Chapter 12
First Meeting of the Supersecret Undead Murder Committee
The relationship between life and death is as ever, sketchy, if it can be considered a relationship at all. Sometimes the line hazes, blurs, and anomalies crop up, outliers that should not be counted. Statistical irrelevancies. It's more common than you might think - a teenage girl who can't touch others without killing them, a weather forecaster who relives the same day over and over, a recurring pattern not even death can break; people who, when they die, are taken elsewhere and reborn. And others too, whose position in time as a fixed point means death might hold no sway. It's more common than you might expect. Myriad immortals bicker and fight and - 'there shall be only one'. Neither the 235 year old Medical Examiner nor the 2,000 and some former slave of Julius Caesar, are by any means unique. Immortality comes in many flavours, and their condition remains only one.
Life and death blur.
A girl named Chuck is brought back from the dead; as consequence, a crooked funeral director dies. A mysterious corpse ups and leaves. A voice, as if from the heavens, narrates it all. At this exact moment in time, it informs you, Olive Snook was 33.378684 years old and she was very much intrigued by several things, as she hid herself away under the counter of the Pie Hole. Or rather, she is that exact age, and it is happening now , seemingly omniscient voice from the heavens converting the story into past tense because let's face it, it's far more pleasing to read, am I right?
The fact of the matter is, that these events are still underway. Right at this exact moment, as your eyes pass over this line, or your audio-playback reads you these words, or your trained bonobo Bobo (who is actually a capuchin monkey but politely requests you respect their life choices) performs it to you in interpretive dance...right at this very moment, one 4'11'' (or 150cm in metric) macaroni-cheese-making amateur singer is actually crouched under a desk waiting. For her, life and death are two separate things, aside from one memorable incident with a carrier pigeon. But as she crouches under that counter, something she will hear will cause those lines to blur, and her certainty to rock: shaken, but not stirred.
And meanwhile, a dance of cat and mouse between killer and killer has begun, Adam carefully on the trail of the murderer of Doctor Henry Morgan, the murderer of Henry Morgan making frantic telephone calls to an interested third party, yelling down the phone about the event that had just occurred - if you listened closely, you might hear the words 'did you know about this‽', interrobanged, before the interested third party, let us call them variable n, our nth variable in the equation and orchestrator to this gruesome little affair, hangs up without a word.
And meanwhile Olive Snook is hiding under a counter, entirely unaware any of this is happening.
For those familiar with the way synchronicity works, you know what the important adverb here is. Fill it in here, if you may _
For those who are less sure of themselves, allow this strange voice to remind you, the word is currently, and it means important things are about to occur.
The important, nay, essential, nay, critical adverb being - now.
There were times when Olive wished she was taller: when reaching high shelves, when driving, when visiting Disney World; literally every conversation she'd ever had with Ned. And there were other times when she was grateful for her petite stature. Like now. When she was curled up under the counter of the Pie Hole, having snuck in using her back door key, which she'd never given back when she'd returned the keys to the front door. She'd crept inside while the Super-secret plotting-behind-Olive's-back club were distracted poring over some mysterious documents, getting into the kitchen through the back door and crawling to her current hiding place under the counter. The Super-secret club, who she had originally suspected were actually a surprise baby shower planning committee, were deep in discussion about something, Emerson's voice loud and clear over the others, complaining about the coffee and about the two strangers, one of whom Olive guessed was Ned's dad, the other…
British. Wordy. Actually kinda cute, not that Olive was paying attention, though being a married woman had done nothing to hurt her eyes when she'd peeked through the windows before her infiltration began. She'd wondered, at first, if he was the party planner, but he didn't seem like the type. In fact, he seemed exceptionally annoyed with something, presumably Emerson.
"Mr. Cod, if you wouldn't mind, we have business to address, hence this...what exactly is this?"
"The Undead Murder Committee," muttered Emerson.
"That makes us sound like serial killers!" Chuck pointed out. "If we need a codename, let's be Olive's baby shower planning committee. That way we can deny any of her questions."
"Who's Olive?"
"A good friend," Ned replied, and though Olive had to strain her ears to hear it, it warmed her heart so completely "Used to work here."
"This isn't the same friend who owns the catastrophic eyesore that is the Intrepid Cow, is it now?"
Offended, Olive had to almost physically restrain herself from standing up and confronting the British guy loudly. She covered her mouth with a hand and breathed slowly, gradually regaining composure. Nobody talked dirt about the Intrepid Cow within her earshot, it was the first rule of kooky restaurant club (after don't talk about kooky restaurant club) - don't bitch about the Intrepid Cow unless you want yourself taken down not just a peg or two, but an entire ladder. But she had to let them continue, because she needed to know what they were so keen to keep her out of. She'd been so pleased to see Chuck and Ned again, they'd even got the friends and family discount, and when she'd heard they were keeping her out of things - but Emerson was allowed in the Super-secret Club, and not her - she was so sure it was a surprise for her. What were they hiding?
"Yeah, that friend," Ned said. "Anyway, that's not relevant to the plan."
"Oh, there's a plan now is there? Go ahead, Pie-Boy, fill me in on when you actually came up with an actual plan. No really, I'm curious."
"My plan was to...uh, delegate and let someone else think of the plan," Ned admitted "I was kind of counting on it, actually. Emerson, since you've got so many ideas why don't you give us your version of events from now until we solve the cases."
"Cases? Plural?" Emerson sounded stricken "So I've got to waste my time-"
"Abigail is not a waste of time," the Brit snapped, furious. "So far as I see, the only one wasting time here is you. We have investigations to conduct. Firstly, the disappearance of my wife Abigail Morgan, some thirty years ago," Olive's breath caught in her throat: this man was older than he looked. He looked in his thirties. So how old was he? There was a silence, and the undercover 'agent' wondered if she'd been caught out. Then the British guy started to speak again. "We have her place of work after she vanished, and the alias she was using: 'Sylvia Blake' Her two favourite poets. We need to go to her last address and check if anyone remembers her. Abe, myself and...Ned, will you come? Emerson, Chuck, you handle my two murders." Two murders? That he'd witnessed? Committed? "Find out who keeps killing me."
"See, this is why I suggested the Undead Murder Committee. VDG here can't die, and Pie-Boy brings things back from the dead. Come on, it's catchy!"
That was it. Olive Snook was done listening. She stood up, quite forgetting she was crouched under a counter, and hit her head hard on the surface above her, with a loud thud that sent her sprawling onto the floor. When she sat up, the Undead Murder Committee surrounded her, Chuck helping her up while Ned was frantically trying to backtrack on what Emerson had said. Bringing things back from the dead.
"Pidge…" she murmured, half-consciously.
"Careful, I think she might be concussed. I'm a doctor." the British guy smiled reassuringly "Concussion can be confusing...one thinks they've seen or heard things that simply aren't possible. How do you feel?"
"Hey, my head might be hurting but I know what I heard. You -" she pointed at the doctor and narrowed her eyebrows "You're the one who can't die, the VGD-"
"Vanishing Guy Dead?" Ned, Chuck and Emerson asked in unison, somewhere far away.
"Whatever! He can't die, and you, Pie-Boy, you've got some talking to do." she staggered shakily, swaying slightly, clinging all the while to Chuck's arm. "Thanks Chuck. Look, explain to me what your super-secret murder committee's doing and why you aren't planning me a surprise baby shower?"
"Like Henry said," Ned's father replied "You've probably got concussion."
"Yeah? And you're Ned's dad. I know you are. You can't even deny it because I know the truth! You lot are a bunch of scheming...schemers!" she turned to Emerson and, as an afterthought, climbed up onto a chair to meet his eyes "Come on then. Spill it."
Emerson rolled his eyes and sighed "Okay, but forewarning, none of this makes any goddamn sense like I thought I'd seen some shit in my time, then I met Pie-Boy and everything was suddenly new again." Henry and Ned, who were objecting, suddenly fell quiet, understanding passing between them silently. Then, just as I start to get comfortable with the way of things, it all goes throwing itself out the window and suddenly, you've got corpses that don't stay corpses-" here he shot Henry lethal side-eyes "And when they die they pull a sudden strip-tease and teleport off to go skinny-dipping, which is pretty much as weird as it gets. Like, what even happens to the clothes? Is there some stockpile somewhere of everything you wore when you died? Anyway, so that's that. He's 235 years old and sort of Ned's grandfather but it's complicated. Oh, and Ned here can bring things back from the dead but there's some weird-ass time limit whose idea even was that it's pretty stupid if you ask me, Chuck actually did die that one time Ned brought her back to life but some other guy had to die because that's what happens if you break the time limit, so far as I know Ned's father's a normal guy but I'm sure he's probably got laser vision or can read minds or some shit who even knows these days, and as for me, I sure as hell do not get paid enough to be here can we just raise that point with the committee: I need a raise."
Head spinning, Olive stepped unsteadily down from the chair and sat down, clutching the table and breathing frantically. "This is not happening. Okay okay this can't actually be happening I mean-"
"Laser vision? I wish." Ned's father muttered sarcastically
"You lied to me," Olive's voice shook "I thought you were my friends, but all the time you've been keeping secrets. Why didn't you tell me? Ohmygod, are you aliens? Is that it? Are you aliens?"
Ned shrugged, the way he always did, shoulders hunched, curled over "No, Olive, neither of us are aliens. And you are our friend and I mean, I don't exactly say that often…" He trailed off, shifting awkwardly "Can you imagine starting that conversation? You'd think we were crazy. That I was...a freak, or a mutant, or something. I mean we couldn't just say - well, Emerson just did, but he's Emerson - but I wouldn't know where to start."
"How about you fill me in on the cases and let me join your Super-Secret Undead Murder Club - Committee - Thing? So Henry, right, is it?" the Brit nodded "And you're Ned's grandfather, got it. Not weird at all. So you were saying you got murdered. Twice? This happen often?"
Henry pulled a face and shook his head, while Ned's father (she really had to learn his name) nodded vigorously "This is...not a good day. The first time I was bowled over in a hit-and-run attack, the second a sniper shot me down in the street. Actually, you should find the sniper's perch. Judging from where the bullet penetrated my skull-" Emerson snorted, and now it was Henry's turn to death-glare him. "I really don't understand the hilarity of literally dying."
"Nothing, you just said 'penetrated'." Emerson smirked "You may have missed something in the past 200 years, but that's not exactly a great word to use, especially not when referring to skulls."
"ANYWAY, the sniper was somewhere across the street, directly opposite Abraham's antiques store." Abraham. That was it. "So check the roofs, and oh, on second thoughts, Ned, did you get the plates of the homicidal vehicular deathtrap that killed me the first time? I was rather too busy getting murdered to pay particular attention."
Ned shook his head ruefully "It was going too fast for me to see. The uh vehicular deathtrap was a van, black, with a busted tail light. Left."
"What make?" Abraham asked.
"I don't know. One of those big square vans. Maybe a Ford."
"Like literally every van ever," muttered Emerson. "Okay, okay, I know some fellas at the DMV. I'll call them. Itty-Bitty, you and Dead Girl are with me, checking out the sniper. Ned, Old Ned and...even older Ned, you three go check out your lead on -" he stopped "I can't even think of a nickname under pressure that's how much this is affecting my concentration can everything please just go back to normal okay, Dead Guy, stop Vanishing, you catch my drift?"
"Loud and clear," Henry beamed, as if intentionally trying to drive Emerson insane, which was pretty much the greatest thing ever. It was working too. The Private Eye seemed at least 1000% done with everything, actually pretty decent for him given that Olive had estimated his done-levels at over 9000 before now. "I'll drive."
Abraham snatched the keys from him quickly "No way am I letting you anywhere near my car. Unlike you, Henry, some of us are mortal," he exchanged a look with Ned "You do not want to see him driving, let me tell you that."
A faint smile crossed Ned's face. As his newfound relatives headed to the car, he turned to Olive "I'm sorry we couldn't tell you. You're actually handling it pretty well."
"Only 'cause I think I've gone completely doo-lally, but otherwise, it's all just peachy. I mean, it's a lot to take in…" she trailed off "But aside from the dead-not-dead stuff, this is a perfectly normal case, and I miss that."
And Ned was gone.
"Should you be doing this stuff in your condition?" Chuck asked, frowning. Before Olive could say Jack Robinson, Emerson had cut in with his opinion.
"My momma was working cases right up until the moment she popped me out. Actually, I was born at a crime scene, delivered by the M.E. and a cop who kept fainting. After I was born, she handed me to the lead detective and went on to chase the perp down and wrestle him to the ground in a busy street."
Whether or not that story was true or not, Olive had no idea, but it made her smile; the thought of baby Emerson being rocked back and forth by a confused homicide detective. It meant things were back to normal now, hanging out with the Pie Hole gang and solving crimes. Well, to be sure, some things had changed, but Olive didn't mind that so much. They were a family. No matter how much Emerson complained and insisted he was pretty damn glad he wasn't related to anyone so incompetent, deep down he cared.
"No, seriously, I wasn't joking about the raise."
Well. Mostly.
As Doctor Morgan and his half of the Super-Secret Undead Murder Committee headed out to Tarrytown to the last known residence of one Sylvia Blake, they were completely unaware of what they were about to find. All of Doctor Morgan's grave digging experience resurfaced when he saw a shallow, sunken grave and his fears were realised when a skeleton emerged (or, rather, was dug up. Emerged sounds rather more apocalyptic). The police were summoned, and Detective Jo Martinez insisted on being present, to the irritation of her partner Detective Hanson who, while he didn't exactly want to go on a skiing holiday with his family, he was caught in the catch-22 situation of not wanting to go into work either. Ah, the dilemmas of middle-class America. Aren't they a delight?
Meanwhile, Emerson Cod's buddies at the DMV had turned up a veritable list of potential vehicles Ned and Henry would have to pour over in order to find the homicidal vehicular deathtrap in question. Now the Private Detective, a girl named Chuck, and Olive Mann-Snook-Snook-Mann-delete-whichever were all on there way to find a sniper's nest.
They weren't to know that an immortal psychopath calling himself Adam had found the perch first, the distinctive marks where a rifle bipod had been set out. He lay down and, by careful study and estimation, calculated the more than probable murder weapon - he knew what he'd choose anyway, good military hardware, meaning the killer was more likely than not a former soldier. A killer for hire. Well. Adam knew those circles, he could make a few calls to some pals in the assassination circuits, see if there were any snipers-for-hire with a history in the American armed forces.
On the street a car pulled up, and Adam recognised two of the three people from their earlier visit to the antiques store. Presumably they were also looking for the sniper, as the square-shaped bald African-American male pointed up at the rooftops, checking potential lines of sight. He was doing well, Adam had to give him credit, but he also couldn't have anyone else getting to the killer before him. Standing up, Adam scraped a foot across the markings left by the rifle, erasing them completely.
There. The case was his. Henry was his. He had to go make a few calls.
As, apparently, do I. Narrating is thirsty work, keeping the dramatic tone of voice going, you know how it is. So if you don't mind, I'm going to go get some takeout. Au revoir.
Be good while I'm gone.
