The Upside of Death

The Abandoned Handbag. Part 4

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Zachary Bones pushed through the 14th-floor entrance doors of the Chicago Post and nodded to the girls at reception. Mid-afternoon, eight hours to deadline, and the place hummed with extra voltage. Nervous tension set faces in permanent grimaces. Staffers who normally sauntered now strode to confer with others, heads together, voices clipped and brisk.

Not him. He had no story for this edition, or even the next one. His last major piece, an exposé of cops rifling the pockets of pimps instead of arresting them, had brought his name to light. Gave him breathing space from the editor, an acknowledgement that if left alone he might produce something as good again.

He knew he would, too. His specialty was skewering local officials for corruption, incompetence or plain stupidity. This had earned him the enmity of several government departments. He enjoyed this.

"I'm worried about you," Keera said one night. "You take on powerful people. Dangerous people."

He laughed. "You kidding me? I had a peaceful life until I met you. A few angry politicians calling the editor. That was about my worst problem. Then you take me out of my body to a terrifying place where I almost get stabbed six ways before breakfast and bring me back, and I still don't know if it was a dream or not. That's what worries me. That you could talk me into this stuff again."

"I won't try, Zach," she said. "That was a special case. I know you consider psychics and mediums as wacky fringe dwellers. It surprises me that we still have a relationship. It must be hard to reconcile your beliefs with your actions." Her clear stare gave nothing away, leaving him unsettled. Was she questioning his commitment?

She was joking, right? Keera, the most perfect creature he had ever seen, her mind honed by the best education her father could buy, her body photoshopped by God.

He had adored her the moment he'd seen her, every subsequent minute he spent with her left him marveling at his luck. He had never met anyone like her, knew he never would again. Of course, he couldn't tell her that. Might give her too much power over him.

"I have considerable respect for your abilities," he said instead. "It's just, what you do is illogical. And it conflicts with any sensible person's view of the world. I can't get my head around the way you accept the living and the dead hanging out together."

She smiled back at him. "You get it all right, don't want to admit it. People might talk, right?"

"You don't exactly ring your bell about it either," he shot back. "A career to protect, you said."

"A girl needs to make a living, Zach. The dead don't hand out food parcels."

"Of course," he replied. He wasn't going to mention that her father, a wealthy oil industry executive, had set up a trust fund for her with more than a few million in it. Working wasn't a necessity for her, it was a pastime. Her anthropology research an interesting way of spending the day because she wasn't one to wallow in idle luxury.

But she had that option, unlike him. Raised by radical-left parents in a one-bedroom apartment and every penny he had, he earned. Then spent. The two of them were so unlike in background and temperament, he couldn't understand why she stayed with him.

Now, he pulled his cell from his pocket and called her. She didn't pick up. He got a message instead: "The phone you are calling is out of range or switched off." Unusual. Keera never switched off, never forgot to charge her cell. Tried her home line. It rang until he tired of listening to it and killed the call.

She must be busy, still in a meeting or something. They both had the next day off, a Friday, and planned to kick-start their long weekend with a late lunch today. He hoped she wouldn't bring any work home, hoped the weekend was for them alone. He knew he couldn't live without her, hoped she felt the same.