Stalking the Dead Read online

  The Marie Jenner Mysteries

  By E. C. Bell

  Drowning in Amber

  Seeing the Light

  Stalking the Dead

  Published by Tyche Books Ltd.

  www.TycheBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 E.C. Bell

  First Tyche Books Ltd Edition 2016

  Print ISBN: 978-1-928025-61-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-928025-62-7

  Cover Art by Guillem Marí

  Cover Layout by Lucia Starkey

  Interior Layout by Ryah Deines

  Editorial by Allison Campbell and M.L.D. Curelas

  Author photograph: Ryan Parker of PK Photography

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really cool, but is purely coincidental.

  This book was funded in part by a grant from the Alberta Media Fund.

  To Mr. Fitzsimmons, a nice old man with a history I never knew. Until now. You didn't have a school named after you--but you should have.

  Prologue

  Arnie:

  Waking Up Dead

  I WOKE UP with a headache that would make an angel weep, no doubt about it. My temples throbbed a shitty samba, keeping time with my heartbeat, and I wished there was some way to make it stop. I lay there, in Rosalie’s little-girl-pink bedroom, swaddled in her rose-covered blankets like some big hungover baby, and wished with all my heart that the pain in my head would just go away.

  If wishes were horses and all that crap. The pounding in my head slowed and then stopped. All I felt was white noise where my heartbeat had been. But my head still hurt.

  I’d never had a headache like that before. Swear to God.

  I didn’t want to get up, but I knew that a glass of water and a couple (dozen) aspirin would help. Not make it go away—nothing but time or another drunk would do that. But I’d promised Rosalie I’d reward her for driving all the way to Edmonton and springing me out of Remand, which meant getting out of bed and pulling my shit together, pronto.

  Rosalie worked the night shift. She’d be home from her shit-ass warehouse job in a couple of hours, and she’d expect the whole nine yards. Flowers. Breakfast, more than likely in bed. Which meant I had to get my act together. Like I said. Pronto.

  I tried to lift my head from the pillow. Nothing.

  “Come on, Arnie,” I whispered. “Time to rise and shine. The little lady is gonna be home soon.”

  Still nothing. Okay, that wasn’t good. I tried to gather my strength, and felt nothing but weak and cold.

  How much had I drunk the night before?

  I couldn’t remember, which wasn’t a big surprise to anybody who knew me. But that not being able to move thing. That was new, and I didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.

  “Get up, Arnie. Now.”

  I closed my eyes and focused on my arms and legs, which were getting colder by the second. Told them to move. Then commanded. Then begged. Yeah, begged. But they did nothing but lie there. I couldn’t move even a finger.

  What the hell was going on?

  Jesus, had I crippled myself? Broken my own neck and somehow crawled into Rosalie’s rose-covered bedroom before it took effect? Had I wrecked her car? Is that what had happened?

  But I hadn’t taken her car. She had her car, because she had to get to work.

  She’d dropped me off at the Blue Ox Inn, given me a sloppy kiss, and whispered something about seeing me in the morning as she slipped me her credit card.

  Or I took her credit card. I couldn’t remember, but that sounded a lot more like me. However that had worked, she’d driven off, in her car. Which meant I hadn’t wrecked it. Hadn’t hurt myself that way.

  What the hell had I done?

  Fear started to take over. With the fear came the anger, my usual cocktail of choice, and the white noise pain in my head lessened.

  “Get outta the fucking bed, Arnie. Right now.”

  I closed my eyes and focused on the here and now. Willed myself to standing and heard—I swear to God—something rip, as though Rosalie’s ugly pink and yellow pillowcases were tearing to shreds under my head, and then, when I opened my eyes, I was standing by her bed, facing the door.

  Good. Upright was good.

  I waited for a second to see if I was going to puke. Usually after a bender I did, but not this time. Didn’t feel sick at all, which surprised me, but I decided not to think about it. Decided not to think about anything except moving my feet and getting to the bathroom. I needed to take a shower. Wash the sins of the night off myself before Rosalie got home.

  I shuffled a half-step and realized I still had my shoes on. Didn’t surprise me that I’d fallen into bed with my clothes on; that happened all the time, but the shoes—that was a new twist, and I didn’t want to see what I’d done to Rosalie’s fucking fitted sheets.

  I just needed to get to the bathroom for that shower, and those dozen (or so) aspirin. Then all would be better at my end of the world.

  What I should have done was walk out of that room, out of that apartment, and never return. But I didn’t.

  I turned around and took a peek, to see what kind of mess I’d made of Rosalie’s bedroom.

  In my head, I was hoping that the bed wasn’t too bad, that we’d be able to screw around without her having to change the sheets.

  What I saw first was the blood. All the blood, splattered over her rose-covered wallpaper and curtains. Sprays of blood, blending with the roses until it was a riot of red over the pink and yellow of that fucking wallpaper.

  “What the hell,” I muttered, thinking, man, would Rosalie ever be pissed. Blood was so hard to get off of wallpaper. Then I looked down at her bed, and I saw the blood on the pillows.

  Beside my head, blood on the pillow. Beside my head . . .

  My head. The right side of my head bashed in. My left eye, the one still left in its socket, staring up at the ceiling, starting to turn that dirty white colour that all dead eyes turn.

  A dead eye. My dead eye. In my dead face.

  “No wonder I felt cold,” I whispered.

  And then everything went black.

  Stage One

  Going Home Is Hell

  Marie:

  Joey Simpson Needs a Ride

  IT HAD BEEN a long time since I’d gone home to Fort McMurray, and this wasn’t the way I’d imagined it. I’d imagined I’d drive up in my own car—not James Lavall’s taupe Volvo with my hands clenched so hard on the leather-covered steering wheel that they felt tight and swollen—with flowers and chocolates and all sorts of good things for my mom and maybe even my sister, even though she drove me crazy most of the time. They’d welcome me into my mom’s trailer with glad hurrahs and hugs all around, and I’d tell them how great life had been for me lately.

  Not so much.

  I’d driven four and a half hours straight on Highway 63, the highway of death, mainly because it’s the only way to get into Fort McMurray. I was in pursuit of James Lavall, my boss, who’d decided it was important—no, vital—to speak to my mother. About me.

  I seriously wished I could count on my mother to show a little discretion, but knew there wasn’
t much hope of that. That was the main reason why my hands had been death-grip clenched on the steering wheel the whole drive. But it wasn’t the only reason. I was also trying to avoid the dead.

  Most of the spirits of the people who died on Highway 63 vacated the premises when their vehicles were towed away, but some stuck around, wandering among the trees by the highway like dirty grey bits of wailing sheet. There were enough of them that I was really glad the highway was clear and I didn’t have to stop.

  Then, of course, the line of cars and trucks around me slowed and then halted, twenty kilometres from McMurray. Another rollover was being cleared from the ditch on my side of the highway.

  That’s when the dead boy hopped into my car, asking me if I could give him a ride home.

  Seriously. He jumped in the front seat beside me and grinned like he was trying to calm any fears I might have had.

  “My name’s Joey Simpson, and I just live up the road at McMurray,” he said. “You’ll give me a ride, won’t you?”

  “Were you in that wreck?” I pointed at the tangled metal and plastic that used to be a three-quarter-ton truck—the vehicle of choice for most of the oil patch workers I used to know.

  “Yeah. No. Maybe.” His face stilled, and he stared out the window as the big-ass tow truck maneuvered into the ditch to get to the wreck. The wreck was wheels up, with the cab sunk to the bottom of the doors in a swamp. That explained the smell of muck and mud that rolled off Joey in sickening waves.

  “I think you were,” I said.

  “It’s a nice truck,” he said.

  “Not now,” I replied.

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “Not now.”

  “You know you’re dead, don’t you?”

  All right, so that was a bit abrupt, but the traffic was rolling again, albeit at a snail’s pace as everybody watched the truck being pulled to its wheels, spraying muck and corruption in arcing waves as the big wrecker snapped it free from its muddy grave. If Joey actually wanted a ride home—which was probably going to be a quick trip to the next plane of existence—he’d have to tell me that he understood he was dead.

  He looked at me like I’d suddenly grown another head.

  “I’m—what?”

  “You’re dead, boyo.”

  “You’re crazy.” He grappled at the door handle, looking terribly shocked when his hands—or the mystic representation of his hands—slid through the handle and then the door, as though neither was there. “Let me out of here, lady. You are frigging nuts.”

  I sighed and pulled the car to the side of the road. In my rearview mirror, I could see the mile-long line of traffic surging forward to take up the empty space, and knew it was going to be nearly impossible to make them give way and let me back in line.

  Stupid ghosts. They could always screw up a good plan.

  “Get out,” I said, a little more nastily than I should have, probably, but damn! That line was long.

  “How?” Joey asked, his dead hands raking through the door, every move a little more panicky. “What have you done to the handle? Why can’t I grab it?”

  He rammed his hands through the door one last time, then turned on me, anger and fear fighting for first place on his face. “Let me out of this effing car, now!”

  That’s when the ecto goo started seeping from him, and even though James would never see it, I could, and I didn’t want to have to clean it up, so I reached across—well, to be honest, more through than across—Joey and threw the passenger door open.

  “You’re free, Joey. Free as a bird.”

  He leapt from the car, etco goo splashing everywhere. “I’m gonna call the cops on you, lady!” he yelled. “I swear to God. You can’t get away with kidnapping people!”

  He stumbled off the road and into the ditch, finally tripping over something, probably his own feet, in the weed-choked grass. He fell on his ass and scrambled backward, his dead hands clutching nothing, moving nothing, as he desperately tried to get away from me.

  Good grief. I’d scared a ghost.

  I reached over and closed the passenger door. Joey pulled himself upright and pelted through the ditch to his truck. As I rammed the car into first gear, he leapt into the muck-filled cab and started to cry.

  Dammit.

  I put the four-ways on and shut off the car’s engine, sighing loudly as it ticked and pinged to silence. I got out and waved at the tow truck driver, who was almost ready to pull the dead kid’s truck. He got out of his wrecker and walked over to my vehicle.

  “Trouble, lady?” he called.

  “Where are you taking the truck?” I asked. I could hear Joey wailing and gasping his grief and rage in the mud-soaked cab of the wrecked truck, and wished I could figure out a way to make him feel just a little bit better about his situation, but I couldn’t. He needed alone time.

  “It’s going to the salvage yard,” the driver said. “Why? It’s written off, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Just wondered where you take ’em, is all.”

  “Down on Mackenzie, in McMurray,” he said. “Do you need some help, lady?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  I looked away from his puzzled face and into the cab of the wreck, where Joey still sat. He’d stopped wailing, momentarily, but he looked like he’d been psychically pistol-whipped.

  “I’ll find you, Joey,” I called. “When you’re ready, I’ll find you.”

  “My name’s not Joey,” the ultra-puzzled driver said. “Are you sure you’re okay, lady?”

  “Leave me alone!” Joey cried. “I’m not kidding! I’ll call the cops!”

  “I’m just fine,” I said to the tow truck driver. I could feel the driver’s—and Joey’s—eyes on me, and knew I’d managed to convince two more people I was bug-nut crazy.

  Oh, whatever. I’d been dealing with this all my life.

  I got in the car and started it, waving gaily at both the living and the dead guys in the ditch as I rammed my way into the line of slowly moving vehicles all heading to Fort McMurray.

  It was time to go home.

  MOM HAD PAINTED the door to her trailer since the last time I’d been there. It was bright red and reminded me of arterial blood. All right, so it wasn’t the best vision to take from my mom’s front door, but that was the way it hit me as I pulled into the single-lane gravel-covered driveway, behind—horrors—my sister’s hugely expensive and incredibly stupid Mercedes-Benz M-Class SUV. Silver, of course. Gold would have been too garish.

  “Not her,” I whispered. “Please.”

  But of course she was there. Mom, who had been in remission—damn cancer—had just relapsed and had been given months, not years, to live. Of course Rhonda was there.

  Knowing my sister was inside that trailer kept me dithering around in the car a lot longer than I should have. It wasn’t like the car was packed with tons of my stuff. Just one depressingly small bag. Grocery store plastic. Of course.

  I looked around, hoping that there was something I’d need to tidy, or clean, or rearrange, but there was nothing past two Timmie’s extra-large to-go cups, already packed away in a paper bag and ready for dumping. As soon as I decided to get out of the car.

  So I did the ever-so-brave thing and opened the car door. A wave of warm wet air slapped me with the smell of oil and money. (Actually, it was the smell of the Clearwater River, which ran just out of sight of the trailer park, but whatever.) I briefly thought about driving away and not bothering with any of this, but I sucked it up and got out. I left my woebegone bag of clothes in the car because I hadn’t yet decided where I would stay longer than it took to drink a cup of coffee.

  To be honest, I hoped that was as long as it took me to talk James into returning to Edmonton and letting all this “let’s find out everything about Marie” stuff go.

  He’d figured out most of it all on his own, smart monkey that he was. He knew—or suspected mightily, which is almost the same—that I could interact with ghosts.

&nb
sp; Now, that was the big secret in my life. The absolute top-of-the-heap secret that I never wanted anyone in my new hometown—that would be Edmonton—to know.

  I’d done fairly well keeping that secret for the past year. Until, it seemed, everywhere I turned, there were more ghosts. Ever since I met James Lavall.

  God, I wanted to blame him, but I couldn’t. He wasn’t the big attraction. I was.

  I slowly walked up to the front door of my mom’s trailer. I could see small sprays of red paint on the weathered steps leading to the front door. Seeing it made me feel just a little bit sick. I closed my eyes and tried to focus, and when that failed miserably, decided, one more time with feeling, to suck it up and knock.

  I wouldn’t have knocked even a year ago. I would have just walked in. After all, it was my mom’s place, and had been my place, for a while at least. But this past year had taken its toll, and I wasn’t sure where I stood with any of my family anymore—even my mother—so I knocked, jumping a little when I heard a dog yapping its way to the front door.

  It sounded small. My father used to call those kind of dogs “step-on dogs.” I always thought my mother held the same low opinion of them. Then I wondered when the heck she’d even gotten a dog. She hadn’t told me.

  That made me feel worse. She hadn’t even told me she had a dog.

  The little yapper chugged up to the door, snuffling and barking, until I heard Rhonda bellow, “Richie!”—or something—“Shut up, now!”

  It was Rhonda’s dog, then. I understood why I didn’t know about her having a dog. She told me nothing about her life, other than how massively inconvenient it was to look after Mom.

  The red door opened and Rhonda peered myopically into the bright sunlight. Her face spasmed when she saw it was me, and I had to fight a nearly overwhelming urge to turn on my heel and walk back to the car.

  “Hi.” I tried to make my voice sound upbeat and, you know, happy, but I don’t think I quite pulled it off, because her face spasmed again, as though she’d accidentally sucked a lemon.