The dim light, spilling through the stained glass windows, falls upon the paisley carpet, where dust-covered floor model coffins and urns sit. On the ceiling is a stained glass skylight, where two silhouettes appear: Jackson and Melissa.
The skylight hinges crack open. Melissa leads the way, lifting the frame, then dropping it through the skylight window.
Jackson is not as smooth as his socius criminus. Using his knee to slow his decent, he hangs from the sill for a moment before dropping to the carpet.
The unsettling reception area is full of plastic flowers, gold candelabra, plaster cherubs, and angels. A bronze plaque identifies "Mt. Abraham Funeral Home. The Journey's End. Ian Milbauer-Intermediary."
"Gives me a rush," Melissa whispered.
"This place?!" Jackson asked, thinking she was crazy.
"Doin' something I'm not supposed to," Melissa said.
She is crazy, Jackson thought.
With a hot, mischievous smile, Melissa proceeds toward the hallway. Jackson anxiously sighs, then follows.
An elevator with a collapsible metal door lowers. Pushing the door aside, Jackson and Melissa proceed into the hallway, lined with morgue green tile. Stainless steel gurneys and porcelain equipment holding yellow surgical tubing and thick foot-long needles sit in the corridor.
A faint light spills from beneath a doorway. Melissa reaches out to the knob but Jackson quickly grabs her hand. From a cart behind them, he pulls a latex glove out of a box and snaps it on.
"Good call," Melissa said. "Very 'Quincy.'"
Jackson tries the doorknob. Locked. He looks at her, defeated. Melissa quickly points to some mortician's tools in the cart.
From it, Jackson produces a thin six-inch needle. He inserts the tool in the lock and jimmies the doorknob. The hear a clacking sound.
A lone desk lamp shines. Across the room, laying on a porcelain table, fluid draining tubes attached, lies Lex. A sheet is pulled up to his shoulders. He carries the macabre appearance of a corpse having been made up by a mortician. Hair combed and sprayed, skin tone too orange, blush too rouge, and lips too red.
As Jackson and Melissa approach, Jackson says, "That…him?"
"I think. But why'd they make him up like…Michael Jackson?"
"That's him, but…he's not here," Jackson said. "That…whatever…that whatever made him Lex is gone."
Suddenly, Lex jerks, his hand lifting four inches.
Melissa and Jackson speak at the same time.
"Ahhh! Dang! You freakin' butthole. You think this is funny? Lex, if you're not dead, I'm gonna freakin' kill you," Jackson said.
"Ohmygosh! Ohmigosh! Ohmygosh! Is he still alive?" Melissa said.
"Please don't yell," they hear a voice say.
Both are jolted again with shock, turning toward the voice: a man dressed in a dark suit and tie.
"You'll wake the dead," said Ian.
He flashes a dry mortician smile, pleased by his wan pun. Jackson and Melissa haven't recovered from the corpse's actions to calmly address Ian.
"Why…?" Jackson couldn't finish his question so he raises his hand, imitating Lex's dead body.
Ian nods, understanding. "Chemicals in the vascular flush create cadaver spasm."
As the startle of the situation settles, it dawns on Jackson that they have been busted. He nervously offers an explanation.
"I'm…a friends of his. His best friend. See, his father…"
Ian said ominously, "I know who you are."
The mortician eyes Jackson, understanding. Jackson senses this and eases. Melissa moves towards Lex's body, examining the neck area.
She said, "They said he hung himself, but there's no marks."
"I crafted a reconstruction of the laryngeal prominence region with Velvetone Surgical Wax and Permaseal."
Melissa moves in for a closer look, then calls Jackson over to the body. After a beat of reluctance, Jackson looks at Lex's neck.
"What are all those tiny marks?" he asked.
The wounds have been filled with wax and covered by greasepaint. At this proximity, however, it is apparent tiny cuts line the area above and below the large cut made by the wire.
Ian said, "Cuticle lacerations."
"Why would he pull at the wire if he were committing suicide?" Jackson said.
"Why would they say it was a suicide…if it wasn't?" Melissa said.
Because of the supernatural "message" he received, Jackson is reluctant to answer. He eyes Ian, who, with a wry half smile, eyes Jackson as if aware of the reason behind his hesitation.
"His father's pretty screwed up with denial. Maybe he couldn't deal with the thought of another accident…taking another son," Jackson said.
"In Death…" Ian started.
The mortician's environment, lit with Fritz Lang shadows, Ian's tone, appearance-he could easily be mistaken for personification of the subject.
"…there are no accidents. No coincidences. No mishaps." Ian smiles. "And no…escapes."
"You sayin' Lex did kill himself?" Jackson said.
Ian moves to Lex on the draining table, disconnecting the tubes connecting the body to the embalming chemicals.
"Suicide. Murder. Plane crash. What does it matter? He was going to end someday. From the minute you were cut loose from the womb…it's a one way ticket on a trip to the tomb."
Vile liquid oozes out of the body onto the porcelain table.
"You may not realize it, but we're all just a mouse that a cat has by its tail. Every single move we make, from the mundane to the monumental…the red light we stop at, or run; the people we have sex with, or won't with us; the airplane we ride, or walk out of…it's all apart of Death's sadistic design leaning to the grave."
"Design?" Jackson said.
The mortician considers as he drains some yellowish-green fluid from the table. He shrugs, the continues his work.
"If life is like a box of chocolates…Death…Death is like a big Milton Bradley game of "Mouse Trap." The day you're born is just the boot, hanging from the streetlamp, kicking the marble to get things rolling. Growing up is only the marble rolling down the curving chute. You feel immortal having survived school, sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, but you've really only upset the big hand holding the steel ball that falls onto the bathtub. Marriage and kids and career seem to make it all worthwhile until the ball hit's the see-saw and flips the diving man into the big barrel. In the old folks home or the hospital you just see the big cage rattling down until it captures…the mouse." Ian pauses a beat. "Game over."
Jackson considers as Melissa eyes him, conveying "This guy's whacked!" Jackson moves toward Ian.
"Maybe there's no way to win…but…if you figure out the game…you knew where the 'steel ball was rolling,' couldn't you avoid the trap and extend the playing time? Couldn't you cheat Death at Its own game?"
Ian looks directly at Jackson. "You already did that by walking off the plane. Now you gotta figure out when and how it'll come back at you. He pauses a beat. "Play your hunch, Jackson. If you think you can get away from it." Another beat. "But beware the risk of cheating the plan, disrespecting the design…could indicate a horrifying fury that would terrorize even the Grim
Reaper." Another beat. "And you don't even want to screw with that Mack Daddy."
Jackson's eyes are locked on Ian's chilling, pleasant smile. The mortician yanks on a tube, revealing a foot long needle removed from Lex's spinal column. The horrific nature of death is vividly demonstrated to Jackson.
"I'm sorry we broke in," Jackson said.
"No harm. No foul," Ian said.
Jackson grabs Melissa's arm, starting toward the door.
"We didn't find what we were looking for," she said.
Jackson looks at Ian. "Yeah, we did."
The mortician is pleased the message has been received. "I'll see you soon."