Page 65 of The Reluctant Reaper
“Nnnnnnnot here.”
“Stop it,” Amara said. “You’ll break her brain. Come with me.”
He did, and they sat in the Mustang while Amara tried to figure out what to do and Gray tried to take a picture of the fox with his phone.
“I know weird is relative, but a fox running around an Air Force base is weird.”
“They’re not uncommon. We’re only fifty miles from the Canadian border. Now. Going forward?—”
Gray was ahead of her. “Number three is Melanie Chamber. Seven miles from here. Minot City ”
“Oh, fucking swell.”
* * *
Melanie Chamber stirred in her small hospital bed and turned her head to look at her visitors. Her eyes were sunken pits, her skull bald and yellow, her elbows like windshield wipers. Eaten alive, day and night. Poison the only cure, and not much of one. The ward was hushed, which Amara found equal parts appropriate and sad. “Hi. Are you looking for my mom?”
“Oh, thank God.”Whoa. Did I just give thanks because I can Reap a fifth grader?
“She means no,” Gray said. “We’re here for you, hon.”
Melanie somehow produced a smile. “My grandpa told me about you. How I shouldn’t be scared when you come. But you’re not what I thought you were gonna be.”
“Tell us about it,” Gray replied.
“I thought you’d be older. And a guy.”
“My father’s sick,” Amara said, taking Melanie’s hand in hers, careful not to jostle the IV or dislodge the tape. “I’m filling in.”
“Will he get better?”
“I don’t know. But you don’t have to worry about that.” Melanie’s small hand was essentially one giant, red-black bruise. She looked as if a breeze would blow her away. She looked as if a breeze wouldhurt. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Okay. That’s...” Her tentative smile became fixed. Her chest fell and did not rise again. Alarms began to shrill, and Amara stepped back so the code team could begin their fruitless tasks.
ChapterThirty-Two
“This will shock you,” Gray announced, “but I have thoughts. And questions. Some thoughts. And many questions.”
“Hit me.”
“Okay, but first, how fucking brave and awesome was that kid? I can’t imagine going through a tenth of that.”
Amara said nothing but, like Gray, had thoughts.Your childhood wasn’t exactly all awesome all the time, my love. Your mother almost accidentally killed you more than once. And your father was worse.Time had shown Gray didn’t welcome comparisons, or discussion of any kind, about his childhood.
She would never understand how such hateful wretches produced someone so loving and kind.I’m constantly whining about my parents, but they never threw a hot pot of elbow macaroni at me. They never made me drink glass after glass of raw eggs until I threw up. Never locked me out in the snow, or made me sleep in the car during a heatwave. Though Mom’s lutefiskispretty awful, and her feelings get hurt if you don’t ask for seconds...
“So of the people who died,” Gray was saying, his expression adorably intent, “some of them know exactly who you are. Or who your father is. Sometimes they know you right away, and sometimes they recognize you after you start talking to them. But a few have no idea who you are. What’s up with that?”
“The older families know Death, and pass that knowledge to the younger generation.”
“Older families like Native Americans? The Mandan and the Sioux?”
“No, Natives have their own death gods. Europeans—immigrants from France, Norway, Germany, Sweden, to name a few—have been here for centuries. And they bred fast, since 90 percent of their children died before they could walk, and also a splinter could lead to your lingering demise. So they wanted their line to continue, no matter how quickly it aged their wives. Which is why there are still Le Sueurs and Radissons running around. Pike and Carver have descendants, too; offshoots from the original settlers. And some of them passed down what they knew about Death.”
“Huh. Okay. Thanks for explaining. What’s the plan for the Reap-ees who were MIA today?”
“Reap-ees?”
