Living Dead in Dallas

been my lot.

Chapter 4
    I T WAS AS  hot as the six shades of hell in Dallas, especially on the pavement at the airport. Our brief few days of fall had relapsed back into summer. Torch-hot gusts of air bearing all the sounds and smells of the Dallas–Fort Worth airport—the workings of small vehicles and airplanes, their fuel and their cargo—seemed to accumulate around the foot of the ramp from the cargo bay of the plane I’d been waiting for. I’d flown a regular commercial flight, but Bill had had to be shipped specially.
    I was flapping my suit jacket, trying to keep my underarms dry, when the Catholic priest approached me.
    Initially, I was so respectful of his collar that I didn’t object to his approach, even though I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. I had just emerged from one totally new experience, and I had several more such hurdles ahead of me.
    “Can I be of some service to you? I couldn’t help but notice your situation,” the small man said. He was soberly clothed in clerical black, and he sounded chock-full of sympathy. Furthermore, he had the confidence ofsomeone used to approaching strangers and being received politely. He had what I thought was sort of an unusual haircut for a priest, though; his brown hair was longish, and tangled, and he had a mustache, too. But I only noticed this vaguely.
    “My situation?” I asked, not really paying attention to his words. I’d just glimpsed the polished wood coffin at the edge of the cargo hold. Bill was such a traditionalist; metal would have been more practical for travel. The uniformed attendants were rolling it to the head of the ramp, so they must have put wheels under it somehow. They’d promised Bill it would get to its destination without a scratch. And the armed guards behind me were insurance that no fanatic would rush over and tear the lid off. That was one of the extras Anubis Air had plugged in its ad. Per Bill’s instructions, I’d also specified that he be first off the plane.
    So far, so good.
    I cast a look at the dusky sky. The lights around the field had come on minutes ago. The black jackal’s head on the airplane’s tail looked savage in the harsh light, which created deep shadows where none had been. I checked my watch again.
    “Yes. I’m very sorry.”
    I glanced sideways at my unwanted companion. Had he gotten on the plane in Baton Rouge? I couldn’t remember his face, but then, I’d been pretty nervous the whole flight. “Sorry,” I said. “For what? Is there some kind of problem?”
    He looked elaborately astonished. “Well,” he said, nodding his head toward the coffin, which was now descending on the ramp on a roller system. “Your bereavement. Was this a loved one?” He edged a little closer to me.
    “Well, sure,” I said, poised between puzzlement and aggravation. Why was he out here? Surely the airlinedidn’t pay a priest to meet every person traveling with a coffin? Especially one being unloaded from Anubis Air. “Why else would I be standing here?”
    I began to worry.
    Slowly, carefully, I slid down my mental shields and began to examine the man beside me. I know, I know: an invasion of his privacy. But I was responsible for not only my own safety, but Bill’s.
    The priest, who happened to be a strong broadcaster, was thinking about approaching nightfall as intently as I was, and with a lot more fear. He was hoping his friends were where they were supposed to be.
    Trying not to show my increasing anxiety, I looked upward again. Deep into dusk, there was only the faintest trace of light remaining in the Texas sky.
    “Your husband, maybe?” He curved his fingers around my arm.
    Was this guy creepy, or what? I glanced over at him. His eyes were fixed on the baggage handlers who were clearly visible in the hold of the plane. They were wearing black and silver jumpsuits with the Anubis logo on the left chest. Then his gaze flickered down to the airline employee on the ground, who was preparing to guide the coffin onto the padded, flat-bedded baggage cart. The priest wanted . . . what did he want? He was trying to catch the men all looking away, preoccupied. He didn’t want them to see. While he . . . what?
    “Nah, it’s my boyfriend,” I said, just to keep our pretence up. My grandmother had raised me to be polite, but she hadn’t raised me to be stupid. Surreptitiously, I opened my shoulder bag with one hand and extracted the pepper spray Bill had given me for emergencies. I