Chapter 1
The man on the gurney looked just like Mr. Dempsey, my history teacher back in Ashville, Pennsylvania. He had the same scraggly Abe Lincoln beard, the same bushy eyebrows, even the same too-big ears. His nose was different, but I knew it wasn’t actually my history teacher anyway, because I was in Illinois, not Pennsylvania, and this guy had come in with papers that said his name was James Killiam.
I’d never seen James Killiam before, hadn’t followed him through rainy streets—the mark making him easy to track—or watched him sitting on a bench one bitter afternoon, like I had Walter Ness. I had nothing to do with his being here, which made what I was doing less uncomfortable. Though it was still weird being this close to him, partly because he looked so much like Mr. Dempsey, but mostly because he was naked. And dead.
“Cassie? Are you going to start the cleaning?”
I blinked, shook my head. “Sorry. Zoning.”
Mr. Ludwig handed me the soapy sponge to wipe down the body, guiding as I worked. “Don’t press too hard, you don’t want to tear the skin. That’s good. That part’ll be covered by clothes so it doesn’t have to be sparkling. No one’s going to eat off him, you know.” He smiled and winked.
Funeral home humor is weak. At best.
James Killiam was the first body Mr. Ludwig actually had me work on, though I’d watched plenty. Eleven to be exact. Enough to know the first steps by heart: match the toe tag to the papers, check for a pulse, look at the eyes. Corneas cloud over when someone’s dead, and you want to be darn sure they are before doing the stuff we do here at Ludwig & Wilton.
“I think you’ve got it, Cassie. That’s great!” Mr. Ludwig beamed, his eyes crinkling slightly, the only visible wrinkles on his smooth Japanese skin. He stepped back after I’d swabbed from neck to toe. “I guess you’re finished for today. You’re welcome to stay and watch the embalming …”
I glanced at my watch, trying to erase the feel of clammy flesh. It was already past seven, my shift officially over eight minutes ago. I shook my head. “Not tonight,” I said. “Lots of homework. See you Saturday?”
He nodded, bending close to the body to slip in eye caps as I headed for the locker room.
I tossed my scrubs in the biohazard bin, then washed and rewashed my hands, still smelling like a science experiment as I pulled a hoodie over my T-shirt and jeans. At the door I slipped on Nan’s old wool coat—now mine—and yanked my long, dark ponytail free before buttoning up. Then I hoisted my backpack, called good-bye to Mr. Ludwig, and walked to the bus stop a block away.
It was dark out and ice cold as I stood by the metal signpost, wondering aimlessly if your tongue would really freeze to it and eyeing the warm glow of Ludwig & Wilton’s lights enviously.
I’d started there almost three months ago, a few weeks after moving to Bellevue, which wasn’t a bad place. It had a decent town center and was only a short El ride to Chicago. Still, I missed home.
I missed my friends and school and teachers. I missed the mocha lattes at my favorite coffee shop. I especially missed Jack.
But I couldn’t have stayed.
The bus swung wide around the corner, rolling toward me through leftover snow. I climbed aboard, blowing on mittened hands as I sat.
It had taken a while to convince Mr. Ludwig to hire me. People don’t usually beat down the door to work at a funeral parlor, I guess. And if they do, they’re probably not normal. Or seventeen. Or girls.
But I’m not exactly a normal seventeen-year-old girl either. And I wasn’t working there for spending money or just some after-school job.
I was doing it because I need to understand death.
Not just in some hazy philosophical way, but physically, spiritually, emotionally. Any way I can. So that maybe I’ll know what to do the next time I see someone like Walter Ness.
It was two weeks ago when I passed him on my way to Wicker Park with Liv. I trotted behind her down the frigid sidewalks toward a new thrift store she’d read about in the Trib. My head was bent, mouth and nose tucked into my scarf, and I was thinking how much I wished it was May instead of February, even though I’ve never seen May in Chicago and it could be just as horribly frozen and slushy as it’s been the whole time I’ve lived here and wondering why I didn’t have a good pair of snow—or at least rain—boots, when the unnatural light caught my eye.
It’s funny how the limbic system, or whatever controls your emotions, works separately from the thinking brain, because a wave of nervous fear rolled through me immediately before I consciously understood that I’d looked because of the light. It was soft like a candle, in a place where there should be none—no glow cast from a store or ray of sun on this gray and gloomy day. My body recognized it instantly. The mark.
I slowed, grinding to a stop like a machine just unplugged, as I studied the man on the bench across the street. He was old, sitting motionless beside a newspaper that fluttered loosely in the wind. A dark overcoat that didn’t look nearly warm enough fell in wrinkles around him, and he wore a newsboy cap, faded on the left center brim where he gripped to put it on. For a second I thought he might be asleep, but then he shifted, just slightly, maybe feeling my gaze, and I saw hollowness under his eyes. And the pallor of his skin. Like the colors of death I saw at the funeral home were already taking over.
My throat felt tight, the way it gets every time, and I couldn’t move. Even though it was rude to stare. Even though Liv was now half a block ahead. Even though I wanted nothing more than to be away from this man with the mark that meant he’d die before the day was over.
Tell him or don’t? Save him or not?
Trade another life for his?
Liv was almost a full block away when I finally moved, barely conscious I was doing so. I went to the man and started talking, words tumbling out, telling him he was in danger, I had a gift, could sometimes see when someone might die. He just stared. I heard my voice wavering, but I kept on, hating every awful, nervous, guilty instant of telling this terrible secret, second-guessing myself the whole time, fearful of what I might change. Or not.
I finished talking and stood breathlessly before him, my mind racing back over what I’d said.
The man was silent for a few seconds, then said simply, “Thank you for the warning.”
I waited, but he didn’t get up. My stomach sank. “Do you need help to stand?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t you want to go inside? Somewhere warm? Maybe … see a doctor?”