Esprit de Corpse (6 page)

Of course Theresa and the detective charged after him. I bet they were sorry they’d recuffed him in front. As they tried to get him free without uncuffing him, the media ringed them. And not in a nice way.

“She’s got a right to be heard.”

“The public has a right to know.”

“Ever hear of the First Amendment?”

“Yes, I have.” Theresa stepped up to the crowd. She displayed a commanding presence, silencing the media by sheer will and seeming much taller than her five-foot-seven frame. “The First Amendment is actually American law, but we do have something similar here in Canada. Ms. Iver, please speak your piece.”

My ex-boss glared at Leo until the detective took a step back. Unlooping his hands from the broken pole, Conrad turned to face the crowd. He smoothed Shannon’s skirt and straightened her suit jacket as best he could with bound hands. He turned his daughter’s head left, then right, no doubt hoping they’d catch her good side.

Cameras and camera phones flashed and clicked. All over the parking lot, recording devices switched on.

“My name is Shannon Iver and I. Am. Innocent!”

As one, the crowd emitted a gasp. Those who preferred recording methods whose batteries didn’t fail scratched frantically with pen and pencil.

Conrad’s gaze jumped from reporter to reporter, daring them to challenge him. His expression broadcast arrogance and defiance. Then a light seemed to come on over his head, despite the broken light fixture he stood beneath. One feature at a time, his face crumpled in despair. Well, Shannon’s face, to be exact.

For one moment, I hoped he might be genuinely sorry, sincerely filled with grief. Then the same light came on over my head. Mr. Manipulative had realized that in order to win sympathy, a young woman must present herself differently than a successful middle-aged man.

We’ve come a short way, baby.

Conrad raised his head again, a tear trickling down one cheek, just as he’d done when giving my crappy memorial speech that day. His chin trembled and now he leaned on Detective Leo for support.

Oh, brother.

“It . . .” He sobbed once, then faked inner resolve and started over. “It wasn’t me who clubbed Kirsty to death.”

“One steamboat. Two steamboats.” I counted the beats in my head. He’d taught me a good, dramatic pause must last at least five seconds. “Four steamboats and go!”

Right on cue, Conrad managed to compose himself enough to continue. “Sadly, when Kirsty d’Arc, my best friend, awoke suddenly from her coma, she became disoriented and attacked me. My father, noble, caring man that he was, leapt to my defense. Using the only tool at hand, he was forced to incapacitate poor, delusional Kirsty with the stapler.”

What? That’s not how it happened. He’d attacked me!

What a load of bull-skeg. How dare he? I was about ready to try scything him again when I realized this sympathy thing would work in our favor. Our immediate goal was to get Shannon off the charge of murder, so the more sympathy he gained for her, the better.

Conrad appeared to be waiting for something. He tapped one high heel on the pavement impatiently, keeping his head down.

“Ms. Iver, why was there a stapler in a long-term care room?”

His head shot up. This must have been the question he’d been waiting for.

“I visited Kirsty often, finding solace in her quiet company. I would bring office work with me to make productive use of the time I spent at her bedside. The doctors say that sometimes coma victims can hear what goes on around them, so I’d read her articles and reports to keep her up to date for when she returned to us.”

A murmur of approval traveled through the reporters.

Conrad made a show of using his cuffed hands to wipe a tear from his eye before continuing. “When he realized his blow had accidently ended her life, my father died of grief and guilt and the strain of it all.” By now her voice was cracking in strategic places.

Conrad turned to Detective Leo. “You can charge him posthumously if you must,” he sobbed, still speaking loudly and clearly enough to be heard and recorded across the parking lot. “But it would be a waste of all our hard-earned tax dollars. And put an unnecessary burden on our overworked law-enforcement officials and court system. I thank you all for coming out this evening to hear the truth about the
accidental
death of Kirsty d’Arc.”

I was so blown away by Conrad’s absurd retelling of my death story that I couldn’t even process my feelings. A survey of the news teams showed people hurriedly adding their own tags to their video and audio recordings, or hastily texting or phoning in their notes.

I glanced at Dante to see if I could determine his reaction. The blood drained from his face as I watched, and he shook with anger. For once he didn’t have his arm around Shannon as he turned to me. “Is that how it happened, Kirsty? Did
you
attack Shannon?”

“Did I—? What, no. Of course not. You were there.” But even as I said it, I recalled he’d teleported into the room
after
I’d died. “No, Dante,” I said coldly. “That’s not what happened and you know it. And you know what? I expected you to be more supportive.”

“Kirsty, you know that as Reapers, we are out of contact with our superiors much of the time. We are, therefore, required to use our own judgment. To that end, I must gather all the facts. While I know you’re a trustworthy witness, Conrad’s version of events is also plausible. I must listen to and investigate all possibilities without bias.”

Without bias, my ass. How many times had people told me, “This is Hell, we play favorites”?

“But Dante, we got Conrad to confess to stealing my soul in the first place. It’s why Judge Julius said you were off the hook about my wrongful reapage.”

“Yes, but that was clearing the air regarding your reapage a year ago. The reaping we’re concerned with now is Conrad’s own unauthorized scything by you. I need more evidence before I can make up my mind.” Dante held out one hand, as if expecting me to understand.

“You should take my word for it,” I said, feeling betrayed even as I told myself he was only doing his job. “But seeing as you won’t, let’s ask the other person who was there.” I turned to Shannon, calling her name, but she seemed fixated on her father, who was once again being led toward the van. You’d think a prisoner transport vehicle would have parked closer to the door, but I guess the media had hogged all the better spots.

“Shannon. Shannon!” She blinked at me, finally, as the van doors slammed shut. Detective Leo and Officer Phelps strode back toward the precinct, once again battling the gang of reporters. “Would you tell Dante what happened at the time of my death, please?”

Shannon hesitated. She looked lost and scared. “My dad was trying to get me to sign that document. The contract amendment. Then, I think the next thing that happened was that Kirsty woke up. And she fell on the floor, but then she got up and she. . .” Shannon’s eyebrows drew together as she tried to remember. “She came at my dad like the walking dead, arms stretched out before her. He had no choice but to defend himself.”

Defend himself? From me? He’d been big, strong and healthy, wielding the solid metal stapler. I’d been dazed and weak, my muscles wasted. All I’d had was a few sticky plastic disks.

“And then,” Shannon continued, sobbing softly. I was a little sick of her veil of tears. “And then, he—He—He died. Of a heart attack they found out later. Yes, it happened just like she—I—Like Dad just said.”

That wasn’t right. She was upset. She was in shock. She was suffering from schizofriendia.

Dante glared at me with such malevolence I stepped backward. If he believed Shannon, then he must think our entire relationship was built on lies. He turned Shannon around so both their backs were to me. “Come, Shannon. We must go with them in the van. I cannot teleport you since your body is still alive and your time on the Coil may not yet be done.”

I remembered Dante and me first figuring that out. Together. Was he thinking about our first meeting as well? Was he getting sentimental? Feeling bad for how he’d treated me?

“Kirsty can find her own way.”

I stood there, mouth gaping at what had gone down. When Conrad had manipulated me out of my life, I’d felt used, angry and helpless. I hadn’t imagined I could ever feel worse. When I needed him most, Dante hadn’t just let me down; he’d actually turned on me.

My hands fisted in anger, while my insides clenched with fear. What if he never believed me? What if I’d lost him for good?

And lost was exactly what I felt. Lost and alone. So alone I wished I could die.

Sadly, that was no longer an option for me.

Chapter 8

Jails Pitch

THE TRANSPORT VAN
idled in the parking lot, spewing fossil fuel by-products into the air while it waited for the newspeople to clear out. Eventually the last media vehicle sped off into the dusk and the van rumbled across the asphalt and away from the precinct.

I wished I could have bypassed the awkward journey to Vanier and teleported myself directly there, but oddly enough, as a law-abiding citizen, I had no clue where it was.

I knew the name Vanier, of course. He’d been governor general or something. He had a high school named after him, the all-important intercollegiate football trophy and now a women’s prison. Did this reflect an expected career path? High school, college, prison? His mother must be so proud. I’d have to ask next time she passed through Hell.

I waited until the van was almost out of sight before activating my scythe and teleporting into the interior.

“
Ow!
”

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, having landed half on Dante and half on Shannon. Not the most graceful teleportation, but it was only my second time outside the classroom exorcises. With burning cheeks (no, not those cheeks; I hadn’t landed
that
hard), I squeezed into the empty space between Dante and the rear doors. The bench across the way had more space but then I would have had to look Dante and Shannon in the eye. Eyes. Whatever.

Besides, then I’d be sitting beside the other prisoner, Maddy Stryker, and she scared the bejesus out of me.

And I’d met Jesus once. Nice guy.

So the three invisible souls plus Theresa Mudders all crammed on one side of the van, while the two accused murders sat facing us.

Up front, the radio played a forgotten song as an unseen driver ferried us toward the highway.

Predictably, Conrad began his litany of lies and self-pity, now directed at Theresa. Unlike the detective who had ignored Conrad’s monologue during the drive from the office to the precinct, Theresa remained focused on Conrad, nodding and commiserating in all the right places. Did some of Conrad’s Deal powers linger or was he just really good at gaining sympathy?

He’d certainly played those reporters like a lyre.

The drive through rush-hour traffic to the small city of Milton, where Vanier was located, took forever. Traffic on the 401 grew heavy and aggressive. We’d stop to let one car in only to have three more jam their way in front of us. The words
Ministry of Community Safety and Correctional Services
printed on the side of the van didn’t earn us any special treatment.

Tired of being jostled on the hard metal bench (now
those
cheeks were burning, as well), I was about to push through the metal mesh to the more comfortable passenger seat up front near the driver when Maddy Stryker suddenly struck.

Like Conrad, both her hands and feet were chained to a big D-ring welded to the floor of the van so her only remaining weapon was her head. She head-butted Conrad’s shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways before his own chains reined him in. That had to hurt.

We’d all jumped at the sudden attack, but Theresa quickly regained her composure. “Now, Maddy, that wasn’t necessary. Why did we feel compelled to assault Shannon?”

Theresa reminded me of the shrink my aunt took me to after my parents died. I hadn’t gone very often, but I remembered the infinite patience with which the doctor had asked me questions.

I hadn’t been inclined to answer either.

Conrad struggled upright again while Theresa waited.

“She talks too much,” Maddy eventually replied, jerking her head toward Conrad.

He cowered at the movement, pulling his hands up as far as they’d go. Raw looking flesh peeked out from beneath Shannon’s jacket. Her—his wrists looked red and in one place, a fine crease of blood paralleled the thin plastic cuffs. Handy if he needed to sign anything.

I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

Conrad remained silent for the rest of the drive but I could tell the wheels were spinning. Could he access Shannon’s thoughts, memories or feelings?

Or morals. Maybe he’d catch something—like a severe case of remorse—and return Shannon’s body to its rightful owner.

But if that were going to happen, it didn’t happen during our ride to Milton.

Finally, we pulled into a bleak expanse of property. As expected, fences, razor wire, and locks figured heavily into the landscaping. Once inside, the big gates clanged shut and the van drove up to a prisoner loading and unloading dock. Two new guards supervised, hands resting on stun guns as Theresa unchained first Conrad, then Maddy from the van. They remained cuffed as they were led through the facility by guards.

We passed occupied cells as we all trooped along the uniformly gray corridors. A few inmates eyed the new prisoners, but nobody called out threats or insults or promised to make either of them their bitch. One older guard welcomed Maddy back. Maddy ignored the sarcastic greeting.

So much for prison drama. I don’t think we’re in Oz anymore.

Maddy and Conrad were assigned a cell together and locked in. Once inside, a guard requested first one and then the other to stick their hands through the bars so that their plastic cuffs could be clipped off. Another guard stood by, stun gun at the ready. I figured it was to keep either prisoner from attempting to grab the heavy-duty cutters. Neither woman tried. After double-checking the lock, the guards departed.

“Top bunk’s mine, bitch,” Maddy announced, vaulting up.

Conrad gusted out the sigh of the long-suffering, muttering under his breath about lawyers and lawsuits. He plopped down on the lower bunk, old springs creaking under Shannon’s 130 pounds. Oh, sure. She’ll tell you she’s 125 . . .

“And shut the fuck up,” Maddy added, making herself comfortable on her chosen bed.

Conrad puffed up and for a moment, the ghostly outline of his demonic form hovered over Shannon’s body. But he bit his stolen tongue and punched the saggy gray pillow instead.

I released the breath I’d been holding out of habit; the breathing, not the holding.

“Dante,” I whispered. As if anyone other than Shannon could have heard me. “Stick close in case you have to materialize. In fact, maybe you better teach me how to show myself and move stuff right now.”

Dante stared at me as if I were speaking another language. Oh, I guess I was. Our scythes carried a universal translator microchip so we could understand each other and the souls we came for. Mostly. Had mine failed this time? I thwacked my scythe on the palm of my hand then held it to my ear. I couldn’t hear any ticking, but then it hadn’t ticked before I’d thwacked it.

“Now, Kirsty? This certainly isn’t the time nor the—”

“Dante. Much as I’d love to see Conrad punished, that’s Shannon’s body and we need to keep it safe and whole.”

His eyes opened and so did his mouth. But then he closed it again and nodded. “You are right. If Shannon gets her body back, it should not be harmed.”

“When, Dante. Not if.”

He nodded again although it didn’t ring with commitment. I could tell he was humoring me. We hunkered down to wait for whatever came next.

The two newcomers had missed dinner, so trays were delivered to their cell. Maddy demanded the meat off Conrad’s tray. He looked like he might protest, but again, he backed down, although whether wisdom was the better part of valor or the better part of not eating those greasy gray chunks, I couldn’t tell.

They hadn’t been issued uniforms or nightclothes, so Conrad washed out his panty hose in the sink, carefully hung up his suit as best he could without hangers and lay down in his bra and panties.

I glanced over at Dante to see if he were ogling the seminaked female body, but he’d turned his back and was examining the vacant cell across the way. Whoever had been in there before had really trashed it.

Conrad tossed and turned in his bunk. I doubted he would sleep at all and I was glad that while on the Coil, Reapers were free of such bodily functions as eating, sleeping or visiting the little Reaper’s room. The three of us—Dante, Shannon and me—watched over him all night, tensing every time Maddy moved in her sleep.

Surely we were the strangest flock of guardian angels in the history of the Coil.