Dead Endings: Chapter 2

He looked like he was going to say something–he did talk an awful lot–but in the end, he just nodded, and descended the stairs to the lobby with a wave.

Cailen closed the door. After a long moment, she locked it and rested her forehead against the scratched wood.

She wondered if staying involved was the best course of action, all things considered. The unanswered questions did bother her, and aside from a little blood on her shirt, she had to admit that the collateral damage hadn’t been that bad for a change.

But it was Jacob Warner’s scared face that stayed with her. If he was scared, should she be?

After collapsing into bed a few minutes later, she yanked the covers up and waited for the inevitable hour or two of sleepless static that dominated most of her nights. But instead, for some reason, she felt her mind sinking into slumber almost immediately.

The only thought that pierced the sweet, velvet blackness was the memory of the push–the push that had distanced her from Warner’s spiraling death. She had done that. She had shoved him out, after her head had cracked against the cabinets and her own pain had shaken his control.

I could do it again, she thought. If I’m possessed, I can kick them out.

And then there was nothing.

***

Without any more supernatural errands to interrupt her break, Cailen got back to her life. She slept better, she started tackling her backlog of books and movies, and she even indulged in a night out at the bars with her school project fellows. Concentrated efforts at her computer had even produced halfway decent writing.

But despite feeling more at ease and productive than she had been in a long time, the events of that night still niggled in the back of her mind. So, when Everett finally called three days later, she was almost glad to hear his voice.

“Are you free?” he asked immediately. “Do you have a minute?”

“Mmmmm?” she said into the receiver, mouth still full of toast.

“I got a little more info on that second murder and some other stuff, if you’re still interested…?”

She took a quick sip of coffee, allowing a moment of thought. She supposed she was.

“Yeah,” she said at last.

“We can do lunch or something. I’m about to go underground, but I’m in the area.”

“I know a good Thai place,” she replied. “Is Arunee on 38th okay?”

“Done. See you in thirty ther–” And the line cut off.

Cailen stared at the phone for a moment, then at the other half of her uneaten breakfast. It was a bit early for her, but she’d happily toss the bread for a bit of green papaya salad and duck curry.

Outside, November continued its blustery reign and lashed the trees with unmerciful gusts. Swirls of leaves–and not a bit of garbage–whizzed through the air, flattening against the sides of buildings and pedestrian faces alike. Cailen was grateful for her glasses as she saw a fellow walker take a stem to the eye.

She tugged the edges of her hat over her ears and bustled down the street, bag slapping against her hip as she moved. Her light parka kept out most of the chill, but insistent drafts kept finding cracks in her defenses to lick at her with shocking cold. It was very motivating weather.

She reached Arunee before Everett. When she burst in through the door, a gust of wind followed and swept napkins and decorative flowers off the tables. A whirlwind of color rained down on the customers like confetti at a parade.

She shut the door quickly and made an apologetic gesture, but the hostess only sighed.

The almost steamy warmth of the restaurant was incredibly welcome. Cailen shed her jacket and scarf and breathed in the heady sweet and spicy scent.

Opting for the polite route, she waited for Everett to arrive before ordering, but consoled herself with an iced coffee. It wasn’t long after that the door to the restaurant banged open and set off another tornado of paper and petals.

Everett had arrived…and looked like something pulled backward through a jet engine. She crunched on her ice with glee as he spotted her.

His face dared her to laugh.

She did.

“Aren’t we cheerful for a change,” he growled as he reached the table. He dropped a heavy-looking bag on the ground and fussed with his wild hair, but failed to smooth it down.

He collapsed into the seat across from her, then slouched forward. “You look a lot better, too,” he commented as his dark eyes roamed her face. “Sleep becomes you.”

“And the ’80s hair band look becomes you.”

He fussed with his hair again, but seemed distracted by the aroma of frying shrimp that wafted by.

“It…smells awesome in here.”

“Best Thai in town,” she said.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Who in their right mind would share such an amazing secret? You’d never get a seat if Yelp found out about this place.”

“True,” he agreed, and eyed her iced coffee with envy. She pulled it closer and took a possessive sip.

“Order for me. Whatever you think they do best; I’m too hungry to pick.”

She waved a hand in the air to signal the waitress. “Easy and done.”

One murk kie mao, one red duck curry, and two Thai iced coffees later, Everett pushed the plates aside. He dropped three manila envelopes onto the table.

The first envelope held Warner’s information; the second had details on the other stabbing Everett had mentioned on his previous visit. It was the third folder, the folder he placed at the center of the table, that drew her attention.

“After our visit to Warner’s place,” he explained, “I went back to double-check the other dead guy, Christopher Markle. Unfortunately, his apartment’s still a crime scene and I couldn’t get any closer than before. But I did still smell the cinnamon. The lemon-vinegar is really strong, too. Like, nose-burningly acidic.”

“The undead are just piling up,” she said, through a mouthful of rice.

He frowned into his coffee.

“If you give them time,” she offered, “they might just pass on their own. Sometimes they do that.”

“They do?”

“Most of them, actually. Spirits are the exception, not the norm.”

Everett rubbed his chin. “I guess you’re right. I mean, I smell them every now and then, but this is New York. We’re packed in here, and people get killed or die on a regular basis.”

“Still doesn’t explain ‘cinnamon,’” she pointed out.

“Yeah. No luck on that front–complete Internet and library fail. And don’t say ‘I told you so,’” he grumbled.

She held up her hands. “You’ll get a chance to ask Gabriella soon enough,” she offered. “She’s coming back tomorrow.”

“I wish she was back sooner. I found another one.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He pushed the folder over to her and sat back, gnawing viciously on his straw.

She picked it up and sifted through the contents. A young woman, twenty-six, stabbed to death in her apartment on the Upper West Side. Again–no arrests made, no motivation, no overt clues. She’d been a nice, normal grad student.

Cailen picked up the photo. The woman smiled brightly in the shot, snowboard held under one arm, gloved fingers making a “V.” Her smooth brown skin glowed with life and happiness. Cailen glanced up to see Everett staring at the back of the photograph with hard eyes.

“I went through every stabbing murder that’s crossed the crime desk for the last two months,” he said darkly. “You wouldn’t believe how many unsolved cases there are.”

The world is a terrible place, she wanted to say, but it seemed callous while holding the picture of a murdered woman between her fingers.

“Five of the ones from that period seemed likely,” Everett went on. “So I made a few trips. Got lucky on number four.”

“‘Cinnamon?’”

“‘Cinnamon,’” he agreed. “But only ‘cinnamon.’ Nothing else was there.”

“Just that one is weird enough, to be honest.”

Everett nodded. “So what we have now is Jacob Warner, who was killed about a month ago; Portia Jones, two weeks after that; and Christopher Markle last week.”

“And the police haven’t made any connections between the three?” she asked.

“Not as far as I can tell. Warner was twenty-four, Jones twenty-six, and Markle twenty-nine. Warner was half-Cuban and half-white, Jones black, and Markle white. They didn’t live near each other, didn’t go to school with each other, had no mutual friends…” Everett sighed. “I mean, I did the best I could with what the desk already had, along with what I got online and from their neighbors and families. But there’s nothing these three have in common except that damn smell.”

Cailen sucked noisily on the last of her iced coffee. Two spirits in the same place was unusual, but possible. One spirit jumping to two different locations where people had been recently killed was weird, but what the hell–she’d be the first to admit that she didn’t know everything about ghosts.

But the same spirit at three murder scenes, and all with a similar cause of death…that sounded like a pattern. A very, very bad one, and way out of her realm.

“So what do you plan to do about it?” she asked.

“I’m not really sure yet, but I was hoping…”

Cailen held up a hand to stop him.

“There’s a single, perfect bite of the murk kie mao left. I want to enjoy it before you ruin my day with whatever you’re about to ask.”

He rolled his eyes.

She painstakingly scooped up the last of the crispy squid. Another minute was spent chewing in blissful silence. With a final crunch, she swallowed and washed it down with the dregs of her drink.

Everett rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if the sight of her caused him pain.

“I want you to come with me to Portia Jones’ apartment. NOT to go in,” he stressed as her face tightened. “Just to see if you feel anything there. I doubt we’ll get much out of it, but I want to be sure that I’m not dragging this scent along or something.”

Cailen hadn’t considered that possibility. She nibbled on her ice thoughtfully.

“I really don’t want you to get hurt again, though. I completely understand if you say no.” He sighed. “I think it’ll last until Gabriella gets back, too. I’m sure she could handle it better than either of us.”

Ouch.

“So, no entry,” she clarified. “Just impressions?”

“Exactly. And lunch is on me, either way.”

Can I be bought so easily? she wondered. He caught her eye and ordered two more Thai iced coffees to go.

It seemed that she could.

“Fine, but no fire escapes.”

“No fire escapes,” he promised.

***

As they climbed the fire escape outside of Portia Jones’ apartment, Cailen wondered where she’d gone wrong.

“Sorry!” Everett called over the howling wind. “I didn’t think they’d have the guard during the day, too!”

She cursed and gripped the shaking rails. “Then how the hell did you get in last time?!”

“Same way we are now.”

Cailen looked up at his downturned face and gave him some choice words, but the deafening wind came again, snatching at their clothes and stealing the sound from her reply.

She hated dangling over an alley with nothing but rusted pipes between her and death. And unlike Everett, who seemed to do this for a living, Cailen found it hard to climb with her scarf constantly whipping in her face. She shoved it back under her collar with a snarl and increased her pace to catch up with him.

He paused on the sixth landing, knees bent in a crouch, low to the metal, girding for balance.

“Here!” he whisper-yelled and pointed at the window beside him.

Proceed to Chapter 2, page 3–>