Page 96 of The Dearly Departed

"Very good," she said, reaching out to lay her slender, manicured fingers against my arm. "I would like to request your company. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chat, and there's something I'd like to discuss."

The threads that managed to keep my soul intact pulled taut as warning bells clanged, echoing through the catacombs of my mind. Whatever there was to discuss with this woman, I couldn't imagine it being good … nor could I imagine Gerald being pleased with me having a meeting—unplanned or otherwise—with his wife … alone.

Still, I offered another curt nod and said again, "Yes, ma'am."

Her unnaturally plump lips pulled into a smile as she bowed her head. "Now, get to work," she said, letting her fingers linger on my arm for a few moments longer before dragging them away.

Before she could leave, she glanced at Dean and said, "And there's no need to bring this conversation to Mr. Crowley's attention. He's already aware."

Dean's throat shifted with a swallow before he replied, "Understood."

She hung around long enough to give his shoulder an appraising pat, then turned to walk away, disappearing into the huge estate and once again leaving Dean and me alone.

He looked up at me and sighed as he shook his head.

"Should I be worried?" I asked him.

With a glance behind him to make sure Mrs. Seint-Crowley was out of earshot, he turned back to me and murmured, "Well, let's just say, what we're about to do is way more pleasant than whatever she might have planned for you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"No sense in worrying about it now," he said, nudging his chin toward the outside world. "Come on. Let's make this fast."

***

The house was dark and quiet when we arrived. But I quickly disturbed the peace when I kicked down the door, splintering the rickety framework into a hundred pieces.

The room was barren of light, save for the glow of a television on the far side of the room, opposite a busted-looking couch, where a woman lay naked. I froze at the sight of her, focusing my sights on the slope of her chest. She appeared to be sleeping, but expressed no concern as Dean and I stepped into the living room, guns at the ready.

Dean was already moving toward the next room as I knelt beside the sofa and lifted her limp wrist. A syringe tumbled from her loosely clenched fist, but her muscles were well into the state of rigor mortis.

I thought of my mother then. The faintest, briefest of memories flashed before my eyes—a cold night in a crowded alley, when I’d woken up to find her beside me no longer breathing.

She looked just like this, I recalled, the thought somber. Soft but rigid. An expertly carved statue of what had once been.

"She's dead," I announced quietly, gingerly laying her arm across her chest before grabbing a raggedy throw blanket from the floor to conceal her nudity.

I wished I’d brought Leonard’s rosary, but even without it, I made the sign of the cross, knowing that’s what Leonard would’ve done, and prayed her journey into whatever came after this was a lot kinder on her soul than her life on this planet had been—assuming it had been at all like its conclusion.

Dean nodded solemnly as I came to stand beside him.

"Marco's wife," he said, his eyes still on her face, as peaceful as if she were deep in slumber.

The most endless sleep.

"Do they have children?" I asked.

"Two little girls," he answered, turning to head farther into the house. "I'm going to check down the hallway over here. You check downstairs. Basement door's over there."

I didn’t know Marco or his wife. I didn’t know any of Gerald’s associates until it was time for the plague doctor to come calling. I tried to keep my nose out of that shit. As little involvement I had in Gerald's endeavors, the better. But from what Dean had told me, Marco was one of the dealers Gerald had out on the street, pushing whatever the fuck drugs he was selling.

Dean said Marco had been reliable. A good salesman, so to speak. He brought in a consistent stream of money, always sold the product he had on hand. But word got back to Gerald that Marco had been talking to a competitor—some dude who went by the name of Constantine, based out of Boston. It started to look like Marco might switch sides and maybe pull a fast one on Gerald, so Gerald decided to get even before he found himself in a ditch.

"If he wanted to stop dealing, he could've just said that," Dean had said. "Gerald isn't a good man, but he's fair. He would've let him go."

"He didn't let me go," I had pointed out.

"No," he'd agreed, his tone solemn. "But you're different."