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“God is good.”
She fell back on the pillows.
“You wanna hear about that damn thing that chased me down the shore?”
“Wait.” I put the bottle of Cold Duck to my lips and drank. “Shoot.”
“Well,” she said. “Death.”
Chapter Two
I was beginning to wish there was more in that empty vodka flask. Shivering, I turned on the small gas heater in the hall, searched the kitc
hen, found a bottle of Ripple.
“Hell!” Rattigan cried. “That’s hair tonic!” She drank and shivered. “Where was I?”
“Running fast.”
“Yeah, but whatever I ran away from came with.”
The front door knocked with wind.
I grabbed her hand until the knocking stopped.
Then she picked up her big black purse and handed over a small book, trembling.
“Here.”
I read: Los Angeles Telephone Directory, 1900.
“Oh, Lord,” I whispered.
“Tell me why I brought that?” she said.
I turned from the As on down through the Gs and Hs and on through M and N and O to the end, the names, the names, from a lost year, the names, oh my God, the names.
“Let it sink in,” said Constance.
I started up front. A for Alexander, Albert, and William. B for Burroughs. C for …
“Good grief,” I whispered. “1900. This is 1960.” I looked at Constance, pale under her eternal summer tan. “These people. Only a few are still alive.” I stared at the names. “No use calling most of these numbers. This is—”
“What?”
“A Book of the Dead.”
“Bull’s-eye.”
“A Book of the Dead,” I said. “Egyptian. Fresh from the tomb.”
“Fresh out.” Constance waited.
“Someone sent this to you?” I said. “Was there a note?”
“There doesn’t have to be a note, does there?”
I turned more pages. “No. Since practically everyone here is gone, the implication is—”
