Chapter 1

The night air was warm and humid. A departure from the typical Dallas weather of dry and drier. An unexpected storm from the western prairies blew in earlier that evening. By blew, I mean, short-lived and violent. What remained were the clouds and the crackling streaks of lightning cutting across the endless night sky. Thunder rumbled and vibrated against the city skyscrapers.

I backed into the driveway of my latest customer. A few drops of rain splattered across the windshield. Despite the size of my vehicle, a gust of wind came along and rocked the Mercedes-Benz. Another storm was coming. I wouldn’t have minded, I usually liked storms, except when I felt them coming. Every significant event in my life has been marked by a storm. Tonight’s atmospheric turbulence I felt deep inside my bones. Despite my past experience with Ma Nature, I ignored these warning signs and went about the business at hand.

I got out of the car and walked around the back of the vehicle, opened the door, and pulled out the tools of my trade. I butt bumped the back door closed? then walked along the winding sidewalk to the front door. I knocked. Lightning spiderwebbed its way across the sky. I looked up? wondering what else fate could do to me that she hadn’t already accomplished. Sometimes I felt as if she had a vendetta against me. The front door opened. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was in those few seconds I knew this wasn’t going to be a typical pickup. I should have paid closer attention to the ache in my bones.

The man who greeted me looked like death warmed over. A cliché, I know, but the description fit him like a glove. His forest green eyes were bloodshot from tears and lack of sleep. His shoulder-length, unkempt burnt-orange hair matched the condition of his clothes. He was teetering on the edge and was about to fall off. Unfortunately, I could tell he was expecting me to catch him. It wasn’t part of the job, but what choice did I have?

“Victor Kane, After Care Funeral Home.” I handed him my calling card. His hands trembled as he took the small rectangular matte-finished card. “I am sorry for your loss,” I added with solemn compassion.

“Thank you for coming.” He tried to smile. The pain of loss was still too new for such simple expressions.

“Death doesn’t have regular business hours, I’m afraid.” Another web of crooked light streaked across the sky. The rip seemed to settle into my tailbone and fester like an abscessed tooth.

“I’m Cliff Sanderson.” He shook my hand and offered me a genuine smile. It was as if my presence somehow distracted him from the purpose of our meeting. His momentary reprieve from reality was cut short by the sight of the transport bag resting on the gurney behind me. New tears filled his already swollen, bloodshot eyes.

“Please, why don’t you sit down?” I let myself in, took a quick look around the room, then guided him to the couch. I’ve always been one to keep my distance from a grieving client. I find it aids in keeping things on a professional level. Any closeness someone expresses can come across to the bereaved as a place of comfort and at times a place for physical solace. Someone in my position must keep those physical boundaries clearly defined. I ignored my rule and sat down next to him, cursing the storm outside for its part in all of this.

“How long since he passed?” I pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table and handed it to him.

“I don’t…” He paused and looked across the room. I followed his bleary gaze to the grandfather clock, which stood in the corner. Its slow, swaying pendulum counted down the seconds, minutes, and hours of everyone’s life—everyone that is, except for the dead. Father Time was a mean-spirited old man, who fed off human anxieties about sickness and death. The clock told us it was ten-thirty. “About two hours, I think,” Mr. Sanderson said, then shifted his eyes back to his hands in his lap.

“Good.”

“What?” He looked at me with pained dismay.

“My apologies, Mr. Sanderson. I didn’t mean anything by my remark. It’s an unfortunate aspect of my trade. The time of death, length of exposure, environmental conditions, are important considerations for me. I can assure you, I meant no disrespect. I know how difficult this must be for you.” I noticed the empty glass on the coffee table and the ashtray overflowing with smoldering butts. “May I get you another drink?”

“No, I’ve—” He took the glass, tipped it one way then the other. The ice cube rattled reluctantly in the bottom. “Yes, I could use another one. The scotch is in the decanter.” He nodded in the direction. I stood, poured him a half glass, then, ignoring my policy for the second time in ten minutes, resumed my position next to him. “Thanks.” He held a smile for the briefest of seconds. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” His voice quivered with another wave of emotions. “I don’t know what to do without him.”

“How long were you and,” I looked at my clipboard, “Michael together?”

“Twenty-five years. We met in college.” He talked without looking up from the glass. “We would have celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry.” I raised my hand to touch his shoulder then thought better of it and returned it to my lap. “I know this may sound a bit insensitive, but I think you should find a way to celebrate the day. It will help with the grieving process.”

“I can’t imagine celebrating, I mean…I have nothing left to celebrate.” His voice hitched in his throat. His body trembled as he tried to hold in the grief. He was teetering on the edge again. I gave in and rubbed his back. His muscles responded to my touch. As so often is the case, there is a need for physical contact when a loved one dies, a need to feel, a need to connect to the living. Cliff was no different. Loss restrained everyone. I knew sooner or later the grief would break apart and, in its place, sex would fill the void. I only hoped I was not around when the pain needed a release.