Echoes: The Ten Sigma Series Book 3 Page 2

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  Nicole sucks in a breath. Her eyes dance before she says, “Nothing, maybe some bruising from when the doctors tried to resuscitate her.”

  “But why was it covered?”

  She shrugs. “Probably just someone trying to make her look presentable.”

  My hackles rise with suspicion. It’s not that I don’t trust the care staff, but somehow, her explanations and gestures seem off.

  “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  Her lips tremble, and she shuffles backward.

  As I step forward, a voice says, “Nick, can we chat?”

  I turn to the entrance, where a thin man with fading hair stands in a cheap suit made from synthetic threads. He’s the administrator.

  “My shift ended a while back. I have to go home,” Nicole says as she scurries past the metal door.

  The administrator tugs his jacket straight and smiles sympathetically.

  When I keep my expression bland, he walks to me, extending his hand. “I understand why you’re upset.”

  I ignore the gesture and say, “I just want to know what happened. Mary was fine when I left, and what are these marks?”

  He retracts his unshaken hand and tugs his suit jacket again.

  The nervous gesture isn’t lost on me, but I remain silent, drawing him out.

  Although his Adam’s apple bobs from swallowing saliva, he keeps his gaze level and voice silky smooth. “The medical staff thinks the cause of death is a pulmonary embolism.”

  “But what could have caused that?”

  “One of a hundred things. There were many treatments you tried, and her body was weak.”

  Refusing to accept the insinuated blame, I say, “This is something else.”

  “Do you wish to have an autopsy performed?”

  “No,” I reply, realizing what that would entail. “She’s been through enough.”

  He dips his small head as if acknowledging not only my problems but all the problems of the world. “Nick, this was her time to go, and she went peacefully.”

  “Is there anything for me to sign?”

  “Everything has been taken care of,” he answers with open palms.

  “You don’t need me to ID the body or anything?”

  He shakes his head. “You’ve just identified the body. Nothing further is required.”

  There’s something I’m missing, but I have no idea what. “Do I need to do anything at all?”

  “Perhaps the funeral.”

  I glance around the former meat locker. “I don’t want her here. I want her to be in a safe place and comfortable.”

  “There’s a funeral home, but it’s expensive.”

  “I don’t care about the cost.”

  He nods. “Consider it done.”

  The busy administrator insists on remaining my escort as I head to Mary’s room to gather her personal effects. While suspicious of his motives, I keep my mouth shut, preferring an uncomfortable silence to an awkward conversation.

  When we reach the cubicle, he says, “Because of your help, Doctor Jones insisted we keep everything intact for you. Although we need the space, please take your time.”

  I nod and open the door. When I step inside, the annoying man makes no move to leave. “I know you have a lot to do to keep this place running. There’s no need to babysit me.”

  “This is no bother. We appreciate the assistance your friend has provided,” he says in his silkiest, smoothest voice yet.

  “I’d get this done faster if you weren’t watching over me.”

  He takes the hint from my hard stare and tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket. With taut lips, he replies, “Very well, if you need anything, please ask.”

  I send a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

  After a stiff bow and brisk pivot, he marches away, his irritated steps thumping on the threadbare carpet.

  When he turns at the end of the hallway, I shut the door.

  The faded aroma of dried flowers and the stench of old sweat taints the air. Without the chirp of the EKG machine, the lonely confines feel muted and smaller than before.

  Alone with my grief, I grit my teeth and head to a corner table crowded with get-well wishes, looking for anything to take home.

  There’s nothing left.

  With teary eyes, I grip the wood and let my emotions run. Would Mary still be alive if I had stayed? Did I do all I could?

  While my breaths shorten, my insides crumble. The swirls of fury filling the void rise in a tangle of all-consuming rage. My anger at the world, at my own inadequacies, at the loss of my loved one, at the unfairness of everything, at my parents—

  I backhand the wilted flowers and old cards, covering the floor in a menagerie of faded colors. The scalding emotions of self-recrimination thunder into the many layers of optimism I’ve built during my eleven years of marriage.

  We should have gone to the Andes first. Not this cursed place.

  I slam my palms on the bare tabletop and wobble backward, cradling my head.

  Her love was something I didn’t deserve. Not after…

  Trembles run across my body as I ball my hands, ready to lash out again.

  With the cost of the funeral, you can’t pay for any more bills if you injure yourself.

  Not sure of where the practical thought came from, I hesitate, snorting at the irony.

  I did what was possible to save her.

  Reluctantly, I unclench my fingers and take deep breaths.

  A finger painting from our niece Darla lies on the floor. The thick whirls and lines form a crude portrait of a happy couple—something Mary would have wanted to keep. With a long sigh, I bend to pick it up.

  As I touch the coarse stock, a dim glow coming from the opposite side of the cubicle catches my attention. I lower my ear to the ratty carpeting, tilting my head. Something’s under the EKG cart.

  I crawl around the metal stilts of the bed and reach into the narrow space.

  After some fumbling, my fingertips rub over a silky surface. Pushing my arm a little further, I wrap my hand around a thin object and pull it out.

  It’s the gray card I’ve seen Mary palming to keep hidden from me. Only now, the thing is active.

  30578A

  Although uncertain about what the glowing text means, I stand and let a surge of strength flood into my being.

  I was right.

  Something about this situation is terribly wrong.

  Three

  Scattered, freezing droplets fall from the glum sky and pelt the black umbrellas lined along the burial hole. Although most of the crowd is stoic, being resigned to the news, a few of the onlookers sniffle.

  As the burgundy coffin lowers, rivulets of water slip down the glossy wood. When the teary lid disappears below the soggy ground, we line up to pay our final respects.

  Leading the mourners, I reach into a pile of dirt and grab a handful. As the moist earth lies cold in my palm, my eyes wander from the lonely drops splattering mud over my shoes to the simple engraving on the plain headstone.

  I consider my actions to arrive at this place. Even though I’m not sure what I could have done differently, nothing sits right.

  But what was I supposed to do?

  Frowning, I fling the earth into the hole and force my stare not to linger while I stalk away, marching past rows of headstones darkened by wetness.

  At the barren trees bordering the parking area, I stop and suck down chilly air. I fold my umbrella and glance through the skeleton of overhanging branches, trying to glean some meaning from the formless gray stretching to the horizon.

  As icy raindrops strike my face, I find nothing to break the gloom.

  A pat on the shoulder brings me back to reality. Intent on being the dutiful widower, I stick out my hand. While blurry people wander past, I flash my winning smile as a response to any queries regarding my emotional state.

  Engines hum and gravel crun
ches as cars drive away. The passing crowd thins until only Emily and her family remain.

  With her violet eyes beaming, my niece Darla runs up and wraps her arms around me. I lean down and return the hug.

  When Emily’s husband Jim approaches, I step to greet him. He grips my hand in a meaty handshake, saying, “I wish you would have had a wake. Lots of people wanted to speak with you.”

  “There’s a curfew. Besides, I won’t have guests running around our home.”

  The curt reply unsettles him, and he sets his lips into a weak smile before turning to Emily. “Sweetheart, the cold is no good for Darla. We’ll wait in the car.”

  I wave goodbye as Jim drags the little girl away.

  Shadowed by her umbrella and wrapped in a black trench coat, Emily steps in front of me. Her gaze wanders as she spends a moment wiping a tear from her cheek, and then she turns toward the distant grave. “The weather sucked, but the service was nice.”

  I snort. “It was—”

  “Why didn’t you contact your parents? They should have been here.”

  While she slowly faces me, I rub my tired eyes to hide my anger.

  “I’m not doing that. Now or ever.”

  She purses her lips and stares through me. “You look awful. I’m worried about you, Nick.”

  I push a reassuring smile across my face.

  “Don’t give me that. You need company.”

  Her angry eyes remind me too much of Mary. I shuffle and softly reply, “I have enough friends.”

  “You’re alone. Maybe, for the first time in forever…” Her voice trails off as she returns to staring at the grave.

  I reach into my pocket. The card is silky against my fingertips. Not sure of how to broach the subject, I blurt, “Mary wasn’t acting like herself lately.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think the circumstances of her death are strange.”

  She takes a long breath. “In what way?”

  “It’s more of a feeling,” I say, not wanting to sound completely insane. “I know my wife. She was hiding something.”

  “Mary was really sick.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? But, she wasn’t going to die three days ago.”

  She tilts the umbrella backward, removing the shadow from her face. “Mary was going to die sometime.”

  Hating the truthfulness of the statement, I pause, searching for a new tack.

  “The death certificate was already processed. Don’t they need a witness to verify?”

  “Maybe the doctor or nurse did.”

  “It’s up to the family.”

  Her eyes roll. “That’s pretty flimsy.”

  I remove the electronic card from my pocket and show it to her. “I found this on the floor.”

  She shrugs.

  I turn it over.

  The glows are gone; only a smooth gray surface remains. Risking sounding crazier than I already feel, I say, “There were numbers and letters, an acknowledgment of something secret.”

  Although Emily’s grounded in the same way Mary was, she humors me. “Even so, what difference would this or any weird procedures make? Unless you’re implying that somehow she’s not really dead?”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s a little overboard.”

  A sympathetic smile creases her face. “Good, I was hoping not to have you committed today.”

  “Something just isn’t right, but I’m not sure what. I thought if anyone would understand that person would be you.”

  She huffs. “For these past two years, you put your whole existence into saving her. I watched you bully people, manipulate them, cajole, threaten, lie—”

  “I—”

  Her raised hand stops me.

  “Yes, I saw you do all sorts of detestable things.” Her lips curl into a smirk. “And I rooted for you every step of the way. I rooted hard enough to give you all of Darla’s college funds, and if I thought this might lead anywhere positive, I’d give you more.

  “Your heart’s in the right place, and you came so close. But finding a dead electronic card and having strange intuitions doesn’t make this something sinister. Unless you have anything else?”

  It’s my turn to shrug. There isn’t anything else.

  Emily presses the advantage.

  “Even if everything you say is true, she’s not coming back. And this gets to your main issue. You skirt around things, Nick. Don’t frown, that’s not a bad trait. Nobody’s more of an optimist than you, and that’s gotten you this far in life.

  “But this is one problem you’ll need to confront head-on. You can’t manipulate your way around death. This will be a hard period of adjustment for you to go through. So mourn, get some rest, get some help, do whatever you need to, and get it out of your system. Then let these feelings go. Let her go, Nick.”

  Wanting to end the lecture, I dip my head in acknowledgment, fighting to keep my insides from crumbling further.

  Emily’s last words still ring while she marches to her family. After their car leaves the cemetery, I remain motionless, letting the freezing rain soak my hair.

  Although I know she’s right, my problem is I can’t just let go.

  I should have listened to my instincts and never have left Mary’s side.

  Four

  My last bit of money, the twenty-eight-percent-interest credit line earmarked for Mary’s latest cure, is gobbled up by the funeral expenses. Almost all, that is…

  The few remaining dollars die to keep the electricity flowing and in purchasing one case of cheap vodka.

  Already sloshed, I enter the cottage and drop the mostly full box on the floor. Mercifully, while glass rattles, nothing breaks.

  With a stumble, I wander inside and down the hallway, trailing my fingertips along the slim accent tables and glossy wood paneling. Mary’s haunting touches lie everywhere. The art déco lighting, the ceiling molding, the flowery wallpaper. Although it hurts, when I reach the end, I peek at the bedroom.

  Except for a ghostly glow from a street lamp seeping through the curtains of the bay window, the space is a black void.

  Yet, as I concentrate beyond the shadowed furnishings, the old paint and peeling wallpaper of the fixer-upper we purchased come to life. Faint whispers from past conversations float through musty air. Surprised, I squint, seeing a healthy Mary dressed in faded overalls while she tells me of her plans for our new home. For the rest of our lives home.

  She can’t be dead.

  I scowl at the thought. Bitter at my overactive imagination, I stomp to the foyer and push the vodka into my man cave.

  A pink glow erupts over the desk.

  “Welcome back, Nick,” Jasmine says, leaking pink sparks. “You have fifty-nine unanswered messages.”

  “How many are marked urgent?”

  “Fifty-nine.”

  I groan, hoping again my unhackable-level-one AI assistant has suddenly acquired a sense of humor.

  When the pixie face stays frozen, I groan louder, wishing it had.

  “How many are from bill collectors?”

  She blinks, mimicking an actual person, and matter-of-factly replies, “Fifty-nine.”

  Hating the software even more as the bearer of bad tidings, I roll my eyes and reach into the box. Under the bland gaze of the AI, I pull out a bottle and unscrew the cap.

  The warm, cheap alcohol sears my throat, reminding me of the horrible days before I met Mary. After the fiery liquid settles in my stomach, I take another swig, finding the nausea an appropriate punishment for my failures.

  “Okay, Jasmine. Block all communications and turn everything off, including yourself.”

  The pink glow vanishes, and night cozies into the room as the lights dim.

  To ensure my private misery, I unplug the ancient phone. Then feeling one with the gloom, I gulp more, letting the fire fill the emptiness inside me.

  As the bottle empties, I stifle sobs of grief while the world spirals into blessed oblivion.
<
br />   The shameful three-day drinking binge doesn’t end with a whimper or from lack of alcohol. The self-flagellation concludes with—

  “Nick!”

  With a groan, I shift my pounding head, hoping the awful screeching goes away.

  “Nick! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

  My bleary eyes open, and I squint, trying to stop the room from spinning.

  Dressed in a white apron, Emily towers over me. The sunlight streaming through her holographic form adds an angelic quality to her pretty appearance.

  “Get up, Nick!”

  Even though obsolete, the hologram projector does a magnificent job of conveying her anger, and I cringe.

  Definitely not an angel from heaven.

  Wanting to unplug the vile machine, I expel a breath that is one-half curse and probably one-half flammable under the right circumstances. Then hating the cotton texture and awful taste of bile coating my tongue, I put on a bright smile.

  “Hello, Emily. A nice day to you too.”

  Her eyes narrow and her cheeks tighten, a stern, super-duper-pissed expression that reminds me of Mary.

  Great.

  Furious with software backdoors, I say, “I’m going to delete the AI for letting you through.”

  “Mary gave me the passcode.”

  Dismissively, I wave my hand. “I’m deleting the damn thing anyway.”

  “You think this is some sort of joke?”

  I shrug.

  “Do I need to stage an intervention? Maybe call your parents?”

  The last sentence gets my attention. With a louder groan, I crawl off the shaggy rug and dizzily plop myself into the office chair.

  After I rub my face to allow the walls to stop their gyrations, I stare into her angry holographic eyes. “See, I’m fine.”

  “Mary made me promise to make sure you were okay if anything happened to her.” Her eyes wander to the empty bottles covering the desk. “A bender qualifies as not okay.”

  “I haven’t done this since before I met her.”

  Emily gestures around the slovenly man cave. “So now that she’s gone, this is acceptable?”