Part 2 (2/2)

Then I heard them, the marbles.

Crying.

First I stuffed my head under a pillow, but the voices cut through that like there was a speaker tucked inside. I couldn't make out what they said, but the emotion was there. Sadness. Pain. Fear. Then I realized they were crying in a foreign language, whatever language they spoke in the country where Zane's dad killed them. My throat felt hollow and cold and hurt so much I wanted to cry, too, like tears would dissolve the hurt.

But I couldn't.

Mom was on the phone when I tiptoed downstairs, carrying the bag of soul marbles like a wounded baby. I used Dad's big hammer, laid out the marbles on the floor of the garage where the car would be but he was working late-later than he ever had-and started smas.h.i.+ng. The hammer made a sweet ting when it struck concrete. Each blow stung my arm.

I guess it was the pounding that brought Mom outside. Her face was wet and red from crying-maybe she'd heard the soul marbles, too. My eyes dropped to the mess, the little piles of white dust, all that was left of Zane's marbles.

”I'm sorry,” I said. Dad's hammer was still in my hand.

We were alone but not alone, standing in the cold of the garage with all the ghosts I'd set free. Mom just hugged me then, wrapped me in her arms and squeezed until I thought my ribcage would snap.

Chapter 13: Luck.

”There's a couple of things you're going to have to understand about this job.”

Jerry nods.

”First of all,” Franz speaks slowly, like he's explaining the why the sky's blue to a five-year-old, ”the job has some drawbacks.”

”Drawbacks. Check.” A pen wiggles against a notepad in Jerry's hand.

”The temperature in here for one. Get yourself a nice coat. A jacket. Light and flexible but enough to keep the chill off.”

”Jacket, check.”

Franz grips a handle and walks the drawer out to full extension. A body lays between them, covered with a sheet. ”Second of all, these poor sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes smell pretty bad.”

”Bad smell, check.”

Franz grips the sheet at one end and pulls back enough to reveal a pair of bluish feet. A toe tag dangles on the left big toe. He bends forward, squinting at the tag. ”92 years old, well...”

Jerry's pencil is motionless. ”I don't get it.”

Franz produces a pair of snips and slides one of the dead man's toes between its blades. He squeezes the handles together. A click echoes through the morgue, and the toe drops into Franz's waiting palm. ”There's some benefits, too.”

Jerry scribbles. ”Benefits...”

”For one, n.o.body ever checks too closely after we're done with them.”

”Right.” Jerry pauses for a moment and frowns. ”I don't get it.”

”Toes, man.” Franz draws the sheet over the corpse's feet and slides the drawer home with a resonate thunk. ”I figure they're better than rabbits' feet, especially on some SOB that lives this long. Lot of luck in making it to 92, Jerry.”

Chapter 14: Why We Decided to Use a Blender.

Jack wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. ”You ever read that Poe story?”

I look up, but my hands keep working. ”Which one? The guy wrote tons of stuff.”

”The one with the old guy.” Jack thrusts deeper with the knife.

A spurt of crimson strikes my ap.r.o.n and I flinch. ”Be careful, d.a.m.nit.”

”So, have you read that one?”

”Jack, there's a couple with old guys.” My knees are tired from kneeling on the tile, but the job is almost finished.

Jack stops. He looks at the bathroom light as if the answer's hiding there.

”The Tell-Tale Heart,” he says, puffing out his smile like he just won the Kentucky Derby or something.

”Oh yeah.” I look at the mess in the tub. We've got most of the corpse dismembered. ”Cuts the old guy up, buries him under the floorboards.”

Jack nods and holds up a lump of meat. A few ticks pa.s.s before I realize what he's holding. ”Be a shame if we heard this thing beating later on, wouldn't it?”

Chapter 15: Poe's Bas.e.m.e.nt.

”d.a.m.n, Jack. I told you we should have rolled him up in the carpet first.”

”We still can. You have no imagination.”

I step away from the spreading pool of blood. ”No, dumba.s.s. If you wrap him first and shoot through the rug, it doesn't splatter so much. Easier clean up.”

Jack runs a hand through his hair.”Oh. Right. Sorry.”

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