Grave Beginnings (The Grave Report, Book 1) Page 2

  “And secondly,” I said as if he hadn’t spoken at all, “it hurts every time you do that!”

  “I thought you would have been fairly accustomed to pain by now,” he said, still not smiling but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “Being accustomed to and not feeling it are two different things and, what’s with the twenty-four hours? I’m not Kiefer Sutherland. Last case I got seventy two!”

  “Forty eight,” Church corrected.

  “Whatever, still more than I have now and plus, I was in little boy last time so my memory isn’t that great…”

  His eyebrows slightly rose at that.

  “Yeah…that came out slightly more pedophile…ish than it sounded in my head.”

  “Yes,” Church replied.

  “The point still stands, I had more time last time than now, why is that?” I argued, my voice taking on a bit of heat.

  “You get as much as you need, you have enough,” he said sternly.

  “Well I want it changed!”

  He reached out, grabbing my arm tightly, the searing heat once again enveloped my forearm and when he removed it, the tattoo had changed.

  To thir-frickin-teen!

  “Thirteen hours!?” I exclaimed.

  “You said you wanted it changed,” Church said flatly.

  “Thirteen?! What happened to as long as I need?”

  “Thirteen is enough,” he said matter of factly, “ I was being generous by giving you twenty-four.”

  Now I’m not one to beg, I’ve still got a bit of pride left if you don’t count all the many embarrassing ways I’ve sort of died over the years. But, I’ve also got a fair bit of pride in the fact that I’ve never once failed to solve a case. So, here I was stuck in a situation where I’d have to beg and lose my pride in order to get more time to well, save my pride…

  “The hell you were!” I snarled. “Come on Church, I need more time than this. I’ve never failed a case before and I’m not about to start now.” I said pleadingly, well pleading isn’t exactly begging, it’s more like asking with a desperate sort of passion…it’s not begging, it just isn’t.

  Pride intact.

  “You won’t fail.” He said, again in a matter of fact tone.

  Did Church just pay me a compliment?

  “So, you’re going to give me twenty-four hours then, right?”

  “No.”

  So much for the begging… pleading!

  “Church, I really could use that extra time.”

  “Here,” he said as if I hadn’t said a word at all and thrust a saddle brown six by nine leather journal into my hands. It was the journal I had kept over the years, filled with knowledge, lore and tidbits of wisdom I’ve gathered over the years.

  Yes I’ve managed to accumulate some wisdom.

  The journal was a veritable encyclopedia on every supernatural nasty I had come across or heard of and how to stop it. Creature motives and preferences, descriptions, mythology and of course the most efficient ways to gank em’. I always took it with me on a case and then handed it back to Church for safekeeping until I came back again in someone else’s body to pick it up. Think of it as the Graves’ How To Manual Of Badassery…ness…ism…s?

  How do you pluralize badass?

  I took it from him without saying a word, not like there was much I could say at this point. I just went from having twenty-four hours to thirteen and all without having a single lead to go on in this case. I decided to keep my mouth wisely shut lest he decide to shave off more time, some of that wisdom I mentioned beforehand, wisdom in silence!

  That’s when Church plopped something atop my journal and said, “I’ve been thinking Vincent, you could another one of these.”

  I looked down to see a smaller version of the journal I had been using over the years, or however long I’ve been doing this. It wasn’t saddle brown however; it was a rich burgundy leather notebook, a fair bit smaller than my other journal. The question was, why did Church think I needed another one of these, my original one wasn’t even close to full and this one was, well tiny. I arched an eyebrow, shooting him a quizzical look and asked, “what gives?”

  “For your memory,” he said simply.

  “Huh?” Was my all too clever reply.

  “It might do you some good to start keeping a personal record of your cases, your thoughts and such as opposed to just knowledge on monsters and the like. I’ll hold onto it with your other one until the next case, you can peruse through it in your free time, try and keep your memories together.” Church said casually.

  Translation: This will help you keep your shit together.

  “A diary?” I said.

  “Or a journal,” he said nonchalantly shrugging.

  “Not much of a difference,” I replied.

  “The difference depends on you.” He said simply.

  Whatever the hell that means…what’s the difference between a journal and diary, is there one?

  “I’m not a writer, I’m a paranormal… investigator, hunter, wrapper…upper? Ah hell, I don’t even know what I am Church!”

  Church just stood there, staring, silent…he was creepy when he did that, creepy…er.

  “Fine,” I said exasperatingly, “but keep in mind that I kill things, not punctuate sentence so don’t expect high quality work the first time around.”

  There was a flash of smirk but just flash when Church spoke, “don’t worry, I won’t.”

  Smartass.

  “Well since you come bearing gifts Church, I don’t suppose you could oh I don’t know, give me a fucking lead to go since seeing how as you’ve cut my time nearly in half?” I said with my voice talking on a bit of edge.

  “Watch,” he said.

  “Watch? Watch what? The hell does that mean?” I said angrily, clenching my right fist, the one with that not too long ago had a Rolex digging into it… “Oh, watch!” I said aloud, quickly undoing the strap that was still around my knuckles and began looking it over. Unfortunately there were no discernable markings on the smashed face or the band that could help point me in the right direction. It wasn’t until I looked on the backside of the watch face that I found something.

  Engraved in tiny letters it read: Congratulations on thirty years of service Norman Smith, from your friends at the AMNH.

  It was one of those celebratory watches companies and such gave out to employees who had worked there for a long time, it was equivocal to a high school ring except you know, to earn this one you actually had to do work.

  But at least now I had a name, Norman Smith, Smith…probably the most common last name in the world, essentially the Caucasian Nguyen. I was in New York looking for a guy named Smith…what’s that popular saying going on these days?

  Fuck my life?

  Still, it was more than I had a few minutes ago and then there was AMNH, whatever that was, it was probably something tied into Norman’s life. I had a hunch it was connected to his work, the theory made sense.

  “Hey, thanks Church,” I said, finally looking up from the watch at the spot where he had been standing. Had being the operative word, he was just gone, no sound or any thing else, just gone. I hate it when he did that. It was things like that that clued me into the fact that Church was way higher up and more involved in the supernatural world than I had originally thought.

  I had always thought Church to be more like my paranormal parole officer, guiding me, making sure I stayed out of trouble and so on… I was starting to get the hint that he was something more.

  I decided to search around the pew where Church had been sitting, and lying there at the very end of the pew, was a giant white paperback book. As I drew closer I realized it was a copy of the local white pages. I picked up and began scrolling through it, turns out New York doesn’t have a bazillion Norman Smiths.

  It only had ninety-five, only.

  I looked up in no particular direction and shouted, “was it too much to just write his address down on a piece paper?”
My hand spasmed at that exact moment and I dropped the book, it landed splayed open. I picked it back up only to find a neatly drawn bright red sharpie oval around an address in the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

  “Oh, sorry,” I muttered somewhat apologetically.

  I was currently somewhere in Lower Manhattan, by car it would take me near about twenty minutes to get where I needed to get, by public transport half an hour. Either was fine by me, if I had the cash, which I didn’t.

  “Uh, Church, I don’t suppose you could’ve left me some traveling money. You know, case funds for investigational expenses?”

  No answer and no money anywhere around the pew, so I had to walk through New York, in the winter, oh and I had a very short deadline.

  Fantastic.

  Chapter Two

  The great thing about being a soul in the body of a dead guy is that cold weather doesn’t really bother you all too much; I mean I feel it but it’s more of an annoyance than actually a hindrance. The time spent at the church with Church, (say that ten times fast) and the time it took huffing my soulful ass added up to an hour.

  Another benefit of being a soul shoved into a dead body is that I don’t exactly get winded after a one-hour trek, oh pissed off that I had to walk in the first place sure, but not winded.

  I let out a low whistle when I finally found Norman’s home. It was an old townhouse, maybe something built around the early 1900’s, easily five maybe six stories. It was painted in some peach like color, maybe it was peach, I don’t know I was never in a painter so…

  I’m not much of a writer so sue me.

  The steps leading up to the door were the same peach like hue as the building; the door itself was a highly polished oak. I was inside a carpenter once who was killed by a type of Nymph for cutting down some sacred tree and so the Nymph ate his heart, seemed like a bit of an overreaction to me, he cuts down a tree and she eats his heart. No one ever said the supernatural were known for their sense of fair karma but anyways, I know my wood when I see it because of that whole ordeal.

  On the left of the door were two very plain looking windows, they didn’t seem to belong with the rest of the house, not that I would know, it’s not as if I was ever in a décor specialist.

  …I wasn’t.

  The windows were slightly indented and above them was another row of horizontal windows and another row above that.

  I caught a glimpse of pale yellow in the corner of my eye, I turned to see sitting on the street, a pastel yellow Lamborghini Miura…Ok, Mr. Norman Smith was very well off indeed. Home in Upper Manhattan and a classic Lamborghini, sometimes there’s a little jealous vindictive part of me that feels that people like this shouldn’t be getting my services.

  Especially considering the fact that I can’t even charge them, hell, I’m dead and so are they. The universe is seriously screwed up.

  I decided that I had done enough sightseeing and appraising and strolled up to Mr. Smith’s door, looking for a way in. I tried the doorknob but it was locked.

  Of course, it’s never that easy, just once I wish it were though.

  I pushed myself up against the door rather strongly, trying to see if maybe I could find a way to force it down but it wouldn’t budge. That was some seriously solid wood. I checked under the simple plain brown straw like doormat, no key. There was nothing but one of those stupid miniature potted cacti, the little bulbous looking ones.

  There was a somewhat painful pang in my head, a vision quickly blurred through my mind. A very familiar looking hand although a bit meatier, was reaching towards the prickly little cactus, its wrist adorned with the same Rolex I had smashed to bits earlier. It was a memory from Mr. Norman Smith.

  I went out on a limb and reached out for the cactus, I was praying this hunch was right. I grabbed it and was rather surprised when the needles didn’t pierce my skin but instead plunged inwards as I squeezed them. As soon as I let go, they sprang back out. I squeezed the cactus harder this time and the bulb completely caved in like one of those squeaky dog toys. I yanked it up and it popped loose with a sound much like a plunger being pulled from a toilet. I looked underneath and found that sitting in the now empty pot was a spare key.

  Clever, now hiding that under any old potted plant might not have been that clever but a cactus? Who would be stupid enough to take the risk and grab a cactus assuming that underneath would be a hidden key, who?

  Asides from me, not the stupid part though, I just have the advantage of the deceased memories…which I unfortunately have no control over, they just pop in and out at their own leisure.

  I acted as natural as I could as I gently placed the key into the keyhole and unlocked Mr. Smith’s door.

  “Wow!”

  The door opened up into a beautiful and massive living room adorned with all manner of expensive things. There was a chandelier with rows of expensive crystals hanging down, minute clay sculptures surrounded by what looked like protective glass. The floors were the same highly polished oak as the door, in the far corner sat a rich wine colored suede couch and near it, two very expensive white leather arm chairs. Paintings with price tags still on them hanging on the walls, what looked to be solid gold candleholders on the mantle piece, oh and the guy had two fire pokers…one was the typical solid charred black that looked as if it had seen much use and the other was solid silver and engraved. It was just held in two equally beautiful silver brackets, also engraved, along the mantle piece.

  The guy had a solid silver engraved fire poker…simply to serve as decoration. Who the hell buys stuff like that?

  I wondered if I would ever be able to afford a place like this, you know if I wasn’t dead and could charge people the exorbitant fees I ought to be charging them for doing this kind of work. I’d like to think I would…delusions of grandeur are a perk of having severe mental issues due to having a million different memories inside me.

  As I continued on, I noticed that every other floor was just as ostentatious and opulent as the first one, Mr. Smith’s kitchen was amazing, cherry cabinets and mahogany floors, Subzero fridge…which unfortunately was not stocked.

  A dead guy’s gotta eat too!

  Oh, everything in the kitchen was also that new touch technology crap, no buttons or knobs in there, well except maybe Mr. Smith when he was alive because who pays for this hi tech crap?

  Just setting into the man’s gym made me feel like I had to check my wallet (which I didn’t have) for a membership card; it was a very professional and posh looking set up. He had a bar in the far corner of his gym with juicers and all sorts of other fitness oriented culinary equipment dotted atop the bar counter. Machines lined the walls, padded flooring, dumbbell racks, medicine balls, you name it and he had it.

  His home had not one, not two, but five, five outdoor terraces, one of which boasted a brand new hot tub! It’s not wrong to hate someone I’ve never really met before but whose body I’m currently inhabiting and whose home I was about to ransack, is it? I managed to make it to the upstairs bedroom whilst managing to keep my jaw from dragging across the floor and began my search.

  It was very very tidy up there, someone was a clean freak, or had something to hide. Considering that I had woken up buried in someone else’s grave, I was gonna go with option number two and something to hide. I started pulling out drawers and throwing all manner of clothes unceremoniously over the room, looking for some more clues as to just who exactly Norman Smith was…is, since chances were that not everybody knew he was dead. Not like there was a proper funeral for him.

  I finally managed to find his wallet; it was one of those metal-locking types you see on those infomercials, the kind guaranteed to prevent your credit card info from being stolen or something.

  It was engraved too…seriously this guy had a thing going on for that. Like he had to show off to the whole world or something, some guys just have to let everybody know how much of a douche they really are.

  As I flipped through it I saw that it was filled wit
h premium credit cards, the kind you can only get when you can easily blow six figures in a year on purchases. Black cards, Platinum and a whole bunch of other nonsensically named cards. But, at the very end I found what I was looking for, a driver’s license but something was off.

  I ran to the bathroom, although calling it a bathroom was an understatement. It wasn’t really a room, more like an entertainment center that just so happened to have facilities for bathing in it. There were flat panel television’s everywhere, on the walls, on the mirrors and even in the shower! Oh and don’t even get me started on the shower, it was one of those walk in ones, made of some beautiful stone and surrounded by glass, only it was large enough to fit the entire women’s volleyball team in…not that I fantasize about that stuff, I’m a consummate professional.

  But that’s not why I came to the bathroom, I shot a look down at the drivers license. The man in it was light skinned, had quite a bit of flesh on his face, a double chin going on. No whiskers on his face, his eyes were a clear icy sort of blue but they looked tired. He had a bit of wrinkles lining the typical parts of his face, forehead, eyes and around the cheeks. There was a fleshy look to his face, a fair amount of extra mass around his cheeks and eyes made them look saggy, a bit of dark circle action going on as well. His champagne blonde hair was thinning in certain parts; he looked like a workaholic whose stress was finally catching up to him.

  The problem was that guy looking back at me in the mirror looked like an Abercrombie and Fitch model in a business suit. That double chin was tucked away somewhere because I had a jaw of finely chiseled granite. Blonde hair no longer thinning but thick and combed back, it was a very posh look. Skin was tight, no lines, dark circles or anything, the guy looked like he was in late twenties which was strange considering that he was supposed to be in his late fifties. The guy in the license could have easily weighed in at a hefty two fifty; the guy in the mirror was a trim, fit, modelesque one eighty maybe. Yeah, something was very wrong.

  I stuck my mug closer to the mirror, not for vanity’s sake, it was to get a better look. I ran my now healed right hand through the blonde locks and sighed disappointedly, “man, still not a ginger.”