Free Dead Birmingham by Timothy C. Phillips Page A

wasn’t there.
    â€œWhat the? Where you at, Dracula?” Bone said aloud. But no time to waste. He started walking toward a large mall that sat at the intersection. Once he was off the property, a store detective couldn’t do jack shit. If that’s what that guy was. He had picked up a weird vibe off that dude. Something in the man’s eyes. Screw it now, though, he was almost off the property.  
    Bone came to the edge of the lot, vaulted a concrete barrier, and dodged down a alley that ran between a warehouse and a closed store with a “For Sale or Lease” sign in the front window. Yim and he had made out well, he knew. Had to be a solid grand in that bag. They had been doing quite a bit of shopping, today. He came to a vacant lot behind the two buildings. He looked around, and climbed up onto the loading bay at the rear of the store.  
    No way that guy followed me, Bone told himself. But he couldn’t shake the feeling the man had given him.  
    Man you got the nervous shakes? he asked himself. Mission accomplished. Let it drop. In about an hour go to the spot and meet Yim. My little cherry blossom.  
    Then lightning went off in his skull, and the world turned red.
    Jesus—
    Bone spun and tried to stand, but his legs refused to work correctly. A face swam into view, and he knew he was blacking out. As he sank to the ground he realized it was the man—the guy who looked like Bela Lugosi.
    Flat on his back on the cement, Bone looked up at the man who stood over him. Andthen he realized what it was about the pale apparition that bothered him so much. It was his eyes. They were like a shark’s, black and empty—as black as the darkness into which he was falling.
    * * *
    Bone was coming out of it. What had happened? Yim. Yim and he . . . had they gotten caught? No. wait. They had gotten away. His head hurt. Something stank. Smelled like a hospital. Somebody was waking him up, sticking something under his nose.
    Oh my God! It was him ! Count Dracula. Terror flood bone’s body. Who are you? He wanted to scream, but he realized that his mouth was stuffed with something, one of his own socks, some still calm voice in his mind noted.
    This was all wrong. He realized now that this man wasn’t a store detective, wasn’t anything he had previously encountered. This man was Death.
    The man had donned a plastic raincoat, Bone noted with growing horror. On the table behind him was an assortment of knives, a saw, other horrible things.
    Man you got to be shitting me. Bone gnawed at the sweaty sock that filled his mouth, trying to speak. This wasn’t for real, couldn’t be. They were just trying to scare the shit out of him, and it was working.  
    The man began to speak. “I am in the employ of a certain gentleman,” he announced quietly, almost shyly, it seemed to Bone, as though he spoke very seldom. He had some kind of accent, Russian? German? His English was precise and refined. “This gentleman has had something stolen from him. A tawdry business. This was an important item, the safekeeping of which he had entrusted to someone. This person allowed it to be taken from him.”  
    There was a small shake of the man’s head. People are so careless these days, that small gesture seemed to say. Tsk, tsk.
    â€œI have been sent, by the owner, to deal with all concerned. Now, here is the crux of the matter. We believe that his property was stolen by you, or by one of your young friends.” He moved over to the table and picked up a long, narrow-bladed knife. “What my employer has asked me to do is to recover this item. But this gentleman was embarrassed, as you well can imagine. His reputation was damaged by this theft. So, in addition to recovering the item, a lesson is to be administered to all parties, as well. This is to insure that my employer recovers his esteem, as well as his property.”
    What item? What item? But the words