I Speak for the Dead

Part 15

Back in the taxi, I breathed clean air and sank back in the worn seat, closing my eyes to clear the scum from them. A few hours in a place like the Remington make me want to run through the woods until the smells all drop from me, but two in the morning is not the time to do that. What if a Bigfoot was out looking for a bride? Anyway, it was time to go home, so I just said, "Home, James," and let it go at that.

Back at my apartment, I dropped into my bed even though I still smelled like the break-room at RJ Reynolds. I felt like a rented mule, beaten, discouraged, and wondering where to go. I lay there, alone, tracing the crack in my plaster ceiling. I followed the one that looked like Rhett Butler, because the other choice was Eddie Munster. And as I pulled my gaze from Eddie, Edmund sneaked back into my brain like an unemployed lodger raiding the icebox in the middle of the night. Edmund had recognized Emma's name. There was something there, whatever he pretended. There was someone above the ground who still had some reason to care about Emma Gold, and might not like someone with crimpled blonde hair poking around that grave with a six-foot pole. There's no telling what I might strike.

The next morning, it took three strikes at my alarm clock before I connected with the snooze button and was grateful I was not a farmer. Every day, up with the chickens. Every day, milking the cows, feeding the pigs. No wonder we eat them. They have it coming.

In the time-honored parade that defines my life, my cell-phone rang. Most mornings the clock and the phone do a one-two punch, knocking me out of dreamland like a prizefighter banging on a mob-sponsored tomato can. As always, I pulled myself up from the bed just in time to beat the ref's count and answer the bell.

"Rachel Banner Private Investigations, Rachel Banner speaking."

"Good morning, Rachel. I thought I'd let you know my paycheck bounced."

I pushed my hair back from my face and made a mental note to get it cut soon. "Yeah, about that, Terry, I meant to get to the bank yesterday and things just sort of got busy, you know."

There was a moment of silence. "Rachel, let me be honest with you."

"Like you were six months ago?"

Terry snorted. I couldn't see him, of course, but I swear he snorted. "Yeah. I was honest with you. I told you then I was worried about you. It's not easy watching someone you care about spiraling down like a stunt diver, wondering if they're going to pull the shute in time. This is the second check in the last three to bounce, and I'm starting to wise up. The dingy office, your trashy car, your unspeakable apartment..."

"There is nothing wrong with my car."

"Right. Listen, I'm trying to make you open your eyes. This obsession of yours, it's no good. There's no money in it. You're broke. Now I'm broke. I've only stuck around for so long because I've been hoping..."

"Hoping what? That we'd make amends and everything would be all tidy, that we'd move into a little house with shutters and I'd make you dinner every night? I've told you, Terry, it's not going to happen."

There was silence on the line. I shook the phone like a kid robbing a piggy bank, unsure if Terry were still there or not. And as broke as I was, shaking change from children's banks might be a good idea. If I could find one.

Terry sighed. He had not hung up his phone, which was good, which meant he was still there, that there was at least one other person just as nuts as me, just as willing to go to the dried out well of time, to drop that leaky bucket one more time into the darkness, hoping against hope that there was still water down there, and that it could once more be brought to the surface.

"Rachel, you are nuts. Legitimately, certifiability nuts. You belong somewhere that they'll keep an eye on you, keep all the sharp things away so you don't give yourself an ouchy, and maybe puree your food and thicken your coffee. And I must be nuts too, to keep hanging around, for whatever crazy reason you think I do. But I can't live on air. Neither can you. So if the bank is empty, and we can't pay the bills, just say so. There comes a time when even the best armies give up and go home."

Even though he couldn't see me do it, I shook my head. "No." I sat up, and I tried to keep my words from tumbling out too fast, afraid he would sense my desperation. Because desperation was what I felt. "I have a way." And with those few words, I made my decision.

The box in the closet was simple. It had been given to me years ago. I'd rather not say when, or how, or from who. There can be consequences to those sort of questions, depending on the answers. It wasn't from my fairy godmother, I will admit, but there can be tax consequences, or worse, and I'm not in the mood to be a martyr to anyone. Money? Yes, there was money in it. I can't claim it was full of money, because it wasn't, the other stuff in it took up some room, too. I put it back for future rainy days.

After a quick cleanup, I made my way to my car, the bank, and then to the office.

"Good morning, boss." Terry grinned and spun his chair around to face me. I pounded across the small room and stopped in front of him. I pulled a roll of twenties from my jacket pocket and peeled the top bill from the roll, then the next, then the next, slamming the down on to Terry's desk until there was a stack of twenty-five twenties in a sloppy pile.

"And there you go," I snapped. "A little bonus to salve your embarrassment. And your paycheck will clear now."

Terry gathered the money into a neater pile and straightened the bills, smoothing them out; he picked them up and handed them back to me. "It's not about the money, Rachel. It's about trust. Can we trust each other, or not? If I can't trust your check, how can I trust you with anything important?"

Okay, I'll admit it. He made me feel like a heel. There's nothing like getting the absolute, unvarnished truth handed to you on a platter, in your own space, by someone to whom you owe the same. I tossed the money back on the desk between us, and dropped into my chair. Terry kept his eyes on me; and I covered my mouth with my hand because I didn't want him to see my lips trembling. Not then, not because of that.

"I know Terry. I know. And I am sorry. It's my brain. I know I'm full on this case, and I'm not thinking about anything else. I'm sorry."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning."

"I'm not talking about coffee."

I thought back. "Honestly? I don't remember. A bite here and there, I guess...for a few days."

"You need to eat something hot. Stuff that money back in your pocket; we're going out and get something. And we're not going to talk about Emma Gold until you have eaten a thousand calories of the hottest, best breakfast food we can find."

"The Naked Egg?"

"Where else?"