Raise the Dead Read online

boney fingertips.

  SKHHHHHHH…SKHHHHHHH…SKHHHHHHH.

  Panic and anxiety embraced the courtroom occupants. The prosecutor, who only

  seconds ago was laughing to himself at what he perceived to be a feeble attempt by the

  defense to obtain a mistrial, was now trying to moisten his suddenly dry mouth with the drinking

  water at the table. The cool water had little effect as he and the others had begun to perspire

  from the tension generated by the unknown on the other side of the door.

  Neckties, jackets, and blouses had suddenly become too binding. It was so quiet, you

  could almost hear your neighbor’s heartbeat. Both jurors and spectators gave each other those

  nervous little smiles that you make when you feel guilty for even considering the absurd.

  Absurd or not, something was on the other side. The scraping had everyone’s attention riveted to

  the door.

  Everyone wanted to see and yet, they didn’t. Some just wanted to escape through the

  Judge’s chamber door. Others thought of bullying past the armed bailiff to gain access the

  emergency exit.

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  The Judge mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he nodded to one of the attending

  bailiffs to open the door.

  The courtroom had become a still life painting of anticipation.

  The bailiff drew her weapon, blew air through her teeth and eased towards the courtroom

  doors, but before she could open them, there was a sudden silence.

  The scraping sounds had ceased and the twin knobs slowly turned until they clicked

  and the doors slowly opened inward.

  Jarvis swallowed hard not know exactly what to expect.

  More than one person had fainted before seeing the visitor from the other side enter the

  courtroom.

  “Pardon us. Is anyone there? We’re trying to find the restroom please.”

  The bailiff let out a sigh of relief, seeing a blind man with his guide dog standing

  at the doorway.

  Nervous laughter filled the courtroom. Even Jarvis felt relief. Relief that was colored

  with a bit of disappointment.

  Visibly shaken, the Judge banged his gavel and said, “Thirty minutes.”

  The men’s room cleared when Jarvis entered. Leaning over the sink, he ran the water as

  cold as he could get it and rinsed his face repeatedly. Had he actually expected a zombie to show

  up and testify on behalf of his client? Could zombies even talk? Do they even care about the

  penalties of perjury? He sure could use the kick of a good cup of coffee. What would be the use

  though? He still couldn’t taste anything. Was that the price he had paid to Momma Lijo? If

  that were the case, where then was Verdin? Did Momma Lijo give refunds? He hoped so. How

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  badly he wanted to taste a ‘sweet’ cup of coffee. To taste “anything” really. More importantly,

  how would he explain his actions to the Judge? Could they be explained?

  Jarvis’s thoughts were curtailed by an odor that assailed his poor nostrils. It was an

  instant headache as he smelled pure rot. He stiffened as he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

  He slowly straightened up from the sink, watching the rising reflection of his own image and

  the dark suit behind it in the huge bathroom mirror.

  It was Eric Verdin, Jr. The pallor of his skin was tinged with a light shade of blue from

  post mortem decay. The lavender cadaver spoke.

  “Mith’ter Thorton,” said the voice of young Verdin with all of the facial mechanics of a

  ventriloquist’s dummy. “I’m ‘thorry about the delay, but I juth’ had to bring father along ‘tho

  he could meet your big, black, friend. You know, the one who gith’ the kind of ‘head’ that can

  raith’ the dead.”

  Apparently, in death, there’s no saliva left to make the “s” sound with, Jarvis surmised

  as he felt the warmth of fresh bowel waste trickling down his thighs.

  “Come on out father and ‘thay hello to Mith’ter Thorton.”

  One of the stalls burst opened and the real source of the foul stench had revealed itself.

  A slime glazed, bug infested, rotted corpse, in a tattered tuxedo emerged from the stall.

  In his present condition, the senior Verdin would never again be recognized on sight

  for who he really was.

  “After we attend to the Clar’reeth’ matter you muth’ take uth’ to meet Momma

  Lijo.”

  The senior Verdin nodded in the affirmative because he no longer had any working

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  vocal organs to articulate with. In doing so, a fat slug fell from one of his jellied eye sockets.

  Streams of puke seeped through Jarvis’ lips as he bent over the basin and fainted.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Jarvis felt himself being helped from the bathroom floor.

  “Jarvis! Jarvis! Wake up man. I’ve been looking all over for you. Damn, boss man,

  did you shit on yourself? It smells like pure funk in here.”

  “Sorry Terry. I got sick. I’ll be alright in a minute. Help me get cleaned up. I’ve got

  to get to the Judge’s chambers.”

  “No you don’t. It’s over. Over. Your did it. Mrs. Verdin cracked. She confessed.”

  “Confessed? Confessed to what?”

  “Both murders. Her son’s and her husband’s. She’s chattering like parrot. Babbling

  something like, ‘They’re back! They’re back! But that can’t be. They’re both dead. I know

  that, because I’m the one who killed them.’”

  “Who’s back?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? The point is, Clarice is in the clear. Man you played

  that one like a violin,” Terry said shaking a finger at Jarvis. “How did you know?”

  “Terry, I thought she loved her son more than anything. I had no idea that Mrs. Verdin

  was the killer. But what I thought really doesn’t matter, does it? What’s important here, is that

  justice was served.”

  “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up boss man. You can’t be on the evening news with

  vomit all over you.”

  The end?