Undead to the World (3 page)

I try desperately to savor it, but I just can’t. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong.

And after a few minutes I sigh, dig up the remote, go back in the house and go to
bed.

*   *   *

I’m working a breakfast/lunch shift at the diner the next day, so I crawl out from
under the covers at an ungodly hour, stagger to the kitchen, and try to deal with
the pre-coffee technology problem: you know, how to operate the necessary devices
to make coffee before you’ve
had
coffee. The guy who invented the espresso machine was probably wired on three pots
of dark roast at the time, but I’m guessing that for the first decade after coffee
was discovered, people got up and blearily smashed some beans with a rock, then stuck
the pulp in a cup of lukewarm water. They probably hit their fingers with the rock
a few times, too.

Galahad watches me intently the whole time, like he always does. I don’t know why
he finds the process so fascinating—I tried giving him a little coffee once and he
wouldn’t go near it—but he does. I think he must have been a barista in another life.

Then it’s off to Farmers Diner to bring other people their coffee. Yes, I know it
looks like there should be an apostrophe somewhere near the end of that word, but
that’s how it’s spelled on the sign and that’s who generally eats there.

I’m not a morning person, but I do enjoy walking to work at this time. The sun’s just
starting to rise, the air has that damp, fresh smell to it, the dew glitters where
the light hits it—it’s nice. Not too many people are up, either, though I do nod hello
to Brad Varney, our mailman. He’s a big guy, hairless as an egg, and it looks like
he forgot to wipe off that last bit of eyeliner he’s wearing. I stop him and point
it out with a smile, and he thanks me without a trace of embarrassment. Thropirelem
may not have any transsexuals, but we do have at least one transvestite—a fact known
only to Brad, me, and whomever he chats with online while wearing a cocktail dress
and pearls. When he asked me how I’d found out, I told him not to worry; nobody else
in town has my eye for psychological markers and incriminating details—like the lacy
edge of a camisole peeking out from his open collar when he asked me to sign for a
package.

By the time I get to work I’ve convinced myself that last night’s cryptic message
was just a coincidence. The Sword was talking to Red Dog, not me. Longinus is a weird
name, granted, but I probably just misheard what she actually said—Ron Shyness or
John Highness or something. I blame it on combining booze with my meds and shove it
to the back of my brain, where it can play Parcheesi with all the other crazy ideas.

The diner used to be a Chinese restaurant, once upon a time, and it’s still got the
pagoda-style roof and carved dragons over the front door. It’s not locked. It doesn’t
have as much window space as most diners, either, favoring small, rectangular panes
set high in the wall. Inside, booths line most of three walls, with the door to the
kitchen behind the counter and a few small tables in the center. There’s an ancient
jukebox that hasn’t worked in years in one corner, and old-fashioned lights with green
glass shades hanging from the ceiling over every booth.

I go in the back, drape my jacket over one of the chairs that function as our staff
area, and say good morning to Therese. She and her husband, Phil, own the place; Therese
does double duty as bookkeeper and waitress, while Phil handles most of the cooking.
She’s a stocky, good-natured woman with curly brown hair and laugh wrinkles around
her eyes.

Phil, on the other hand, is living proof of the principle that opposites attract.
Where Therese is friendly, he’s grumpy. Where Therese is generous, he’s suspicious.
He’s also short, balding, and Japanese.

“Morning, Phil,” I say. He’s already wearing a stained apron, and chopping onions.
“How’s things?”

He gives me a scowl. “Mr. Isamu.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am your boss. You should address me as Mr. Isamu.”

I force a smile. “Okay. How’s things, Mr. Isamu?”

“Fine. Get to work.” He turns back to his onions.

I resist the urge to flip him the finger, grab my apron, and stalk out of the kitchen.
“He’s in a mood,” I say to Therese.

She nods, a worried look on her face. “I’m a little concerned, actually. I know he
can be cranky, but this is different. Been going on for the last few days, getting
worse and worse. He hardly eats, keeps staring off into space. It’s like his mind
is somewhere else.”

“Well, wherever it is, I hope it has a nice vacation and comes back cheerful and rested.”

“Arrested?” says a voice. I look up to see our first customer walk through the door:
Deputy Quinn Silver. He’s a Native American—though I don’t know which tribe—and, of
course, a regular. He once said to me that’s he probably eaten more of our breakfasts
than his own mother’s, though he wouldn’t say which he preferred. “Let’s just say
she thought rattlesnake was a fine substitute for bacon and leave it at that,” he
told me.

I get him some coffee and take his order. More customers trickle in, every one of
whom I know by name. “Morning, Mayor,” I say, filling his cup. “The usual?”

Mayor Leo Adams beams at me. “Thank you, Jace, that would be wonderful.” Mayor Leo—that’s
what everyone calls him—beams a lot, which is probably one of the reasons he’s had
the job for so long. He’s got a bit of a paunch, a wide smile, and two wiry tufts
of gray hair that stick up on either side of a bald head; he looks a little like a
retired clown.

“How about you, Mr. Falzone?” Today Mayor Leo’s having breakfast with my other boss,
the one that owns the hardware store.

“Please, Jace, I told you—call me Donny.” His smile is as wide as the Mayor’s, but
there’s a predatory gleam to it. Donny Falzone may be in his sixties, but he keeps
his mane of silver hair immaculately groomed, the top two buttons on his shirts undone,
and at least a pound and a half of gold jewelry on his neck and fingers. Like they
say, there’s no wolf like an old wolf. He’s charming and polite, but I try not to
bend over when he’s around.

The men wait until I’ve left before resuming their conversation, and talk in low voices
when they do. Donny’s one of the town’s movers and shakers, and always seems to have
two or three people hanging around him at any given time. Every small town has one,
I guess, a local dispenser of wisdom and advice to whom people naturally gravitate.
I’ve always wondered why he’s never run for mayor himself; I guess some people are
just more comfortable behind the scenes.

It gets busier after that, but thankfully Terrance and his buddies prefer to sleep
in. That’s good; I’m not sure I can handle any more needling after what happened last
night. My conviction that I was imagining things erodes over the course of the morning
with little surges of memory. I keep seeing the Sword’s eyes drilling into mine from
behind that mask, staring right into my soul. Feeling that connection you get when
someone does that to you face to face.

Now, here’s the really weird part. I keep thinking,
Why her?

The Sword of Midnight is a recurring but minor character. I’ve never felt any kind
of deep link with her before. So why her and not Red Dog?

“Because insanity and consistency don’t really get along,” I mutter to myself. I’m
out back in the alley on my break, chewing on a breakfast burrito and trying to convince
myself I’m not relapsing. “In fact, they probably can’t spend five minutes in the
same room without one of them making a snotty remark and the other one pulling a knife.”

But that’s not strictly true,
I argue back silently.
Madness, like everything else, tends to follow patterns. Those patterns might shift
and change focus, but they’re almost never completely random. So what’s the pattern
here? What am I trying to tell myself?

My thoughts are interrupted by a wheezing old pickup pulling into the alley and parking
next to the door. Ken Tanaka gets out and gives me a curt nod. I nod back. Ken and
I dated briefly, but it didn’t work out; he had certain old-fashioned ideas about
how a woman was supposed to act around a man, and I had a wicked left hook. We try
to be civil around each other, but he’s not exactly one of my biggest fans.

I go inside and tell Therese the morning food delivery’s here, then make the rounds
with the coffee pot. A booth that was empty is now occupied by our local physician,
Doctor Peter Adams, and a redheaded woman I don’t know.

“Hey, Doctor Pete,” I say. “Eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage, and sourdough toast?”

“Yes, please,” he says with a smile. Doctor Pete is Terrance’s twin brother, and about
the only thing they have in common is their appearance. I have to admit to having
a little crush on the Doc, though I’ve never done anything about it. With my judgment,
I’d probably wind up dating Terrance by mistake.

“Hi,” I say to the redhead. She’s quite stunning, with the kind of alabaster complexion
that looks ethereal instead of just pale. “You look familiar—haven’t I seen you over
by the school?”

She gives me a wide smile. “Yes, I’ve just started there. Athena Shaker.” She offers
me her hand and I take it. Her grip is cool and strong.

“Jace Valchek. Welcome to town, Athena. What do you teach?”

“History and biology, mostly.”

“Interesting mix.”

She shrugs. “I like to know how things grow, I guess. In fact, I’m trying to get a
community garden started down by the baseball field.”

“Well, there’s no shortage of farmers here; you’ll get plenty of advice, if nothing
else. What can I get for you?”

She orders a ham omelette and orange juice, then goes back to talking to Doctor Pete.
I feel a twinge of envy, but push it away. About the only relationship I can handle
right now is the one I have with Galahad, and maybe caffeine. No, definitely caffeine.

The hours plod by. People come and go. I take orders, bring food, clear away empty
plates. I catch Phil giving me dark looks more than once, though I have no idea what
I’ve done to piss him off.

And I can’t stop thinking about what happened last night.

It’s not just the TV thing, either. It’s that story Terrance told. I know he was just
trying to spook me, but he did a good job. I keep fixating on that one little detail
about the suicide’s shoes dropping when the body goes limp. What if they were wearing
boots? Gumboots might fall off, but anything with laces wouldn’t. And how about beforehand,
when the body is kicking and twitching—hell, a shoe could go flying, land in the bushes
where no one would find it. Then you’d have a corpse with a shoe missing, and that
would probably confuse the hell out of anyone investigating the case.

Except there
is
no case. Just a headcase, named Jace. Who is losing the race to keep her sanity in
place. Whee.

By the end of my shift I know I have to do something—anything—to get this out of my
brain before it burrows in so deep it turns white and its eyes fall out. Unfortunately,
about the only plan I can come up with is to give in and go see Old Man Longinus,
who by all accounts is as receptive to visitors as an irritable whale is to a harpoon.

I go home first to walk Galahad and try to figure out my approach. “Hi, Mr. Longinus?
I’m the local loon. I understand you’re the local crank, and I was wondering if we
could get together and maybe discuss mutual areas of interest.”

Mmm. Needs work.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Longinus. A woman on TV with a sword informed me you have some
answers, and I was hoping you might be willing to share them. No, I don’t know what
the questions are. Oh, that’s down the street? Under the big neon sign reading
CRAZY MOTEL—RUBBER ROOMS AVAILABLE, FREE DRY CLEANING OF STRAITJACKETS INCLUDED?
Thank you
so
much, I’ll be right back.”

Big improvement. Should be tweaked a bit.

“MWAH-HA-HA-HA! My tinfoil hat pointed at your house! I like
frogs
! Would you like to floopa-floopa my gazinga-ding? No, sir, I am not phantasmagorical!
Look, Ernest Hemingway eating a pickle!”

Much
better. Or at least more accurate.

Galahad and I are on our regular route, down to the end of the street and then through
a little patch of woods next to the grocery store, and I’m so lost in thought I’m
not really paying attention. That’s how I wind up getting trapped.

“Hello, Jace,” says a raspy voice.

I blink and look up. Father Stone stands in front of me.

I’m not really sure what denomination he represents—the United Reformed Methodist
Presbyterian Baptist Something, I think. He looks like a midget linebacker with a
bad haircut and only seems to have one expression, like a robot that skimped on the
options. That expression is supposed to be a friendly smile, but it seems about as
genuine as something assembled by a taxidermist. He never wears anything but solid
black with a little white collar, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he sleeps in
the same outfit.

“Uh, hello, Father,” I say. “I’m just out walking my dog.” It’s a lame and obvious
thing to say, but the man makes me nervous. He doesn’t blink often enough.

“I see,” he says, smiling. “How have you been, Jace? How are
things
?” He puts just the barest emphasis on the last word, but it makes it sound like he’s
enquiring about a family of monsters living in my basement.

“Things are fine,” I say inanely.
No, no, they’re not. Things are moaning and squelching and waving their tentacles
like a squid trying to signal a waitress.

“We haven’t seen you in church lately,” says a voice behind me. My eyes widen and
my heart sinks. Never let them surround you.

“Oh, hi, Miss Selkirk,” I say, turning. Miss Selkirk is a collection of wrinkles wrapped
around a skeleton, with bright blue eyes and a mouth that wouldn’t know what to do
with a smile if one ever showed up—maybe she sold hers to Father Stone. That would
explain a lot; it was probably a bad fit but he just jammed it in there anyway and
now he can’t get the damn thing to budge—