Page 2

Chapter two

B ob took a sip of his coffee before stepping out of his truck. It was not a good sign when he got a call from the local police at eleven thirty at night on a Saturday. Especially so close to Halloween.

“Just another routine call,” Bob told himself.

But something in his gut told him otherwise. Too many strange things had been going on in Haven over the past couple of months. He had been Death’s intern in North America for close to four years, a record according to Constantine. At this point in time, he couldn’t ignore his gut. It had kept him and the team alive on multiple occasions. It was also his intuition that had pushed adding undercover team members to the local police forces in the area. After Eric left to join the Order of Witches, they had lost a tremendous asset on the force.

Bob took another sip before glancing in the rear-view mirror of the truck. His sandy-blond hair was cut short in a military high and tight, and his eyes were taking on a gray color. With the arrival of Death’s Reapers back on earth, something was happening to all the interns. He wasn’t sure how, but he stopped aging. If anything, he was feeling younger each day. Maybe it was the gifts that came with being Death’s intern, but he doubted it. Interns had a tendency to die fast. Bob wondered if Isis and Bartholomew, the newly made Reapers, had something to do with it.

“You don’t have all day to philosophize on the meaning of life,” Bob reminded himself. It was on rare occasions that he had time alone to think. They were short on staff this evening. “Time to run a city again.”

He climbed out of the truck and adjusted his leather vest. The black vest with little skulls stenciled on it was a gift from the Union Station crew. They called it his uniform. For the last few years, Bob had dressed similarly every day, pressed kakis, button-down shirt, and a vest. The outfit was comfortable, yet presentable, without looking stuffy. It also gave him plenty of places to conceal his weapons and scythe. After too many close calls, he agreed to carry the official weapon of Death’s intern, a silver scythe.

Ensuring his pants were over his steel-toe boots, he headed towards the back of Kings Park. An officer in his mid-twenties, with a caramel complexion and short, black hair, marched briskly to meet him. Bob inspected the young man, recalling when he hired him. He was a witch originally from New England but had moved to Haven after the military. The man was efficient and needed little training. Bob was pleased when he agreed to work in the human police force as their informant.

“Boss,” the officer said in a low voice as soon as he reached him. “Sorry to call you so late, but you said any weird cases to call you directly.”

“You did the right thing. What do we have, Miguel?”

Officer Miguel Rodriguez turned on his heel, and Bob followed. The two were about the same height, close to six feet three inches, with long strides. They crossed the park at a rapid pace.

“Male shifter in his early twenties, in apparent good health, dead with a hard on,” Miguel laid out the facts.

“What?” Bob stopped, and the officer turned to stare at him.

“That’s exactly what I thought,” the officer replied. “He doesn’t have any wounds or marks on him. Shifters are hard to kill.”

They reached the crime scene and Bob stared at the dead body.

“Nobody has moved him?” Bob asked, walking around the corpse.

“Not that I’m aware,” Miguel replied. “I was doing my rounds around town and saw the Harley in the parking lot. The park closes at ten, so I inspected and found him like this. Heart attack?”

“I’m not sure.” Bob bent down to for a closer look. “I don’t know much about heart attacks, but I would assume most victims would clutch their chest not their package.”

Miguel rubbed his neck and shook his head.

“Call the Station and have them send us the paramedics,” said Bob. “We need to get this body out of here before anyone else decides to stop by for a midnight stroll.”

“On it.” Miguel pulled his cell phone out.

Bob took his own phone out to photograph the scene. He didn’t want to touch anything before taking all his photos.

“Why are you here alone?” Bob asked the corpse but stopped to examine the park. “Are you still here?”

One of his duties as Death’s intern was to help lost souls transition to their next destination. If a soul was lost, he would have felt their presence. At times, the interns and, of course, their two Reapers, were the only ones that could see the souls of the departed. They could even touch them. At first, that gift made life very difficult for Bob since he struggled to distinguish the living from the dead. It took him a few years to recognize the auras of the living compared to the glow of the dead.

“He’s gone.” The musical voice of Death came from behind him.

“Hi boss,” Bob replied without looking back.

He finished taking his photos before facing the horseman. Bob had learned from experience talking with Death that it was easy to forget your tasks when they appeared. At this time, he needed to get photos done before his squad came in and trampled the whole thing.

“I’m almost done,” Bob added, walking the scene clockwise.

“No rush,” said Death, walking in the opposite direction.

“Did you see anything? Or can you tell me?” Bob knew Death was picky in the information they shared.

The focus for Death and her interns was the souls. Bob was in a unique situation. When Isis, his predecessor and now Death’s top Reaper, stayed in Texarkana, the area became Haven. The only supernatural community in the world. The other interns were probably too smart to pick up that responsibility. When Bob took over, the responsibility of sheriff and protector came with the job.

“He didn’t suffer,” Death finally said, standing next to Bob, facing the body.

“That’s a relief,” Bob added.

“Maybe.” Death looked at the body. “He was confused. Like not sure what happened or why. He kept looking around for someone. Then gave up once he realized he was dead, and we moved on.”

Bob turned to face his boss. For the deceased, Death appears to them in whatever form they believed Death should be. Some saw a distant family member, others have seen the stereotypical grim Reaper. The options were endless. Constantine decided that having every member of Reapers Inc. and the Union Station crew see a different version of Death would be very difficult for business. He made an executive decision. Being Death’s right-hand man, or more specifically, right-hand cat, gave him the authority for such things. Maybe it was his five thousand years of life that gave Constantine wisdom and insight into the human condition.

Constantine's suggestion was simple. Death would appear to the Reaper crew, and everyone that worked for them at Union Station, as the version Isis saw. The version was of a tall, beautiful woman, with silky black hair and a caramel complexion. It minimized confusion, and new crewmembers instantly recognized their ultimate boss.

“Did you see anyone?” Bob glanced around the area.

“If someone was here, they were long gone by the time I arrived,” Death announced. “A sad situation. Meaning they left this poor boy to die alone.”

“Interesting.” Bob leaned back down to examine the area around the body.

Death followed, placing a knee on the ground.

“Are you sure you want to get that suit dirty?” Bob teased, as he eyed the white Prada suit Death wore that evening.

“If it doesn’t get dirty, I won’t have a reason to change it,” Death replied with a wicked grin.

“Do you need a reason? I figured you just enjoyed modeling the latest outfits of each runway.” Bob had to admit, Death’s style was impressive. If fashion designers ever needed a model, they should consult the horseman.

“Not at all, but it makes me sound less shallow.” Death leaned over in Bob’s direction. “By the way, what are you looking for?”

“No idea,” Bob admitted. “Footprints, trash, a note. You name it. I’m looking for a reason why a shifter died in my park.”

“Does the passing of a soul need a reason?” Death asked in a more solemn tone.

“Not always.” Bob glanced back towards Death. “But I have a hard time believing this kid had a heart attack while randomly laying in a park with his pants down.”

Death patted him on the shoulder and stood. “Never stop asking why, Bob. Things are never as simple as they seem. Keep me posted on what you find.”

“Leaving so soon?” Bob asked.

“Crawling around looking for prints sounds like intern’s work,” Death replied. “I have a meeting with Pestilence that I should be fairly late for by now.”

Death smiled and Bob saluted his boss as she disappeared. Bob turned back toward the body and cautiously searched the pockets of the pants. He found a cell phone and a can of dip.

“Who are you, my friend?” Bob asked the body.

“This way,” Miguel said to the new arrivals.

Bob glanced to see TJ and Triplet-3 rushing behind the officer, both wearing Reaper’s EMT uniforms, black cargo pants, combat boots and long-sleeved hoodies with their logo. Uniforms were a recent addition to the team. The only difference between the EMT uniforms and the rest of the crew was the symbol of two snakes twisting up a staff on the front.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Bob greeted them standing up.

TJ and Triplet-3 stopped in front of the body and saluted Bob. “Good evening, boss,” they said in unison.

“I’m going to kill Pete for drilling that into all of you,” Bob informed them.

Triplet-3 giggled, but TJ shifted uncomfortably.

“You are the boss,” Triplet-3 said. “People need to know and respect that.”

“Right.” Bob waved a hand at them. “Relax now.”

Pete, the Pixie, had taken over the training for all the recruits at the Station. The training now borderline in military precision. Bob enjoyed the discipline the team had, but the layer of formality drove him nuts. Granted, fighting that was a lost cause. Constantine encouraged the behavior. Hard to fight when the second in command approves of the madness.

“Are you ready for us?” TJ asked.

“As ready as I’ll be,” Bob admitted. “I need to know the cause of death and time.”

“At least he went happy,” Triplet-3 said, examining the man.

“That’s one way to put it.” Bob shook his head. “TJ, are you okay?”

TJ blinked several times, then focused back on Bob. “Yeah, I knew him.”

Bob and Triplet-3 both stood still, watching TJ.

“Sorry, man.” Triplet-3 patted TJ’s shoulder.

“We weren’t close,” TJ added. “His family moved to Haven a few years ago. They were starting over with a new pack. He was a good kid. At least, that’s what I hear.”

“Do you need a minute?” Bob asked.

TJ shook his head. “No. I’m good. First solo mission without Doc.”

“First dead body,” Triplet-3 added.

“The job is hard,” Bob told him. “Don’t take this home. We have resources. Make sure to debrief.”

“Yes sir,” said TJ.

“Have Doc send me a report as soon as possible,” Bob continued in his business tone.

“Going to be tough, boss,” Triplet-3 informed him. “The weekend has been wild, and we still have tomorrow to deal with.”

“Halloween in Haven is becoming the new attraction,” said TJ.

“They need to go back to Salem with all this partying,” Bob tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “We are still in the bible belt, with too many humans who don’t know about the supernatural world. I would like to keep the madness to a minimum.”

“We are losing that battle,” Triplet-3 said.

“That’s my fear.” Bob handed the phone and dip to TJ. “Let me know as soon as possible. Glad you finally joined us.”

“It pays better than the restaurant,” said TJ with a genuine smile.

TJ had been a friend of the Reapers community for years. He even went so far as trying to date Isis once. That didn’t end well when he failed to share with her that he was a shifter. They were friends again, but any romantic possibility went out the door. It had taken him a few years to decide he wanted to do more with his life. A few night classes had opened the doors to becoming an EMT. Bob jumped at the chance to hire him as soon as he graduated.

Vicious scenes and dead bodies were part of the job of working for Death. Bob wished TJ’s first mission alone wasn’t a person he knew. Then again, he lived in Haven as well. Many of the people he would see were people he knew. At least TJ had Triplet-3 with him. It was too late to remedy Shorty’s horrible naming practice. Triplet-3 was not a triplet at all. His only crime was being best friends with two other people who all had the same name. Now they were the Triplets, and nobody even knew their real names.

“I really hate Halloween,” Bob told himself as he reached his truck.