Shadowfires

SPOOKED
    The hot, dry air was filled with the crackle
of police radios, a metallic chorus of dispatchers' voices, and the smell of sun-softened asphalt.
    The paramedics could do nothing for Eric Leben except convey his
corpse to the city morgue, where it would lie in a refrigerated room
until the medical examiner had time to attend to it. Because Eric had
been killed in an accident, the law required an autopsy.
    “The body should be available for release in twenty-four hours,”
one of the policemen had told Rachael.
    While they had filled out a brief report, she had sat in the back
of one of the patrol cars. Now she was standing in the sun again.
    She no longer felt sick. Just numb.
    They loaded the draped cadaver into the van. In spots, the shroud
was dark with blood.
    Herbert Tuleman felt obliged to comfort Rachael and repeatedly
suggested that she return with him to his law office. “You need to
sit down, get a grip on yourself,” he said, one hand on her shoulder,
his kindly face wrinkled with concern.
    “I'm all right, Herb. Really, I am. Just a little shaken.”
    “Some cognac. That's what you need. I've got a bottle of Remy
Martin in the office bar.”
    “No, thank you. I guess
it'll be up to me to handle the funeral, so I've got things to attend
to.”
    The two paramedics closed the rear doors on the van and walked
unhurriedly to the front of the vehicle. No need for sirens and
flashing red emergency beacons. Speed would not help Eric now.
    Herb said, “If you
don't want brandy, then perhaps coffee. Or just come and sit with me for a while. I don't
think you should get behind a wheel right away.”
    Rachael touched his leathery cheek affectionately. He was a
weekend sailor, and his skin had been toughened and creased less by
age than by his time upon the sea. “I appreciate your concern. I
really do. But I'm fine. I'm almost ashamed of how well I'm taking it. I mean… I feel no grief at all.”
    He held her hand.
“Don't be ashamed. He was my client, Rachael, so I'm aware that he
was… a difficult man.”
    “Yes.”
    “He gave you no reason to grieve.”
    “It still seems wrong to feel… so little. Nothing.”
    “He wasn't just a difficult man, Rachael. He was also a fool for not recognizing what a jewel he had in you and for not doing whatever was necessary to make you want to stay with him.”
    “You're a dear.”
    “It's true. If it weren't very true, I wouldn't speak of a client like this, not even when he was… deceased.”
    The van, bearing the corpse, pulled away from the accident scene.
Paradoxically, there was a cold, wintry quality to the way the summer
sun glimmered in the white paint and in the polished chrome bumpers,
making it appear as if Eric were being borne away in a vehicle carved
from ice.
    Herb walked with her, through the gathered onlookers, past his
office building, to her red 560 SL. He said, “I could have someone
drive Eric's car back to his house, put it in the garage, and leave the keys at your place.”
    “That would be helpful,” she said.
    When Rachael was behind the wheel, belted in, Herb leaned down to
the window and said, “We'll have to talk soon about the estate.”
    “In a few days,” she said.
    “And the company.”
    “Things will run themselves for a few days, won't they?”
    “Certainly. It's Monday, so shall we say you'll come see me Friday
morning? That gives you four days to… adjust.”
    “All right.”
    “ Ten o'clock?”
    “Fine.”
    “You sure you're okay?”
    “Yes,” she said, and she drove home without incident, though she
felt as though she were dreaming.
    She lived in a quaint three-bedroom bungalow in Placentia. The
neighborhood was solidly middle-class and friendly, and the house had
loads of charm: French windows, window seats, coffered ceilings, a
used-brick fireplace, and more. She'd made the down payment and moved a year ago, when she left Eric. Her house was far different from the place in Villa Park, which was set on an acre of manicured grounds and which boasted every luxury; however, she liked her cozy bungalow better than his Spanish-modern mansion, not merely because the scale seemed more human here but also because the Placentia house was not tainted by countless bad memories as was the house in Villa Park.
    She took off her bloodstained blue sundress. She washed her hands
and face, brushed her hair, and reapplied what little makeup she
wore. Gradually the mundane task of grooming herself had a calming
effect. Her hands stopped