Dead and Kicking Read Free

light,” I said. I got up from the bench and threw my empty
cup into the trash, ignoring the pleading spirit. What?
I said I sent them on their way, not hold their hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’. I’m not
their grief counsellor. If there’s one
thing I’ve learned over the past few years, it’s that you have to be pretty
blunt when it comes to the dead. Just
cut to the chase. Otherwise you’ll end
up getting sucked into the vortex of their self-pity. Telling it like it is usually works;
unfortunately not this time.
    “Please, you gotta
help me. I can’t go yet. There’s something I have to do first.” He looked at me, his desperation mirrored in
his eyes. I hate it when they look at me
like that. It’s like looking at a
puppy. It gets me every time.
    “Alright,
alright.
What do you want me to do? Get a
message to someone? Feed your cat?”
    Dead Guy smiled. Wow, he could really turn on the charm. Too bad he was dead; that smile could have
taken him places.
    “Hurry! This
way.”
    He evaporated only to reappear back
across the street. I reluctantly
followed, his spectral body blinking in and out of sight a few yards in front
of me, like some sort of weird follow the bouncing ball sing along.
    I found Dead Guy’s body just around
the corner from the coffee shop in the back lane. It looked like he had been dumped there and
the killer didn’t try all that hard to hide the body. I really hate looking at dead bodies. You’d think I would be used to it by now, but
it doesn’t get any easier. I never
would have guessed the bloody, swollen bag of bones on the ground beside the
dumpster could be my Asian Cary Grant. He
had really taken a beating. I turned to
look at the spirit beside me. “Do you
remember your name?”
    “My name? Of course I know my own
name. I’m Bryce. Bryce Chow.”
    “Do you have any idea who would do
this to you?”
    “I…”
A look of consternation passed over his handsome features. “I…I don’t
know. I can’t remember.”
    No surprise there, but it was worth a
shot. Generally, the memories of the
recently departed are like Swiss cheese.
They can usually remember their name, address and what they ate for
breakfast, but the minutes leading up to their death? Gone like a prom queen’s virginity in the
back of a Chevy. Looking at what had
once been Bryce Chow, I guess it’s a mercy.
    “I really can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?” Bryce moaned.
    “It’s just the way it is. Listen Bryce, you’ve got to focus. Why did you need me to come here? What is it that you still have to do?”
    “I…the stick. The
memory stick. They didn’t find
it.” He clutched at his ghostly head as
if he could yank the memories out. “Why
can’t I remember who they are?”
    “I don’t know. I’ll do what I can to help you find out. Where do I find this memory stick?”
    “It’s in my shoe, my left shoe.”
    “Crap! I don’t want to touch
you.” I made a face of disgust. “Didn’t you ever watch TV? I’ll leave fingerprints or trace evidence or
something.”
    “Come on girl, you’ve got to help
me.”
    A quick look around the back lane
revealed that the only security camera in range appeared to be broken. Luckily, the shoe in question wasn’t as dirty
as the other and I was able to grasp it with my hands in the sleeves of my
sweater. The heel swiveled open with a
little persuasion and inside I found a USB memory stick. I pocketed the stick, closed the secret
compartment back up and then got the hell out of there.
    At the entrance to the lane I stopped
and pulled out my cell phone.
    “What are you doing?” Bryce’s
incorporeal self was beginning to become more translucent. I was surprised he lasted as long as he
did. As I said, manifesting as a ghost
requires energy. Usually the newbies
don’t have much juice and their appearances are fleeting at best.
    “I have to call the cops. If I don’t, and someone saw me enter the
alley, they’ll wonder why I didn’t call it in.