Chapter 8
Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz!
The sudden noise jolted Jodie back to consciousness. An alarm clock? Here? In the land with no time?
She sat upright, scanned the area around her bed, found nothing. Still the buzz rattled through her head, more annoying than a mosquito in a dark room. Where the hell was it coming from? Out of the corner of her eye she spotted purple lights dancing on the ceiling. The clipboard! The message currently transmitting from the Board flashed so brightly and with so much power, the characters reflected on the flat painted surface overhead and even made the counter vibrate.
Fully awake now, she
stumbled out of the bed linens. Once she’d disentangled her legs, she raced to the jumpy, noisy device. When she placed her fingers on the clipboard, the Voice intoned, “Please stand by for your assignment.” The clipboard then dimmed and went silent.
Stand by?
She collapsed onto one of the stools and stared at the blank board. For how long? The sleep had not only left her refreshed, but antsy to get back to work. Her hunger had disappeared, as well. Did she have enough time to brush her teeth before the Voice returned?
Strange. The moment the idea came into her head, a minty taste filled her mouth and her tongue tingled with a freshly gargled feeling. Okay… How about washing her face?
Maybe a shower? Sure enough, her pores tightened as if undergoing an expensive facial. When she touched her scalp, smooth, clean hair brushed her fingertips.
Was this conjuring? Had she finally figured out how to get out of the dumb toga? Only one way to know for sure.
Let’s try a new outfit.
A pair of her favorite jeans, deep blue bootlegs with butterflies stitched in gold threads on the back pockets came to mind. And because she wanted to show Luc the proper way for a bounty hunter to dress, she chose a shimmering print blouse. Royal blue and hot pink butterflies flitted over pale blue silk, and a lacy pink camisole peek
ed from the unbuttoned V neckline.
Voila
! Staring down at herself from chest to bare feet, she found the exact outfit she’d envisioned now clothing her frame. Woo-hoo! Time for a little Snoopy dance. She’d learned to conjure her garments!
N
ow she’d need shoes to complete the ensemble. Not just any shoes. A good pair of designer ankle boots with a teeny heel, in buttery soft brown leather, comfortable, useful, and sexy as hell. The moment the image fully popped into her head, the boots covered her feet. Flexing her toes up, then down, she smiled.
This was a death benefit she could easily get used to.
Bam
!
Bam
!
Bam
! A loud rapping on her door shot her attention away from this morning’s successes. No surprise. She found Luc hovering in the hallway, fully refreshed, clean-shaven and displaying another stupid t-shirt. This one loudly proclaimed,
Never knock on Death’s door. Ring the bell and run. He hates that!
“The Board’s calling?” he said in greeting.
Waving him inside, she turned away. “I slept fine, Luc. Thanks for asking. You?”
“Of course you slept fine,” he replied. “This is the Afterlife. No insomnia here.”
The door closed behind him with a snick.
“I see you got yourself a new outfit.” His voice blew hot breath on her nape, and she whirled to find him right behind her.
“I guess that means you’ve mastered how to conjure.” His lips quirked, and he waggled his brows. “Would you be insulted if I said I’ll miss attempting to picture you in the prime of life?”
Heat flooded her from head to toe. “You mean naked?”
He leaned forward, closing the gap between them to the width of a fingertip. “Naked.” His gaze slowly skimmed her from head to toe. “In bed.” He stared at the pile of linens she’d let pool on the floor. “Sated…”
Bzzz
!
Bzzz
!
Bzzz
!
The Board. She’d almost forgotten. Flashing Luc a disapproving glare, she grabbed the clipboard and planted her fingers atop the surface.
“…Artist Taylor Finch,” the Voice said, “wasn’t yet a household name when, in the summer of 1976, he was murdered by his agent and four of his paintings were stolen from his home. His widow, son, and daughter have fought to regain possession of the oils ever since they resurfaced in a private collector’s home in Miami Beach in the early 1980’s. The collector claimed he bought the paintings from a reputable dealer and produced receipts to back up his claim. Unfortunately, both the agent and the art dealer in question died before the receipts were presented, and their authenticity could not be verified.”
Jodie gasped, removing her fingers from the clipboard. How tragic. Imagine! This poor man had his life and his life’s work
stolen from him in one greedy act.
“Forget the
social commentary.” Luc rolled his hands. “Get the rest of the details.”
Eyes wide, she stared at him.
“How did you know…?” She stopped, reconsidered.
Must be that Vulcan mind-meld again
. “Never mind.”
Obviously they shared a psychic link so that only one of them needed to touch the clipboard for both of them to
receive the data. Efficient, she supposed. But also unnerving. To always have a stranger in her head? What was the point? Maybe the Afterlife suffered budget cuts like Earth? With her hand hovering an inch above the clipboard, she paused. “Don’t you ever consider how sad some of these stories are?”
He shrugged. “Is this story any more tragic than your own? Or mine?”
“Well, yes.” At his sharp look, she added, “At least, it’s sadder than mine. I made my own mistakes, took my own life, acted without thinking. I alone am responsible for my being here.”
Luc’s expression hardened to stone. “How comforting it must be to have such insight into your death.”
She slapped one hand on her hip. “Oh, come on. By now, you must have reached some conclusions about why you’re here instead of there. What
is
your story anyway?”
“I fell in love, got married, and died
.” Each word came out chillier and sharper than an icicle spear. “End of story. Now get Mr. Finch’s coordinates so we can claim our next lucky contestant.”
~~~~
The blare of a car horn startled Jodie, and she gasped. How quickly she’d grown accustomed to a quieter world. She opened her eyes to gray cobblestone looming beneath her. Yet, her feet never touched the ground. She simply floated a whisper above the bustling world. New York City’s Soho area spread out before her in full Technicolor.
A large blue coach bus hissed to a stop near the curb. Yellow taxis swerved between lanes, barely avoiding jaywalking pedestrians. Above her,
a rainbow of banners announcing art exhibits, restaurants, and antique sales snapped on a spring breeze. Shop windows crowded with tie-dyed clothing, stacks of books, or glass art deco, glinted in the afternoon sunlight. People buzzed along the sidewalk, whipping from doorway to doorway, speaking in excited tones in a dozen different languages. Across the street, the Soho Psychic’s scarlet storefront beckoned customers to come inside to hear their futures.
Jodie nee
ded no help in that department. No, she and Luc had other business here. Which reminded her…
She turned to see Luc
’s familiar silver orb floating beside her.
“That’s Finch’s place.” He pointed
to a rust-colored brick building with white arched windows and awnings striped apricot and cream. “Sixth floor.”
“
Okay. Let’s go for it.”
He zipped forward, calling over his shoulder,
“Follow me.”
The hustle and bustle of New York City’s c
rowds made gathering energy easier than a hummingbird gathering nectar in a honeysuckle field. All too soon, she’d amassed enough electricity to power the Empire State Building. Spinning wildly, she propelled after Luc, dashing to the other side of the street and up six stories. For a moment, she hovered, marveling at her ability to appreciate a bird’s eye view of Manhattan. Neither windows nor walls enclosed her to prevent leaning too far to see the live theater below. What would a person think if he or she looked up and spotted her floating here?
“Quit sightseeing and let’s go,” Luc snapped.
The brick walls bore plenty of chinks where mortar had disintegrated, providing no impediment to their entrance. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit like a cat burglar as she landed beside Luc on a floor coated with decades of dust and cobwebs. Grimy floor-to-ceiling windows let in brief slivers of murky sunlight from the world outside. Industrial florescent fixtures hung from the ceiling, cold and dark, skeletal remains of a more productive era. In the far corner, a family of hawks had built their nest in the rafters.
Despite all the details her mind drank in, Jodie noted no ghost in attendance. Shoot. What if she’d screwed up
and dragged them to the wrong place? Concerned, she turned to Luc. “Maybe I got the coordinates wrong?”
A
swarm of energy jolted her, slamming her against the wall. The impact shattered her into a million pieces, billiard balls broken with one crack from the cue.
“G
o away!” a man’s voice bellowed.
“Jodie!”
Luc shot across the space to her side. “You okay?”
Shaking away the daze, she managed to gather her broken bits until she became an electrified entity once more. “Uh-huh. Where is he?”
“In the corner,” Luc said. “Near the bird’s nest.”
Jodie focused her gaze on the darkened area, and spotted him immediately. To be honest, he was hard to miss: a si
ngular ball of light, bright red, spinning recklessly, bouncing from overhead beam to overhead beam. Each time he hit the metal ceiling joists, orange sparks pinged like spit from a blow torch. “Let’s get him.”
“Stay here.” Luc’s tone was firm, brooking no argument.
Which, naturally, raised Jodie’s hackles. “No. This is my bounty, too. We do this together.”
“He’s already tossed you once,” Luc retorted. “
Stay here and regroup. I’ll take care of this guy. You can get the next one.” Without giving her a chance to continue the debate, he whirled to face the angry orb. “Taylor Finch?” His mode of address, while a question, held no uncertainty.
“G
o away!” the man bellowed louder.
He loomed
closer now, threatening, and Jodie got a clear look at the specter behind the ire. His face was lined with funnels, eyes blazing white-hot. Hair stood out in a spiky circle around his head. His mouth drew down in a perpetual frown. Heat pulsed around him in waves stronger than the noon sun. How could this man muster so much rage? So much sheer power? Was he a Fury?
In
direct contrast to Mr. Finch’s furious tirade, Luc remained relaxed, keeping his tone and posture easy, but firm. “You know why we’re here. It’s time to give up the ghost.”
The artist shook his head emphatically.
“I’m not ready. You can’t make me go.”
“
You don’t have a choice. Your time’s up. The Board has a new life prepared for you.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Finch folded his arms over his chest. “I’m starting all over somewhere else—lots of chances for happiness—and meanwhile, my wife and kids are still living here in some hellhole, struggling to make ends meet? No way, my friends. They already had to move into some slum ‘cuz they couldn’t afford the rent on our old place. If I’m gone, who’s gonna keep them from becoming homeless next?”