Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (3 page)

He ponders the corpse from a swivel stool,
his elbows upon his knees to support his chin.

“Nathan said you’d outlive us all.” Orville
stands and paces around the table in frustration, recalling his
mentor’s words regarding Freeman’s health:
the
body
of
a
twenty
year
old
,
blood
pressure
to
die
for
,
strongest
heart
I’ve
ever
listened
to
. “Then why would Nathan say it was a
heart attack in his preliminary?”

For a rich man, personal staff is always
considered ‘on-call,’ which includes doctors. It was Nathanial
Grey, MD, that called the time of death, and all Orville has to do
is concur. No autopsy is to be done, because the widow requested it
be forgone, stating that it was ‘just his time.’

“No, it wasn’t,” Orville says.

His reverberating words fade but seem to
leave behind a trace, a residual metallic clang. He can’t tell
where the knocking is coming from, but it’s the least of his
concerns. It must be the pipes, and, besides, he has a decision to
make. Though he was instructed to forgo an autopsy, that’s just
what he is about to do, after gathering samples for a full
toxicology report. Another crucial step he was informed was
unnecessary.

“I can always work at Olive Grove,” he jokes
to himself. Nathanial had pulled strings to get him into Memorial,
and he is lucky to be here working from the ground up. The hospital
typically employs only the most esteemed and seasoned medical
staff, and he himself has only been off his internship for a year.
Not quite ‘top of his class,’ but Orville knows to trust his
instincts. “I certainly won’t write a false report.”

“Perhaps, I can force your pen, Doctor
Orville.”

The sudden presence causes him to start. He
turns with a gasp to see a well-dressed man standing at the door,
his face hidden by the shadows cast by the small hallway. The
doctor doesn’t recognize the voice, but he knows its owner
shouldn’t be in here. He steels his nerves and his resolve.

“You need to leave, sir. If you are family,
you’ll find his wife in Wilkes Chapel.”

Over the metallic clatter that increases in
its rhythm, the man laughs slightly. He knows exactly where to find
the widow because she hired him. With his current employer, the
notorious Benito Sartori, incarcerated, he has been allowed to
freelance. The young doctor’s report is the one loose end he must
tie up. “I’ll pay my respects after you sign off on that report. It
was simply his time.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is of no consequence.” The man
approaches. His left hand is clad in a black leather glove and
holds a small pistol trained on Orville’s chest. “Please, make this
easy on yourself.”

Every fiber of Orville's being tells him not
to falsify the report. As a doctor he has taken an oath, but he
also wants to live.

He has one ace up his sleeve. The morgue is
equipped with a recording device for attendants to use during their
examinations, but he just needs to activate it without this man
seeing him.
If
I
can
get
him
to
talk
on
tape
,
I
can
comply
with
his
demands
,
and
just
take
the
…

Before the doctor can get his plan into
motion, Freeman Wilkes moves. The dead man lunges from the table,
sinking his teeth into Orville, who screams as blood saturates his
white lab coat.

The man with the gun can’t believe his eyes.
The amount of poison he had slipped into Wilkes' coffee was enough
to kill a water buffalo, but now Freeman's eating his loose
end.

The metallic clanging becomes a violent
battering, and the steel doors that contain the cadavers are forced
open from the inside.

“This complicates things.”

##

Just a few blocks away, still in the Hills
among lavish penthouses and gated homes, a local girl who has done
very well for herself lies in bed. She’s been depressed since
filing for divorce from her husband of only six months. She has
chosen to wade through it alone, sending away all her help in favor
of solitude. The young woman of twenty-two casts off the comforter
that has lived up to its name for her for the past three days,
sending aluminum chocolate wrappers flying.

Dressed in frumpy flannel pajamas that she
hasn't worn since inviting him into her life, she slips her feet
into a pair of warm house shoes. She is finding it hard to feel
sorry for herself when an odd rustling sound comes from somewhere
inside the house.

Known for her grace and poise, she tiptoes
stealthily through the upstairs hall. She listens and detects the
ruckus comes from downstairs. Her voice has been equated to that of
angels, but she dares not use it now as she slowly descends the
stairs, using the banister to lighten her already modest
weight.

At the landing, she listens and finds the
sound to be coming from her office. The office she once shared with
her horrible future ex-husband, though he had no use for one. The
door is partially open, so she creeps to the crack and pushes it
the rest of the way. There he is, standing near her displayed
platinum records and Grammys. Randy Russell, Kelly Peel’s estranged
spouse.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she
demands.

The man is startled by the beautiful woman he
had married in Vegas and later wronged. Later that night, actually.
The British comic stammers his explanation. “I… I’ll have you know,
they kicked me out of my usual suite at the Hammond Grand. Some
bullshit about fumigating it. I don’t plan to stay. I’m looking for
something… Unless, you’ll let me stay here? Have you cooled
off?”

“The fact that you have a
usual
suite
at a hotel when we own--sorry,
I
own--a house in this city
should tell you that I will never cool off, you bastard.”

“Right,” he says simply, still looking around
the office. “I’m looking for my joke book. I have that USO thing up
north in a few weeks…”

Kelly knows the man doesn’t care about his
upcoming gig for the troops. He hardly ever writes in his so-called
book of jokes. She knows exactly what he is looking for. “I flushed
that shit.”

“What? All of it?” He makes a desperate
grimace, and his hands wring the air as if it were her neck.
“Fuck!”

“Get out!”

“I can’t.”

“We’re never going to get back together. Just
go before I call the cops. That’s the last thing you need.”

“No. I can’t because the paparazzi are
outside. They’ve been tailing me all morning.” He flings a finger
toward the windows facing the main entrance to the gated
property.

Kelly Peel, Waterloo native turned pop
sensation, uses two fingers to delicately separate the white lace
curtains. The road beyond her wrought iron is populated by figures
that stare at her home. She finds one thing odd about this herd of
reporters, no cameras. “I don’t care. You’re not staying here.”

“You can’t kick me out,” he explains to her.
“This is my home too. Until a judge determines who owns what, it is
all shared property.”

“You don’t own anything!” she asserts.
“Everything is in my name. I bought this house before we even met!
What little you earn with your disgusting mouth has been spent on
drugs, booze, and whores!”

“Escorts!” Randy corrects her pointedly. His
pride is bruised by her words, no matter how true they may be. She
is the top earner in their relationship; she’s the top earner of
most in her field currently. After they finalize their divorce,
should his infidelity come to light, his already lack luster career
will be over. “Why would you purchase a home here, of all
places?”

She shakes her head at him in disbelief. “I’m
from here.”

“You’re amazing. You should live in a city
that befits your greatness, not one named after one of the most
crushing military defeats in human history. Cities that have songs
about them sung by Sinatra, Elvis, or the Chile Peppers. Not Abba.
You’re better than Abba.”

His words make her laugh. He sees hope in
that chuckle, because it was his humor that won her heart not too
long ago. Randy takes a few steps closer to embrace his wife. He is
halted by a palm against his chest, and the smile he had earned is
now a sneer.

“I’m better than Abba.” She nods slowly. “I
can’t believe that’s actually the nicest thing you’ve ever said to
me. Out!”

Randy is dumfounded. His wife leaves the room
and he is alone, surrounded by the trophies of her greatness and
fame. He stares at a blown up, framed magazine cover depicting her.
Though she is beautiful this morning, without all of the make-up or
skimpy attire she is known for, the image looking down on him is
positively radiant. She is posing seductively in a black teddy and
white feathered wings. The reporter of the magazine used all the
usual phrases to describe Kelly Peel; angelic voice, stunning eyes,
and the body of a porn star.

Fuck
,
I’m
stupid
.

The loaded MP3 players are put in a backpack
along with a few pairs of ear buds and as many packs of double A's
as he can carry. Dustin's current goal is to get home, then he’ll
try to get out of the city.

Typically, no visit to Ray’s can conclude
properly without saying goodbye to that beautiful Les Paul, but not
this time.
Today
is
the
day
, he tells
the guitar as he smashes the case, using a lesser quality
instrument. The marvelous Gibson is slung over his shoulder by its
strap. He also claims a small portable amp and heads for the back
door.

With the electricity out, the stairs are even
darker than before. Only half of the overhead lights are on,
running off of emergency power. The auxiliary system provides just
enough power for employees and patrons to make it to the exits
safely if the main source doesn’t resume. So he proceeds slowly all
the way to the parking garage.

Pockets of darkness shadow the subterranean
space. Dustin had fortunately parked his Altima under one of the
few fixtures that are illuminated. But his steps are halted by a
noise echoing within the concrete enclosure. The shuffling of feet
signals a figure emerging from the gloom.

Dustin holds his breath when he sees a
policeman meandering his way with his head hung low. His first
thought is that he’s going to jail, and he wonders if the stolen
merchandise will net him a felony or just a misdemeanor. He can’t
imagine that petty theft will be a top priority for the cops with
everything going on, so he loads his goods into the back of his
car.

Dustin opens his door and is about to take
off when he notices the law man is approaching, limping faster and
more deliberate.
Oh
my
god
!
Is
he
one
of
them
? The only thing he has
that he can use as a weapon is the black Les Paul, and smashing it
is a painful thought.

“What’s the trouble, officer?” He poises the
guitar to strike. When he receives no response he decides to jump
into the driver’s seat rather than damage his Gibson.

The officer is at the front fender. Dustin’s
hesitation gives the man the opportunity to get a hand on the door,
barring its closure. “Have you seen an ammo clip?”

“Huh?” Dustin is relieved to hear him
talking.

“I lost a mag.” The cop sits upon the
Altima’s hood, setting down his pistol and a box of ammunition.

Dustin has never seen a policeman who wasn’t
completely in control of himself, but this one cradles his face
with shaky hands.

“Don’t you guys have shotguns?”

“My partner had it…”

Past
tense
, Dustin thinks.
Not
good
.

“I had to get off the streets,” the cop
continues. “They’re everywhere…”

From the box of bullets, he takes a single
round that he feeds into the breach of his weapon. The slide is
returned with a metallic sound that is magnified in the cement
cavern. “I just lost count. I ejected the mag and had to run. I
dropped it!”

“You don’t have a spare?”

“It was my spare.” Despair makes his voice
crack. Before Dustin can stop him, the cop places the barrel under
his chin and fires the round. Blood and brains plaster the beams
above, raining down red clumps. The light source overhead is coated
with crimson, casting the hue over everything below.

Dustin is in shock over the grisly
occurrence. He has never seen a dead body before, let alone
witnessed a suicide firsthand. He stands staring at the corpse on
his hood, unable to move though he hears moans from the street. He
snaps himself out of it once long shadows from the afternoon sun
stretch along the concrete floor. Dustin is afraid to move closer
to the fallen officer, but he must overcome his fears to retrieve
the weapon. Still he shivers when he takes the pistol from the
cop’s dead fingers. He snatches up the box of ammo and shoves the
body to the ground, pulling his sleeve up over his hand to minimize
contact with the dead man.

Once safely inside his car, he must contend
with another first: holding a gun. The weapon feels hot in his
hands as he scrutinizes it. He has seen plenty of them in movies
and video games. The slide is all the way back, leaving a gaping
rectangular hole in the side; the He had watched the cop insert the
round that he had killed himself with, so he duplicates the action,
but is at a loss as to how to mimic the metallic sound. Dustin
cautiously attempts different buttons and levers until the hole is
sealed with a startling jolt.
That’s
it
, he thinks
with triumph and fear.
It’s
ready
to
go
.