The Professional Corpse (The Departed Book 1)

by Sean Arthur Cox

  That sounded more like the Marquis I knew.

  “What do you say, old friend?”

  He was right. I had become so overwhelmed with the twentieth century that I had given up on keeping current with the changes and had fallen behind. Convinced I no longer had what it took to succeed through hard work, I had allowed myself to stare at the metaphorical tree waiting for a rabbit to run into it and die rather than exhausting myself catching the thing on my own. I couldn’t learn all this new-fangled computer stuff, so why bother trying? But even in this age of scientific and technological scrutiny, I still had my powers I could fall back on.

  I don’t know why it never occurred to me to do something like this before. Soldiering didn’t pay me enough to die over and over, side-show work led to scientists, and crime was not nearly the easy money TV made it out to be. This, however, dying for rich people, or if they were just paranoid and no one was out to get them, getting paid to lounge about in their mansions until they felt safe enough to go home? That was right up my alley. And who would they tell afterward? People would think them crazy, and that could cost them millions. My secret would be safe. This could work. I could do this.

  “I say bring on the rich targets!” I barely got the words out without slurring.

  “Excellent,” said the Marquis as he rose from my secondhand recliner. He brushed at his clothes anywhere the chair touched him. “Because he’s had his driver circling the block. He’s been waiting for me to call him up.”

  He walked to the door and pulled out his cellphone, his fingers flying across the screen. I marveled at how well he had taken to this new technology. It changed so quickly that I was amazed anyone could keep up, let alone someone who remembered the invention of the gas light. I struggled with it daily. Moments later there was a knock on my door. I moved to open it when the Marquis stopped me and reached into his pocket. “You’ll need these,” he said, and thrust a stack of business cards and a simple, no frills cell phone into my hands. “It’s a disposable phone.”

  “Like on The Wire?” I asked.

  He nodded. I put the phone in my pocket and examined the rest of his gifts. The business cards were white with crosshairs, a phone number in the middle, and nothing else. “It makes me look like a hitman,” I said.

  “Don’t be foolish. The phone number is the target. You are the target, Jaime. It’s painfully obvious.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s a first draft,” replied the Marquis and hurriedly opened the door.

  An older fellow stood before me in a simple suit, the sort I might be able to afford if I could afford a suit. His face exuded a warmth and friendliness that I struggled to imagine the Marquis’s ever could. His head appeared as though it couldn’t decide if it wanted to go gray or quit the hair business altogether and go bald. His belly was a touch round, but in a folksy, homespun sort of way, like a doddering grandfather that people actually liked visiting. The kind who offered you ribbon candy and sagely, if outdated advice. I always wanted a grandfather like that. It’s a shame endless resurrection didn’t come with family. He glanced uncertainly back and forth between me and the Marquis before thrusting his hand out to me, which I took and shook graciously.

  “Bill,” he said, stammering a little. “Bill Thompson.”

  “Of the Vermont Thompsons?” I asked. I had no idea if he had any relation to any Thompsons in Vermont. I didn’t even know if there was a fancy Thompson family anywhere near New England. The phrase was just one of those things old money Americans always said to each other, at least in movies and plays, to show they knew how old and prestigious their friends were. In hindsight, it was probably a stupid thing to say, but it certainly wasn’t the most foolish thing a bottle of wine had ever convinced me to utter.

  “Nope, of the nobody-ever-heard-of-us Omaha Thompsons,” he said with a grin and a little more vigor in his shake.

  I couldn’t help but grin myself. I liked the guy. Some part of me grew all warm and fuzzy knowing I got to make sure someone didn’t kill him. I moved to welcome him into my apartment, but stumbled a bit. Whatever brand that Shiraz was, I would have to make note to pick some up later. A little went a long way, and a lot… well, I wouldn’t put away half a bottle in five minutes again.

  I led him, with the Marquis’s help, to the couch of my studio apartment and offered him a seat. “Sorry it smells funny,” I said, struggling to put two thoughts together. “It… um…”

  “It’s a safe house,” the Marquis said. “My associate usually stocks them in a rather Spartan fashion. They tend to be disposable. Apologies.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” said Bill. “Shoot, when I was a kid, I slept on worse.”

  I nodded. Finally, one of the Marquis’s friends I could relate to. I leaned toward him, propping myself up on my knees both to appear interested and to keep from toppling over. “So, what makes you think someone wants you dead?” I asked. It took so much effort to keep my words coherent, I imagine I sounded like I was doing an Emo Philips impression.

  He gave me a square, appraising look, then turned to the Marquis, asking things with his eyebrows I was too intoxicated to interpret. The Marquis gave him a nod that must have reassured him, because he turned back to me and answered my question.

  “Well, there’s this guy. He’s been following me everywhere. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him if I hadn’t had a problem with an angry husband following me around last year, convinced I slept with his wife.”

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “Not intentionally,” he said. “I mean, yes, intentionally. The sex wasn’t accidental, but I had no idea she was married.”

  “What did he do?” the Marquis asked.

  “Just cornered me in a bar once. We talked. I made a generous and sincere apology. Told him to take her on a nice second honeymoon, the one they wished they could have taken when they first got married, and really re-open those lines of communication. Marriage is a special thing.”

  “But he never…,” I paused for a moment to catch my swimming thoughts. “This guy never hurt you in any way?”

  “Well, he threatened me at first,” said Bill, “but he calmed down. Sent me a thank you card a few months later.”

  “You slept with a man’s wife and received a thank you card?” said the Marquis. “I respect your style, Bill.”

  “The point is, before you ask, I don’t think it was him, but it did make me paranoid. What if the next woman’s guy isn’t so understanding?”

  “So back ta’ this followin’-you guy. Wha’s he look like?” I struggled to get the words out at all, let alone clearly. I wondered how the Marquis could claim to want to help me out and then sabotage me with half a bottle of potent wine, even if it was self-administered.

  “Middle-aged. Thinning hair. Just a little round in the middle. Totally unremarkable. Like I said, I wouldn’t have noticed him at all if I weren’t already paranoid.”

  “Did he look angry or violent in any way?” asked the Marquis.

  “No, just keenly interested in me, but I doubt he was a private eye. I never really saw him take any pictures.”

  “An’ ya’ think he wanna kill you ‘cuz why?” I asked.

  “Just a hunch I can’t seem to shake. I even drove the whole way here, paid cash for everything, just in case. People on TV are always being found from credit card receipts.”

  Without thinking, I pulled off my shirt. I’m sure it made a poor impression, but it had suddenly become unreasonably hot. “Anyone else burnin’ up in here?” I asked.

  Bill shook his head, and the Marquis just smiled.

  “Wha’s innis wine?” I said, trying to get my thoughts out.

  “Poison,” said the Marquis.

  “Why’dya…?” but the rest of the words refused to come out. Halfway up, they got caught in my throat, along with my breath. My esophagus seized like I had been attacked by an anaconda. Bill began to scream. I don’t know for how long though, because I died
seconds later.

  I remember darkness and the searing pain of flames consuming my body, the same agony I feel every time I die.

  Bill, stood over me, panicking, shouting about how he was a good guy and how dare the Marquis involve him in a murder and what was he going to do, and what was this, some sort of blackmail scheme?

  “Have faith,” the Marquis said. “See? He comes around even as we speak.”

  Bill looked on in astonishment, pinching at me, checking my reflexes, and babbling some incoherent disbelief. I groaned and rubbed at my body, trying to chase away the last of the burning from my face and limbs. “What the hell, Mar-”

  The Marquis shot me a stern glance.

  “Mark,” I said, with a helpless shrug. “What did you do that for?”

  “Your name is Mark?” asked Bill, suddenly more uneasy than before. “I thought you said it was Ambrose.”

  “It is,” said the Marquis through only slightly gritted teeth. “Ambrose Marcus Wentworth IV. And I was proving a point. Mister Thompson is paying a substantial sum of money for someone who can die for him. I needed to assure him that your qualifications are everything I claim.”

  “It’s got to be some kind of trick,” Bill stammered. “This is a scam, isn’t it? You find some way to fake your death or something. Tennis ball under your arm, maybe. I hear that makes it hard to find a pulse. And maybe you held your breath a real long time. This sort of thing just isn’t…”

  He paused and took a step back. Cautiously, he stepped to me, cupped my face, caressed my cheek, and ran his fingers through my hair, examining me. Then he took three steps back.

  “What happened to his hair?” he asked, his voice little more than a wisp of wind.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Your hair. It was longer, and your stubble is gone. I didn’t shave you. Ambrose, did you shave him? I didn’t see you. You couldn’t have. But you must have. But you couldn’t have.”

  I could practically hear the gears in his head losing teeth trying to process it all. I value my secrets, particularly the details of my death and resurrection, but he seemed a decent enough fellow, and I didn’t want to give the poor guy a heart attack.

  “When I die, I’m able to come back alive because my body reverts back to an earlier, healthier version of me. Earlier me kept himself better groomed.”

  “Rather like when your computer gets a nasty virus and so you reinstall from a backup you made of your hard drive,” the Marquis said.

  “What if you have no back-up?” the old man asked.

  “Unpleasantness,” I said.

  “Total system restore,” the Marquis added. “Factory reset.”

  I nodded in agreement. Not that I entirely understood what he said. I just knew if he could explain it in a couple words, it was probably an oversimplification. I wasn’t worried, though. It would do for now. He didn’t need to know that I reverted back to whatever form I was in when I first took on that body. This guy I got the blood sample from, the guy I look like now, I think his name was Darren. He was clean cut, wore tailored suits. I thought, If I looked like that guy, surely, I could pull myself together, maybe catch a break. But I didn’t have his suits, just his strong jawline, which was impressive, but not everything. I had his piercing blue eyes, but not the conviction that burned behind them. I had his perfect hair, but not the proficiency needed with a comb to keep it that way. So, I worked my magic and became him, and nothing changed. As Confucius said, wherever you go, there you are.

  Bill took a moment to process my answer. “So, are you going to be some kind of bodyguard or something?”

  “Not exactly,” the Marquis said. “A good hitman can get to you in ways a bodyguard will never see coming.”

  “Hitman? I said I thought someone might be out to kill me, and suddenly there’s a professional involved?”

  “Yes,” said the Marquis. “I imagine hired by a business rival, or perhaps even a jealous colleague.”

  “And now my employees are out to kill me, too? You jump to a lot of conclusions, Ambrose.”

  “Did the man following you look angry in any way?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “A man you do not recognize follows you, but shows no trace of emotion. We assume, then, that he isn’t driven to kill you by anything personal, be it matters of the heart or his own burning ambitions. Clearly, he’s no jealous husband or bitter business rival. Therefore, he was probably hired. He is nondescript and utterly forgettable. He has been tailing you for days but hasn’t acted. He isn’t rash. He isn’t obvious. He is careful and methodical. Ergo, he is a professional. Being of such quality, he no doubt commands a high fee, which means most people couldn’t afford him. We can reasonably conclude, then, that you have a wealthy individual looking to kill you and has hired someone to do just that.”

  “CEOs can be cutthroats, I admit,” said Bill, “but how do you know it’s a hitman involved? That sort of cold ambition, a man might do it himself to make sure it’s done right.”

  “Mister Thompson, the people who might want you dead pay someone to cook their meals, launder their clothes, drive their cars. If they could pay someone to play their golf for them, they would.”

  “What’s your point?” Bill asked.

  “I think what Mark is trying to say is that these aren’t the kind of people to get their hands dirty, and they have money enough to make others do their dirty work for them. They pay people to get them dressed, and they’ll pay good money to have you killed. I said you won’t need a bodyguard because the types of killers you pay good money for will wait until the right moment, when your guard is down, when there is no one around to save you.”

  Bill slumped into a chair, the lines etched in his face filling with worry. “So how can you help me?”

  “I become you,” I said. “I’ll look just like you, sound just like you. When he comes for you, he’ll get me instead, and I can’t be killed. Well, I can. But it won’t stick.”

  “And you’re sure he’ll fall for it? Your disguises are that good?”

  I needed to give him the last convincer. Hopefully, the shock wouldn’t kill him.

  “Mister Thompson, I’m going to need a bit of your blood.”

  “My what?” He stared at me, aghast. “Is this some sort of devil thing? I don’t truck with devils.”

  “Heavens no,” said the Marquis, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It’s for genetic testing so we can find details on your physical stature, genetically instilled character traits, medical-”

  “It’s magic,” I said cutting him off. “It’s magic, it’s effective, and to my knowledge, I’ve never seen a devil or demon or any other evil spirit pop up when I’ve done it, and I’ve been doing it for a very long time.”

  Bill seemed uncertain, but as jittery as he was, all the Marquis needed to do was go fetch a cereal bowl and sharp knife from the kitchen. He offered them to Bill much the way he offered me the wine, the presentation of the tools without actually moving to give it. Bill succumbed to his ways much as I had, and I no longer resented myself so much for giving in to his charms earlier with the Shiraz.

  “Put the knife away,” I said and took the blade and bowl from the old man before he did anything foolish like cut himself. “There have been amazing advances in medicine since I learned this trick. There are cleaner, safer ways to draw blood.”

  I went to my closet and rifled around among my things until I found a sterile needle and empty IV bag. By day, when I wasn’t saving the lives of millionaires, I worked as mild-mannered phlebotomist which allows me access to all the blood I could want. I keep a mini-fridge stocked with assorted pints labelled by physical descriptor of its unwitting donor. “Blonde bombshell.” “Mob enforcer.” “Pretty boy.” “Grizzly Adams.” If I ever want to be someone else for the weekend, it makes it easy to slip into someone else’s skin. It’s also handy if I need to make a moderately quick escape. Apparently, being able to draw a clean blood sample was o
ne more of my unique skills that could make this job work.

  After Bill rolled up his sleeve, I tightened a band off around his upper arm and found a good vein. It was rolly and seemed to be actively avoiding my needle, but one good stick and I had him. I did my best to make idle chit chat with him while I drew the sample. The spell didn’t need much—a pint was plenty—but it was clear to me that everything was happening rather quickly and if I pushed too hard, he could lose it. So, we talked about his childhood, his family, his hobbies. Things that would take his mind off this madhouse he suddenly found himself in. Coincidentally, these were also things I could use to help pass myself off as him. The spell I would use would copy his body exactly, including all those little brain wrinkles full of thoughts and memories, but it was like being handed a safe full of journals. Everything I needed was all right there, but damn my bones if it wasn’t hard to access.

  When I had drawn enough to perform the ritual, I removed the needle and bandaged him up. Then, I took the bag of blood and retired to my bathroom. Just because he knew I could do magic that would make me look like him didn’t mean he had to know how to do it exactly and it certainly didn’t mean he could handle seeing it go down. It was probably best someone his age didn’t see how the sausage was made, so to speak. Cutting the bag open with the Marquis’s knife, I let the blood slosh into the empty bowl, concealing a merry band of cereal mascots. After dipping my fingers into the still warm blood, I began to trace a circle and various arcane symbols onto the tile floor before anointing my forehead, eyes, tongue, limbs, and heart with a drop each. Once all preparations had been completed, I muttered an incantation I learned thousands of years before and braced myself for the change to come.

  I felt pressure on my bones first, compacting me down, taking inches off my height. My cheekbones sank and expanded, and a dull weary ache seeped into my muscles as decades piled one on top of the other in a matter of seconds. My hair thinned and grew and hung much longer on one side, no doubt ready for a comb over no one would ever have guessed Bill had. My skin sagged, followed by my shoulders and spine. I tried to watch the transformation in the mirror, but my vision had grown fuzzy. Bill wore contacts. One more thing to keep in mind. After a couple minutes of suffering as my body slumped and stretched and shrank, I leaned in close enough to see clearly and surveyed my reflection. I was an old man. I was Bill.