Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set Page 17

  Annabel nodded. “But how would that help us? Do you think the management at Buddy’s would know the names of the people they’re trying to remove?”

  “I doubt it, but the cop who responded might.”

  Annabel smiled. “It looks like we may have leads after all.”

  Steve started dialing the number on the card in his hand. Even though it was late—past dinner, for sure—he didn’t feel too guilty about ringing a detective at night. They were probably used to it.

  The call was picked up almost immediately. The voice on the other end of the line was clearly the one Steve had spoken to. His first words confirmed it: “Detective Richmond speaking.”

  “Hi, my name’s Steve Remington. You questioned me after a crash near my studio—where I was almost hit by—”

  “I remember, Mister Remington. What can I do for you? Finally feel like talking?” the detective asked.

  “Talking?” Steve sputtered. The way Richmond had said it was a little accusatory, as if Steve was hiding something. It was probably just the way detectives talked, Steve figured. “No, I don’t have anything to add about the crash, but—” he stopped his sentence short. For whatever reason, the detective’s words had rubbed him the wrong way, and now he had a different line of questions . . .

  “Isn’t that case closed?” Steve asked. “I thought Shannon Barton wasn’t being charged for anything . . .”

  “No, the case is still open. I can’t discuss it, since it’s ongoing, but we haven’t concluded our investigation. Is that what you called about, Mister Remington?”

  “No, sorry, I got sidetracked. I was wondering if you know the name of the man who was killed.”

  Steve could hear the groan of disappointment on the other line. “I thought you said he was your friend.”

  “Well, yeah, I mean . . . just in passing. I only knew him by his nickname.”

  “And why would you like to know his name, son?”

  Steve had to think on his feet. “Uh, well, I was gonna see if there was going to be a funeral for him or anything. But since I don’t have his full name, I’m sort of at a loss.” He looked over to Annabel and shrugged, and she gave him an encouraging smile and a thumbs up.

  There was a moment of silence.

  As the silence dragged on, Steve started to worry he was losing ground. “Detective Richmond?” he called out.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Listen, we never could figure out the identity of the man who was killed. I was hoping you were going to help me with that.” Detective Richmond had a hint of embarrassment in his voice, like he was struggling to admit the truth.

  “Oh,” Steve said. “That’s a shame. I’m sorry I can’t help.” He looked back to Annabel and gave her a frown and a thumbs down.

  He was ready to be off the phone now—it always seemed like the longer you talked to cops, in Steve’s experience, the more likely you were to get in trouble for something. Things just always seemed to work that way.

  When Steve said, “I guess I’d better be going,” his finger was already moving to the END CALL button.

  Then he heard the detective say, “You know, if you really want to try to find this guy’s funeral . . . or his name . . . you might try looking in the California Death Records Directory. You might have to do some digging, but I’m sure you’re up to it, yeah?”

  Steve had the phone next to his ear again, nodding along. “Uh, yeah, yeah, that’s a great idea, Detective. Thank you for your time.”

  “Any time,” Richmond said. “And if you want to come down and talk about the crash—”

  Steve hung up.

  “What’d he say?” were the first words out of Annabel’s mouth.

  “To look in the Death Records Directory,” Steve said, sighing. He sat on a chair next to Annabel and leaned his back against the cobalt island. Then he stared up at the crisscross ceiling.

  Annabel put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s worth a shot,” she said.

  Steve closed his eyes, reached into his pocket, and handed her his phone. “Go for it, if you want,” he said, dejected. He was utterly exhausted. He just wanted this day to be over.

  When he opened his eyes again, the room was empty. He peeked out of a window and saw it was still night. His eyelids were heavy, and he had a severe case of cottonmouth.

  A minute later, Annabel shuffled into the room.

  “I wanted to let you rest,” she said.

  “Where’s Aiden and Dale?” Steve asked, his voice cracking from lack of use.

  “In the game room together, drunk.”

  Steve squinted his eyes and sat up on the chair. He could hear the muffled sounds of laughing and loud voices coming from somewhere in the house, confirming Annabel’s statement.

  “How long have I been out?” Steve asked.

  “About two hours.” She had Steve’s phone in her hands. “I think I might have figured it out.”

  “Figured out what?” Steve asked, trying to realign his scrambled brain.

  Annabel rolled her eyes and took a seat next to him. She put his phone on the countertop. “I searched all through the Death Directory for people who died on that day in San Diego. There were seventeen deaths in the county the day of the car crash. Most of them were old folks, there were four stabbings, and an apparent suicide.” She reached for the phone and scrolled through the screen, then she showed Steve her findings and pointed at a line.

  Steve read it out loud, slowly. “John Doe . . . killed in Pacific Beach from an automobile accident.” His eyes got wider as he read the line. “Look, Annabel, that’s gotta be him!”

  Annabel nodded, but she wasn’t smiling. “I agree. Only problem is, look at his name.”

  Steve read it again. John Doe. Literally synonymous with anonymous.

  “So, no one knows who this guy was,” Steve said.

  “If you think about it, it makes sense. He’d just been Seared into this world recently, right, the first time he ran into you and asked for a cigarette?”

  Steve nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Then your Conveyor with him must have been the first cigarette you gave to him.”

  Interesting, Steve thought. And I never gave his friend Pancho one, which is probably why he never Seared here. And a cigarette butt as the Conveyor? Sheeit, that’s a hell of a transportation device.

  Good luck finding that on the side of the road!

  “Okay,” Steve said, “so in all this time we’ve decided one thing: Tumbleweed had no clear-cut identity. Not here on Earth, anyway.”

  “Yes, but we could still find his body,” Annabel said. “We just need to check with the Medical Examiner’s office, right?”

  “The morgue?” Steve asked, feeling a bit icky even mentioning it. “Great. Just as long as no dead person comes alive while we’re there.”

  Annabel smiled. “Don’t worry, Steve. I won’t sing.”

  THE SAN DIEGO COUNTY Medical Examiner’s Department was located in Kearny Mesa, just a short drive down the freeway from Aiden’s estate. It opened at 8:00 a.m., so Steve and Annabel were there by 7:30.

  Steve had tried to drag Aiden with them, but the leprechaun was in a half-drunk stupor and was unresponsive to Steve’s wishes. He seemed to be not only a notorious gambler, but also a notorious drunk. Steve felt bad for the guy. He knew it was a tough life to live. Even for a leprechaun.

  They didn’t really need Aiden there, but rather a bit of cash from him, for purposes Steve had not yet made known to the rest of his party.

  From the game room couch, Aiden had flipped Steve a few gold coins—typical leprechaun currency—then fallen back asleep. Steve had no idea where the coins had come from; they seemingly appeared from thin air.

  Steve also planned to learn more about Aiden and Dale’s discussion about the music funding, after this business at the morgue. He wanted to find out if they actually put pen to paper and came up with something credible, or if they’d just blown it off and gotten hammered and played pinball while singing The W
ho songs all night.

  It was a dreary morning, gray and cloudy. It looked like it would rain for the first time in months, which Steve took as a terrible omen.

  Since they had thirty minutes to kill, they walked over to a Wells Fargo and exchanged the gold coins Aiden had given them. They were given almost $2,000 for the coins, to the amazement of both Steve and Annabel.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Steve asked from inside the Lexus, once they were back in the morgue parking lot.

  “Of course,” Annabel said. She paused, eyeing Steve. “Why, do you not?”

  “Dead bodies aren’t really my thing,” he said.

  Annabel snorted. “First, blood isn’t your thing, and now bodies? Come on, Steve, grow a pair!”

  Steve threw his hands in the air. “Those are completely reasonable things to dislike! I’m not a goddamn vampire!” he said, somewhat playfully.

  Annabel chuckled. “Let’s just go.”

  And they did. They ventured out the car and walked side-by-side, their arms rubbing against each other. They would have held hands, but it was cold, so Steve had his hands in his jacket and Annabel had hers in a jacket she’d borrowed from Aiden. She had given up the white dress to allow for it to be washed.

  Inside the morgue it was bright and fluorescent and smelled like silicon; Steve immediately hated it. He had to squint to allow himself to adapt to the blaring blue-white light.

  “Jesus,” he said, shielding his eyes like he was hiding from the sun. “I don’t think your parents would do too well in this place.”

  Annabel scoffed. “Nonsense,” she said, marching forward down the hallway. “I’m sure they’d feel right at home.”

  They went to the first front counter they saw, and Steve did the talking. The woman up front didn’t seem too thrilled about Steve’s presence here this early in the morning, but neither was he, so it was fair game.

  “I’m trying to identify a body,” Steve said. “A friend of mine,” he added, just in case.

  The woman, a big, pudgy white woman, looked at him with an expression of mild disgust. “We don’t allow the public to just randomly view bodies,” she said, as if reading from a script—as if she had to say that multiple times a day.

  Steve was about to ask, “Why not?” but then he thought better of it and controlled his impulse. He looked at the woman’s nametag, which read “Becca.” He tried another approach, saying, “Becca, look, the person we’re looking for is a real good friend of mine. I just want to say my goodb—”

  “And you don’t know his name?”

  “Huh?”

  “The deceased person is a ‘real good friend’ of yours and you don’t know his name?”

  Steve frowned. He was getting nowhere with Becca. And she didn’t look like the type to be bribed.

  Dammit . . .

  Steve took Annabel’s hand and said, “Let’s go, Bel. Becca obviously doesn’t appreciate the severity of this situation.” With an upturned nose, they headed back down the hallway.

  Once out of sight from the counter, Annabel whispered, “What the hell was that? What are we going to do now?”

  Steve sighed. “I guess we’ll have to break in during the night or something.”

  “That’s your plan? You do realize this is a government building, don’t you, and not a scene in Ocean’s Eleven? We could get in huge trouble.”

  Steve growled, more to himself than anyone else. Frustration creeping, he said, “How the hell do you know about American politics? You were literally born like yesterday.”

  Annabel said, “I did my research about you people before you brought me here, Steve.”

  Great, Steve thought. She went from calling me “Mister Steve” like a formal hostess, to Steve, like a sarcastic teenager. Just what I need.

  As they reached the doors of the building, a semi-loud, semi-hilarious “Psssst” rang out through the hall.

  Steve and Annabel both spun around, eyes darting left and right, but there was no one in the hall.

  That’s when Steve noticed the short, hunched guy standing in the shadow of an opened door, just down the way. He was motioning them in his direction.

  “Uh, hello?” Steve said as he approached.

  “Y’all looking to get with the bodies, yeah?” The guy spoke in a soft voice and kept looking over their shoulders. He was very skittish.

  Steve and Annabel looked at each other with blank faces.

  “Yeah, you are,” the man decided. “I know your type.”

  Steve felt his neck muscles go taut. “And what type is that, exactly, sir?”

  The man chuckled. “Never mind,” he said. “Forget it.” He turned to go back in his dark room.

  What the hell is he doing in such a dark room? Steve wondered.

  “No, wait,” Annabel called out, stopping the man in his tracks. “You’re right, we do want to see a body. We’re looking for a friend . . .”

  “Two hundred bucks for ten minutes.” He turned to Steve, looking him up and down. “You can do anything you like, but I suggest wearing a condom, big guy.”

  “What?” Steve and Annabel said in unison.

  “Take it or leave it, man.”

  Steve started saying, “This is ridiculous—”

  “I don’t judge,” the guy interjected.

  Then, “We’ll do it,” from Annabel.

  Steve looked at her like she was insane. She just shrugged.

  “How do we do this?” she asked. “I can’t wait. I’m itching.” She played the part of horny necrophiliac surprisingly well, Steve decided. Did she get that from her parents?

  “Give me the cash then meet me around the east side of the building in five minutes.”

  Steve reached in his pocket. Then he said, “No, fuck that. If I give you this money now, I’m never seeing you again.”

  The man frowned. “Fine. Half now and half when I open the door.”

  Steve hesitated. He shared a look with Annabel. She nodded, just barely.

  Reaching into his pocket for the hundred dollar bill, the sketchy man didn’t take his eyes away from Steve for a moment. He snatched the bill away, then ran off.

  Ten minutes later, Steve and Annabel were behind enemy lines, inside the building as the sketchy guy had promised.

  They hid behind a counter while waiting for the “coast is clear” call.

  When they got it, they dashed into a bone-chilling room together.

  It was a morgue just like you see in the movies: file cabinets arrayed all over the room, but with cold, dead bodies inside them instead of files.

  The guy gave them a firm salute and disappeared, allowing them to do their business.

  They had ten minutes.

  It took two minutes to find a “John Doe” tag from the same date as the crash. The cabinet was somewhat in the back, away from the closer cabinets, which Steve presumed held the bodies of people who’d been deadened more recently.

  Clicking back the lock on John Doe’s cabinet handle, Annabel said, “Are you ready?”

  Steve gulped and nodded. His face had turned as white as Annabel’s.

  Annabel rolled out the sliding gurney where the dead bodies rested.

  Only there was no dead body there.

  It was just an empty space, with a little additional file near the back of the cabinet that said “POSSESSIONS.”

  Annabel and Steve glanced at each other, baffled. What the hell was going on here?

  Where was Tumbleweed’s body?

  Annabel opened the “POSSESSIONS” cabinet and found a small bag of the things this person had had on them when they died.

  In the see-through bag was a yellow bandana that Steve instantly recognized as Tumbleweed’s. The bandana had made him stand out and look like Jimi Hendrix.

  Also in the bag was a cigarette butt. Steve and Annabel wagered that Tumbleweed had known that that particular cigarette butt was his Conveyor, somehow.

  And finally, the Holy Grail.

  Steve
’s mouth fell open as he pulled out the card from the bag. The card read, in big, bold letters:

  Remington Studios

  1560 Garnet Avenue, San Diego, CA, 92109

  ~The Studio by the Sea~

  Steve had never liked his little tagline at the end there—he’d been planning on printing new business cards soon, but that was irrelevant now.

  Annabel took the card away from him and held it in both hands, like it was a timeless relic.

  “What should we do now?” Steve asked in a low, hopeful voice. He dared to glance at Annabel’s face and saw, much to his astonishment, that she wasn’t all smiles and rainbows.

  She actually seemed rather solemn. Her eyes looked as if they were getting wet, even as she stared at the card . . .

  It was like, she knew her journey had ended—she finally had found the object of her desire—but now, holding it in her hands, she didn’t want it to be over.

  What’s the saying? Half the journey is getting there?

  Now she knew she could go . . . she didn’t want to go.

  That’s what Steve felt through her hesitant reaction.

  “Bel?” Steve whispered, gently, after a long moment of silence. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  She sniffled and gave him a sad smile, her face shooting up to meet his gaze.

  “W-Want to go see how the music discussion went with Dale and Aiden?” she asked.

  Steve smiled warmly. It was music to his ears.

  “Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was not lost on Steve that his dream of managing a popular music act was pretty much dashed, given the recent events that had played out. He was still holding onto hope, but it was a fragile, doomed hope. Annabel would be going home soon. What good was fame and fortune when she wouldn’t be around to relish in it? There were more important things afoot now, mythical clues that had come to light, and it saddened Steve the music was a scapegoat at this point—a feeble excuse for Annabel to stick around for a while longer.

  They didn’t talk on the car ride back to Aiden’s glamorous estate. No words were needed. Not yet. In Steve’s opinion, it was best he just let this blow over, whatever this was. He knew he’d eventually have to try to talk Annabel out of leaving Earth or Terrus or whatever, but that didn’t need to be now.