safe with me? God, you must really be desperate,” I whispered back, smiling.

  She nibbled on my earlobe and giggled. “These are desperate times. Now shut up and let a working girl do what she does best.”

  So I did as I was told.

  I shut my mouth … and smiled.

  14

  I woke up to the sound of birds singing outside my bedroom window. If I hadn’t been naked in bed with a hooker, it might have actually been an idyllic scene in a romantic movie, but I hate chick flicks and I had stuff to do. I threw on a clean set of cloths and slinked out of my bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me. I headed into the kitchen and scrawled a note for Amy, once again reminding her not to answer the door or the phone and then I sneaked out of my flat because the last thing I needed after a night of frolicking in the hay was a serious examination of my feelings. Anyway, she jumped me – and not vice-versa. I’d have been happy enough to catch a few hours of shut-eye.

  Okay, that was a lie. The sex was pretty amazing. I mean the woman was drop-dead-gorgeous and all. I wasn’t entirely sure why I decided to take pity on her after I’d put the fear of God in Emil Vachon; I’d turned my back on damsels in distress many times in the past, so it wouldn’t have been like I’d be leaving her high and dry. I mean, there are women’s shelters in town.

  Yeah, I’m a heartless prick. Whatever. But there was something special about her. I decided that it was pointless to think about what had just transpired in my flat. A shit storm of bad juju was brewing and I needed answers, so I headed to Grafton Street and the offices of the Archdiocese of Halifax. I parked my pickup in front of the old three-story brick building that was once home to St. Mary’s Boys School and hopped out. Across the street I could hear a choir singing hymns from inside the Church of St. David’s. A young priest sauntered out from the marble archway over the main doors of the Archdiocese office, so he seemed like an obvious place to start in my search for Father Butler.

  “Padre,” I said, walking up to them. “I’m looking for a Father Butler. Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

  He brushed aside a thick shock of blonde hair and then smiled amiably. “Father William Butler or Father Albert Butler – we have two of them.”

  “The one with the wire framed glasses and bushy white eyebrows,” I said, holding out my hand to show his approximate height.

  He nodded and said, “His office is on the second floor but he’s probably not in there yet. He usually arrives at work around ten in the morning.”

  I glanced at my watch, it was nine-thirty. “Alright, I guess I can wait around for him. Is there a reception area or a place I can sit and hang out?”

  “Just take the main stairwell up to the second floor and have a seat outside his office. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  I nodded my thanks and headed through the main doors and then down a long hall with black and white floor tiles that reflected the white fluorescent lighting. There was oak wainscoting on either side of me with pictures of priests dating back to the late 1800’s along with framed photographs of Halifax through the years. I eventually found the stairway to the second floor, so I grabbed the shining brass handrail and started up the stairs. In seconds I was sauntering down another hall that was nearly a clone of the one on the main floor when I found Father Butler’s office. I took a seat on a pew-like bench and waited. I waited a full ten minutes and noticed that not a single person had come up the stairs or out of their office, and that made no sense. It was, after all, an office building of sorts, so where the heck was the staff?

  I waited five more minutes and not a soul was to be found. Maybe everyone was at mass across the road at St. David’s? It seemed like a reasonable enough explanation, so I decided to take advantage of the situation and do a little snooping. I grabbed the doorknob on Father Butler’s door and imagine my surprise, it was unlocked. Seeing as how someone had left the office insecure, it seemed like an equally reasonable opportunity to simply invite myself inside, and that’s precisely what I did.

  I closed the door behind me and scanned the tidy office. A pair of massive bookcases stood opposite me, the shelves packed tightly with thick leather-bound books and dusty old binders. I walked over and ran my finger along t
he spines and noticed all of the titles were in Latin. I spun around to see an old metal desk tucked neatly in the corner in front of a window. The curtains were fluttering in the breeze, so I headed over to have a look when I saw something that told me I should get the hell out of that office as quickly as possible.

  A liver-spotted hand lay in a thick pool of blood.

  “Shit,” I muttered as I gazed down at the corpse. Father Butler’s body lay on its side; an overturned office chair lay next to him. His forehead was a pulpy mass of bone and blood and so it was pretty clear someone had whacked him with a clear shot from behind.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I growled. “Somebody whacked him.”

  I pulled my Beretta out and stepped over the body being careful not to disturb anything. I pushed the curtain to the side with the barrel of my gun and peeked out onto Argyle Street. I was on the second floor, so whoever the shooter was had to be either in the window of another office building or even a roof. I scanned the surroundings; there were any number of good firing positions. My gut told me that whoever had killed Father Butler was likely the same guy who shot the shit out of me the night before. I wasn’t going to find him and if I didn’t hustle my ass out of the office, I’d wind up as the prime suspect in Butler’s killing.

  I quickly stepped over the body and dashed to the office door. I opened it up a crack and peered out into the hallway to see that it was still empty, so I walked out and closed the door behind me. I wiped the doorknob clean of any fingerprints with the sleeve of my greatcoat and raced up hallway and then down stairwell, nearly tripping myself up in my rush to get out of the building. A few of the staff had returned and were wandering around the first floor as I cooled my heels to avoid drawing any attention to myself. I padded back up the hallway and turned left when I spotted a security camera mounted directly above the front entrance. I might as well have just smiled and said cheese.