Undead and Done (18 page)

THIRTY-TWO

Jennifer had managed to get him up off the floor

“Unnnnnnffffffff!”

and staggered into the living room, Lars hanging heavily on to her shoulder. Arrghh, sunken living room, the step had nearly had her buckling under the weight. She'd carefully shoved him off her, onto the couch, and they both breathed out relieved sighs when his butt hit the cushions. “Jesus Christ, Jennifer Palmer,” he kept saying. “I can't fucking believe it. Jennifer Palmer.”

She'd brought him a cold can of Coke, which he cracked open and drank half of in three monster swallows. His hands were shaking.

She knelt before him and she saw his small eyes widen; then he hurriedly took another drink of his pop.

“Lars, I'm back—”

“From
where
? You look exactly the same. Jennifer Palmer. I can't believe it. Where'd you come from?”

“Hell.”

“Jesus Christ, Jennifer Palmer. I can't believe it. Jennifer Palmer.”

“Yes, yes, it's me.” She rushed ahead, not sure she could handle another five minutes of the “Jesus Christ/Jennifer Palmer” chant. “I've been sent back to atone for my sins. I set the fire, not you. I killed Tammy, not you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Oh.” Doy. Of course he knew.

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she saw a glimpse of the boy she'd loved in an age when people thought puffy wide shoulder pads made women look feminine. “Well, I knew
I
didn't do it,” he said dryly, “so that narrowed the field a little, y'know? And then you killed yourself. So. Wasn't hard to figure out what happened.”

“Right. Okay. So, yes, I set the fire. Not on purpose.”

“No, I didn't think you did it on purpose.”

“Oh, I didn't!” She rushed ahead, leaning forward in her urgency to tell her tale and be done with it. “It was an accident. I wasn't paying attention because I was so excited. And the reason I was excited was because I, um—” She couldn't believe it. It was harder telling him
why
she'd done it than it had been telling him she
had
done it. “I had a crush on you and Tammy knew so when her folks went out of town she suggested we invite you over and I was hoping you and I would, um, spend the night together.”

She'd died a virgin but hadn't stayed one. Out of curiosity and boredom four months in, she'd let the arson investigator fuck her. It had been an anticlimax, pun definitely intended. He'd died at forty-two and had been in Hell for fifteen years. An old man, and not very good at sex. Quick, though, she had to give him that. It hadn't hurt, either, so she had to give him
that, too. Frankly, she figured losing her virginity in Hell had been better than, say, losing it in the backseat of her mom's car, which—until Tammy had her great idea—was how Jennifer assumed she'd give it up.

“Oh. You liked me?” Lars swallowed hard. “I didn't know that.”

“Right. Well. Why would you?” Her face felt funny. Was she sick? Getting a fever? Oh. No, much worse than any fever.
Stop blushing like a teenager, you idiot.
“That's why I was there. And that's why you were there, though you didn't know it at the time. And I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to leave a note exonerating you.”

“Well, y'couldn't. What if you hadn't taken enough pills? What if someone found you and they pumped your stomach? Then they'd know you failed at killing yourself
and
you'd killed Tammy.”

Hearing his precise summary of the extent of her cowardice made her throat tighten. “Yes, that's—that's exactly right.”

“Was Tammy there? In Hell?”

Fresh horror surged up her throat; for a long, dizzying moment she was afraid she would vomit. Finally she managed to blurt, “No! Oh God no, of course not! No, Hell's not for—people like Tammy. No. She wasn't there. She wasn't.”

Jennifer had made sure of it. She'd asked around and, when told the most efficient way of getting the correct answer, didn't hesitate. It was the occasion of her first and last meeting with the original Satan.

The devil, she'd been surprised to discover, had taken the form of a beautiful older woman with thick dark hair shot with gray. She was slender, with long legs her beautifully cut black suit showed off to great advantage. Not a pitchfork or pair of horns or forked tail in sight. Her voice was low and pleasant,
and if she wasn't matronly, exactly, she was sexy and approachable, and Jennifer had found her courage and asked about her dead best friend.

The devil had given her a long, considering look and had waited just long enough for Jennifer to get nervous about the delay before replying. “No, she's not here. Heaven, I suppose, or reincarnated, or nowhere—whatever she was taught.” And then, when Jennifer had let out a relieved breath, Satan had sweetly added, “Of course, seeing how relieved you are, I'm sorry she's
not
here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wouldn't it be something to watch her burn over and over and over? See it and
smell
it? Smell her? It's true what they say—people smell like the most succulent pork roast you've ever had.” She leaned in and took a big whiff. “You're
delicious.
Your little dead friend could call for you—just as she would have in life. And you could do nothing. Just as you did in life.”

And she had laughed, a cheery sound that was as jarring as it was frightening.

Jennifer shook off the memory, the worst, the very worst day she'd endured down there. “You've got no reason to believe a word I say about anything, but I promise you, Tammy is not in Hell.”

“Okay. That's good. She was a nice kid. She didn't deser— Well, that's good.”

“Yes.” Jennifer waited, but it seemed he'd said his piece.
What now? Do I ask him to forgive me? Officially? Or do I talk more? Or let him talk?
“I have to say, Lars, you're— I can't believe how calm you are.”

“Uh-huh.” He belched, the sound so sharp and loud it was like a gunshot. He made a fist, thumped his chest, belched again. Looked at his fist. Started rubbing his arm.

“Lars?”

“I think. I need.” He paused. “An ambulance.”

Then his eyes rolled up, and he slowly, grandly toppled over on his side like a blond mountain that smelled like flannel and Coke.

Jennifer ran for the kitchen.
I hope he has an old-fashioned phone,
she thought, shoes skidding on the tile as she looked around wildly for a telephone.
And I hope the number for an ambulance is still 911.

THIRTY-THREE

Laura screamed and screamed and it wasn't like the movies.
The pistol, so small, had made more of a sharp
pop!
than a deafening bang. Only a couple of reporters even looked over. And it was full dark, and cold, and people wanted to go home, and who cared if vampires were real, what's new
this
month? Of the few reporters still hanging around, more than half were wrapping up for the day, walking to their cars.

She had no way to stop the bomb.

She had to stop the bomb.

“Call an ambulance!” she shrilled. Ronald was gone; his brains were on the sidewalk, slowly swallowed by the spreading bloodstain from his head. She dropped to her knees beside Will Mason and flipped him over on his back.

He cried out—in her adrenalized panic she'd been rougher than she intended—and then his gaze found hers. He was still clutching his phone. His lips were moving. “. . . ering.”

“What?” She bent closer.

“He's not answering. They don't know. Clock's . . . been running. Time's . . . almost . . .”

Then, of course, because that was the week they were all having, she heard the low boom of an explosion. When she looked up she couldn't see much, just the glow of what she assumed was a spreading fire.

“Get going, you silly bitch,” Will Mason said, and died.

THIRTY-FOUR

“Wait, Will Mason called you earlier and you blew him off
again
?” I couldn't believe what I was hearing! And not just because I had no interest in joining the vampire bitchfest taking place ten feet to our left. This was way more interesting. “Dude! You see what you're doing, right?”

Marc didn't say anything, not even,
Don't call me “dude.”
For Marc, that meant,
Yes, you are absolutely correct, and I am too embarrassed to admit it, so I will remain mysteriously silent and leave you to draw your own conclusions.

“Oh my God!” I pushed away from the wall and glared at the bridge of his nose, since he wouldn't make eye contact. “You
are
! You're blowing off this perfectly nice kid—”

“He's twenty—”

“Shut up! You're pushing him away because you're scared shitless to start a relationship with him!”

“With anybody,” Marc admitted in a low voice.

“Ohhhh, you dummy,” I moaned. I grabbed him by his scrub shirt and tugged him to the right a few feet. Probably a
waste of time, since everyone in the basement had super hearing, but I felt better anyway, even if it was just the illusion of privacy. “Marc, he doesn't just like you. He likes you
and
he knows you're a zombie
and
he's an orphan so he's fine with you not dying and leaving him
and
he's helped us! His ghosts tell him useful stuff all the time . . . the ghosts who bug me only ever want favors. ‘Tell my wife the money's in the Swiss account under her mother's name.' Jesus, who cares?
His
ghosts are helpful. Sure, he's a scrawny pathetic little dork who needs to leave the basement more often—”

“He's not scrawny!”

“Aha! I knew you liked him!”

“He's
slender
. Not scrawny.” Whoa, my plan worked a little too well. Now I didn't have to look at the bridge of his nose, because Marc's eyes were locked on mine
.
“And his office isn't in the basement; it's upstairs! And he's beautiful!”

I just looked at him.

Marc groaned and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I'm an idiot.”

“Well, yeah, but Will's into it, so.” That got him to laugh, which I'd been hoping for. “Listen, take a break, go get your phone, call him back, make a date,
keep
the date, fall in love, live happily ever after. Or if that's too much, just have a nice time and see where it goes. Okay?”

“Well . . .”

“Okay?”

“But what about . . .” He trailed off and gestured at the group several feet away.

“We've got this handled.” And it really seemed we did. That (probably) wasn't a lie to get rid of him. The raised voices were calming, and Fred was having a bit to say, too. Even better, people were listening to her. I should probably get over there and find out about what. For all I knew, mermaids were
great at instigating basement brawls. “I think it's going to be—maybe not fine, but . . . doable.”

“Then there's no reason for me to be here.”

“What have I been saying?”

“Ugh, you're so shrill.” But it was halfhearted, more to save face than score points, and he said it while moving toward the stairs.

Shrill. Heh. No, that would be the Ant when I informed her she'd lost the bet and had to say three nice things about me every time she saw me for the next hundred years.

Man, I couldn't even imagine the uproar. I had to make a concerted effort not to rub my hands together in glee, and that's when I heard something

(aw no)

that sounded

(no, it can't be)

like gunshots.

“Everyone shut up!” I yelled, and what do you know, they all did. My husband had his head cocked to the side, and suddenly we were all listening for . . . what?

Sinclair! I think someone's shoot—

That's when the ceiling fell in.

THIRTY-FIVE

The emergency room—everything about the hospital, in
fact—was fluorescent and bewildering.

Jennifer had called an ambulance (luckily, 911
was
still the number to call for such things) and then followed it to Fairview, less than two miles away. She'd been terrified the entire drive; her hands still ached from her white-knuckled grip on the wheel.
What if I get pulled over? What if the hospital needs to see my ID? What if I get arrested? Or Mom gets in trouble for lending a car to her dead, license-less daughter? Will they let me call her? What if Lars dies?
“Great to see you again, sorry I ruined your life and let you rot in prison for a crime I committed, and wow, I did
not
see the heart attack coming! My sad.” That's what the kids said, right? My sad?
*

The attendants had hustled Lars right through the ER and several nurses and doctors had descended upon his gurney.
She'd been politely shunted off to the side and began a small season in purgatory (so to speak) waiting for news in a small side room filled with chairs, a watercooler,

(oh good they still have those whew!)

and several low tables with stacks of magazines.

At first she drank cup after cup of water. Then she paced, but when she realized she was irritating some of the others, she sat and flipped through magazines. Apparently, “apps” were very, very important. So were Kardashians. And Oprah's TV show had been so popular, she had her own magazine now. Tylenol was still in business and Elizabeth Taylor was still selling perfume. Maybelline was still making makeup, though Jennifer didn't recognize any of the models. Pale blue eye shadow was either back in style or had never gone out of style.

She'd whipped the magazine at the wall before she realized she was going to do such a thing.
You are not in Hell, moron! This behavior will be noticed and perhaps even commented on. Stop it!

All the magazines did was emphasize that she wasn't a teenager and never would be again. She had no ID, no driver's license, no high school diploma. When asked, she'd identified herself as a friend of the family, then bit her tongue to keep the hysterical laughter from spilling out.

She had ruined her chances. Did they still play Monopoly in the twenty-first century? Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, just go straight back to Hell.

“That's okay,” a stout older woman with reddish gray hair told her, getting up and picking up the issue. “All those ads make me nuts, too. What's happened to journalism? D'you mind if I read this?”

Jennifer shook her head and that was when the nurse came to fetch her.

*   *   *

So now she was sitting beside a hospital bed, Lars in a
drugged sleep beside her, his belly making a great white mound in the middle of the bed. Good health insurance ensured a private room, and the nurse had told her she could stay until the top of the hour but would then have to leave.

And go where, exactly?

She was mechanically flipping through channels with the remote, something small and sleek that she first thought was an incredibly advanced electric shaver. She was looking at the television without really seeing it, and wondering how the end would come.

Would Betsy just pop into being? Appear from nowhere and grab Jennifer's hand and haul her back to Hell? Would she let Jennifer call her mother first? “Sorry, Mom. I failed. I loved seeing you today and I won't ever see you again, because you aren't going where I'm going.”

Then a thought so horrible struck her that for a long moment she was paralyzed with horror: what if her mother did something terrible to end up in Hell, so they would never again be apart?

No. No.
Focus on what you can control.
She could do nothing for Lars beyond what she already had: called an ambulance, stayed with him in the hospital. Her only option now was to wait, and so she would.

She clicked through more channels and wondered when she'd be hearing from the new devil. Then she realized what she was looking at—for the first time she really paid attention to the screen—and realized Betsy had her hands full and wasn't coming for anyone anytime soon.

The picture was of the mansion in flames, with a publicity
still of Betsy in the corner of the screen while red words streamed across the bottom.

BREAKING NEWS: Mysterious explosion at so-called vampire mansion.

“Oh shit,” she managed, and groped for her mom's car keys.