His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: J. Eric Hance
fashion a key? It certainly seemed simpler than an entire outfit.
I concentrated on an image of a key, holding it firmly in my mind. I pushed the image outward as politely as I could manage.
With a hint of mirage and a touch of warmth, the weight of the key settled into my hand. It was exactly how I’d imagined it, chips, smudged brass and all.
It didn’t work.
Apparently, the robe and I couldn’t manifest one from thin air that would just happen to fit the lock. Or if we could, I didn’t know how, and the robe wasn’t sharing.
I released the key and it vanished in a small puff of cold black smoke the instant it left my hand.
I stroked the door handle. I was death walking now, the Grim Reaper. It was an idea that sent a shiver along my spine, but I ignored the revulsion and anxiety; those problems would have to be dealt with later.
In life, one of the very few certainties is death. Benjamin Franklin once wrote, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” No offense to Ben, but even a mediocre accountant can get out of taxes with a little creative bookkeeping.
Death, on the other hand, will never be denied.
It comes for us all in our time. You can’t trick it, reason with it, or buy it off. When your bill is due, death will find you, no matter how well you might hide.
Locks will no longer hinder you.
Even behind a locked door.
I stroked the door handle again, wondering if it could really be that simple. Was I the ultimate… skeleton key?
As with the robe, I tried sending my thoughts out politely toward the door, willing it to open.
The lock clicked softly as the bolt withdrew.
I smiled, briefly excited at my new discovery.
That excitement turned quickly to anger.
I had not chosen this new life…hadn’t even been offered a choice. No, it was worse than that—my right to choose had been stolen from me. Just like my life had been stolen, and now even my afterlife.
A few flashy tricks wouldn’t change the facts.
I was overwhelmed by an implacable determination. This new life, this thing that I’d become…I wouldn’t just stand by and let it happen. They’d tried to lock Henry Michael Richards in a prison, but I’d find a way to unlock that door, too.
They could keep their damn parlor tricks.
Turning up the collar of my coat, I stepped out into the familiar damp chill of a Seattle summer night. The door swung quietly shut behind me and relocked itself, leaving no evidence that anything at all had happened.
The offices of the King County Medical Examiner are on the grounds of Harborview Medical Center. Harborview is, unfortunately, situated in one of the least desirable areas of the city. Bad things have been known to happen to good people when they travel there alone on a dark night.
People like me.
On a night like tonight.
I kept my head down and proceeded quickly through the cool mist, west toward the freeway overpass. I-5 is the major artery that cuts the heart of Seattle in two, splitting the waterfront and downtown proper on the west from the communities to the east. While strolling on the downtown side of that artery certainly wouldn’t guarantee my safety, I’d feel much better than standing in the shadow of Harborview.
The hospital’s main entrance is only three blocks from the overpass. The night was still, and silent, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something was watching me.
That’s probably why I jumped at the unexpected rustle, sending my heavily beating heart into overdrive. I nervously searched the darkness beneath the freeway, my heart continuing to race as my eyes adjusted.
A ratty tent stood tucked against the concrete wall, the worn cardboard door hanging open. On its floor, a homeless man lay in a ball, shivering against the night. His eyes, unfocused, stared through the small doorway into the world, seeing nothing.
He lay wrapped in his long, tangled beard and layers of faded military clothing. Despite the air’s
I concentrated on an image of a key, holding it firmly in my mind. I pushed the image outward as politely as I could manage.
With a hint of mirage and a touch of warmth, the weight of the key settled into my hand. It was exactly how I’d imagined it, chips, smudged brass and all.
It didn’t work.
Apparently, the robe and I couldn’t manifest one from thin air that would just happen to fit the lock. Or if we could, I didn’t know how, and the robe wasn’t sharing.
I released the key and it vanished in a small puff of cold black smoke the instant it left my hand.
I stroked the door handle. I was death walking now, the Grim Reaper. It was an idea that sent a shiver along my spine, but I ignored the revulsion and anxiety; those problems would have to be dealt with later.
In life, one of the very few certainties is death. Benjamin Franklin once wrote, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” No offense to Ben, but even a mediocre accountant can get out of taxes with a little creative bookkeeping.
Death, on the other hand, will never be denied.
It comes for us all in our time. You can’t trick it, reason with it, or buy it off. When your bill is due, death will find you, no matter how well you might hide.
Locks will no longer hinder you.
Even behind a locked door.
I stroked the door handle again, wondering if it could really be that simple. Was I the ultimate… skeleton key?
As with the robe, I tried sending my thoughts out politely toward the door, willing it to open.
The lock clicked softly as the bolt withdrew.
I smiled, briefly excited at my new discovery.
That excitement turned quickly to anger.
I had not chosen this new life…hadn’t even been offered a choice. No, it was worse than that—my right to choose had been stolen from me. Just like my life had been stolen, and now even my afterlife.
A few flashy tricks wouldn’t change the facts.
I was overwhelmed by an implacable determination. This new life, this thing that I’d become…I wouldn’t just stand by and let it happen. They’d tried to lock Henry Michael Richards in a prison, but I’d find a way to unlock that door, too.
They could keep their damn parlor tricks.
Turning up the collar of my coat, I stepped out into the familiar damp chill of a Seattle summer night. The door swung quietly shut behind me and relocked itself, leaving no evidence that anything at all had happened.
The offices of the King County Medical Examiner are on the grounds of Harborview Medical Center. Harborview is, unfortunately, situated in one of the least desirable areas of the city. Bad things have been known to happen to good people when they travel there alone on a dark night.
People like me.
On a night like tonight.
I kept my head down and proceeded quickly through the cool mist, west toward the freeway overpass. I-5 is the major artery that cuts the heart of Seattle in two, splitting the waterfront and downtown proper on the west from the communities to the east. While strolling on the downtown side of that artery certainly wouldn’t guarantee my safety, I’d feel much better than standing in the shadow of Harborview.
The hospital’s main entrance is only three blocks from the overpass. The night was still, and silent, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something was watching me.
That’s probably why I jumped at the unexpected rustle, sending my heavily beating heart into overdrive. I nervously searched the darkness beneath the freeway, my heart continuing to race as my eyes adjusted.
A ratty tent stood tucked against the concrete wall, the worn cardboard door hanging open. On its floor, a homeless man lay in a ball, shivering against the night. His eyes, unfocused, stared through the small doorway into the world, seeing nothing.
He lay wrapped in his long, tangled beard and layers of faded military clothing. Despite the air’s
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