1 Death Warmed Over

by Kent Holloway

  He dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief and nodded. “Okay. Good enough.” He let out a relieved breath. “I’ll trust you, but you’ve got to keep me in the loop. Understand?”

  “Absolutely. When I have something concrete, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He smiled at her, then turned and began ambling his way across the street to the unassuming little brick building that acted as Summer Haven’s town hall. As she watched him go, she was suddenly struck with regret for not asking to hold onto the newspaper.

  “I’ve got to get a subscription to that stupid rag,” she mumbled to herself as she strode into the station.

  14

  Becca saw Silas seated on the edge of Linda’s desk as she walked into the bullpen. He was slinging a yo-yo, that had been tucked away in the station’s lost and found box for as long as she could remember, and chatting away with the older office manager. Stacks of unread papers—presumably Andrea Alvarez’s medical records during the time of her psychotic break—sat next to him, unread.

  Before making her way over there, Becca glanced around the office for Sergeant Jeremy Tanner. She spotted him, a moment later, over at the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup.

  “Anything interesting at the autopsy?” Becca asked him as she approached.

  The old veteran tugged on his uniform sleeve before taking a sip from his mug, winced from the heat, and shook his head. “Too early to tell,” he said. “You were right. The stab wound was post-mortem. It didn’t kill her. Doc saw signs of a major heart attack though.”

  “A heart attack? She’s only twenty-eight.”

  “I know, right? And here’s the weird thing. There were no signs of previous heart problems. No plaque buildup. No clogged arteries. None of the typical signs you see in someone who dies of a heart attack.”

  Becca poured herself a cup of coffee too. “What’s Dr. Lipkovic thinking?”

  “Glad you asked,” he said, scarfing down one of the donuts Silas brought in earlier that day. “He wants to meet with you tomorrow. Says he wants to mull the case over with you a bit. Wants you to look a little deeper into a few things, but he wouldn’t explain it to me. He asked me to send over the prescription bottles found at her house, so I took care of that.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy.”

  There was a burst of laughter from over at Linda’s desk. They both turned to see Silas, who was still playing with the yo-yo—walking the dog, if Becca wasn’t mistaken—and in the middle of telling what must have been a boisterous story from the way the handful of personnel were reacting.

  “So, how was working with Mr. Death?” Jeremy was smirking as he said it.

  “Knock it off. He’s not Death. He was just joking about that,” she lied. “And he’s really not that bad. Smart, actually, if a bit eccentric.”

  “Well, I did some more diggin’ on him when I got back from the medical examiner,” Jeremy said. “Chief…” His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Silas. “There’s no record of the man. Except for the crazy number of false-positive hits we got on his fingerprints, there’s no record of a Silas Mot ever existing. Even Googled his name. Only ‘Mot’ that popped up was the name of some punk goth band and the Canaanite god of death.” He shivered. “Kind of creepy, eh? Especially since he was just ‘joking’ and all.”

  “He’s probably aware his last name is the same as the mythological god or something. He probably plays it up every chance he gets.” Becca wasn’t sure she was comfortable with how well she was beginning to lie to her most loyal officer. But if Silas’ story was true, she had no choice. “Besides, Governor Tyler vouched for him. Part of some statewide taskforce or something. Could be an alias he uses for the job.”

  “Mighty bleak alias, if you ask me. All I’m sayin’ is to watch yer back. I don’t think I rightly trust that guy much.”

  “Noted and appreciated, Jeremy.” She winked at the officer, then looked down at her watch. “Okay. It’s getting late. Think I’ll be heading out. You should go home and get some sleep too. We’ve had a long day.”

  “10-4, Chief. Have a good one.”

  Becca made her way over to Linda’s desk. “Ah, Chief Cole,” Silas said, wrapping the yo-yo up and tucking it into his pocket before patting the medical records sitting next to him. “Haven’t had a chance to review this stuff yet. We were all just enjoying a bit of a chat.”

  “I can see that.” The others milling around the desk understood the subtle hint and disbanded to their respective workstations. “The records can wait though, Mr. Mot. I’m exhausted. Only thing I want to do right now is go home and hit the sack.”

  He offered a sympathetic smile and a nod. “Of course, Chief. And please, call me Silas.”

  “Thank you, Silas.”

  There was a pause.

  “And may I call you Becca?”

  She scrunched her nose. “Hmmmm. I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Silas’s jaw dropped.

  “Don’t take it personal. It’s just that I worked really hard to get where I am. To get past the ‘darlings’, ‘sweeties’, and ‘pretty ladies’ men around here still insist on using. I try to keep it professional with all my colleagues. I hope you understand.”

  Of course, she didn’t want to tell him she wasn’t sure how she felt about being on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper. To her, it seemed a little on par with being pen pals with Hitler or something.

  “Sure.” His face reddened, but he tried to hide his obvious disappointment. “I understand completely.” He clapped his hands together and gave them a good rub. “So, we’ll get a fresh start tomorrow then?”

  “Absolutely. Eight o’clock sharp.”

  He pushed the medical records to Linda, who immediately filed them away in her desk drawer, and offered a little wave before turning toward the door and walking out.

  “Oooh, that was kind of cold, Chief,” Linda said, logging off from her computer.

  “I know.” She felt a lump form in her throat. A symptom she always associated with guilt. “I’ll make it up to him though. Somehow.”

  Linda stood from her desk and gathered her things. “Better do it fast. He’s good looking. Crazy, but hot. He might just be a keeper.”

  “You know I’m seeing Brad.” Becca wasn’t about to tell her receptionist the zillion reasons why Silas Mot was definitely not a keeper.

  “Oh yeah. Well done.” She offered a sarcastic clap. “You nabbed the absolute dullest doctor in all the Southeast.” Linda returned her gaze out the plate-glass window and watched Silas saunter through the parking lot outside. “One thing about that Mot…I bet he’s never dull.”

  Linda, you have no idea. “Go home, Linda. And thanks for your hard work today.”

  “Ta-ta!” the receptionist said with a wave as she picked up her purse and keys, and glided from her cubicle to make a bee-line toward the door. “Think about what I said.” She let out a devious little laugh and walked out of the building.

  Yeah. Right. I’ve had some pretty bad judgment when it came to guys in my life, but at least I’m smart enough to give Death a wide berth. She glanced down at her watch again. It was now almost five o’clock. Brad Harris’s shift at the Summer Haven Urgent Care Center would be over soon and they’d made plans for dinner. He wouldn’t like it, but she was going to have to cancel. Her bed was calling. She only hoped once she got there she could settle her mind enough to fall asleep.

  This is the craziest day I’ve ever had in my life, she thought as she stalked out of the building and headed to her car. Here’s hoping for a better tomorrow.

  15

  GARRETT & HISLOPE FUNERAL HOME

  SAINT AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT, 11:45 PM

  The front lobby of the funeral home at 325 County Road 207 in Saint Augustine sat empty of life. Lit only by a handful of inset lights in the ceiling, spectral shadows invaded most of the interior like dark ghosts feeding on whatever illumination they could crawl their way to. The filtered air—p
umping the scent of chemical flora that only funeral homes use—wafted through each room, tickling Silas Mot’s nose as he looked around.

  His keen eyes scanned the darkness, landing on a plaque above a door marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’. He let his yo-yo spin along its line as he stepped forward, entered the forbidden hallway, and looked for the Preparation Room.

  Fortunately, Garrett & Hislope didn’t occupy a very large building. Being a rather new institution in the nation’s oldest city, it hadn’t quite developed the clientele the other two mortuaries had and was able to operate in modest, yet opulent surroundings. Still playing with the yo-yo, he strolled along the plush mauve carpeting, poking his head in each room until he found what he’d come here for.

  He stepped into the Preparation Room, slipped the stringed toy in his pocket, and approached the large metal door that opened to the business’s walk-in cooler. He took hold of the handle and pulled. The door swung open with a squeak and a hiss of air and Silas looked inside. The cooler itself was small, capable of holding only around ten bodies at a time, so it didn’t take long for him to find the one he’d come here for.

  Double checking the toe tag on the cadaver to be sure, he pulled on the metal tray in which the body lay and rolled it out into the warmer air of the Prep Room. After he locked the tray’s wheels in place, he moved up toward the head of the table and looked down at the deceased occupant.

  The man lay naked on the table. A standard stitched autopsy incision trailed down from both his collar bones to his navel in a ‘Y’ pattern. His face was already caked with makeup and his hair had been expertly fashioned in preparation for whatever funeral his loved ones had chosen for him.

  Silas reached out a hand and took hold of the man’s bare arm. The skin and muscles beneath were firm. They were far stiffer than those of any living man. He knew, of course, that it was not a result of rigor mortis. That condition would have passed after twenty-four hours from death. No, the thick rubbery epidermis now covering the man was a result of his body being completely drained of its natural fluids and replaced by preserving fluids of embalmment.

  It was a slight problem, but no more than a hiccup in his plans for the man.

  With a smile, Silas patted the dead man on the shoulder. “Well now, Mr. Elliot Newman,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  16

  SAND DOLLAR MOTEL

  THURSDAY MORNING, 1:23 AM

  “Last call!” the bartender shouted from underneath the grass pagoda of the Sand Dollar Oasis, a quaint outdoor motel bar right on the beach. She didn’t need to be so loud. There were only a handful of people haunting the place at that hour. In fact, since Silas Mot had arrived an hour earlier—after stashing Elliot in his room—there’d only been the same handful of people there.

  Whether it was because the strange murder was keeping people secured in their safe little homes or the fact that Summer Haven’s population was disproportionately comprised of mostly elderly people whose bar-hopping days had long since passed, Silas wasn’t sure. The only thing he was certain of, as he reclined in the beach chair and watched the waves crash down on the white sand, was that the fruity little drink with the umbrella he was sipping was probably the most exquisite thing he’d ever tasted. He hadn’t even known what the alcoholic concoction was called. He’d simply seen one of the other patrons drinking from the coconut tiki mug and knew he had to have one.

  Granted, he’d also known that never having consumed any alcohol in his entire existence, it might have been prudent to take things a little slower than he had. This temporary material body of his was still subject to many of the same frailties as any mortal, to a certain extent, and was more than capable of becoming inebriated. But he’d only been ‘mortal’ for a little over twenty-four hours and figured he was due a few unwise decisions here and there.

  “Mr. Mot?” The lovely blonde bartender in the tight tee shirt and short shorts had sauntered up to him without him realizing it. “Would you like another one before we close up?”

  Her lips curled up as she whipped her hair out of her eyes with a brush of her hand. If he wasn’t mistaken, the young woman was flirting with him and he couldn’t help but wonder what the implications of possibly flirting back might be.

  No, Ankou. A mistake or two is one thing. That mistake, however, would be disastrous.

  “Thank you, yes,” he said, holding out his now empty tiki mug to her. “I most certainly would.”

  Taking the mug, she went back to the pagoda and began mixing the strawberry, pineapple, and vodka-filled drink, while he returned his gaze back to the moonlit sea and pondered the case some more.

  There had to be an explanation for Andrea Alvarez’s death. Something that didn’t involve curses or the like. Truth be told, mortals didn’t quite understand that magic—as they knew it—didn’t exist. Curses simply didn’t work. Certainly, there were beings, such as himself, who could, and often would, manipulate the material world in such a way that it seemed like magic. But mortals, by their very nature, were incapable of causing such things to happen. And barring some entity—perhaps that insane Sango himself—personally getting involved in Alvarez’s death, Silas was convinced that there was a more mundane solution to it.

  But what could it be?

  The bartender was suddenly at his side again, handing him his drink, as well as the bill and a folded slip of paper.

  “It’s just my phone number,” she said, winking. She seemed cheerful, but there was something in her eyes that concerned him. They kept glancing around as if she was nervously searching for someone. “In case you get bored or lonely during your stay here.”

  He held up the note with a nod of thanks before tucking it into his inside jacket pocket. Then, he rifled through his wallet and handed her a wad of cash as payment for the delightful beverages she’d served him. Her eyes widened when she saw how much he’d given her. In truth, he had no concept of monetary value and wasn’t sure whether he’d even given her enough. From the look on her face, he must have done well. “Keep the change,” he said, giving the lapel of his jacket where he’d tucked the note a good pat with his hand. “And thank you for the number.”

  She blushed, then hurried back to the bar, but by the time she’d got there, he’d already long forgotten about her. His mind was already back to working through the case. Back to magic and curses.

  Of course, the Hand of Cain might be considered a magical item. Of sorts. But it wasn’t like a gun. Its wielder couldn’t just point the thing at someone and cause them to die. Rather, it was more like a toss of a coin, setting into motion a chain of events that would lead to someone’s death in the most unexpected ways. Silas doubted Andrea was even on the wielder’s radar when she died. She’d more than likely been a random victim of the coin toss—to stick with that metaphor.

  He sipped the fruity drink from the straw, savoring its taste as it swirled in his mouth and wondered why such divine concoctions were relegated to the realm of mortals. Life truly is wasted on the living, he thought. He sucked down the very last bit of liquid until the straw hissed with growls of thirst, then he sat the mug on the table next to him and stood from the beach chair.

  It was getting late. Or early, depending on how one looked at it. The body he’d generated really didn’t need to sleep, but his plans for Elliot would take a little more time, and he figured he might give rest a try simply to stave off boredom. Just in case. Which meant it was time to get back to his rented room at the Sand Dollar Motel.

  The crash of the waves against the beach arrested his attention, however, and he decided to spend a little more time walking its sandy pathways. He was beginning to appreciate this world a great deal and he could sort of understand why Esperanza had spent so much time in it with the mortals. There was a great deal to like in the land of the living, and the ocean and its swirling breezes and coconut tiki mugs with fruity drinks garnished with umbrellas were becoming some of his favorite things. And Warheads, of course. Warhe
ads made his mouth feel tingly and he found he rather liked that sensation a lot.

  Yes, he thought as he slipped out of his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and began strolling along the beach. I can understand why these mortals are always so reluctant to leave when their time is up.

  He walked for miles, musing on the case, the beauty of the landscape, the living world, and even Becca. Excuse me, Chief Cole, he thought smugly. He wasn’t sure how far he’d walked or for how long but soon decided it best to turn around and head back to the Sand Dollar Motel. Thirty minutes later, he saw the shape of the bamboo and palmetto façade of the little tiki bar and began making his way west toward the main thoroughfare.

  One sodium streetlight illuminated the parking lot of the motel’s bar. The shadows surrounding Silas were long and menacing. He was getting a bad feeling, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong. He moved up to the curb. His motel stood like a squat rectangular shadow to the south of the bar with only a handful of lights along the sidewalk to guide his way. A few more yards and he would be secure in his roach-infested, yet temporary abode.

  A scrape of a shoe against gravel arrested his attention. He stiffened. Sniffed the air. Something was stirring in the pit of his stomach. It was a new sensation—this fight or flight instinct that mortals required to survive. Silas didn’t like the feeling at all.

  He turned his head, looking over his shoulders, but no one was within sight. The bar was behind him, shrouded with a blanket of night. A row of palm trees, a single parked car, and a cluster of trash cans were the only things visible in the dim light.

  Okay, Ankou, old boy. You’re getting what the humans call ‘the heebie jeebies’. You need to relax.