The Professional Corpse (The Departed Book 1)

by Sean Arthur Cox

  I joked about Rasputin and Castro when trying to kill Bill, but joking aside, are they like the Bill impersonator? Or have they actually been the Bill imposter all along? Is the creature I encountered tonight Nicholas Flammel, who allegedly discovered the secrets of the philosopher’s stone and with it, life eternal? Sir Galahad? Or is it older? Could that thing have been Gilgamesh or the Wandering Jew? The Roman centurion who pierced Christ’s side, or perhaps even Christ himself? How long would it take that creature to recover from a crucifixion, I wonder? I have never been particularly religious, but even I feel blasphemous at the direction in which my thoughts stray.

  If there is one of these things, are there more? How many more? A handful, or hundreds, or thousands? Are they everywhere and we just don’t know they’re out there? Do they even know if there are others like them?

  What about werewolves? Vampires? Ghosts? Demons? Gods? Not God, but gods, all of them? I feel stupid, absolutely stupid thinking it, but once you accept there are immortal shapeshifters, where do you draw the line? Is it madness to think anything is possible or madness not to? The floodgates are open, and every childhood fear I have ever learned to ignore comes crashing through. The monsters in my closet, the ghost in the woods, all of them could be real, hiding behind the old reassurance, “there’s no such thing.”

  “I mean, I’m not the only one who thinks this is insane, right?” I say, trying to pry something out of Houston. “I’m not crazy to think this is crazy, right?”

  “You’re not crazy,” says Houston.

  I wait for him to say more, but nothing comes. Not that his silence surprises me. As quick as he is to keep things light, he’s always been tight lipped with heavier things, as though he were some mysterious crackpot inventor, unwilling to show anything until his ideas erupt from him fully formed. I, on the other hand, need to hear my thoughts aloud to know what they are. I need to bounce them off other people to see where they fall, where they are weak. I babble, and he brews. It will be an awkward drive until he decides how he feels about the thing. But I’ll keep asking, because that’s my way.

  “What other things do you think exist? There are a lot of legends about vampires all over the world, and they’re really popular in TV. Do you think it’s some kind of secret push to legitimize their kind so they can come out and say, ‘Here we are. Aren’t we sexy just like we told you we were?’”

  I think about sexy vampires, stalking night clubs, leaving exsanguinated corpses. And yet there are no news reports of these kinds of bodies. If vampires exist, are their victims just missing persons, or is there a cover-up? And cover-ups meant government.

  “And if the government is monitoring everything, they must know, right? They have to know what’s real and what isn’t, which means the X-Files is probably real too. Not like Mulder and Scully are real people, but there must be some branch, some department, right? I mean, they would have to have some agency to monitor these kinds of things. Like the Roswell crash. Oh, Roswell! Do you think aliens are real too? At least there’s some scientific plausibility behind those. But why are they covering them up? To quell panic? They’re constantly defending monitoring our communications for our safety. I mean, we think they are talking about terrorists, but there are only so many of those in the world, right? But ghosts? Ghosts could be anywhere!”

  How does one kill a ghost? What if they’re also here among us, passing themselves off as living people? Who says they need to be invisible or transparent? TV, but TV also has cars blowing up if they got shot. TV and realism don’t exactly go hand-in-hand. Might someone pay me to kill a ghost one day?

  “And all of that, monsters and stuff? That’s to say nothing about what it means on a professional level. I mean, do you think you’ve killed someone who wasn’t… who didn’t die? What does this do to our line of work? Is it even ethical for me to charge anyone for anything? We’re assassins, so what’s ethical to us anyway, but would it be ethical to take Mister Johnson’s money? I didn’t kill Bill Thompson. I didn’t really kill anyone, in fact.”

  I feel a wave of relief wash over me, followed by a slight pang of guilt for taking that twenty thousand dollars, which goes away as soon as I remind myself that Mister Johnson is probably some douchebag, since Bill hadn’t done anything execution worthy. Then I feel the guilt come on again, because though Bill survived, the other seven are almost certainly dead. Then a little relief, not much, but a little, reminding myself once again that Bill Thompson isn’t dead.

  “And isn’t it great that I didn’t kill him? I mean, he didn’t deserve it, so it’s good that it’s one more decent person still in the world, right? And that immortal, too, dying for other people to save their lives? Isn’t it reassuring to know someone with that kind of power, that kind of freedom would do something decent with it instead of just being selfish?”

  I don’t realize it until I say it, but it is reassuring. Most people I know would turn to crime or live their lives just amassing wealth and luxury. Even Houston, whom I respect, said he would go nuts with it. I wish I could say I would do what the immortal has done, but I probably wouldn’t. I would probably just use it to do my job better. And probably be selfish as well. Not that I go clubbing or anything, but if I wanted to get into a club without waiting in line, I could turn into a celebrity. If I was in the mood for a nice meal but didn’t have the scratch, I could look like the owner of a local restaurant or one of those guys from those best restaurants in the country shows. I think, given enough time, I would probably go bad. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.

  “And also, professionally, do you think this opens up new avenues and methods for getting the job done? Like draining the blood from someone to make it look like vampires did it? I mean, obviously only after it comes out that vampires are real, if they even exist. Or if it is just immortals like that thing pretending to be Bill Thompson, that we’ll have to change our approach to make sure they’re dead and gone? You know, to make sure that the client gets what they want?”

  “I think,” says Houston with a pause, “that while anything is possible, all of this other stuff, monsters and aliens and things, they have to be rare if they exist at all, or everyone would have a ‘my cousin knows a guy’ story. So, I’m not going to worry about it until I know more. I can’t approach every job like I’m up against an immortal or vampire or werewolf because they all have their own weaknesses and there’s no clean, easy kill that will cover them all. For all I know, it’s just that one immortal in all the world. Nothing else has changed until I know it has.”

  He makes sense. His words have a pragmatic logic that he has a knack for. The news is a shocking revelation, but it doesn’t do any good to speculate at every possible implication. Over-analysis leads to paralysis.

  “You’re right,” I say. “No reason to change the way all cakes are made just because there was a fly in one batter, right? It’s probably just the one, and if it isn’t, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

  “Are you going to keep babbling like this?” he asks with more love than annoyance. What a great foster dad.

  “Until I come to grips with this, yeah.” I say. “It’s one thing to know a thing exists. It’s another to accept it.”

  He nods and turns up the radio, letting the Doobie Brothers drown out my desperate attempt to make sense of this brave new world that has such people in it. One thing I know for certain, if someone that old, that powerful can dedicate himself to doing good and helping people though he could easily brush the consequences for selfishness and evil aside, so can I.

  Chapter 18

  JAMIE

  I’LL RID MYSELF OF YOU

  I stumbled into my apartment, dirty, exhausted, and too damn old. Every last one of my muscles ached from sitting so long in the back of that assassin’s car. I just wanted to fall apart, take a hot bath, and slip into pajamas and a twenty-year-old body. I ached too much for a transformation, so I settled for a shower and a few minutes on the couch strumming my guitar w
ith Bill’s awful, uncooperative, arthritic fingers. After several unsatisfying minutes, I figured I would have to get my music secondhand. Throwing on my headphones, I pressed play and took in the comforting familiar poverty of the old place.

  I had expected to find Bill and the Marquis at my apartment when I finally made it back to Baltimore, but the place was as sad and empty as it had always been. Same sad, second hand couch. Same pile of dirty laundry and tiny TV on a plywood and cinder block entertainment center. Same thirty-dollar Wal-Mart book shelf with a few dozen half-read and dog-eared paperbacks scattered among the impulse-buy DVDs. Like anyone really needed to own a physical copy of Cliffhanger. There was less food in the fridge now than when I left, so perhaps the apartment was a bit sadder than before. Even some of the condiment bottles had vanished. Poor Bill. Things must have gotten so bad he had to rely on mustard and crackers to stay alive. That or he hated mustard and crackers and threw all of mine out while I was away. Probably the former. I barely had food enough in my place to last a couple of days without hitting up a fast food shop, and even then, those would be an unpleasant few days. Like tin of beans and can of Spam unpleasant. I’d been gone for three weeks.

  A sense of dread snuck up behind me and put me in a chokehold, dragging me to the floor of my empty hallway. What if he had been discovered? What if I had been discovered? How would I get paid? Plus, there was the insufferable chore that was attempting to establish a new identity. I had been gone from work for almost a month. I might not even have a job anymore, which didn’t only get in the way of the whole paying bills thing. Working as a phlebotomist was how I stayed in blood. The stuff I had in my fridge probably went bad in the time I was gone. I hoped to have at least a pint or two of usable stuff left.

  Shit. I didn’t have a moment to waste. I ran to the fridge and pulled out my samples, sorting them by expiration date. A pint of blood only lasted about forty days in the best of circumstances, but unless I put it to use within thirty, I often felt sick for the first week or two after transformation. Most of this stuff wouldn’t do me any good, but some might.

  Going through my bad, good, and questionable stacks, I couldn’t help but bemoan my losses. No more old lady who was great for getting an extension on the rent. No more bruiser who was great for getting the neighbors to stop playing that awful music at full volume all night. No more blonde bombshell who was great for lonely weekends, of which I had many. No more little girl who could go door to door selling fifty cent candy bars for two bucks to raise money for whatever school activities were underfunded these days. I did still have Mister Trustworthy, the baby-faced twenty-something guy who could get good interest rates. I still had The Track Star for when I felt fat and disgusting and wanted to be in shape without the effort. That guy could run for miles. I still had Soccer Mom, whom I had never used, but she was pushing it. That blood would go bad soon. I decided to use her right away and then draw a fresh sample so I could keep her around. I could refresh the samples from the others later in the week, but she would be a handy face to have in a pinch.

  I put the good blood back in the fridge and took Soccer Mom’s pint to the bathroom for a change. I saved a little of Bill’s blood just in case I needed to change back, but I don’t know why I would. As far as society was concerned, that man was dead and gone, and with the news coverage his death had attracted, that face wouldn’t do me any good for years. And now that I thought about it, I had lost Darren, my old face, as well. I had been so nervous about my deal with Bill, I forgot to get a pint of Darren before I changed. I had no way to turn back. I guess I lost that phlebotomist job after all. Damn. Time to find a new blood source. Maybe the soccer mom could get a job at a hospital.

  I slipped into my thirty-something skin, admired her in the mirror as I let the last of Bill Thompson flush out my system. For several minutes, I just stood there, examining myself top to bottom so I would recognize my reflection in the future and describe myself to others accurately. I was slim, regardless of what society’s standards may be. I would guess I wore a thirty-inch waist. I stood perhaps five foot five or so. Medium length brown hair and eyes. Some thin creases at the edges of my mouth. Stretch marks on my belly suggested Soccer Mom may have had one child, or more if the scars had been surgically reduced. I felt like I worked out regularly, but didn’t have much definition or tone. I did a few stretches and basic exercises to test out my coordination. All good. I probably did yoga.

  When I had acclimated to the new body, I went to the closet to find the box labeled Female – Medium height/weight so I could have something to wear. Later today, I would need to box up my closet into Male – Above Average height/average weight, but for now, my worry was whether I should wear capris or a skirt and if I had a good bra to fit this chest. I needed to get new ID, and for that I would need to look trustworthy, but desperate.

  As I stood there in my panties considering how best to come off as a wholesome housewife who might reluctantly make an exception, my door swung open. I froze, and Bill Thompson did likewise. At least, I assumed it was Bill Thompson. He was bald and had a thin beard, but he also had a key to the place and looked close enough like him for me to feel safe pegging him as the man indeed.

  “Close the door, Bill. You’re letting the air out.”

  Bill just stood there, soaking in my nakedness. I wasn’t surprised, but I was a little disappointed. You’d think after sixty years a lecher, he would learn to contain his gawking, but I guess not. Or perhaps it was simply the surprise of seeing a naked woman where he had in fact expected to see no one at all that froze him. Still, it would certainly make for an awkward conversation if any parents with children were to walk by.

  I crossed to the doorway, yanked him inside by the tie, and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Did Ambrose send you?” he asked, stammering as he ravaged my figure with his eyes.

  I had to admit, for someone in a body that was just so-so, I did feel like a supermodel the way he leered at me. I’m sure if Soccer Mom herself were here, she would be freaked out. Me? I had stopped caring about nudity and genitalia and sexual taboos the third time I changed genders. Besides, I had spent some time in Bill’s body. I had crawled out of a grave with it. Though he didn’t seem the type, if he tried anything untoward, I knew good and well Soccer Mom could take him with little difficulty.

  “He said he would make things up to me.” Bill closed the distance between us, his hands out like a man in a pornographic cartoon. I felt bad for the guy. After all he’d been through, watching that he’d died on the news, his whole life over. Plus, I’d been inside his head. I knew what this must be doing for him, and I knew what his standards were. I wasn’t the least bit shocked when he grabbed my breasts like a newborn going for milk.

  I slapped the devil out of him anyway. I could understand his position, but I had one of my own.

  “Bill, it’s me,” I said, sternly.

  “Ambrose?” he asked, casting a sideways glance at me. “Look, I’m really sorry. I had no idea. I thought…”

  “I know exactly what you thought, Bill,” I said, “but I’m not Ambrose. It’s me. The guy you are about to pay for dying for you.”

  “Sorry,” stammered Bill. “It’s just you were gone for so long, and then I came in and saw those spectacular tits, and…”

  They were decent, but I wouldn’t call them spectacular. Still, I decided if I wanted to get anything accomplished, I would have to cover up the girls post haste. I crossed to the box, and though I couldn’t see him, I knew what the old man was up to.

  “Stop looking at my ass,” I said. “We have business matters to discuss. Go to the bathroom until I get changed.”

  I scrounged through the box for the blandest clothes I could find, finally opting for a calf length brown skirt and a sweater. It was too hot for a sweater, but I didn’t feel like wasting time looking for a bra just yet and I didn’t want him staring. After I had made myself as frumpy as I could with what limited clothes I had availab
le, I gave the bathroom door a knock and told him he could come out.

  “Just a minute,” he said. “Be out in just a minute.”

  Damn it, Bill. This is why I hate being a woman for any considerable amount of time. It’s all ogling and catcalls and accidental gropes. Even when I’m not that attractive, there’s always some asshole thinking I’ll be an easy lay because I must be so desperate I’ll take anything. Fucking men. It was definitely better to be one.

  “Wash your filthy hands,” I said as Bill left the bathroom. He went back in and did so.

  “Sit down,” I said, pointing to the couch.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and like a puppy who had been swatted on the nose, made his way shamefully to where I told him.

  “First off, where were you? You’re dead. You can’t go walking around like that.”