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Prologue
I'm a salesman, but I deal in something different than most other people. Other guys sell pizza, or televisions, or houses. I don't sell things like that. I sell something a little more rare, something that people pay a lot of money to have.
I sell closure.
There are three rules. Every transaction has rules.
Rule number one: you pay in advance.
Rule number two: you dig.
Rule number three: you get ten minutes.
They're simple rules. I like keeping things simple. Makes it easier for everyone. The only issue is that not everybody is happy with the rules. Not everyone understands. They think that I can change things, they think that maybe I'm tricking them, or holding back, or lying. The truth is, I've never lied to any one of my customers.
The dead don't lie.
She was forty, maybe forty-five years old when she came to me. Blonde hair, red lipstick, polka dots all over her dress and tears running down her face. She held her purse in her lap while she cried in my office. I wish I could say this was an uncommon sight. It's not.
She told me that her husband had died three weeks ago. Real sudden. Hit her like a ton of bricks. Thing is, he was around the same age, had no will, no last wishes, no final words.
She said that the last time she ever spoke to him that they were arguing. She regrets that. She told me that her husband's sister overheard their fight, thinks that it got ugly.
"The way my family looks at me, it's like they think I killed him!" She said to me. I told her I wasn't in the business of proving innocence.
"I know… I don't care what his family thinks of me. I just… want some closure."
That I could provide.
I explained to her the rules. Rule one, she pulled out a fat wad, got even me a little excited, rule two, she wasn't happy but was willing, rule three she said was more than enough.
We shook on it. Headed out.
It was an easy ride. I drove. Roads were clear. They always were, driving that late.
We got to the gate after an hour. "St. Johnathan's Own" written on the plaque. I was familiar. This was the first part of my job. I break the lock, open the gate and we slip in. No one saw us.
It was dark out and starting to sprinkle, but that's the way it goes. Nice thing about this business is that your client knows where to go. These places don't move around often.
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Five minutes later, I'm standing in front of a slab of granite, "E.V. Simmons, Loving Husband." Always kind of funny to me, an entire man, entire person, entire life, boiled down to two words.
I check with my client that this is the right place. She nods.
Rule two.
It took her a while, but we had time. He wasn't going anywhere, and it was rare for there to be other "visitors" on nights like this.
I don't know how long it took. Minutes? Hours? At least half a pack of smokes, though I'm a bit slow.
There was a "thunk" as the shovel connected with the wood, soft dirt was cleared away.
My client was tired, covered in muck, cold, wet, but something else too. Excited. They always are. The last bit of work was always easier than the start. Now it was my turn.
I joined her in the hole, the wooden box on the bottom just clear enough to pry open, more than enough.
We pull back the lid, and that's when the stink hits. To me, a familiar, calming, aroma. To her, a stench to gag and throw up.
He was there, of course, Mr. E.V. Simmons. Right where Mrs. Simmons had left him. He wasn't as pretty as her, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Three weeks underground isn't a beauty regime that's meant for everyone.
This is the part that customers can't help but stare at. They want to see the magic, the man behind the curtain, how I do it. The truth is, there isn't much to see.
I take the black glove off my right hand and put it on E.V.'s chest. I lean down, and I put my lips on his forehead, give it a little peck. The kiss of death.
With a gasp and a violent shudder E.V. bolts up, taking his first breath in three weeks. The breath is followed, of course, by the most violent fit of coughing that anyone could experience, living or dead.
My customer gasps, ready to scream, but I stop her before she can.
Rule three.
"Ten minutes." I say before I hop out of the pit. I can't promise my customers privacy, not one of the rules, but I can afford them the grave to themselves.
Usually this is when the customer starts talking, and so she did. It was the usual, mostly. How much she missed him, how sorry she was for the fight, how sudden it was, that kind of fluff. It's not until almost halfway through they think to start asking the important questions.
"What killed you?" She asked. "The doctors said it was a heart attack, but I know that isn't true! What killed you, Eric?"
"It was a heart attack, Lucy. You know I got a weak heart." E.V. replies.
"But what were you doing? You died in our bedroom, laying in bed?"
"I was fucking the neighbor, Jessie." E.V. says with a rotten shrug.
"JESSIE!?" my customer screams. And we're off to the races.
The two spend the last five minutes screaming at one another, something else that I wish wasn't common in my line of work. But it is. This one was more civil than most, if I'm being honest, and I always am. My last cigarette starts to burn out just in time for the final words to be said.
"I can't believe I married you, you pig! I'm glad you're dead!" my customer says just before hauling herself out of the ground. I hear a small thunk as E.V. Simmons goes back to sleep. Perfect timing.
My customer is huffing and puffing, I could almost see the steam coming out of her ears. She looks at me with wild eyes, points with one blistered finger and yells some poorly-constructed words.
"This is YOUR fault, cocksucker! My Eric would never have cheated on me!"
I take no offense. Part of the job.
The rain stopped. The first hint of orange tints the horizon as the morning dawns. I can't help but smile. I flick my last cigarette butt of the night before telling my customer the same thing I tell all my customers.
"I'm sorry ma'am," I say, "but the dead don't lie."