Lee Killough
Killer Karma
1
He found himself standing in a parking garage with no memory except of his murder. Those final sensations felt seared into his brain: the hard pressure of a gun muzzle behind his right ear; his body stiffened by surprise, horror, and anger; a cry of No, wait! rising in his throat…but all vanishing the next second in an explosion of pain that hurled him into darkness.
As he recoiled from the memory, however, reason overrode terror. Those could hardly be final sensations if he were able to remember them.
“Way to go, numbnuts,” he said.
The sound of his voice reassured him of his reality, too. So did feeling the back of his head. His exploring fingers found just short hair…no stickiness indicative of fresh blood, no matting indicative of dried blood. Certainly no bullet hole.
“You just had a bad dream.”
But if that were the case, how did he explain the amnesia?
He fought the panic threatening him again. Maybe he had been mugged and received a concussion. Tan lines on his wrist and ring finger attested to a missing watch and ring. Except how could he be on his feet if he had been hit hard enough to lose all memory, and even awareness of what city he was in? A quick examination of his clothes — grey suit, pin-striped shirt, tie striped in yellow, maroon, and grey — found no blood or other signs of attack. Nor did running his hands over his body — a lanky one better than six feet tall — locate any injuries. His chin felt smooth, free of abrasions. Except for his tie being loosened and shirt unbuttoned at the collar, he seemed ready to walk into a business meeting.
Meeting! The thought sent him reeling backward, staggered by a rush of anger, guilt, leaden foreboding, a pounding sense of urgency, and — insanely — images of…butterflies? He shook his head to clear it. Butterflies. That was crazy. The rest, though, seemed to indicate he was scheduled for an unpleasant but critically important meeting. Life or death important. But where was it? How could he find out?
The answer hit him a moment later. Duh. “Use your phone, stupid.” People at the numbers in it would know him.
He reached into his coat but to his dismay, found no phone. Not only no phone. Checking the rest of his pockets one by one found them all were empty. No billfold, no business cards, no keys, no loose change. Not even a handkerchief.
He ran for the exit arrow at end of the row. The garage entrance would have an attendant who could help him. But running, panic rose in him. His feet seemed to make no sound. Nor could he smell the exhaust of an SUV that passed him trailing blue smoke. His brain had been royally screwed up.
He was fighting hysteria by the time he reached the exit and charged up to the booth. “Help me!” he yelled at to the middle-aged woman inside. “Call 911! I need a doctor!”
The attendant never looked from her book.
He waved his arms frantically. “Hey!” But when she still did not respond, fear turned to fury. “Damn it…are you frigging deaf!” He slammed the glass with both fists.
Anger vanished in a blast of icy fear. Like his feet, his fists made no sound. Despite the force he put into the blow, he felt as if he hit a layer of foam rubber. Whatever happened had turned him into a total wack job. Unless he was not crazy but…
He cut off the thought. No! That was even crazier. He stumbled back from the booth. Fine. Forget the attendant. At least some of the buildings around the garage must have a security force. One of those officers could help him.
He turned and charged up the ramp. Where he came face to face with a Lexus on its way in. He leaped sideways, but not fast enough. The left front headlight and fender caught him head-on…and passed through him.
He stared down at himself, clutching his chest and abdomen, chaos roaring in him. But what he did not feel engulfed him in terror. His heart should be thundering. But he felt nothing beneath the hand on his chest. No heartbeat, no frightened gasp for breath. He felt only the remembered pressure of the gun muzzle against his skull.
“No!”
Thrusting away the memory, he bolted from the garage and along the sidewalk outside. What he thought just happened could not have. It was impossible…an hallucination! It had to be. He halted at the corner. Look at him! He was real. Holding up a hand to the afternoon sky blocked the light. When he socked one arm with the other hand, his body felt solid.
Down the block two women came out of the building and up the hill toward him.
He ran to meet them. “Ladies! Can you help me?”
They kept moving without missing a beat of their conversation.
“Please!” Desperate, he reached for the arm of the nearest woman. “Look at me! You see me, don’t you?”
The arm slid through his grasp as though greased. He started to grab for her again… and froze, staring at the reflection in the glass doors. It mirrored the women and the street, and the building across the street. But not him.
Cold, cold ice filled him. That gun, the explosion, the darkness swallowing him…not a nightmare, he thought in despair. Not an hallucination. Memories. It happened. And he died.
2
He turned his back on the reflection. It helped relieve the shock. Though shock did not so much fade as disappear under the sense of foreboding and urgency. He gladly focused on that in place of his terrible final moment of existence. Spirits supposedly hung around because they had unfinished business, right? Judging by the pressure in him, he had some major loose end to tie up. Logically, he would think it involved settling with whoever killed him, or the circumstances that earned him a bullet. Except that idea brought no resonance in him. The foreboding shouted danger. With him beyond danger, it meant someone else was the target. Because of him, maybe. That would account for the guilt. The urgency indicated he had no time to waste removing the danger.
He scowled skyward. “But how the hell am I supposed to do that with no frigging idea what the danger is and who’s involved?” Trying to dig that out of the Black Hole in his mind, all he came up with was the stupid butterfly image. Which just made his gut lurch with another kick of guilt.
Being a ghost needed to come with a guidebook, he reflected irritably. Since it did not, he better start figuring things out for himself. Beginning with who he was. Where was fortunately no longer a question — up the hill rose a pyramidal skyscraper that could only be the Transamerica building, which made this San Francisco. Hopefully he could identify himself as easily. Once he had, he should know who he had to save and from what.
Since he had been murdered, might there be a story about it in the newspapers?
He turned to the doors behind him. Now he recognized them as the entrance to Two Embarcadero Center. The stores in the shopping arcade included a newsstand. He reached for the door handle. It slipped through his fingers. Just as that woman’s arm had. Shit. Did that mean-
He ended the thought, shaking his head at his own stupidity. Duh. “You’re a ghost, numbnuts. You have no material substance. So how can you hold anything material?” But being a ghost, he also had no need to open the door. He could walk through it.
A thought that lasted until he crashed into the glass.
He staggered backward in disbelief. Hitting the door had the same foam rubber sensation as pounding the attendant’s booth but…what blocked him? If people and door handles moved through him, the reverse should be true. He tried again, this time holding his hands out in front of him as he walked forward. His hands met the surface and…stopped. He tried more force, slamming his shoulder into the door. In vain. He just smashed against it again…the glass withstanding him painlessly and soundlessly, but stubbornly impenetrable.