Damaged

CHAPTER 37

Sometimes a corpse moved. Scott knew it was a fact that no one liked to talk about except at conferences after a few drinks. It'd never happened to Scott, but he'd heard stories of others who had experienced what they called "spontaneous movement." A leg or a foot twitched. He couldn't remember exactly what caused it. Some kind of biochemical reaction. But it usually occurred in the first ten to twelve hours after death. Maybe that's all this was, but when Scott called Joe he opted for the extreme. After the morning he'd experienced, he couldn't hide the stress.

"That stiff you left in my cooler is still alive."

"What are you talking about?"

"He moved."

Silence. Long enough that Scott second-guessed his approach. Would Joe think his partner prone to hysterics? That he couldn't handle the extra business?

"Look man," Joe finally said in his usual calm and cool manner, "it's just your imagination playing tricks on you." Then he added like a buddy, a friend, "Dude, you did have a lot to drink last night."

There was something about Joe's voice--his calling him "dude"--that made Scott relax ... a little.

By the time Joe arrived half an hour later, Scott had almost convinced himself that it probably was just his imagination. His head still throbbed. Earlier his vision seemed blurred. He hadn't gone back into the cooler and now he felt a bit ridiculous.

Scott tried to concentrate while he kept his employees busy in the funeral home preparing the memorial service for Uncle Mel, the reclusive bachelor whose family wanted him buried before the hurricane rolled in. Scott told the employees they couldn't go to the back offices because he was fumigating the walkway. It seemed like an absurd excuse even to him. Why fumigate anything before a hurricane? But no one questioned him, which further validated his salesmanship. Damn, he was good. Even in a crisis with all the stress he could make up stuff to believable levels.

He had left Joe for twenty minutes, tops. As soon as Scott could, he sneaked back, going outside and avoiding the walkway. Joe was closing and latching the walk-in refrigerator.

"Hey Scott," Joe said. "I have to tell you, man, I wish you could have heard your voice. 'The stiff moved.'" He laughed as he slapped Scott between the shoulder blades.

"Yeah, probably too much Scotch."

"Or not enough," Joe said as he pulled out his money clip and started peeling off hundred-dollar bills. "I'll have a few more specimens to add before the storm, if that's okay," he said as he placed the bills on the corner desk.

Scott couldn't count and listen at the same time.

"I'll come back tonight. Try and cut and package up as much as possible. Take less room that way."

"Sure, no problem." Scott found himself saying the words while he struggled to keep his eyes away from the pile of hundred-dollar bills.

"I'd offer to take you to dinner again, but I think you might need to rest," Joe said with a grin, the kind that went along with terms like "dude."

"I'll see you later."

Scott offered a smile and a nod, feeling better as he reminded himself that this was a good business arrangement and that he really liked Joe Black. He let out a sigh. But as he watched Joe leave, Scott noticed something on the side of Joe's khaki pants. He started to point it out then stopped himself. It looked like blood. Bright red, not pink. Splattered red blood. Corpses didn't splatter blood.