Sixth Grave on the Edge (6 page)

“What about Mr. Joyce? Did he still have his soul?”

“No. He was right. His soul was gone and probably has been for at least a couple of months. He won’t last much longer. He’s been so absorbed in his daughter that he didn’t realize what he was feeling was the illness that happens when the soul is gone. The body withers away.”

Damn. I hated to hear that. “Okay, answer me this: Is it possible to get one back after the demon has fed off it?”

“It depends on how long he’s had it, if it still has any energy left. They can live off one soul for months if they have to.” He stepped closer to emphasize his next point. “And yours,” he said, his tone warning, “he could live off for hundreds of years. A millennium, even. Getting your soul would be like winning the lottery of feasts, which is why you aren’t going anywhere near him. He has to trick you out of it, and trust me, a Dealer can do exactly that. They are often called Tricksters in your mythology for good reason.”

“Thanks for your faith in me.”

“Dutch, it’s not my lack of faith in you. It’s my certainty that you would do anything to get this man’s soul back. I’ve seen it a hundred times. You risk everything, every part of yourself, for complete strangers. It’s … disturbing.”

He had a point.

I opened my door and stepped in. “Again, I ask, how do I not know these things?”

Reyes crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against my doorframe as I tossed my bag onto my kitchen table and headed for Mr. Coffee. “Because you’re you,” he said, teasing me.

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I asked, nodding in the general direction of the bar.

“Son of a bitch.” He gritted his teeth. “I do, actually, but I won’t be long. Don’t do anything without me.”

“Okay,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers behind my back.

He stepped to me. “Dutch, I mean it. Don’t you dare go try to find this guy.”

“I won’t. Pinkie swear.” I held up my pinkie. He didn’t hold his up so we could entwine them and swear our allegiance. Left hanging for the second time that day. “But,” I added, pointing said pinkie at him as menacingly as I could, “I am going to that game tonight.”

He bit down, the muscles in his jaw contracting with the movement. “Then we need more of a plan than your usual fare.”

“What’s my usual fare?”

“Rush headlong into any situation that could get you killed, consequences be damned.”

“That plan has worked beautifully for me in the past,” I reminded him, frowning in reprimand.

“I apologize,” he said, but the insincerity cut to my core. He totally didn’t mean it. “I tend to forget how beautifully your plans work when each and every one goes awry, including the one that left you stranded on a deserted bridge with a man who had every intention of burning you alive.”

He did not just bring that up. “You’re still mad at me about that?” When he only glared at me, his eyes shimmering in the low light, I crossed my arms over my chest defensively. “That wasn’t a plan. That was a surprise attack. And I told you, I tried to summon you. I couldn’t. I was concussed.” I pointed to my head to demonstrate. Not with my pinkie, though.

He was in front of me at once, the animal inside him rearing reflexively, and kept going until I’d backed into the cabinets and could go no farther. Bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of me, he moved even closer, his heat spiraling in blistering waves around me. “You can summon me whenever you desire,” he said, his warm breath at my ear, brushing down my neck. “I am but a thought away.”

“Are you saying I didn’t summon you on purpose?”

He leaned back to look at me. “You tell me.”

“I thought you had to go to work.”

He bit down again before checking his watch. “I mean it. Nothing until we can come up with a better plan. Promise me.”

“I promise. Geez.” He was so untrusting.

*   *   *

First things first. I hunted down my phone and dialed Uncle Bob.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he said, clearly in a good mood.

I was about to change that. “I need you to come over tonight.”

“Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Dad.”

“He’s there?” he asked, seeming surprised.

“No, but Denise came to see me. She is under the impression Dad isn’t going on a trip into the wild blue yonder. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Not really.” He paused a long moment, then added, “But I’ve suspected.”

“You’ve suspected what?” I asked in alarm. “What’s going on?”

“I have a meeting in two. We’ll talk about it when I get there. What time do you want me over?”

While I wanted him over right then and there—this was my dad we were talking about—I had to consider the plan Cookie and I—mostly I—had dreamed up to get Ubie to ask her out. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth with this guy. “Around six?” That should give Cookie enough time to get ready and her date enough time to get over from the West Side. He had to work until five, so … “Yeah, six will work.”

“That’ll work for me, too. Do you want dinner? I can pick something up.”

Though I should have felt at least a twinge of guilt—I was setting him up, after all—I couldn’t quite manage it. The setup, or as I liked to call it, the Get Cookie Laid Plan, was a necessary evil. Uncle Bob was usually so confident, so straightforward, but throw Cookie into the mix, and he became a spineless wiener. Not that wieners had spines to begin with, but really. It was Cookie. Our Cookie! What was she going to do? Bite him?

Okay, that was a strong possibility, but that’d come after the fruits of our endeavor had been delivered. Cookie could be sassy like that.

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that one time at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I could trust him. Mostly because he had rope, duct tape, and lots of condoms in his backseat. Still, I’ll never know what could have come of it. How far I could have risen.
C’est la vie.
“I love it when you buy dinner. How about Italian from that really expensive place that I never go to because it’s too expensive?”

He chuckled. “Can do. Would you just like me to order the most expensive thing on the menu?”

“Duh. See ya then.” Right before I hung up, I said, “And don’t be late!”

“Please. It’s Robert Davidson you’re talking to.”

Who was Robert again? Oh, right. That always threw me. “Fine,
Robert,
just don’t be late.”

“I’ll try.”

I hung up and realized Mr. Coffee was ready for me. A sharp thrill ran up my spine with that knowledge. It was weird. I hurried over to him, gave him a saucy wink, then poured a cup of joe, dumping all kinds of artificial thises and thats in with him, wondering why he was called Joe in the first place.

Then I turned and stared at my walls, realizing I suddenly had nothing to do. Actually, I did. I could mull over ad nauseum the fact that there was a demon out there feeding on the souls of the living. Or I could ponder the fact that cancer was a stone-cold bitch who needed to die a slow and painful death, over and over for all eternity. Or I could think about the fact that Reyes had a human brother. A biological one. But none of those options appealed to me. Since Reyes had thwarted my plans to scope out the Dealer Mr. Joyce had described to me, I was at a standstill. In my apartment. With absolutely nothing to do! It was weird.

I supposed I could stare at Mr. Wong, my apartment mate. He’d actually lived there first, hovering with his nose in one corner of my living room when I’d first scoped out the place, but I’d loved the apartment. No, I’d loved the building. It seemed to lure me inside. To woo me with its old-world architecture and cultured lines. Either that or I’d had one too many margaritas that day.

And while I talked to Mr. Wong all the time, I’d never really tried to communicate with him. To get the lowdown on his story, his life. Maybe I didn’t want to. I often did my best to avoid the more painful aspects of life, even though it didn’t always help; witness my physical and emotional breakdown with Mr. Joyce in my office only an hour earlier.

But maybe Mr. Wong was like Mr. Andrulis in my passenger seat. Maybe he was just lost, wanting to cross, to get to heaven, but he didn’t know how. I’d never really examined Mr. Wong for markings or tattoos of any kind. Perhaps if I found out who he was, what his story entailed, I could lure him out of his stupor and help him to the other side. Wasn’t that my job, after all?

I pulled a chair over to Mr. Wong and sat down.

“I’m here for you,” I said, taking the slow and easy approach. His back was rigid, his shoulders straight, his short gray hair a bit mussed and in need of a trim. “If you want to cross, you can, you know.”

Wait, what if he did? What would I do without him? I’d grown so used to having him around to talk to, to commiserate with, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle the place without him.

“Can you at least tell me your name? I’m fairly certain it’s not Mr. Wong.” I’d only called him that because … well, because he kind of looked like a Mr. Wong. It was the first thing that popped into my head.

When he still didn’t answer, I put my cup down and stood by him. His head, even though he was hovering about a foot off the ground, still did not pass mine. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. His gray uniform reminded me so much of the pictures I’d seen of Chinese internment camps. The people starving, made to work until they dropped. Literally.

Maybe that was why I’d never really tried to communicate with him. Maybe I didn’t want to know his story, what he’d gone through. As surprising as this might seem to the average observer, I did not handle that stuff well. My heart broke all too often. Even when people passed through me who’d gotten past their hardships, their heart-wrenching pain, and had lived long, full lives, seeing that part of them still cut me to pieces. So, maybe all this time I’d been hanging with Mr. Wong, I was really putting off the inevitable, the truth, not for his benefit, but for my own.

I was so amazingly selfish, sometimes I astonished even me.

I reached over and took his hand into mine. It was the first real contact I’d ever had with him. I was always afraid he’d up and vanish on me. Dead people tended to do that. But he didn’t move. He let me fondle his extremities as I searched for any kind of tattoo. Any mark that might lead me to his identity. It was probably too much to hope that he’d have a tat with his name on it like Mr. Andrulis.

I carefully lifted a sleeve. Nothing, though he did have a lot of scars, mostly thin wisps across his fragile skin. The same with the other arm. I bent and lifted a ragged pant leg. Again, scars, though not so many, but no other markings of any kind.

I heard Cookie open the door as I was looking at his right leg.

“What are you doing?” she asked, heading straight for Mr. Coffee. I’d suspected those two for some time now. Cookie seemed suddenly very concerned as to his whereabouts, his everyday activities, how long it took him to brew. She was eyeing him, sizing him up; I could tell. It could have something to do with the fact that her own coffeepot died after a long bout with congestion. I think its fuel pump went out. But she needed to keep her eyes off my man if she knew what was good for her.

“I’m fondling Mr. Wong,” I said, dropping his pant leg and rising. “Did you find anything out about our Mr. Andrulis?”

“Sure did.”

I peeked around Mr. Wong. “Seriously? And?”

She stirred her cup, rinsed the spoon off, then walked over to me and handed me a paper. “Is this him?”

I looked at the clipping. It was a photograph of several veterans from a local VFW event. She’d circled one of them, and underneath was a list of their names, including a Charles Andrulis. I squinted, trying to bring the picture into focus. “You know, that might be him. It’s hard to tell. He’s so naked now.”

“According to the obituaries,” Cookie said, taking the chair I’d pulled up to Mr. Wong, “he died about a month ago and is survived by his wife of fifty-seven years. But she’s not doing well.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s still here,” I said, pulling up another chair and retrieving my coffee cup. “Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s waiting for her.”

Cookie sighed in romantic bliss.

“But wait. Why is he freaking naked?”

“Oh.” She scoured her bag until she produced a stack of papers. “Okay, I called the home where he and his wife were living, and according to a Nurse Jacob—who sounded quite yummy, I might add—they were giving Mr. Andrulis a shower when he collapsed. He died instantly of a heart attack.”

“Oh, man. Poor guy.”

“I know. It’s really sad. Nurse Jacob said his wife doesn’t know he’s gone. Even if they told her, it would sink in for only a few minutes before she was asking for him again, so they haven’t told her. They just keep telling her he’s coming right back.”

“You know what?” I said, rising and pacing the floor space. All two feet of it. “I’ve had it. I don’t want to be around death anymore.” I was holding my cup with one hand, but my other flew all over the place in indignation. “I’m done with sad stories that leave me whimpering and fetal.”

Cookie straightened. “But aren’t you the grim reaper? I mean, isn’t death your job?”

“Yes.” I strode to my desk and took out a piece of paper. “Yes, it is, and I quit.”

She relaxed and sipped on her coffee a bit before asking, “So, what are you doing?”

“Writing my resignation letter. How do you spell
disestablishmentarianism
?”

“First of all, I’m not sure you know what that word means if you are using it in a resignation letter.”

I paused and examined my letter. “Really?”

“Second, I’m not sure you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah?” I went back to writing my letter, throwing in a few curse words to get my point across. “Watch me.”

I signed it with all the flair I could muster, then folded it into thirds, tried to stuff it in an envelope, pulled it back out and refolded to make the thirds more even, tried again, pulled it back out. “Oh, my god, how do you get a letter into a freaking—?”