Afterlife

By EB

©2004

Chapter Two

It's the same dream that's haunted him every time he's slept, for too many nights. Always the same: the chilly hallway, bluish light gleaming on metal and clean linoleum. People speak, but he can't hear them. As before, he thinks, But it's not my ears. I just don't care what they have to say.

The morgue is even colder, and completely empty but for one table, and Al Robbins standing guard. As before, he wears street clothing, and Gil wants to snap that it's unprofessional of him, that he should be gloved and gowned. It's improper. Possibly dangerous. Right?

Al shakes his head. His voice sounds liquid, sodden, like he's talking underwater. "You don't need to see this, Gil. Don't put yourself through it."

In the dream he ignores it, gliding to stand by the table. There is a sheet-shrouded form there, and as he looks down the sheet peels itself back.

He can remember a phrase, from some movie the title of which he can't recall. Running like a refrain in his mind: Die early, make a beautiful corpse. Something with James Dean and fast cars in it, maybe. Nick's corpse isn't beautiful. There is nothing dreamlike about this: just hellish clarity. They have not told him the details, but he knows enough. Shotgun blast to the occipital region, point-blank range. Nick has no face, and in fact very little head at all. From the neck down his body is pristine, white and perfect, but from the neck up all that is left is gory ruin.

There is a single tooth in the midst of all the red and gray and white shattered bone. A single tooth that hasn't been blown out like the rest. A molar. No filling; Nick has gorgeous, perfect teeth. He stares at the molar, and hears Al's distant voice, Breathe, Gil, come on, breathe, and the idea pops into Gil's mind: He might not be dead yet. True, the shot has taken out his brainstem, there is no way, but he shudders, mouth filling with bile. What if he hadn't died right away? What if he knew, even for only a handful of seconds? What if he FELT this?

Gil stares down at what remains of Nick's face, and screams.

The memorial was held on a Saturday morning. He thought about not attending. Hadn't he done his duty? Hadn't he gone to Dallas, seen it through? Hadn't he held Nick's sobbing sister's hand, and gallantly fished out fresh tissues when she soaked all the others? He'd endured the stink of roses and the feel of his shirt sticking to his skin, the droning priest's voice and the taste of sour wine on his tongue, and wasn't that sufficient? When would he be done with this? When would it all be over?

But not attending was out of the question, of course, so on Saturday morning he showered and shaved and combed his hair, and dressed in his charcoal suit – the linen, he'd learned his lesson in Highland Park, no more wool – tied his tie, added his UCLA pin because this was the sort of occasion for which the little bit of gold was intended.

His own shadowed eyes regarded him from the perfect reflection of the mirror. He drew a deep breath and buttoned his suit coat, and went to get his keys.

And it wasn't the torture that had been Nick's actual funeral. Not as many people, and no casket, although there were flowers, lots of them. Here, however, there was adequate air conditioning, and the smell wasn't quite the miasma of Dallas. He sat near the end of the front row, in this small church where he had never attended services, although Nick, he knew, had been a fairly active member before his attachment to Gil made him miss more and more Sundays.

It was clear Nick was remembered, and fondly, and there were numerous speakers. Colleagues, of course: Catherine, and Warrick, and Al. Brass was there, but didn't speak. It occurred to Gil, seeing Jim's tired features, that he needed to talk to him. Someday. When it had all begun to be only memory. Maybe next year.

Nick's wounded family had mostly elected not to make the trip, but Cabe and Jamie sat next to him, bookends, Jamie's hand cool and not unwelcome on his wrist. Near the end, Cabe stood to say a few words, thanking them for coming, talking about the memorial funds established in Nick's name. Two of them, both new to Gil. A scholarship back at A&M, for fraternity members. And one for the Audubon Society, of course. He thought about the expensive binoculars at home, and felt tired grief claw at his throat.

He himself said nothing. What was there to say? Nothing, nothing at all. But he shook a great many hands afterward, accepted the plenteous condolences. Agreed that yes, Nick had been a stalwart man, Nick had been good people, yes indeed. And no, he didn't need anything, really, but thank you, it's kind of you to offer. Much appreciated.

There were cookies and soda in the fellowship hall, where he smiled woodenly and wished for alcohol, brandy or bourbon or even tequila, something strong and mind-erasing. Never mind that it wasn't even noon yet. He felt he could pull a real bender today. Might have to, to get through it all.

Cabe, sociable as always, the burgeoning politician, mingled with everyone. But Jamie stood nearby, sipping at a cup of diet Coke that seemed to never get any emptier, and a moment after Gil had wearily shaken yet another well-meaning hand, he saw the tears on her cheeks, and excused himself.

"I'm all right," she said in a strained voice, with a smile that held nothing but sorrow. "Just – thinking, you know?"

He nodded, wishing he could put his arm around her, offer some form of comfort, and knowing he could not. "I know. So am I."

"Have we stayed long enough?" She uttered a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and reached up to wipe her cheeks. "You think?"

"Yes. Yes, I think we have."

"Thank God."

There were some goodbyes, and a promise to go to the house where Cabe would meet them later. Outside he watched Jamie draw a deep breath of dust-perfumed air. "It's not that I don't appreciate them," she blurted. "I do. I just."

He nodded. "Come on. I need a drink."

They didn't speak during the drive home, and once there, he mixed whiskey and ginger ale and watched Jamie down hers before allowing himself to drink. The alcohol ignited in his belly, a hot, welcome spark.

Jamie stood by the desk. "This is his stuff, isn't it?" She reached out to touch the photograph in the silver frame. "I remember when this was taken. Right after Dad was sworn in."

"I haven't touched anything." Gil swallowed whiskey, listened to the clink of ice in the glass. "I suppose I should."

"God, he was such a packrat. I think he kept everything." She pulled out the chair and sat, her gamine face twisted in a rueful smile. She glanced at him. "Do you want me to?"

He inclined his head. "Be my guest. I'm not even sure what's in there."

She pulled open the top drawer. "A whole lot of paper clips," she told him, and uttered a rattled laugh. "Was he afraid of a worldwide shortage or something? Jesus."

He smiled. "I have no idea."

Partly because he was tired, but mostly because the thought of even Nick's sister poring through his personal materials made him feel deeply violated on Nick's behalf, he retreated to his study. It startled him to see that over an hour had passed when Jamie looked in. Her expression was quizzical.

"Gil, there's a lot of financial stuff in here." She hefted a thick set of file folders. "I can do the other things, but I don't do money." She paused and swallowed. "I almost said, 'Just ask Nick, he knows how bad I am with money.' God."

He took the files, frowning. "We talked about a joint account, but we never got around to opening it. I know he had a checking account at my bank, and an IRA. And I believe he had a money-market account somewhere. It's listed in his will." He glanced at the tags, and pursed his lips. "I'm not sure what all these are."

Together they laid out the file folders on his desk. Fighting down another surge of furtive guilt, Gil pulled out one labeled as "insurance." He expected Nick's auto policy, the copies of Gil's homeowner policy, nothing much else. What he found was considerably more.

"Jamie," he breathed, staring at her. "I didn't know this was here."

"What?" She reached out to take the sheets of paper from his hand. A moment's study, and her wide eyes met his. "Life insurance? Nick had a life insurance policy?"

"I didn't even know about this." He sat up sharply, shaking his head. "We talked about this, just a few months ago. I have a policy, but I told him –" He broke off to swallow. "I told him he was too young to worry about it. He must -- He must have ignored me."

But Jamie was shaking her head, too. "This policy's dated close to three years ago. You weren't -- Nick didn't even move in until last year, right?"

He raised his hands and slumped back in his seat. "He must have had it even before we dated. So why did he want to get another one?"

Her expression was perplexed. "Maybe, you know, your line of work. He wanted to be – prepared."

"The department carries an accidental-death policy on each of us. That's in addition to any private policy we might hold."

"He might have been thinking about canceling this one. Redoing it, something."

He shook his head. "Maybe. But generally that isn't a good idea with life insurance."

Jamie glanced at the papers again. "Okay, but Gil? This –" She cleared her throat. "This is a big policy. Really big. Did you look?"

"No." He waved his hands again. "I don't need the money."

"Not even a half a million dollars?"

He gaped at her, and then snatched the policy from her hands. "A half –" He blinked his eyes hard, but the black-and-white numbers remained steadfastly the same. "Jesus," he breathed.

"Nick had a $500,000 life-insurance policy, and he never even told you about it?" She looked as stunned as he felt. "That's incredible."

He worked some spit into his mouth. "It's excessive," he muttered, clearing his throat roughly. "Why so much? Could he afford this?"

Jamie uttered a high, strained laugh. "I don't even know how you collect on one of these."

"The beneficiary takes the policy in and asks for the money," he told her absently. "They'll kick and scream, and they may want to investigate, but eventually they pay up."

"You're his beneficiary, right?"

"Of his will, yes. But this policy was written before we were a couple."

"Doesn't it say somewhere?"

He flipped through the pages. "Yes." His heart was thudding very fast in his chest; he felt a little dizzy. "It's me."

He looked up. It wasn't the prospect of a tremendous amount of money that made his head feel so disconnected from the rest of his body. That he knew, without question. He'd trade five times that amount to have Nick back, whole and healthy.

But something tickled in his jangled brain, something quiet and determined. The amount was excessive, yes. Far more than would be needed to take care of expenses, that sort of thing. Nick's funeral had been expensive, but the final sum hadn't even come entirely out of Gil's pocket; Nick's parents had footed most of the bill themselves, since they'd done the planning. Gil's only major expense had been transporting the body, a substantial sum but not outrageous, comparatively speaking.

Half a million dollars. It would be enough to pay for every Stokes grandchild to attend the college of his or her choice. Endow a scholarship or two, invest, retire on. But Nick hadn't named his family for beneficiary, but Gil. Gil, who earned a very good salary on top of the substantial inheritance from his father nearly ten years ago. Gil, who patently did not need anything like such a vast bequest from his lover.

Questions popped into his head, immediate and insistent. What had Nick thought this amount of money should cover? What contingency was this intended for? If Nick had known, the answer had died with him on that blisteringly hot evening a mile off the interstate.

And the last question, slower to arrive and the one he felt least capable of answering. What else had Nick planned for, years before his untimely death? What other secrets had he kept?

"Gil?" Jamie's face was pale but composed, her dark eyes wide. "You were a million miles away."

"Sorry." He cleared his throat, trying with partial success to shake off the clinging film of foreboding. "I'm – surprised. Understatement," he added with an awkward smile.

"I've been looking at the rest of this stuff." She shrugged. "I mean, nothing much else. He had a couple of other bank accounts, I think, but if the balances are right there wasn't that much in them. Maybe he just – had a big life-insurance thing."

He nodded slowly. "Maybe."

"You want me to go through the rest of the desk stuff? I think it's mostly just supplies, that kind of thing."

"Sure. Thank you."

She gave him an uncertain look before ducking back into the living room. After she'd gone, he sat very still, staring at the blotter on his desk. Cabe's arrival some time later startled him. Listening to Jamie talking with her brother, Gil put the folders back together, the life insurance on top, and placed them in his own hanging file before going out to see what the next plans were.