Grave Measures (The Grave Report, Book 2) Read online

  Grave Measures

  A Case File From: The Grave Report

  R.R. Virdi

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright R.R. Virdi 2016

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Jim Hurd. A great mentor, inspiration, role model, and most of all— great friend.

  Acknowledgements

  My editor Michelle Dunbar. Sorry for putting you through all of this again. You’re stuck with me for a long time.

  My cover artist, Sarah, you’re amazing.

  As always, my supportive friends and family, thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter One

  There’s no good way of waking up in a dead body. For starters, you feel like six pounds of crap in a three-pound bag. You have no idea where you are, you’re nauseated, and everything is disoriented. It’s like a bad hangover—with a dead man thrown in.

  I blinked several times. Haziness and columns of white greeted me, peppered with the odd spot dancing across my eyes. The warmth spreading across the back of my neck prompted me to turn. “Ackh,” I sputtered as rays of sunshine shone onto my face, forcing me to squint.

  I wriggled my body in an attempt to loosen it up and discovered another reason why it sucks to wake up in a dead body. My arms were bound. And not in the fun and kinky way.

  They were stretched across my chest in an awkward self-hug. Now I’m all for healthy self-esteem and loving yourself—straitjackets—not so much. I struggled with the restrictive coat, thrashing like I had been tasered. Nothing came of it. The durable canvas held together. Of course it would. I mean, that’s what it’s made for right?

  My efforts succeeded in, first, exhausting me and, secondly, producing a trickle of moisture on my upper lip. A moment later, the stream of liquid trickled into my mouth. I tasted salt and copper. I let my gaze drift over my coat-covered chest. The muscles in my neck strained as I stretched and brushed my nose against the coarse canvas. Crimson blotched with darker hues of garnet smeared across the fabric.

  Dead man’s blood.

  I didn’t expect to be spilling my borrowed blood this early into a case. Sitting up was a challenge as my balance wavered and my body teetered. I rocked from side to side in a cross-legged position. Nausea surged through my body. Bile built in the back of my throat. I fought the urge to retch violently.

  What the hell killed this stiff? I rocked again, enduring all manner of gastronomical discomfort. A few moments of deep breathing through my mouth and my body settled itself. “’Kay,” I panted. “Jacket.”

  I mulled in silence as to how I was going to get out of the constricting piece of canvas. Straitjackets aren’t known for being easy to get out of. But situations like this are easy for me. One of the perks of being a wayward soul with no body of my own. I’ve got a whole library of information rattling around my noggin. Mostly useful tidbits left over from the people I’ve inhabited. I can get out of just about any situation so long as I can dig up the right memory.

  I blanked...

  Shit.

  And sometimes finding the right one is a crapshoot. One of the many side effects of my countless cases. Don’t get me started on my personality issues.

  I took several breaths to steel myself. I didn’t have any idea of what to do. Well—no good ones. Mel Gibson’s voice rang through my head: Don’t try this at home, boys and girls!

  I was going to dislocate one of my borrowed shoulders. Not the brightest idea.

  My teeth clamped around a large wad of the canvas. It wouldn’t mute my scream, but it would soften it. I breathed heavily through my nose. My heartbeat skipped. Eyes shut, I cursed the stupidity of my plan. I fumbled within the confines of the jacket as I tried to grab my left wrist in my right hand. It took a moment but I managed to take hold of my other hand through the thick material.

  Crap, crap, crap, droned through my head. I held firm on my left wrist and lifted and pushed against the jacket. It stretched ever so slightly before contracting to its old and limiting shape. I pushed several times, earning myself a small amount of room to maneuver. I secured three inches of room to work in. It wasn’t a lot, but I’d make it work.

  I resumed my flailing and thrashed with all the vigor I could muster. The fabric gave me a momentary reprieve. It would have to be enough. A small whimper of hesitation left my throat as I tightened my grip on my wrist. I inhaled a final massive breath.

  Visualizing my left shoulder, I rolled it forward to loosen it up. The joint pushed as far as it would go without causing me severe pain. It felt like ropes were fraying between my rotator cuff and clavicle. A small prelude of the pain to come. I paused for a moment, keeping my shoulder on the edge of dislocation, letting out a silent curse before continuing.

  I squeezed the insides of my shoulder hard. In one sharp motion, I jerked violently on my left wrist, putting more force on my shoulder. It was smooth. A single vicious motion and it was done. Well, it was smooth if you don’t count the countless sounds ringing out during the dislocation and after.

  A sickening pop drowned my muffled scream, letting me know my shoulder had indeed left the socket. The urge to puke my guts out returned. I fell onto my right side, my good side. Sharp and dull throbs panged from shoulder to collarbone. The small wad of canvas came out of my mouth. I lay there for a moment, listening to my ragged, strained breaths as I tried to collect myself. Growing numbness overtook my left arm, leaving it feeling like a distant thing.

  Bleach. It was faint but still there. It came from the walls like a noxious and head-dizzying perfume. My eyes fluttered open. The walls hung around me like freshly laundered sheets: crisp, clean, without so much as a scuff, and looking every bit as soft. They weren’t some jarring white, but something lighter and easier on the eyes.

  The room was homey; at least, I think it was. It’s kind of hard to judge a room when you’re lying on your side, incapacitated.

  Just trust me on this one.

  It was cozy. A singular window sat in the wall I had been leaning against. It was a rather simple thing, split into four sections with a few rays of warming sunlight coming through. The floor was a plush carpet, sandalwood, now stained from the driblets of blood m
y nose had been producing. The bed was a twin size. The bedding and sheets looked as if someone had gone through a nightmare under them.

  I was garbed in a simple half-sleeve tee of light gray. The pants matched. They were the sort you’d expect a patient to wear. Light and comfortable.

  The pain subsided enough that I tried to get to my feet. I achieved wobbly success. Vertigo assailed me the instant I was fully righted. I teetered as the room went through the spin cycle. Once I ended my act as a top, I worked on slipping out of the jacket. My left arm came over my head rather easily. It helps having the arm out of its socket. I brought the various buckles and latches to my mouth and tore at them with my teeth. All that tearing worked wonders on my wrecked shoulder. Each tug sent unpleasant vibrations through the damaged socket. I gritted through it; I didn’t have a choice.

  After several painstaking minutes, the latches around my arms came undone. They were still bound within the jacket but no longer clasped together. I had more movement now. Bowing my head, I used my right hand to undo the buckles behind. My fingers fumbled at first. It didn’t take long to unlock the buckles running down the middle of my back. Flaring my shoulders and chest stretched the semi-opened jacket. I grasped the collar and yanked hard.

  There was more room now that the upper portions of the jacket had opened. Thanks to that and my Gumby shoulder, when I pulled on the canvas coat, it slid up. It was just a bit, but still, it was more than before. I exhaled, shrinking my torso as I wrenched again. The jacket slipped up and over my head, coming to hang before me with my arms still inside. I bit into the fabric with my teeth and freed my right arm, using it to release my damaged left.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as the heavy coat crumpled around my bare feet. My attention turned back to my shoulder. I grimaced at the thought of putting it back into its socket. It’s not the most enjoyable of feelings. In a toss up between what hurts more—dislocation or putting the joint back in—it’s a damnable tie.

  My feet dragged as I shambled to the nearest wall, preparing to snap my arm back in place. I leaned forward, letting the shoulder rest against the wall with the lightest amount of pressure. I reared back to slam my shoulder against the solid drywall before me—

  —The doorknob jostled. A mechanical click sounded and the door drifted open without force.

  I didn’t move as lazily as the door. I snapped about. My disjointed arm launched itself across my torso, coming to rest atop my good shoulder. It looked as if I were giving myself a strange half-hug. The door opened halfway when a voice rang out.

  “Charles?” The woman’s voice had mixed inflections of confusion and concern.

  Well, at least I had gotten the victim’s name this early into the case. I didn’t even have to do much to get it. Only tear my arm from its socket and have a nosebleed. Who knew it could be that easy?

  I got a full view of the woman behind the voice the second the door hit the stopper. She was plump and matronly, or at least under normal circumstances she would be. Her hazel eyes widened as she gawked at me. The woman’s pear-shaped face twisted into a mask of horror and bewilderment. A few rogue locks of ruddy brown hair hung from her neatly packed bun. Her jowls quivered as she tried to make sense of what was going on.

  Most people don’t expect to walk into a room and find a guy patting himself with his own dislocated arm. Not to mention the blood that had leaked and dried above my lip, and the fact that Charles’ straitjacket was lying on the floor. It was a fairly odd situation, even by my standards, and—trust me—I’ve seen odd.

  There was a heavy thud as she fell back against the door. The nurse sank to the floor.

  I hate it when they faint, I thought with a resigned sigh. It happens way too much in my job.

  I lurched forward in a stooped and uncoordinated manner. My limp arm fell from its perch and swung without control as I shuffled towards her. Once I reached the nurse and finished my Quasimodo impression, I gave her quick look over. Her chest moved in sync with light breaths. Satisfied, I stepped out of the room and into the hall. A cool sensation ran under my bare feet from the mottled marble below.

  There was no debate in my mind about whether I should stay to examine the room or leave. As much as I wanted to gather more information, I couldn’t risk it. One nurse was already out of it. I had no intention of letting more people walk in on that situation. Gripping my damaged shoulder, I hobbled down the hall in search of a chapel. It was the one place where I’d be able to get my bearings in this case. And maybe some answers if I was lucky.

  I didn’t stop to snap my arm back in its socket. The resulting scream would only draw more attention. I was relying on my injury taking care of itself, like they normally do. Well, not so normally. There’s really not much normal about a bodiless soul.

  My feet beat across the cold, hard marble as I swayed drunkenly. Steadying myself was a difficult feat, especially when the floor looked like it was moving. This body must’ve been whammied pretty good if I was feeling the lingering effects. I had no idea what killed him, who he was, or if Charles was even his legal name. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was more than I’d had this early on in other cases.

  Beggars, choosers and all.

  Between my dazed thoughts and battered body, I had miraculously stumbled into the hall leading to the chapel. The fact I had found it without bumping into a single person was a heckuva relief. I braced my good arm against the nearest wall, reveling in my newfound balance.

  “Noaow, fo’ shum anshaws,” I slurred in drunken triumph. I drew nearer to the chapel and was all but five feet away when electric pins-and-needles blossomed within my dislocated arm.

  I frowned. That didn’t seem right. Not that anything was right about waking up the way I had.

  My jaw felt like it’d taken a good punch. Nausea returned and clearly a cannonball had been dropped on my chest. Nothing else could explain the pain. It felt like a balloon was lodged in my chest and expanding fast. My sternum grew fuller and my chest was too tight for my insides. Every bit of strength rushed out of my body.

  Naturally, that’s when I collapsed.

  There was a resounding impact. A great big thwap! It was the floor’s way of letting me know: Floor – 1. Vincent Graves – 0.

  Stupid floor.

  The side of my face was numb, whether from the fall or whatever was happening to me, I didn’t know. My breaths grew shorter and shallower as the seconds ticked by. I couldn’t even mutter my frustrations about dying this early into a case. Losing the ability to breathe properly does that.

  The chapel doors opened and light rolled out. It wasn’t something just to be seen, it was something to be felt. It bathed the hall in gold-infused white. It wasn’t the sort of glow that illuminated the chapel ahead of me. Nope. This was the kind that caked everything in a blinding and opaque white. It was the kind that forced my eyes to clamp shut in pain. Heat washed over me and staying conscious became more difficult. Every inch of my borrowed body told me to sleep.

  I refused. I’m stubborn like that. This was not normal—even for me. A light at the end of a tunnel? Well, a hallway. I am not going to be killed by a freaking cliché!

  Footsteps—light but audible—forced my eyes to snap open. I couldn’t see anything but horrid light for a moment. Khaki coloring came into my beer-goggle view, clarifying into a pair of legs, and legs only. Given the state and angle of my head, I couldn’t see above their waist. Hell, I couldn’t see their shoes either. My vision was limited to the middle of their thighs and lower. I settled for the halfway point, and developed a sudden and intense hatred for their kneecaps.

  Granted, it’s not as intimidating shooting a death glare at a pair of knees. I hoped their knees got the message to back off and relayed that to their brain.

  Apparently not. Kneecaps aren’t all that great at transmitting messages. They kept getting closer. I flailed in protest. It didn’t do me much good. A few more steps and they were out of my fishbowl sight. I would’ve released a sigh of
relief if a tugging sensation didn’t envelop my good arm. A panicked, dry wheeze left my lungs and I struggled to free my arm from their hold.

  No dice. The stranger’s grip was frozen steel.

  The floor slid beneath me and I realized I was being dragged rather unceremoniously. A thought crossed my mind. The way to hell involves being dragged, doesn’t it?

  Screw that! I thought in uppity defiance. If I was going out, I’d go out being the biggest pain in the ass I could! I stopped struggling and allowed myself to do what I had been resisting this whole time—relax. I went limp, becoming one, big, dead weight—literally, if you think about it. All sense of color faded as I heeded the light’s message to sleep.

  Blackness rolled over me.

  Chapter Two

  Salmon and red replaced the sea of onyx before my eyes. Rogue spots of white danced within my lids. Someone must’ve taken the liberty to slather adhesive between my eyes. They felt gummy and refused to open at first. When they did, I woke to solid and unforgiving wood running beneath me.

  Light, much gentler than the halogen-powered assault I had just endured, wafted in. The glow of sunlight put on an interesting show in the air above. Particulate matter hung, bobbing and dancing around. Every now and again, the occasional dust speck sank to the floor. It felt nice, lying there—watching, letting the warming rays spread over me.

  My attention returned to the rigid board I was on; it was so uncomfortable I had lost sensation in a certain part of my body. I muttered about all good things coming to an end. I shifted to remedy the situation. It worked, sort of. Prickling orbs of feeling burst into life across the skin below my lower back. Once I was confident my ass was no longer sleeping on the job, I propped myself up for a better look. The hard wood of the pew wasn’t too welcoming to my elbows.