The Heaven Trilogy (35 page)

These first three restrictions narrowed the field of eligible mortuaries from 9,873 nationally to 1,380. But it was the fourth requirement that put the breaks on eligibility for all but three unwitting participants. The mortuary had to be in possession of the right body.

The right body.
A body that was six-feet-one-inch tall, male, Caucasian, with a body weight of between 170 and 200 pounds. A body that had no known surviving relatives. And a body that had no identifiable dental records outside of the FBI's main identification files.

In most cases mortuaries hold cadavers no longer than two or three days, a fact that limited the number of available bodies. For a week, Kent ran dry runs, breaking into the networks using the Web, identifying bodies that fit his requirements. The process was one of downloading lists and cross-referencing them with the FBI's central data bank—a relatively simple process for someone in Kent's shoes. But it was arduous and sweaty and nerve-racking nonetheless. He ran the searches from his system at home, sipping at the tall bottle next to his monitor while he waited for the files to download.

On Tuesday, he'd found only one body, and it was in Michigan. That had put the jitters right though him, and it had taken nearly a full bottle of the hard drink to bring them under control.

On Wednesday, he'd found three bodies, one of which was actually in Denver. Too close to home. The other two were in California—too far. But at least there were three of them.

On Thursday, he'd found no bodies, and he had shattered his keyboard with a fist, a fit he immediately regretted. It ruined both his right pinkie—which had taken the brunt of the contact, somewhere between the letters J and U by the scattered keys—and his night. There were no twenty-four-hour keyboard stores that he was aware of.

Friday he'd found three bodies, to shuddering sighs of relief. Two on the East Coast and one in Salt Lake City. He downed two long slugs of liquor at the find. Tom Brinkley.
Thank you, Tom Brinkley. I love you, Tom Brinkley!

Tom Brinkley had died of a gunshot wound to the stomach, and according to the records, no one seemed to have a clue about him beyond that. From all indications the man had shot himself, which also indicated to Kent that there
was
at least one other thing known about the man. He was an idiot. Only an idiot would attempt suicide with a bullet through the gut. Nevertheless, that is precisely what the authorities had concluded. Go figure.

Now poor Tom's body sat awaiting cremation in Salt Lake's largest mortuary, Peace Valley Funeral Home. Kent had tagged his “fish” then—processed an order for a transfer of the catch to McDaniel's Mortuary in Las Vegas, Nevada. Reason? Relatives had been located and wished a local burial.
Now I lay my fish to sleep
. The funeral home had informed him by e-mail that the body had already been stripped and prepared for cremation.
Not a problem. Will pick up as is.
It was in a sealed box. Did he want it in a body bag? A body bag was customary.
Not a problem. Will pick up as is.

He scheduled a “will call” Saturday between 3 and 5 P.M. He would pick up the fish then. Only he knew it was not a fish, of course. It was just one of those interesting quirks that a mind gone over the edge tends to make. It was a dead body, as cold as a fish and possibly gray like a fish, but certainly not a fish. And hopefully not slimy like a fish.

He confirmed the order an hour later from a pay phone. The girl who answered his questions had a bad habit of snapping chewing gum while listening, but otherwise she seemed cooperative enough.

“But we close at five. You get here a minute past, and you won't find a soul around,” she warned.

It had taken a mere forty-five minutes with his fingers flying nervously over the keyboard to make the changes to Tom Brinkley's FBI file. The tingles of excitement had shortened his breath for an hour following. Actually
that
had been the first crime. He'd forgotten. Breaking into the FBI files was not a laughable prank. It had not seemed so criminal, though.

Kent let the memories run through his mind and kept his eyes peeled as he negotiated I-70 west. The trip over the mountains was uneventful, unless you considered it eventful to bite your nails clean off every time a patrol car popped up in your rearview mirror. By the time Kent reached the outskirts of Salt Lake, his nerves had frayed, leaving him feeling as though he'd downed a dozen No-Doze tablets in a single sitting. He pulled in to a deserted rest stop, hurried to the back of the truck, and popped the refrigerated box open for the first time.

A cloud of trapped vapor billowed out, cold and white. The cooler worked well enough. Kent pulled himself up to the back bumper and then into the unit and waved his hand against the billows of vapor. The interior drifted into view about him. Metal shelves arose on the right. A long row of hooks hung from the ceiling on the left like claws begging for their slabs of meat.
For their fish.

Kent shivered. It was cold. He imagined the gum-snapping gal at Peace Valley Funeral Home, clipboard in hand, staring up at those hooks.

“What are those for?”

“Those? Oh, we find that bodies are much easier to carry if you take them from their caskets and hook them up. You guys don't do that?”

No, the hooks would not do. But then, he was not some white-trash bozo from Stupid Street, was he? No sir. He had already planned for this eventuality. Cruiser had told him that all trucks carried thermal blankets to cover the meat in case of emergency. Truck 24's blankets lay in a neat stack to Kent's right. He pulled them off the shelf and strung two along the hooks like a shower curtain. A divider.

“What are those for?”

“Those? Oh, that's where we hide the really ugly ones so people don't throw up. You guys don't do that?”

Kent swallowed and climbed out of the cooler box. He left the rest stop and slowly made his way to the mark on his map that approximated the funeral home's location. To any other vehicle parked beside him at a light, he resembled a mortuary truck on a Saturday run. Right? The magnetic signs were dragging on the street, exposing the meat packer's logo, right? Because that would look obscene. So then why did he have such a hard time looking anywhere but straight ahead at stoplights?

Liberty Valley's wrought-iron gates loomed suddenly on Kent's left, bordered by long rows of pines. He caught a glimpse of the white building set back from the street, and his heart lodged firmly in his throat. He rounded the block and approached the main gate again, fighting the gut-wrenching impulse to drive on. Just keep on driving, right back to Denver. There was madness in this plan. Stealing a body.
Brilliant software engineer loses sanity and steals a body from funeral home
.
Why? It is yet unknown, but some have speculated that there may be other bodies, carved up, hidden
.

Then the gate was there in front of him, and Kent pulled in, clearing his throat of the knot that had been steadily growing since entering this cursed city.

The long, paved driveway rolled under him like a black snake. He followed a sign that led him to the rear, where a loading bay sat empty. A buzz droned in his head—the sound of the truck's wheels on the pavement. The steady moan of madness. He backed up to the door, pulled the parking brake, and left the engine running. He couldn't very well be seen fiddling with wires to restart it.

He set himself on autopilot now, executing the well-rehearsed plan. From his briefcase he withdrew glasses and a mustache. He fixed them quickly to his face, checked his image in the rearview mirror, and pulled out his clipboard.

A blonde-headed girl with a pug nose pushed open the rear door of the funeral home on his second ring. She was smacking gum.

“You from McDaniel's?”

He could feel the sweat breaking from his brow. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Yes.”

She turned and headed into the dim storage area. “Good. You almost didn't make it. We close in fifteen minutes, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“So, you from Las Vegas?”

“Yeah.”

“Never heard of McDaniel's. You ever win big money?”

Big money?
His heart skipped a beat. What could she know of big money?

She sensed his hesitation and glanced over at him, smiling. “You know. Las Vegas. Gambling. Did you ever win big?”

“Uh . . . No. I don't gamble, really.”

Coffins rose to the ceiling on all sides. Empty, no doubt. Hopefully. She led him to a huge side door made of steel. A cooler door.

“I don't blame you. Gambling's a sin.” She popped the door open and stepped through. A dozen coffins, some shiny and elaborate, some no more than plywood boxes, rested on large shelves in the cooler. The girl walked over to one of the plain boxes, checked the tag, then slapped it.

“This is it. Grab that gurney there, and it's all yours.”

Kent hesitated. The gurney, of course. He grabbed the wheeled table and pushed it parallel to the casket. Together they pulled the plywood box onto the gurney, a task made surprisingly easy by rollers on the shelf.

The girl slapped the box again. Seemed to like doing that. “There you go. Sign this, and you're all set.”

Kent signed her release and offered a smile. “Thanks.”

She returned the smile and opened the door for him.

Halfway back to the outer door he decided it might be best if she did not watch him load the body. “What should I do with the gurney when I'm done?” he asked.

“Oh, I'll help you.”

“No. No problem, I can handle it. I should be able to—I've done this enough. I'll just shove it back through the door when I'm done.”

She smiled. “It's okay. I don't mind. I need to close down anyway.”

Kent thought about objecting again but decided it would only raise her curiosity. She held the door again, and he rolled the brown box into the sun. From this angle, with the truck parked below in the loading dock, he caught sight of the Iveco's roof. And it wasn't a pretty sight.

He jerked in shock and immediately covered by coughing hard. But his breathing was suddenly ragged and obvious. Large red words splashed across the roof of the Iveco's box: Front Range Meat Packers.

He flung a hand toward the bottom of the truck's roll door, hoping to draw her attention there. “Can you get the door?” If she saw the sign he might need to improvise. And he had no clue how to do that. Stealing bodies was not something he had perfected yet.

But Miss Gum-Smacker jumped to his suggestion and yanked the door up like a world-class chain-saw starter. She'd obviously done that a few times. Kent rolled the gurney down the short ramp and into the truck, gripping the ramp's aluminum railing to steady his jitters. As long as they remained down here, she would not have a chance to see the sign. Now, when he drove off . . . that would be a different story.

It occurred to him then that the casket would not fit on the shelves designed for meat. It would have to go on the floor.

“How do you lower this?” he asked.

She stepped in and looked at him with a raised brow. “You're asking me how to lower a gurney?”

“I usually carry ours—battery powered. All you do is push a button. But this is a new rig. It's not outfitted properly yet.” Now,
there
was some quick thinking. Powered gurneys? There must be such a thing these days. She nodded, apparently satisfied, and lowered the contraption. Together they slid the coffin off and let it rest on the floor. Now to get her back into the warehouse without looking back.

“Here, let me help you,” he said and walked right past her to the warehouse door, which he yanked open.

She wheeled the gurney up after him and pushed it through the door. “Thanks,” she said and walked into the dim light.

“Thank you. Have a great weekend.”

“Sure. Same to you.”

Kent released the door and heard its lock engage. He glanced around and ran for the cab, trembling. What if she were to come back out?
“Hey, you forgot your clipboard.”
Only he hadn't forgotten it. It was in his right hand, and he tossed it onto the bench seat. With a final glance back, he sprang into the truck, released the brake, and pulled out of the loading dock, his heart slamming in his chest.

He'd crossed the parking area and was pulling onto the long, snakelike drive before remembering the rear door. It was still open!

Kent screeched to a halt and ran to the back, beating back images of a shattered box strewn behind the truck. But not this day; this day the gods were smiling on him. The box remained where he'd left it, unmoved. He pulled the door closed, flooded with relief at small favors.

He pulled out of Liberty Valley's gates, shaking like a leaf. A full city block flew by before he realized that the jerking motion under him resulted from a fully engaged parking brake. He released it and felt the truck surge forward. Now, that was a Stupid Street trick if there ever was one. He had to get control of himself here!

Two blocks later the chills of victory began their run up and down his spine. Then Kent threw back his head and yelled out loud in the musty cabin. “Yes!”

The driver in the Cadillac beside him glanced his way. He didn't care.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

He had himself a body. A fish.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HELEN SCANNED the note again and knew it said more than it read. This fishing business was hogwash, because it didn't bring a smile to her face as in,
Oh, good. He's gone to catch us some trout. I love trout
. Instead, it brought a knot to her gut, as in,
Oh, my God! What's he gone and done?

She had felt the separation all day, walking the streets of Littleton. It was a quiet day in the heavens. A sad day. The angels were mourning. She still had energy to burn, but her heart was not so light, and she found praying difficult. God seemed distracted. Or maybe
she
was distracted.