Omens
Page 42
I rapped again, but by now didn’t expect an answer.
There wasn’t a dead-bolt keyhole. I looked down the hall. All clear. Couldn’t hurt to try. As I reached for the knob, my gaze caught on that damned poppy again. I stopped and pulled my sleeve over my hand. Then I turned the knob, testing the door before I . . .
It opened.
I glanced around. Then I pushed open the door and slipped inside. As I did, the smell hit me.
Death.
It smelled like death.
I chastised myself for being overly dramatic. No matter how sheltered one was, it was hard to reach the age of twenty-four and not know the smell of decay, if only a dead mouse in the basement. Judging by the state of Niles’s apartment, a rotting mouse or two would probably go unnoticed for a while.
Yet I knew the smell didn’t come from dirty dishes. Or even dead mice.
When I walked into the kitchen and saw Niles Gunderson—slumped back in his chair, mouth open, eyes closed, two flies feasting on an open sore on his chin—I didn’t think, Oh my God, the poor man is dead. I thought, Shit, there goes my only source.
After the shock passed, I did think of how pitiful he looked, how old and how broken. Twenty-two years ago, he’d been living the American dream. Son of immigrants. College educated. White-collar job. Wife. Three kids. House in the suburbs. Then Death paid a visit and decided to stick around. One child savagely murdered. Another dead by his own hand. Finally, Death claimed even his wife—the only person keeping him from the final descent into . . . I looked around. Into this. Dead in a filthy apartment. No one to notice. No one to care.
I suppose my next move should have been to call the police. Or flee the scene. But if no one had found Niles yet, they weren’t likely to in the next few minutes. Besides, there was no sign of trauma, other than that wound on his face, which seemed like a shaving nick that the flies had taken advantage of.
This all sounds remarkably calm of me. Yet I was not calm. Something was wrong here. Seriously wrong.
It was like that discarded poppy niggling at me. A steady whisper snaked past. Pay attention.
I rubbed goose bumps from my arms and found a phone in the living room. I didn’t use it to call 911. I just wanted Niles’s phone book, which I found beside the phone.
I used my sleeves again when opening it, even if logically I knew there was no way they’d be dusting a phone book for prints after a natural death. The book was falling apart, many of the numbers faded, people who’d passed out of the Gundersons’ lives years ago. The only recent entries were for health care workers and pharmacies and delivery services. Except one. A recently changed address and phone number for “Anna.” His daughter.
I made a note of the number and then flipped through the book. Nothing grabbed my attention, possibly because that niggling feeling kept drawing me back to the kitchen. Finally, I closed the book and pocketed my note. One last look. Then I was leaving.
I rounded the corner. Niles Gunderson was upright in his chair, staring at me. Flies covered his chin. Maggots crawled from his mouth. And his eyes—he had no eyes, just empty sockets staring—
My hands flew to my own eyes, palms pressing against them, brain stuttering, some part of me screaming, “See! I told you something was wrong!”
I took a deep breath and let my hands fall away, and when they did, I saw Niles as he’d been before—slumped back in his chair, dead. His eyes were closed. No maggots. Not even any flies.
Something moved to my left. I jumped so fast my feet tangled, and I grabbed the counter. A dark shape stretched across the kitchen floor until it covered Niles, and I turned to see a shadow coming through the open balcony curtains. There, perched on the railing, was a raven. It flapped its wings, and the shadow retracted to normal size.
I slowly walked to the balcony doors. The bird sat there, watching me. It cocked its head.
“Shoo,” I whispered. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”
As I said the words, I saw the little girl from my dream, shaking her fist at the raven as it perched on a flayed, eyeless corpse.
The bran know better. They aren’t supposed to disturb the dead. It’s disrespectful.
The raven opened its beak and croaked. Then it spread its wings and swooped at the window, talons out. It hit the glass, claws scraping, and let out a raucous caw.
“Ewch i ffwrdd, bran!”
I heard the words the little girl had spoken, and it took a second to realize they came from me, shouted so loud my throat hurt. The bird let out a noise, almost like a hiss. Then it pushed back from the window, twisting in midair before flying off.
I stood there, staring after it. When I swallowed, my throat ached, and I remembered saying the words. Shouting them. Standing in the kitchen of a dead man, shouting.
I got out of there as fast as I could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
If the Romans could have fortified their cities the way the human brain fortifies itself, we’d still be wearing togas. The mind is an amazing piece of biomachinery, really. A serious threat presents itself at the gate and up fly the walls, standing firm in the face of earth-shaking revelations, ideological bullets, and plain old logic.
I retreated from Niles’s apartment, still in a daze. I wandered until I found a coffee shop. Then I holed up in the corner, slurping caffeine until I found the strength to make sense of what I’d just experienced.
By the time I finished my drink, I’d decided the hallucination of Zombie Niles and the raven weren’t important. What mattered was that I’d broken into an apartment and found the body of a man who’d publicly threatened me. I had screwed up. I’d thought I was capable of handling this on my own, and I so clearly was not.
• • •
When I left my apartment for my Monday shift, I noticed curtains move across the street. Rosalyn Razvan, watching me. They closed when I glanced up, but I stayed there, looking at the house, considering . . .
Gabriel Walsh should be at the bottom of my list of potential investigative partners. But under the right conditions and with an insane amount of caution, he might be exactly what I needed. Except I’d already rejected his offer.
While neither my dad nor James had Gabriel’s shark instinct, they’d introduced me to men who did, and I’d learned a few things. If I wanted to work with Gabriel, I had to let him win me over. I couldn’t crawl back or the balance would be forever skewed.
After my shift, as I walked to the psychic’s door, a black blur shot from behind a parked car. The cat. I hadn’t seen it since the night of the raven attack, and I was relieved that it was obviously fine.
There wasn’t a dead-bolt keyhole. I looked down the hall. All clear. Couldn’t hurt to try. As I reached for the knob, my gaze caught on that damned poppy again. I stopped and pulled my sleeve over my hand. Then I turned the knob, testing the door before I . . .
It opened.
I glanced around. Then I pushed open the door and slipped inside. As I did, the smell hit me.
Death.
It smelled like death.
I chastised myself for being overly dramatic. No matter how sheltered one was, it was hard to reach the age of twenty-four and not know the smell of decay, if only a dead mouse in the basement. Judging by the state of Niles’s apartment, a rotting mouse or two would probably go unnoticed for a while.
Yet I knew the smell didn’t come from dirty dishes. Or even dead mice.
When I walked into the kitchen and saw Niles Gunderson—slumped back in his chair, mouth open, eyes closed, two flies feasting on an open sore on his chin—I didn’t think, Oh my God, the poor man is dead. I thought, Shit, there goes my only source.
After the shock passed, I did think of how pitiful he looked, how old and how broken. Twenty-two years ago, he’d been living the American dream. Son of immigrants. College educated. White-collar job. Wife. Three kids. House in the suburbs. Then Death paid a visit and decided to stick around. One child savagely murdered. Another dead by his own hand. Finally, Death claimed even his wife—the only person keeping him from the final descent into . . . I looked around. Into this. Dead in a filthy apartment. No one to notice. No one to care.
I suppose my next move should have been to call the police. Or flee the scene. But if no one had found Niles yet, they weren’t likely to in the next few minutes. Besides, there was no sign of trauma, other than that wound on his face, which seemed like a shaving nick that the flies had taken advantage of.
This all sounds remarkably calm of me. Yet I was not calm. Something was wrong here. Seriously wrong.
It was like that discarded poppy niggling at me. A steady whisper snaked past. Pay attention.
I rubbed goose bumps from my arms and found a phone in the living room. I didn’t use it to call 911. I just wanted Niles’s phone book, which I found beside the phone.
I used my sleeves again when opening it, even if logically I knew there was no way they’d be dusting a phone book for prints after a natural death. The book was falling apart, many of the numbers faded, people who’d passed out of the Gundersons’ lives years ago. The only recent entries were for health care workers and pharmacies and delivery services. Except one. A recently changed address and phone number for “Anna.” His daughter.
I made a note of the number and then flipped through the book. Nothing grabbed my attention, possibly because that niggling feeling kept drawing me back to the kitchen. Finally, I closed the book and pocketed my note. One last look. Then I was leaving.
I rounded the corner. Niles Gunderson was upright in his chair, staring at me. Flies covered his chin. Maggots crawled from his mouth. And his eyes—he had no eyes, just empty sockets staring—
My hands flew to my own eyes, palms pressing against them, brain stuttering, some part of me screaming, “See! I told you something was wrong!”
I took a deep breath and let my hands fall away, and when they did, I saw Niles as he’d been before—slumped back in his chair, dead. His eyes were closed. No maggots. Not even any flies.
Something moved to my left. I jumped so fast my feet tangled, and I grabbed the counter. A dark shape stretched across the kitchen floor until it covered Niles, and I turned to see a shadow coming through the open balcony curtains. There, perched on the railing, was a raven. It flapped its wings, and the shadow retracted to normal size.
I slowly walked to the balcony doors. The bird sat there, watching me. It cocked its head.
“Shoo,” I whispered. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”
As I said the words, I saw the little girl from my dream, shaking her fist at the raven as it perched on a flayed, eyeless corpse.
The bran know better. They aren’t supposed to disturb the dead. It’s disrespectful.
The raven opened its beak and croaked. Then it spread its wings and swooped at the window, talons out. It hit the glass, claws scraping, and let out a raucous caw.
“Ewch i ffwrdd, bran!”
I heard the words the little girl had spoken, and it took a second to realize they came from me, shouted so loud my throat hurt. The bird let out a noise, almost like a hiss. Then it pushed back from the window, twisting in midair before flying off.
I stood there, staring after it. When I swallowed, my throat ached, and I remembered saying the words. Shouting them. Standing in the kitchen of a dead man, shouting.
I got out of there as fast as I could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
If the Romans could have fortified their cities the way the human brain fortifies itself, we’d still be wearing togas. The mind is an amazing piece of biomachinery, really. A serious threat presents itself at the gate and up fly the walls, standing firm in the face of earth-shaking revelations, ideological bullets, and plain old logic.
I retreated from Niles’s apartment, still in a daze. I wandered until I found a coffee shop. Then I holed up in the corner, slurping caffeine until I found the strength to make sense of what I’d just experienced.
By the time I finished my drink, I’d decided the hallucination of Zombie Niles and the raven weren’t important. What mattered was that I’d broken into an apartment and found the body of a man who’d publicly threatened me. I had screwed up. I’d thought I was capable of handling this on my own, and I so clearly was not.
• • •
When I left my apartment for my Monday shift, I noticed curtains move across the street. Rosalyn Razvan, watching me. They closed when I glanced up, but I stayed there, looking at the house, considering . . .
Gabriel Walsh should be at the bottom of my list of potential investigative partners. But under the right conditions and with an insane amount of caution, he might be exactly what I needed. Except I’d already rejected his offer.
While neither my dad nor James had Gabriel’s shark instinct, they’d introduced me to men who did, and I’d learned a few things. If I wanted to work with Gabriel, I had to let him win me over. I couldn’t crawl back or the balance would be forever skewed.
After my shift, as I walked to the psychic’s door, a black blur shot from behind a parked car. The cat. I hadn’t seen it since the night of the raven attack, and I was relieved that it was obviously fine.
