Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2) Read online

  MEDICINE FOR THE DEAD

  a novel

  BY AMBROSE IBSEN

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  Copyright 2016 by Ambrose Ibsen

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  Harlan Ulrich sipped at his bubbling Perrier, the wedge of lime imparting a noticeable tartness with every sip, while Dean continued into one of his stories. His grey hair was slicked back and his nose was growing red. Clutched in his fist was his third or fourth beer, and if history had taught him anything, it was that Dean still had another three or four to go before he'd call it a night.

  “Bodies, like ten of them,” bellowed Dean, a wreath of foam dressing the edges of his grey mustache. “I read about it just this morning. Cops are going wild because they don't know where they came from. Guess they were in body bags and some fisherman stumbled upon 'em while heading out to catch some Walleye. What do you think about that, Harlan?” he asked the investigator. “Mighty weird, ain't it?” There were only a few other people in the bar, a small group sitting in the opposite corner, but Dean's voice drooped lower and lower till he was speaking in hoarse whispers, as if he were imparting some great secret.

  Harrison looked between the two men, his eyes wide. “Yeah, what do you think, Harlan?”

  Ulrich smirked. “Sounds to me like that's just another reason not to eat anything that comes out of the Maumee River.” He took another gulp of mineral water, setting his empty glass aside and excusing himself from the table. He wanted to walk around the bar, to take in the sights and slowly build some distance from the pair of rowdy men. It was just about time he excused himself for the night.

  Once every few weeks, when the other two could convince their wives to allow them, Ulrich and his friends would meet at a local bar for drinks and dinner. Tonight, Harrison, Dean and himself had chosen Oliver's Bar, a newly-renovated place in the basement of a historic Toledo building. Located in the heart of downtown, the Exeter House building had stood since the mid 19th century. A million and a quarter bricks had gone into its construction, and in its heyday the bar had been complimented by a number of furnished rooms available for rent. Rumor had it that President Lincoln had once stayed in the Exeter Building while passing through Northwest Ohio on business. After being converted into a factory in the early 1900's and then languishing in decrepitude over the past several decades, its newest owner had begun to renovate it.

  “C'mon, Harlan,” uttered Harrison from behind his glass between copious pulls. “Come sit down. And why not order a beer for once? It won't kill ya, you ol' sourpuss.” He chuckled drunkenly, setting down his drink with a thud. Harrison was ordinarily a timid man, but like Dean, all he needed was a couple of drinks to loosen up.

  Ulrich, who'd never had a taste for alcohol, politely declined and began pacing around the bar, studying the walls, which were overburdened with old photographs, vintage beer bottles and various other curios of local significance. The Oliver Bar, the only functioning business that still remained in the hulking brick building anymore, had only recently reopened following a lengthy remodeling that'd featured in the local news. The new owner had taken great pains to refinish the place, restoring its fixtures and furniture till it appeared very much like it would have around the turn of the last century. Compared to the dives where the three of them usually met, the Oliver Bar was more than a little refined. The beer was expensive, sourced from a local brewery, but the barkeep, an amicable type with a Scottish accent, had been kind enough to give Ulrich a few rounds of mineral water with lime on the cheap.

  Dean looked about ready to climb onto the table as he raved on. “Whoever did it, they just turned this city on its head, I tell ya.” He sucked in a mouthful of lager and shook his head, frowning. He scratched at his belly, which peeked out from the border of his faded leather jacket. “Monstrous, just monstrous. Can't even identify 'em because the bodies are so degraded.”

  Ulrich had known Dean for many years, had met him during one of his early investigations. Dean had been named as a witness to a theft in a local casino, and when the case had been closed, the two maintained contact. Dean, a semi-professional poker player and golfer, had never held proper employment in the nearly two decades Ulrich had known him, though when the time came, he never had the least bit of trouble coming up with beer money. He was married to a kind woman named Roberta who he saw little of. Something of a womanizer, Dean was always busy wooing some woman or another, spending money on everyone but his wife.

  Harrison was another matter completely. A straight-shooter through and through, he'd gone to college with Ulrich and graduated with a bachelor's in accounting. From college he landed a job keeping the books for a local textile company, bought himself a little house and settled down with a nagging wife. Deborah, his wife of fifteen years, rather disliked it when he went out with Ulrich and Dean, calling them both “terrible influences”. Though usually soft-spoken and nervous, Harrison really came into his own over a couple of drinks.

  They were good company, the both of them, but after a few beers they got to be a little too much for Ulrich to handle. Not being one to imbibe, he was always the first to leave their gatherings, lest he get roped into carrying their drunken asses home.

  Ulrich was admiring a photograph of the building in its prime when the barkeep called over to him. “Can I interest you in a refresher?” He was a tall man, with beefy arms and a closely-shaven blonde beard. Very nearly Ulrich's height but with far broader shoulders, the barkeep sported a wide grin. His cleanly shaven head reflected the dim lights over the bar. “Night's young, after all. Your friends seem to be having a good time.”

  “They often do,” replied Ulrich, declining the offer of another drink. “As for me, I'll be heading out shortly. I was just admiring the décor. Some excellent photographs you've got here. It's like stepping into a time machine, walking into this place.”

  Drying his hands on the front of his scratchy-looking vest, the barkeep nodded, offering his hand to shake. “You've got a good eye there, mister. Yes, the boss really brought a bit of the local flavor back when redesigning this place. Wanted it to look just-so, like it would've done a century ago. Name's Callum Meikle, and I'm in charge of running the bar. The apartments upstairs will be openin' up, and I reckon they'll bring a good bit of regular business. Whole of downtown's likely to be reinvigorated by the Exeter's new lease on life.”

  Ulrich shook the man's hand, finding his grasp a tad too tight for his liking, and was going to introduce himself when someone entered into his periphery from behind the bar.

  “Harlan? Harlan Ulrich, is that you?” said a man in a cream-colored suit. It was perfectly-tailored, framing the fellow's athletic physique in sharp relief. His hair was dark, with a fade on the sides, and though Ulrich recognized something familiar in the man's green eyes, he couldn't recall his name or where they'd met. His face was rough, looked a good ten years older than the rest of him, and his nose hooked very slightly to the right as though it'd been broken one too many times.

  Ulrich was trying to recall whether he was acquainted with any professional boxers when suddenly it dawned on him. “Jamieson?”

  The man grinned, flashing his pearly teeth and leaning over the bar to shake Ulrich's hand forcefully. “You do remember! How the hell are ya, Harlan? I feel like it's been years since last we met.”

  Ulrich smiled sheepishly, suddenly feeling self-conscious and straightening out the collar of his gingham dress shirt absentmindedly. It
wasn't so often these days that he saw old schoolmates of his. Jamieson Reed, son of influential Toledo business owner Elijah Reed, had gone to high school with him. A charismatic ruffian, Jamieson had always been expected to go on to great things; trouble was that he could never seem to curtail the mischievousness that came so naturally to him. Even before he and Ulrich had become acquainted, Jamieson had garnered a reputation for troublemaking and risk-taking. He ran in questionable social circles, got into entirely too many fights both in and out of school for someone of his affluent background. More than once Ulrich had heard rumor that his wealthy father was disowning him. Mere rumors those must've been, however, for despite all their quarreling, Elijah Reed was known to care very much for his troubled only son.

  Elijah Reed was old money, the kind of guy who featured prominently in the local press, and who was always being photographed shaking hands with State senators and such. He owned a well-known glass company that still operated out of downtown Toledo and had bailed Jamieson out of trouble countless times when the younger Reed got in over his head.

  If memory served, when last Ulrich and Jamieson had been in touch, they'd been high school seniors. There was talk then of Jamieson's getting involved with local gangs, of his getting thrown in jail for dealing in drugs. In subsequent years, Ulrich had heard bits and pieces from friends and associates; talk that he'd used up a good deal of his father's money in launching lackluster businesses.

  Jamieson was very much the man Ulrich remembered. He was vital, robust, and charismatic as ever. The passage of years hadn't robbed him of his usual swagger, and as he leaned against the bar, sizing up Ulrich with a grin, the investigator found himself transported back in time. “What are you up to these days?” asked Jamieson, seeming genuinely curious.

  Ulrich fumbled with his answer. “W-well, I'm... uh, you know... a PI.”

  “Right, right,” replied Jamieson. “Doing all right for yourself, I hope?” He didn't wait for Ulrich to reply before starting once again. “Me, I'm the proud owner of this building. I oversaw the renovation of Exeter House and Oliver's Bar here.” He placed a hand on the shoulder of the towering Scotsman and grinned. “Don't suppose you're looking for a place to stay, are you? Just got done fixing up the five apartments on the top floor and they're absolute dynamite!”

  Ulrich laughed nervously. “I'm sure they're lovely,” he began, “but I've already got a place.” He cleared his throat, falling silent. Over the years, Jamieson had really cleaned himself up. After a turbulent youth and getting into no shortage of trouble, he'd finally found success. That he owned a local landmark like the Exeter House and was poised to reinvigorate it was an exciting prospect.

  By contrast, Ulrich scarcely had anything he could be proud of in his life.

  In the years since their last meeting, what things of note had Harlan Ulrich done? Graduating from college, starting his own private detective agency... and little else. This latter accomplishment, admittedly, wasn't so impressive that he could find it in himself to boast. The vast majority of his cases were unremarkable things, monotonous and, frankly, embarrassing. Ulrich could count on one hand all of the cases he'd solved over the years that really made him proud and which served to reinforce the romantic stereotypes surrounding private investigators.

  “Congratulations,” said Ulrich after a time. “It's a beautiful building, and I like what you've done with the bar. It's really come together. I'm certain it'll be an extremely successful venture.”

  Jamieson slapped Ulrich's arm, the grin never fading from his lips. “Thank you, Harlan. I appreciate that.” From his pocket he drew a business card, professionally printed, and handed it over to the investigator. “If anyone you know is looking for a place to stay, you let me know, you hear? If they're a friend of yours, I'll give 'em a great deal, bud. Best location in all of Toledo.” He pointed up towards the ceiling. “From any one of the five units up there you can see pretty much the whole of the city right outside your window. Can you imagine the scenery at night?” He shook his head, slapping the bar with his palm. “It's goddamn beautiful is what it is.”

  Ulrich pocketed the business card and smiled. “Yes, it sounds great. I'll be sure to call if anyone I know is in the market for a new apartment.” With that, Ulrich bid Jamieson and the bartender a good night. “I've got to be getting home,” he said, his head bobbing in a nod. “Work in the morning, you understand.”

  This, of course, was a lie.

  Ulrich made his own hours, and more than likely he'd sleep in the next morning. Hell, for all he knew, he wouldn't even bother visiting his office, just as he'd done that very morning. Ulrich hadn't checked his messages for a few days now, and had probably received a couple of inquiries from prospective clients since last he'd cleared them. More likely than not, these requests would be unbearably dull, and he'd ignore them all anyhow.

  That's why you haven't made anything out of your life, Harlan, he thought to himself. It's because you're a lazy ass. You could own buildings and wear nice suits, too, if you only tried a little harder.

  Jamieson gave a lazy wave and then started chatting with the barkeeper about some event taking place in the next month, sponsored by the local Yacht Club.

  Ulrich sidled up to the table where Dean was still rambling on. “So,” slurred Dean, giving his beer a swish, “I was sitting there, giving the dealer a real icy look, see?” He furrowed his wrinkled brow in a show of apparent intimidation. This was one of Dean's many poker stories. Harrison was leaning forward, listening intently, as if it would end in some unexpected way. Without even listening to the details, Ulrich knew that the story would end with Dean's winning several hands of poker and coming away with a ton of money. Dean never told stories about his losses, of which he knew there were a great and many.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Ulrich, throwing a few bills on the table from his wallet. “I've got to call it a night.” He pulled on his sport coat and dusted off the sleeves. “It's been fun, gentlemen. Let's do it again sometime. Say hello to your wives for me.”

  Dean guffawed, leaning back in his chair till the two front legs were raised off of the ground and he teetered precariously. “If I see her, I'll be sure to pass on your warm regards, pal. I'm fixing to spend the night with more agreeable company, though.” His grin broadened into something salacious. “I'll let whatever warm, nubile body I find myself pressed against tonight know that Harlan says hallo.”

  Harrison spit beer into his glass, laughing with the rosy-cheeked energy of a child before wiping his chin and looking up to the departing investigator. “Aw, come on, man. It's still early! Why don't you stay a while. Dean's just getting going, and he's got a hell of a story to tell.”

  Ulrich patted Harrison on the shoulder as he made his way to the exit. “Maybe another night, fellas. Get home safe and sleep tight, eh?” With that, he started through the glass door, walked up the concrete steps to the main entrance of the Exeter House, and ventured into the young night.

  ***

  The night was brisk. Northwest Ohio was on the threshold of winter, and with every passing day the temperatures were dropping lower and lower. He cursed as a chill wind rushed through his thin attire like a spike and wished he'd had the foresight to wear something warmer. As he walked along the dim streets, passing bar-goers and putting some distance between himself and the Exeter House, he thought about what he'd do when he got home.

  In the past few weeks he'd taken on only a single case. It'd been one day's work and had paid a decent sum, which was the only reason he'd agreed to it. An old woman some streets down from him had asked him to look into the series of dead animals that had been showing up on her front doorstep for the better part of a month. She was certain that neighborhood kids were killing mice, birds, squirrels and more, setting them upon her stoop for her to find each morning when she went to fetch her newspaper. The culprit, though, turned out to be a particularly hefty tabby cat, a stray, which she'd made the mistake of feeding a couple of times in the
past. Ulrich had delivered the stray to the local Humane Society and collected his payment before noon.

  This was the kind of work he'd been forced to take to make ends meet, and it'd left a bad taste in his mouth. What would Jamieson think of him if he knew that Ulrich was moonlighting as the local cat-catcher? He'd needed the money badly, since he'd run through his savings and overspent following his previous case of note. The money Jerome Klein had paid him for his investigation into the disappearance of his uncle had covered several bills and a month's worth of rent. Rather than saving the rest and spending it judiciously however, the investigator had decided to reward himself, and had gone on a spending spree. In a single afternoon, he treated himself to a number of new devices that would serve him in making delicious coffee at home; two handsome new carafes, an electric burr grinder whose settings were numerous, and expensive paper filters in bulk. With the grinder he could make perfect grounds for a french press, nice and coarse, or grounds so dusty and fine that he'd someday be able to use it in conjunction with the espresso machine he hoped to purchase when funds allowed.

  As he walked, passing by a cluster of loud club-goers, Ulrich thought about all of the things he'd do once he got home to warm himself back up. He'd take a nice, hot bath. Whip up a piping hot coffee, a strong one, using his new gear. Perhaps he'd sit down and watch a movie, or read on the sofa, with a thick blanket draped over him.

  The apartment complex entered into view, and Ulrich doubled his pace, racing inside and rubbing his chilly palms together frenziedly. Mounting the stairs, he whistled to himself and dug around in his pockets numbly for the keys. After some difficulty, his cold fingers cooperated and he selected the key to his apartment, only to stop in the doorway and notice something taped to the doorframe.

  It was a slip of orange paper, and from the very first he found he didn't like the look of it. With a quivering hand, Ulrich reached out and pulled it away, opening it at once.