Roses for the Dead

by

Terry Wright

Justin Graves alighted on the sun-drenched grounds of Deckers Gardens , up near a stand of trees that overlooked a green and sprawling landscape of headstones planted in sweeping rows. He’d attended more than his fair share of funerals. A month ago he was guest of honor at his own, and today he’d come to bury his daughter, Christy.   

Inhaling the scent of mowed grass, he set his dead gaze on the polished coffin set upon a bier next to a freshly dug grave, the mound of dirt covered with a blue tarp. His hollow chest panged, not from the gunshot wounds that killed him, but from a terrible guilt eating his insides like maggots on spoiled meat. If he’d been a better father, his daughter would still be alive.

Mourners gathered around the gravesite. Some sat in folding chairs, others stood under a black canopy that shaded a table of flowers. Bits of hushed conversation reached his ears.

“Poor girl,” someone said. “She should’ve dumped that boyfriend of hers a long time ago.”

“She deserved better than Billy Denton,” another chimed in.

“Can you imagine being murdered by a man who professed to love you?”

“Her father tried to keep them apart.”

“He didn’t try hard enough.”

“Some kids just can’t be helped,” someone else added.

Justin swallowed dust. No one could understand how it had been with them, the constant power-struggle between father and daughter. He tried, damn it, tried to warn her about Billy, but she wouldn’t listen.

“He loves me, Dad.”

“What do you know about love?”

“I hate you!”

Justin hobbled toward the casket, dragging his broken right foot, a constant reminder of the car wreck he and Captain Holland had survived while chasing the child killer, Darren Drake.

Survived?

Justin had to huff. How strange that he used the word survived.  But being dead afforded him some advantages. His busted foot didn’t hurt, and his approach to the grave went completely unnoticed.

Removing his dusty cowboy hat, he reached out a bandaged hand and touched Christy’s casket. His rotted fingers felt the polished wood and the brass handles, and he smelled the fragrance of a dozen roses on the coffin lid. But no matter how beautiful the setting, the thought of his daughter lying inside that dark, cold box made his damned-to-hell soul ache. He would cry if his dry eye sockets would let him. She was only twenty years old. He wished he could savor the warmth of her smile one more time, hear her songbird voice, if only for a moment. How easily the rift between them seemed suddenly microscopic.

A car door slammed behind him. Captain Harold Holland exited a police cruiser parked at the curb. He paused a moment, donned a gray cowboy hat and surveyed the scene. The pudgy, round-faced Texas Ranger wore a black bow tie with his finest western suit and polished boots. A circle-star badge glistened from his chest. The blue sling on his left arm looked out of place. Bags under his eyes told Justin his ex-boss hadn’t slept well. 

As the captain approached, Justin glanced down at his own apparel, opened the filthy lapel of his bullet-riddled long brown coat and stared hauntingly at the holes in his chest. Worms wriggled out between exposed rib bones. Already his circle-star badge, still pinned to a tattered gray shirt, had become tarnished. His muddy cowboy boots needed a good buffing, as well. This was no way to dress for his daughter’s funeral, but these were the clothes he died in, the clothes he was buried in, and the clothes he was condemned to wear whenever he crawled from his grave. 

Subdued voices greeted the captain. Mourners gathered around him, some holding umbrellas against a punishing sun.

“How’s your shoulder?” someone asked.

“Hurts like hell. Bullets tend to do that.”

Justin didn’t know the pain of being shot. He didn’t live long enough to feel a thing.

“Is it true about you and Justin Graves?” a woman chimed in. “Are you helping each other fight crime?”

Some guy behind her scoffed.

Prick! Holland tipped his hat. “Thanks for coming.” He gestured to the casket.  “Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’ve got respects to pay.”

“How did you know where to find the girl?” another man shouted out like a heckler at a standup comedy club.

Pressing on to the casket, Holland removed his cowboy hat and stood for a reverent moment before whispering, “God, Christy, I wish your father could be here.”   

Close up like this, Justin heard Holland just fine, and he could see the bandage bulge in the captain’s coat.  He was lucky Billy Denton didn’t kill him during the breakout at Deckers City Jail. 

Holland set his palm on the coffin. “Your father was a damn good man.  I’m sorry you two didn’t get along, but I want you to know he loved you very much.”  Holland paused, inhaled slowly and winced. “I blame myself, you know.  If I’d given him more time off work to spend with you ... but you’ve got to understand; he was my best damn detective. I needed him, Christy.” 

Head bowed, he sobbed and took a moment to catch his breath. 

“Okay, you needed him, too.  Deckers needed him.  Hell, the whole damn state of Texas needed him.  I shouldn’t have been so selfish.  I’m sorry.”  The captain’s porky chin quivered as he fought back the tears. 

Best friends were hard to find, Justin knew, but the captain had no call blaming himself for what happened.

 “Justin’s in a tight jam now, Christy.” Holland ’s expression turned dark.  “You see ... he told me about the deal he’d made with the devil: one hundred souls in exchange for yours. I know, it sounds insane.”

Justin didn’t think so. Guilt was a powerful motivator, redemption a worthy goal. In the end, love would conquer all, including the devil, or so Justin hoped.

“If he’d just let you go.” Holland sniffled. “He could cross over to eternal peace and be with Eleanor, your mom, oh, God rest her soul, but he won’t, the stubborn fool. He’s stuck in the afterlife, walking the line between life and death, still chasing bad guys, for the devil this time instead of me. He blames himself that things went sour between you all. You know it was Billy’s fault, talkin’ you into dealing drugs and whoring around, but your father’s gotta make it right. And I gonna help him.”

Justin felt compelled to materialize so only Captain Holland could see him.  The transformation produced a gust of wind that swirled around the mourners, tugging at umbrellas and clothing and causing a moment of alarm. It only took a split second for him to appear. “It’s not your fight, Captain.”

Holland jumped back, his face pinched as he waved his hat in an effort to ward off Justin’s stench. But the captain knew better than to say anything, or the others would see him talking to himself and think he’d gone mad.

“I put my job before my daughter. Now our eternity is at stake. The question is, do Christy and I spend it together in hell with the devil, or together in heaven with Eleanor?”

Turning shoulder-to-shoulder with his dead detective, Holland spoke out the corner of his mouth. “You scared the crap out of me, Justice.”

“We were never a family. Her mother died in childbirth. Christy blamed herself. I buried myself in my work. She ran off Billy Denton, and I have to pay the price for letting her go. He’s my problem. You stay out of it.”

“I want Billy stopped just as bad as you do.” Holland ’s tone sounded firm on that point.

“It’s too dangerous, Captain.” What chance did a human stand against a demon from hell?

“That punk doesn’t scare me.” He indicated the sling. “Took one bullet from him already.”

“You got lucky. He could’ve killed you like he killed me.”

“And thanks to you, now I’ve gotta fight a damn ghost.”

Justin looked at his bandaged left arm and hand, recalled how he’d tried to save Billy from falling to his death inside the old mine. It wasn’t Justin’s fault that his rotted flesh had turned to mush in Billy’s desperate grasp. And word got around hell that Billy and the devil had a mutual enemy in Justin Graves, so they’d teamed up against him.

“Billy has the same powers I do ... but with none of the rules. I’m not allowed to use violence--”

“They want you to fail, Justice.”

“Does that surprise you? We’re talking about the devil here. He’s got no morals.”

“So, you see, you need my help. I can roundup a hundred criminals, murderers, rapists, molesters, what have you.”

“Billy will kill you first.”

“If you’re so damn worried about me, then give it up, Justice.  Cross over.  Be done with it.”

“You know I can’t leave Christy behind.”

“Can’t?  You mean you won’t.” Holland turned to face Justin, voice rising. “Look at you, all shot up like someone used you for target practice.  Broken foot, bandaged hand, your left arm stripped to the bone, hell, half the meat on your face has been fist-pummeled off. I can see your jawbone and molars, for Christ-sake!”

“So?  I’m not a pretty sight.”

“That’s the only dead body you’ll ever have, Justice.  It’s not going to hold up long enough for you to get a hundred souls. You’ll lose by default and -- ”

“Uh-hum!”

Holland stopped, slowly turned his gaze to the other mourners. They were staring at him as if he were crazy. “Ah ... ”

The preacher stood nearby, Bible resting in the crook of his arm, a concerned slant on his brow. “Captain,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

“Ah ... sorry.” Holland backpedaled. “I’m on some pretty heavy pain medication.” He indicated his wound. “Makes me babble sometimes. Don’t let me hold up the service.”

“If you’re sure.” 

“Yes, please. Go ahead.”

The preacher opened his Bible and faced the attendees. “We are gathered here today to bear witness for Christy Graves.”

“You’ve got to be more careful,” Justin said to Holland .

“You’re gonna get me locked up in a damn psycho ward.”

“... A troubled soul set upon bad times ... ”

Holland held his cowboy hat low in both hands. “If you won’t let me help you get the bad guys, then let me get you patched up.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Don’t be so damn stubborn.”

“... We pray the Lord look after her soul ... ”

Mourners began weeping, every head bowed in prayer.    

Thump, thump!  Thump, thump!

Justin heard the noise. His rotting chest cringed.

Thump, thump!

It was coming from inside Christy’s casket. If he’d had a heart, he was sure it would’ve leaped into his throat. At first he thought she was alive, banging on the lid, trying to get out, but when the bier started creaking like the springs of a cheap motel mattress, he thought she must’ve been jumping up and down. Made no sense. 

“... Accept this lost lamb into heaven ... ”

As the creaking got louder and faster, his dread began to rise. He looked back at the mourners and realized they were unaware of what was happening.

The coffin began bouncing violently. Grunting noises came from inside, a man ... followed by a scream ... a woman’s ... his daughter. Christy! A shot of acidic adrenalin slugged Justin’s corpse, made every maggot in his bloated belly writhe.

“... Where she can sing with the angels ... ”

He dropped his cowboy hat and rushed forward, and with both hands tried to steady the jostling coffin.

“What the hell are you doing?” Holland demanded.

“Daddy, help!”

“Christy!”

“Daddy help, daddy help, daddy help.” The man now, mocking her in a gut-wrenching voice Justin immediately recognized.

“He’s in there.” Justin banged his bandaged fist on the coffin. “Billy Denton!”

Holland stepped back, aghast. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“He’s raping her dead body.”

“... And know your true love ... ”

Christy screamed again, like an echo from the depths of hell. The grunting intensified: louder, faster, deeper. Justin tried to steady the coffin, but his broken foot gave out, and his bandaged arm and hand didn’t have the coordination to hold the casket still. 

Pounding!  Thumping!  Grunting!

Panic-stricken, Justin stepped back and prepared to dematerialize and charge inside the coffin when a wailing moan reverberated from within, the wail of a demon in the throes of a climax so intense the concussion knocked Justin to the ground.

“... And let your peace guide her through eternity ... ”

He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll kill the bastard.”

Holland grabbed Justin’s dusty coat sleeve and pulled him back. “You can’t! Th rules.”

“Screw the rules.” 

“No violence.”

Justin tugged against Holland ’s firm grasp, went nose-to-nose with him.  “Then the devil can have his dues.”

Suddenly Holland ’s puffy cheeks turned pale. His wide-eyed gaze was riveted on the coffin. “Look!”

Justin whirled around.

The roses jumped as Billy’s ghostly body rose up from the casket like a slimy mosquito emerging from its larval shell. Only from hell could Billy project such an image, Justin knew, and Holland could see it, too, no doubt some kind of twisted psychological warfare. 

“Howdy, boys.” Billy dripped slime. Silver rings in his eyebrows and earlobes glistened, and his forked goatee glowed red as hell’s fire. Standing ankle deep in the casket lid, he pulled up his blue jeans, zipped his zipper, and buckled his belt. “Yeah!” He smacked his lips like he’d just drunk a cold beer. “I needed that.”

...”Protect her from evil...” 

Justin lunged at Billy, but Holland held on. “You can’t fight him, Justice.”

Billy sat on the roses, crushing them, and turned canted eyes on Justin.  “The devil has made me just like you.”

“You’re nothing like me.” Justin ground his molars, hoping it would help him hold his temper.

Dropping from the casket to the ground, Billy stood before Justin, chest puffed out and smelling like sweaty socks. “Face it, man. We both love your daughter.”

“Rape isn’t love.” Justin wanted to slug him, but Holland held fast. 

“And she’s just as good dead as she was alive.”

“I’ll kill you!”

Laughing, Billy grabbed his crotch and pumped his hips.  “She’s still my little whore.”

Justin’s vision tunneled. He charged the punk, but Holland wedged himself between them. “Cool it, Justice. He’s not worth an eternity in hell.”

Reaching around Holland , Justin tried to grab the punk by his barbed-wire-tattooed neck but got a handful of roses instead. The coward had disappeared, but his voice resonated inside Justin’s hollow skull.  “No violence, Justice.”

His haunting laughter echoed into the ethereal plane.

“Billy’s screwing with your head,” Holland said. “Cross over. Save yourself.”

“I’m going to kill him for that.”

“He’s already dead.”

“Then I’m going to make him wish he was alive.”

“Think it over real good.” Holland stood firm. “Your daughter, your wife, your family, don’t throw it all away for revenge.”

“... In your mercy she will shine, oh Lord ... ”

Still seething, Justin rearranged the roses just as they were, though he knew they’d never moved throughout the entire ordeal. The simple task gave him a moment to cool off, let Holland ’s words sink in. If Justin broke the devil’s rules, Christy would burn in hell forever, and he’d never see Eleanor again, but spend eternity in a pool of maggots endlessly feeding on his hell-flesh. The stakes were too high to lose his temper over Billy Denton.

Stepping back from the coffin, Justin faced the captain. “I’ve got to stay focused. One hundred souls.”

Holland set a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “Then let me get a doctor to fix you up so you’ll stand a fighting chance.”

Justin looked down at his broken right foot, the cowboy boot bent at an odd angle, and then at the dirty bandage wrapped around his left arm and hand, the only thing holding the shredded meat on the bone. He’d been beaten, stabbed, shot up, and set on fire. His dead body wouldn’t last much longer.

... “And dwell in your house forever...” 

He retrieved his cowboy hat from the ground. “What doctor’s going to work on the likes of me?”

“The coroner.” Holland grinned.

“Dr. Yee?” Justin knew him when he was alive.

“Dead people are his specialty.”

Justin shuddered at the prospect of lying on a cold stainless steel table, but if he was going to stay in one piece long enough to save his daughter’s soul, he’d have to accept the help. He could only hope it wouldn’t cost Holland his life.

“I’ll meet you there.” Justin donned his cowboy hat. 

“... Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ... ”

With a gust of wind the ghoul was gone.