The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 11

She turned, shoulders shaking, and ran.

I looked up where heaven is supposed to be kept.

-c.r.a.p.

Po Sin appeared at the other door.

-What? What the h.e.l.l was that? Who was that?

I pointed at the den.

-The girl. I didn't know she was. She snuck up on me.

From the den we could hear m.u.f.fled, choked sobs.

He stepped into the bathroom, pulling his mask from his face, hissing.

-What the f.u.c.k, Web? What did you do?

-Nothing, man. I was talking to myself. I was. I didn't know she was there.

He stared at me, looked at the door the girl had stood in, tiptoed to it and peeked in the den. He looked over his shoulder and waved me over. I crept to his side and looked in the room. The girl was standing in the corner where two walls of bookcases converged, her back to us, shoulders jerking, sounds. .h.i.tching in her throat.

Po Sin stuck his index finger in my chest and then pointed at the girl.

I shook my head.

He balled his hand into a fist, put it close to my face, pointed at the girl again.

I shook my head.

He leaned down, put his mouth to my ear.

-You get your a.s.s in there and apologize for whatever a.s.shole comment came out of your mouth right now or you will never work a day with me again.

He straightened, glaring down at me, mouthing words.

Grow the f.u.c.k up!

And he turned and walked back into the bedroom, back to helping Gabe cut away the blood-soaked portions of the mattress so they could be bagged for disposal.

I stood in the pristine bathroom. Cleaner now, no doubt, than it had been since the day the house was built. I looked at the gleam and s.h.i.+ne on every surface. I looked at what I had done to make things look normal again. I thought about maybe being able to do that some more, make things the way they were.

And then, for some reason, I thought of the Flying Dutchman bus I saw the other morning. Thought of it ghosting the streets.

And shook it off.

I looked at the girl's heaving back and shoulders.

-c.r.a.p.

I crossed the room, pulling the mask from my face, lifting the safety gla.s.ses to my forehead.

-Um. Excuse. Um. I didn't mean any.

Her shoulders shook harder.

I peeled the rubber gloves from my hands and wiped sweat off my forehead.

-Look. I really. I didn't mean anything personal. I didn't know you were there. I mean, I know that doesn't make it OK for me to say s.h.i.+t like. To say stuff like that, but I didn't mean anything by it, it was just. It's a little tense, doing ... this. And I guess I have a f.u.c.ked up ... a lame sense of humor sometimes.

-Oh G.o.d. Oh gaaawd! Stop! Stop. Ho, my G.o.d, stop, you're killing me.

She turned, tears running down her face, gasping, waving a hand at me, trying to kill the laughter forcing its way up her throat.

-Oh, man, so completely inappropriate.

-I said I was sorry.

She shook out her match and dropped it off the deck to the sand below, watching it get caught in the wind and tumble into some rocks.

-No, it was just so perfect. Totally inappropriate. Exactly the kind of thing he would have said.

She pushed her gla.s.ses a little higher on her nose.

-Except he wouldn't have apologized.

I looked over my shoulder through the open sliding gla.s.s door and caught a glimpse of Gabe coming back into the house with another pack of sc.r.a.pers.

I looked down at the tide as it washed over the rocks.

-Well, left to my own devices, I wouldn't have apologized either.

She choked on a lungful of smoke, more laughter combining with a few hacks.

I watched for a second then gave her a couple light pats on the back.

-You OK?

She coughed into her fist.

-Oh, sure, I'm fine.

She wiped the damp corners of her eyes with one of the Kleenexes Po Sin gave her.

-My dad killed himself in one of the more deliberate and grotesque manners imaginable and I'm laughing about it with one of the guys I'm paying to clean his brains off the wall. I'm doing great.

I turned and leaned my back on the deck rail and shrugged.

-Well, as long as you're OK then.

She smiled.

-Totally inappropriate.

-At least he left a note.

I didn't say anything, too occupied at the moment with working my Scotch-Brite pad over the speckles of blood on the surface of her dad's desk.

She picked another almond from the large bowl of them on the table next to the wingback chair near the hallway door.

-I mean, I knew he was sick. But. But I'm glad he left the note anyway. So I know for sure why he did it. Sort of.

She dropped the almond back in the bowl, picked out another.

-You think anyone would lie about that? I mean, no one would lie on their suicide note, would they?

I replaced the lamp I'd taken from the desk, minus the silk shade that had been sprayed, and looked over at her.

-You want to be a little more enigmatic with your questions? Seriously, if you try a little harder I might get curious or something.

She studied the almond between her fingers, rotating it.

-No. I don't mean anything. He was sick. He was going to die. Soon. Painfully. I know why he did it. I just never read a suicide note before. It made me wonder. I guess. But no. It all makes sense.

I adjusted the silver pen-and-pencil set on the desk and lined it up with the antique in-and-out box and an absurdly detailed model of a freight vessel, its deck stacked with tiny cargo containers, Chinese characters on their sides.

She tossed the almond in her mouth and chewed.

-Makes sense as only a person making their head explode can make sense, I mean.

I walked to the section of bookcase that was in line with the open bathroom door.

-He had some nice books.

She watched me.

-Yeah. He loved his books. Well, he loved having a den with lots of books on the walls anyway. He never actually read them. He loved how they looked, but if it wasn't business-related or on the topic of fis.h.i.+ng, Dad didn't have time to read much.

She dropped her voice an octave.

-Too much to do, sweetheart. Why bother reading about some made-up life when you can live it yourself?

She brushed curly dark hair from her forehead, bit her lip.

-Is that bad, that it kind of makes sense to me? What he did? Should I be worried?

I misted the spines of the books and watched white speckles appear over dozens of them.

-f.u.c.k do I know. I just work here.

-Right, I forgot, you're the r.e.t.a.r.d who doesn't know how to say the right thing.

She picked up another almond, moved it toward her mouth, stopped.

-Should I be eating these things?

I looked at the bowl of nuts, well out of line with the bathroom door.

-Um. Truth?

-No, lie to me, that would make me feel so much better.

I wiped my cheek on my shoulder.

-I doubt they could get hit with anything over there.

She started to put the nut in her mouth.

I turned back to the bookcase.

-But then again, this is my second day on the job and I'm the same lame f.u.c.ker who made fun of how your dad wasted himself. So you might not want to listen to someone so clearly r.e.t.a.r.ded.

She dropped the nut back in the bowl.

-Yeah, you got a point.

She got off the chair and walked over to me and looked at the books.

I misted them again and she reached out and touched the tip of her finger to a white spot that had appeared on a photograph on one of the shelves: a sunburned man with a thick moustache, large arms and shoulders, standing on a dock next to a striped marlin, well over 200 pounds, hanging from a tackle rig.

-d.a.m.nit. G.o.dd.a.m.n it.

-What the f.u.c.k are you doing?

I helped Po Sin muscle the bagged and gutted mattress down the hall to the front door.

-Working.

He stopped, pausing in front of the door that led into the den, watching the girl as she took several books down from the shelves and boxed them.

-Looks to me like she's she's working. working.

He looked at me again, shook his head, and backed toward the front door and out into the sun.

We leaned the mattress against the van and I pointed back at the house.