Are you sure?”
“His body was filled with it. That’s why Wallace can’t pinpoint an exact time of death. The mixture killed off the microorganisms that cause decomposition. It slowed down rigor mortis. The right carotid was engorged, although that could have been from the tube.”
Kat’s voice rose with disbelief. “There was a tube?”
“Not when you found him, but the incision in the artery had been widened by something. The assumption is that the killer inserted a tube into it. That’s how he was able to get the formaldehyde and water mixture into the circulatory system. It got the job done, but it was pretty rough. Not at all like the professionals.”
“Professional who?”
“Morticians,” Nick said. “After George Winnick bled to death, the killer tried to embalm him.”
NINE
Henry lay on his weight bench, grunting against the 250-pound barbell he pushed away from his chest. The muscles in his arms tightened as he held the weight aloft for three seconds. When he lowered it, the tension eased, flooding his muscles with a satisfying warmth.
“One,” he said.
He raised the barbell again. He paused three more seconds. He lowered it.
“Two.”
Henry’s routine included a workout in a corner of his apartment filled with exercise equipment. One hour of each day was devoted to honing his body to its full potential. Although pushing forty, he possessed the strength and agility of a much younger man.
“Three.”
With his face looking the way it did, Henry knew peak physical prowess was the only thing that kept people from pitying him completely.
“Four.”
And he didn’t want pity.
“Five.”
He wanted to be left alone.
While he worked out, music blasted from a CD player against the wall. Puccini’s Tosca, one of his favorites. Opera was still relatively new to Henry. It was only in the past five years that he had become obsessed with it. Now it was the only music he listened to. Especially the tragedies. What he heard in the music, other people missed. The tales of doomed love, mistaken identity, and broken hearts of epic proportions were melodramatic, yes. But they were also true. You could love someone so much you would kill for them. Your love could be so strong that if they died, a large part of you died with them. Opera was tragic. So was life.
Finishing another set of reps, Henry lowered the weights and—breath heavy, heart thumping—paused to listen to the music. It was “E lucevan le stelle,” Cavaradossi’s third-act aria in which the doomed painter recalled memories of his lover, Tosca. The aria was sung in Italian, and Henry knew every word. He was fluent in Italian, having learned it in his old life. Before the accident. Before Henry Ghoul.
E lucevan le stelle.
Henry repeated it in English, like a prayer. “How the stars seemed to shimmer.”
Closing his eyes, he focused on the music, on the lyrics, on the perfect voice singing them. It reminded him of Gia. Sweet Gia. His Italian rose. The aria could have been written about her.
Entrava ella, fragrante.
“How she then entered, so fragrant, and then fell into my arms.”
Usually, he would have been enthralled, swept up in the aria’s embrace. But that day was different. The aria—and thoughts of Gia—put him in a dark mood, which was accompanied by an itching restlessness.
L’ora è fuggita … e muoio disperato.
“My last hour has flown and I die hopeless.”
E non ho amato mai tanto la vita.
“And never have I loved life more.”
Henry left the room without bothering to turn off the CD player. His apartment, located above a used-book store on the end of Main Street, was large by modern standards. But that evening, the place felt absolutely tiny. As he roamed restlessly inside it, the walls seemed to constrict around him.
He had to get out. Just for a little bit.
His steps quickened in the hallway as he headed for the front door. By the time he was outside, he was at a full jog—legs churning, arms pumping. He picked up speed to tackle the slight incline of north Main Street. When it flattened out at the end of the street, he kept the same pace, streaking over the sidewalk.
The stares of strangers confronted him as he passed. Blurs of faces trying to get a good look at him. Henry ignored them, soon becoming unaware of how many people he flew by or if they were staring. He also ignored the cold, which his flimsy workout clothes did nothing to ward off. He focused only on the steady exhalation of his breath and the rhythmic slapping of his feet on the pavement.
The sadness that overcame him in his apartment dissipated outdoors. He knew the melancholy would wash over him again at some point. No matter how fast he ran, Henry knew he couldn’t outrun his pain.
After he had sprinted at full speed for about fifteen minutes, a cramp stabbed his midsection. He slowed himself, legs winding down until eventually he came to a stop at the corner of Maple and Oak streets. Bent forward in exhaustion, palms resting on his knees, he noticed a large Victorian mansion dominating the corner.
McNeil Funeral Home.
Henry had never been inside, but the exterior impressed the hell out of him. Three stories tall with white siding, it boasted a green gabled roof, wraparound front porch, and Tiffany accents in the tall windows. Pretty fancy for a stopping place on the way to the afterlife.
Once he regained control of his breathing, Henry stepped onto the walkway that cut through the property’s expansive front yard. Without fully comprehending what he was doing, he trotted toward the front door. Not hesitating, he pushed inside, entering a tastefully appointed room dominated by a large mahogany desk. An attractive young woman sat behind it. She smiled at him when he entered.
“Hello, Henry,” she said.
He halted in the doorway. “How did you know it was me?”
“Because you look uncertain.”
Henry imagined he looked more than uncertain. He probably looked ghastly in his sweat-drenched T-shirt and running shorts, his flushed face making its flaws stand out even more.
Deana Swan, however, looked better than expected. Years of speaking to her on the phone had created a mental picture that wasn’t flattering. In Henry’s imagination, she was a female version of her brother, with chipmunk cheeks and oversized sweaters. That was the type of woman who spent her whole day in a funeral home.
The real Deana couldn’t have been further from the image created in his head. In her early thirties, she was slim, well proportioned, and modestly stylish in a black skirt and lavender blouse. She wore her strawberry
