1
The Consultation

PRESCOTT "SCOTT" HYLAND JR. FIDGETED IN HIS CHAIR, discomfited by the oxford shirt and Dockers he wore. Left to choose his own wardrobe, he'd be in a wife-beater T-shirt and board shorts, but Lathrop insisted he go for the preppie look.

"And lose the rings," the attorney had commanded, referring to the silver bands that pierced Scott's ears and eyebrows. "The press will be on your tail twenty-four/seven until this thing is over."

Scott smoothed his left eyebrow. The holes were already starting to close. Lathrop had accomplished in five minutes what his parents had failed to do in three years.

If only Dad could see me now . . .

The thought unnerved Scott, and he pushed himself straight up in the chair, focusing on what the lawyer was saying as if his life depended on it, which it did. Although Scott was still technically a minor at seventeen, the D.A.'s office had pushed to try him as an adult in order to seek the death penalty.

"I don't need to tell you, we've got a lot of points against us." Malcolm Lathrop leaned forward in his leather-upholstered throne and consulted some papers on his desk as if reviewing a grocery list. "Although your parents' bedroom appeared to have been ransacked, almost nothing of value was taken, and every other room in the house was left untouched—including yours."

Scott shifted in his chair and said nothing.

Not a single ruffled hair disturbed the perfect rayon wave of Lathrop's pompadour. "Then there's the broken window, where the 'burglar' supposedly entered the house. Unfortunately, the police found glass fragments outside the window, not inside. And as for those little accounting 'mistakes' you made at your father's business—well, the less said, the better."

Scott picked at a hangnail but still said nothing. Lathrop had forbidden him to say anything more about the case, even in private.

The attorney rose and strolled around the enormous walnut altar of the desk. "The good news is, we now have your parents on our side."

"My parents?" Scott's scalp prickled. In his mind, he saw his dad slumped back against the headboard of the bed, a crimson impact crater in his chest, while his mother sprawled on the floor nearby, the left half of her face blown off, her skull bleeding brains . . .

Lathrop regarded the boy as if he'd just slouched out of a cave. "You are familiar with the North American Afterlife Communications Corps, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Last year his dad had dropped a bundle on a brand-new painting by Picasso or some other dead guy. It looked like something you'd stick on your refrigerator with Snoopy magnets.

He'd seen NAACC dead-talkers in cop shows and movies, too, of course. Purple-eyed freaks known as Violets, they'd allow murder victims to take over their bodies and speak with their voices. But if the killer wore a mask, the victims' testimony wouldn't matter . . . would it?

"The Corps' conduit for the L.A. Crime Division recently contacted me," Lathrop informed him. "He's kindly offered to summon Elizabeth Hyland and Prescott Hyland Sr. to testify at the trial."

Scott's face went numb as the blood drained from it. "But . . ."

Lathrop held up his hand. "Not to worry. They'll tell us the truth about what happened that night." He propped himself on the edge of the desk and folded his arms, putting on a more sympathetic face. His eyes remained keen and cold, however. "We know you were framed, Scott. Can you think of anyone who'd want to kill your parents and set you up to take the blame?"

Scott suddenly felt like an actor who'd forgotten his lines. "Sir?"

"How about your dad's business partner?" Lathrop glanced at a sheet of paper on the desk. "Avery Park. Our private investigators found that he has no credible alibi for the night of the killings. And he does stand to gain by your father's death, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. I guess." The lawyer's insinuations gave Scott the queasy sensation of being hypnotized: Lathrop was telling him what to believe.

"Never fear, Scott. We won't let him get away with it." Lathrop tapped a button on the intercom beside him. "Jan, would you show in Mr. Pearsall?"

A moment later the office door opened. With the poise of a game-show model, Lathrop's receptionist ushered a pudgy, troll-like man resembling an alcoholic undertaker into the room and shut the door behind him. Scott stood to greet him, but the man crossed the ocean of carpet with an unhurried air, hands in his pockets. His pear-shaped body made the jacket of his cheap suit limp on the chest and tight at the waist, and his toupee looked like a dead poodle, its permed hair three shades lighter than the coarse brown brush of his mustache. A pair of Oakley sunglasses sunk his eyes in shadow.

"Scott, I'd like you to meet Lyman Pearsall, the conduit I told you about."

At Lathrop's prompt, Scott shook the newcomer's hand. He noticed how Pearsall grimaced at the touch, the man's lips moving as if he were silently repeating a phrase he didn't want to forget. Scott shivered, remembering how the Violets in the movies would always mumble some sort of mystical gobbledygook whenever dead people were around.

"Mr. Pearsall has requested a two-million-dollar retainer for his services," Lathrop said. "But I can handle him for now, and you can deal with it when you inherit your parents' trust later this year."

"Sure." Scott stared at Pearsall's flabby face, the submerged menace of his unseen eyes. "Thanks."

Lathrop indicated the twin chairs in front of him. "Let's all sit down and get to know each other, shall we?"

He moved back around behind the desk while the other two seated themselves, still staring at one another. Pearsall casually removed his sunglasses.

His violet irises burned Scott's face with invisible fire.

"Now then, Mr. Hyland," he said, his voice a cobra's rasp, "tell me everything you remember about your mom and dad."

Copyright © 2005 by Stephen Woodworth