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“And if they're already dead?”

“Then the chant could continue to help free the dead one's energies while the body is prepared for the funeral fire.”

He double-checked the spelling of her name, thanked her and hung up.

The mystery woman with the red mittens had her own funeral for Nowlin? Eddie wondered if there could be an innocent explanation to account for how Danny knew that woman so well.

Who is she?

Chapter 15

General VonKatz met Eddie at the door. The cat's snout flexed as he sampled a scent in the air. He had detected the pastrami Eddie had picked up on the way home, in a bag with two bulky rolls. Eddie scooped up the cat and rubbed his head. The General's eyes closed and his purr sounded like it came from deep inside. Eddie could win a Pulitzer or lose his job; it wouldn't matter—the General purred when Eddie rubbed his head.

Eddie reviewed the battle frozen on the chessboard. He had been playing this game against himself for a month, but it had seemed trivial since his canal ride on the ice gondola with a frozen rat. He forced himself to see the game through. He advanced a pawn one square into territory thick with the enemy. It was a suicide mission, with high reward. A knight and a rook from the opposing army were trapped. Either piece could escape, but the pawn would claim the soldier left behind. Eddie spun the board around, leaving Sophie's Choice for tomorrow.

His Aunt Therese's voice was on the answering machine. He pictured her lips, caked in pink lipstick, and the way her mouth seemed to roam all over her face when she talked, like she had been painted by Picasso.

“Edwaaaard?” She stretched his name. “I have a ham planned for Sunday. Would that be all right? If you come before eleven, we won't be here. We'll be at Mass. You could come before ten, if you want, but from ten to eleven your Aunt Victoria and I will be fulfilling our Sunday obligation.”

Real subtle. His aunts were always after him to get back to church.

There had been no life-defining incident that drove Eddie away from religion, no anger at God over a cosmic injustice. Eddie still believed, not in all the rituals, but he
believed
. He had simply come to think that the man in the collar—who was twice his age, never had a date and didn't pay rent—was no longer speaking to him. It seemed too convenient, anyway, to go running back to church right after somebody had tried to drown him.

Eddie realized that he had not prayed in the old triple-decker, or in the canal. He had been inches from slipping off the ice to drown, and probably minutes from freezing to death, and he did not pray. Was there something wrong with him? Or had living three decades in comfort and safety clouded his perception, making life seem stouter and more lasting than it can ever be?

General VonKatz squirmed out of his hands. Enough affection—it was time to eat. The pastrami boiled up tough. Eddie's head throbbed when he bent to put the General's share on a paper plate on the floor. Eddie slathered his portion with mustard and ate it on a roll.

Dinner ended abruptly when the lost moth fluttered into the kitchen on powdery brown wings. The General's pupils swelled. He sprang at the beast, smacking it in midair with one paw. The moth flapped backwards to the living room, staggered like a prizefighter who had walked into a left hook. General VonKatz peeled out on the linoleum, and a reckless chase ensued in the living room. It sounded like somebody bouncing turnips off the walls.

Eddie cringed and yelled, “Watch the chessboard!” The chase ended with a thump, a pause, another thump, and a hiss of frustration. The moth was back on the ceiling, pumping its wings as if exercising with an itty-bitty Thighmaster. The General crouched below, tail twitching.

“You got closer today, General,” Eddie said, scratching the cat's ear. “But you just can't seem to get your paws around it, can you?” The cat assumed a sentry position on the back of the recliner, facing the evil Mothra. He licked his paw and pretended he wasn't interested anymore.

Eddie got the lone can of Guinness from the fridge. The beer flowed dark and creamy into a mug, with a head thick enough to pitch a tent on.

The General followed Eddie into the bathroom. The cat perched on the vanity to monitor water dripping from the faucet, while Eddie ran a shower. Thundering water pressure was the one perk of Eddie's rickety living quarters. He sipped Guinness and leaned backwards into a spray just shy of scalding hot.

He wiped fog from the shower door and watched General VonKatz through the glass. The cat's eyes had narrowed to diagonal slits. Eddie envied the General, who could sleep anywhere, anytime. A single untamed thought about a news story would give Eddie insomnia. Not tonight, though. Not with a belly full of fatty meat, a mug of stout in his veins, and a hot shower.

Suddenly the General perked. His ears rotated like radar cups. Eddie chuckled. “You sure hate that moth,” he said.

But, no, that wasn't right. The moth was making noise?

Eddie set down his mug and shut off the water. The General hopped off the vanity without a sound and clawed at the edge of the bathroom door. It opened six inches and he stalked out to the living room.

Eddie's front door squeaked shut.

Fear rubbed cold hands over the slick of soap bubbles on his chest. He sensed movement in the next room and strained to hear. Stiff carpet fibers in the living room inhaled under the weight of a shoe, and exhaled when it lifted away.

Eddie grabbed a threadbare towel from the vanity and wrapped it twice around his right hand. He could swing as hard as he could without breaking his fist, if he got the chance.

The footsteps went past the bathroom door. Eddie got out of the tub. He tensed, hands shaking, and reached for the door. Naked and armed with a towel, he could only hope to land a clean punch and get away. He yanked open the door and stormed into the living room.

Jesse Nowlin was there, snooping in the old newspapers that Eddie kept in the piano bench.

She wore a tight sleeveless dress, maroon, with a slit up the side, black tights and heels. Her hair was teased up. Her lips matched the dress. Eddie had never seen her so dressed up, so stunning.

Jesse let the bench-top slap down, and looked Eddie over as well. He made no effort to cover up. He would not be sent scurrying in his own house. And he did not want to turn his back to her.

She grinned and winked at him. “What were you going to do to me with that thing?”

Eddie unwrapped his fist. “Nothing,” he said. “Just drying off.”

“I wasn't talking about the towel.” She laughed and turned away. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Beer.”

“Got anything stronger?”

“Look around.”

She rummaged through Eddie's kitchen cabinets. He toweled off and slicked back his wet hair with his hands. He put on jeans, an old sweatshirt and sneakers. Ugly clothes. An outfit a man wears when he's not interested in impressing a woman.

“Is this the General VonKatz you talk about?” she called out. “He's so cute.”

“Yeah, that's the General.” He realized Jesse had never been to his place before. Why was she there now? Danny was barely in the ground.

She spoke baby talk to the General. “Are you a cute boy? Yes you are. You're sooo cute.”

Eddie had never seen Jesse without Danny, except at the wake. And even then she had been at his side. She had never flirted with Eddie, not even in his imagination.

He joined her in the kitchen. Jesse poured vodka over shrunken ice cubes in two short glasses. “You had this bottle of Absolut in the cabinet under the sink,” she said. She handed him a glass and took the other for herself. Eddie followed her to the living room, where she sat in the recliner. Her coat was on the floor. The slit in her dress slid up her thigh. She did nothing to fix it.

Jesse swirled the vodka in the glass, downed a gulp, and winced.

Eddie's few experiences with hard alcohol were hard to remember. He sipped the drink. The ice had tainted the liquor with freezer burn. He leaned against the wall and watched her. Jesse was in no rush to get to the point and Eddie resolved to wait her out. Her finger traced the rim of the glass. She gulped more vodka and raised her eyebrows at the spirit's bite. Eddie studied her arms. They were well defined, yet still feminine. Most likely the work of a personal trainer, two sessions a week on the biceps machine. Were those arms powerful enough to crack her husband's skull? Maybe, if she were mad enough.

She made Eddie uneasy, just sitting there silently, fingering the glass. At the wake, she had been the ice widow. And now? He didn't know what she was. Her presence stirred his most primitive instincts. Danny's widow, the ultimate forbidden fruit, lazing in his chair with a drink and paying no mind to the rising hem of her dress.

But she repulsed him, too, for the same reasons. And it had been a long time since his carnal side called the shots. She would not see his bed tonight.

Finally, she spoke. “Have you ever lost something?”

“Not like you did,” he answered.

“Loss is loss. Whether you lose out to a cemetery, or to an English teacher.”

Pam's husband-to-be taught journalism in Vermont, not English, but Eddie got the point. He shrugged. “When Pam and I split, we both lost something.”

“Did Pam lose you? Or leave you behind? There's a difference.”

Eddie didn't like where Jesse was going with this, but he wasn't afraid, and he sought to prove it. “Pam left me, met a male model with a master's degree, and moved to a mansion with a view of the Green Mountains,” he said. “Her Doberman's doghouse is bigger than my place, and I bet a little nicer, too.”

Jesse threw her head back and laughed. “Always the wordsmith,” she said. “Danny dreamed about writing like you do.”

“He was getting there.”

Her voice grew bitter. “Be honest, Eddie. Danny dug the dirt better than anyone but he never made it sing. He was a hacker and a technocrat, full of facts without any spirit.” She slugged more vodka. Her voice softened, all the way to sultry. “Tell me which was worse,” she said. “Losing Pam, or realizing you had trusted the wrong person?” She eyed him.

Eddie considered the question. Jesse had assumed too much. “Wasn't about trust,” he said. “It was about success. I wanted it and was willing to put in the hours to get it.”

“And she was jealous of the time you devoted to work.”

Close, but not quite. “Pam couldn't appreciate what success means to me.”

“What she couldn't appreciate,” Jesse said, “is not being the most important part of your life. It sounds like you were two-timing her, not with another woman, with your job.”

“That's ridiculous,” Eddie said. She had irritated him. He took care to edit his tone, to keep it flat.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh really?” Jesse was smiling, but the ice widow was back. “Look at you, still lying to yourself about it. I can imagine how you must have had to lie to her.”

“Why are you here?”

She studied him, saw his harsh body language, and frowned. She put down the glass and casually pulled her dress to cover her leg, a silent acknowledgement that the widowed vixen act wasn't working. Her fidgeting attracted General VonKatz. He sniffed around her shoes.

“I'm curious about what you know about Danny's death,” she said, businesslike. “The police have told me very little.”

Eddie had no way to verify what she said. He could not decide if he could trust Jesse, so he chose not to.

He shrugged. “I know what's been in the paper.”

Jesse scrutinized his poker face. He'd never had a great one. She said, “It's not in your nature to let sleeping dogs lie, Eddie. You and Danny had that in common. It's why you worked well together. It's one reason you could have been close friends.”

Could have been? So Jesse had noticed the distance between them. Maybe that's why she thought the vixen routine would work. But work for what? To get Eddie to talk? What did she think he knew?

He had no comeback. Jesse was right, of course—Eddie poked every sleeping dog in his path. General VonKatz picked that moment to hop into Jesse's lap. She stroked him.

“He likes you,” Eddie said. “He's usually skittish around people he doesn't know.”

“Aren't we all?” she said. Her tone had changed again, to soft and mournful. She sighed, looked into her empty glass and said, “My husband had no personal items on him when…when he died. Did Danny ever mention to you where he might keep things like that?”

Is this what she had come for? Eddie drank some vodka. “Like what?” he asked.

“You know, family photos, the little poems I wrote him, his keys?”

Just his wallet, under a bridge in a heroin den. “Let me check around,” he said. “I bet I can find something like that, for you to remember him by.”

She stood up with the General and nuzzled her face into his fur. She thanked Eddie, and set the cat down. Eddie picked her coat from the floor, helped her slip it on and then walked her to the door.

“One more thing,” she said. “I think you're much better off without Pam.”

He humored her. “Yeah, sure.”

She looked him in the eye. “Relationships without honesty don't deserve a place in our lives,” she said. Her heels clicked down the cement steps.

Eddie shut the door and wondered which of Jesse's personalities was the true one, if any. And then he locked the deadbolt for the first time he could remember.

Chapter 16

In the morning, Eddie spent fifteen bucks on the way downtown for six coffees and a dozen doughnuts. He drove south past the Empire building toward the train depot. He veered onto Chelmsford Street and passed over the railroad bridge under which he had spent the night before last. He then turned right, down a steep hill, and inched through a cramped residential area clogged with apartment houses and parked cars. He left the Mighty Chevette near a neighborhood pub, and carried the coffee and doughnuts in a box to the railroad tracks.

He watched his feet along the catwalk, balancing the food in his left arm. His right hand felt for handholds along the retaining wall.

Gabrielle saw him coming.

“Hey reporter man,” she yelled. “You here to tell the story of our little underworld?”

“I'm here with breakfast,” Eddie answered, offering half the truth.

Leo was away. Four other men were under the bridge. Three lay swaddled in blankets and old clothes. One sat overlooking the tracks, his legs dangling over the ledge. He sucked hard on a cigarette stub and mumbled to himself between drags.

The campfire crackled; smoke lingered between the I-beams. Leo's candle, unlit, stuck up from the cement, ready for the day's cooking.

Eddie handed Gabrielle the box of food. She took a coffee and a powdered-jelly doughnut for herself, and then passed the box around. It didn't come back. Eddie wished he had taken a java for himself first. A caffeine withdrawal headache stirred behind his eyes. He dismissed it as psychosomatic.

“Where's your husband?” Eddie asked.

“He's out buying,” she told him. Her honesty about their crimes and addiction was hard to get used to. “Do you want to interview him?”

Warmer weather had put a dab of pink in her cheeks. Squinting just enough to blur her ravaged features, Eddie saw a face with pretty angles.

“I can't do the story,” he said. “At least not yet.”

She shrugged.

Eddie explained, “It's my editor. He won't let me, the prick.”

“It's all right,” she said. Disappointment had long since lost any effect on Gabrielle.

“I'll get it done somehow,” Eddie pledged. “Maybe as a freelance magazine piece.”

She shrugged again. Big promises had also lost any effect.

Eddie watched with envy as she blew the steam off her coffee and sipped it. He took out his notebook. “I wanted to talk about the man you found in the canal, the man I knew,” he said.
I want to believe you, but I have to be sure
.

“We told you everything,” she said.

“Tell me again. I have the time if you do.”

She laughed. It was a hoarse, honking laugh, like a goose with a sore throat, and it led to a wet cough. She cleared her throat and spat over the ledge. “I can squeeze you in between appointments,” she said.

She told Eddie again how they had found Nowlin's body hung up on branches at the edge of the Worthen Canal while they were walking to meet their heroin supplier. They took his wallet, and sent the body adrift so somebody would inevitably find it and call the police. Not one detail had changed from when she had first told him the story. Continuity was as close to confirmation as Eddie was going to get.

He asked her, “Had you ever seen that man—Danny Nowlin, that was his name—before that night? Did you ever see him alive?”

Gabrielle shook her head. “I don't remember him. I could have passed him on the street—who knows? I don't remember people unless I meet them. And it's hard to meet people who think I'm invisible.”

None of the men under the bridge remembered Danny, either. Eddie wondered if any of them remembered last July.

“Was your friend a user?” Gabrielle asked.

Surprised, Eddie said, “He tried heroin at least once—how did you know?”

She smiled. “Why else might we know him down here on the Island of Misfit Toys?”

Eddie knew the Island of Misfit Toys from an animated Christmas special he watched as a kid. It was easy to forget that Gabrielle had a childhood. “Is there any way to find out if he shot up often?” he asked.

“Lots of chippers buy in the city,” she said. “White collar guys like you. Recreational users, you'd call them. But we don't shop at the same stores.”

“Let's assume he wasn't a regular user. Where would he shop?”

Gabrielle bit the doughnut and chewed the bite down. “To buy one hit?” she said.

“One hit.”

She wiped powered sugar from her lips with her sleeve. “Most of them chippers snort, or smoke the black tar,” she said. “They don't use the spike.”

“Suppose he did.”

Gabrielle considered the possibilities. “A one-time user looking for a taste might just walk the Acre to see who's open,” she said. “Would he need a rig too?”

“A needle?”

She nodded.

“I don't know,” he said. “But he hadn't used for a long time, if ever, before last week. So let's say, yeah, he buys a needle, too.”

She thought some more, and then said, “Young, handsome, middle-class guy with no history, looking for a bag and a clean rig within the past week—somebody might remember him. We'll ask around.”

Eddie gave her his business card and a handful of pocket change for the pay phone. “Call me if you get anything,” he said. “It's real important.”

She looked at the coins in her hand, and then at Eddie. She laughed. “Been a while,” she said, “since I had a job.”