The Storm Crows

By Jenny Sundstedt

The sequel to Passing Through…

Afterlife counseling supervisor Eugenia Kratt has a problem. Jane Doe, an amnesiac client, insists she is not dead. Eugenia isn't buying it. It's called "afterlife" for a reason. Hoping to avoid a tangle of red tape, she gives counselor Kate Smith permission to return to the living world and hire an investigator.

Sean Callahan knows he shouldn't take the case. He still hasn't recovered from the first time this strange kind of investigation drew him in. But he could use the money, and Kate Smith is upfront about who she is and what she needs. No secrets, she promises. Seeing nothing but honesty in her blue eyes, he agrees to help.

As Kate works the problem with Callahan, Eugenia struggles to make the pieces fit. When Kate doesn't return as planned, Eugenia decides to see for herself what's afoot. In the space between life and death, truth and lies, she begins to wonder…is Jane Doe's missing identity the only complication, or are darker, more dangerous motivations at work?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenny Sundstedt
• Release date: Oct 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201091941

Jenny Sundstedt

Jenny Sundstedt has been making up stories for as long as she can remember. She writes long and short fiction, essays, and many to-do lists. When she's not writing, she might be thinking about writing, procrastinating writing, or reading someone else's writing. She also enjoys spending time outdoors with her family and crazy dog.

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Storm_Crows_front_cover.jpg

The Storm Crows

Jenny Sundstedt

Published by Jenny Sundstedt, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE STORM CROWS

First edition. October 31, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Jenny Sundstedt.

ISBN: 979-8201091941

Written by Jenny Sundstedt.

The Storm Crows

Jenny Sundstedt

Copyright © 2021 by Jenny Sundstedt

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may

not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America

Cover & Book Design

Jennifer Schafer

Dedication

For Mom

Chapter 1

Using her thumb and forefinger, Eugenia Kratt set the Newton’s cradle on her desk in motion. She assumed some people would find the rhythmic clacking of the swinging metal balls to be a distraction, but it helped her think.

Tell me. She rubbed a tight spot on her temple. Exactly what transpired.

Kate, one of the newest counselors under Eugenia’s employ, uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her arms on her thighs. Her blonde hair fell in pale waves across both shoulders. "My client was waiting in the meeting room when I arrived. Nice-looking woman, probably sixty-ish. Wearing a purple cardigan that might be cashmere. I gave her the standard intake speech: this place is like a way station for newly deceased who have unresolved baggage, I’m the counselor assigned to help her move on, yadda yadda yadda. She seemed to take it all in stride, but when I finished, she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘That’s all very fine and good. But I’m not dead.’"

Not dead. Eugenia made a little harrumph noise in her throat, wrote the two words in her notebook, and underlined them in stark black. As a woman with more than eight decades under her belt—most of it in life, the rest of it here—she felt entitled to some measure of irritation. The nerve, to be dead without the decency to know it. Well, of course she is dead. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. She claims she remembers nothing?

Nothing. Not even her name. I’m sorry. I tried to get to the bottom of it. I asked her a bunch of questions about where she might have come from and what might have happened to her. You know, trying to jog her memory. It didn’t help. Kate scratched her perfect nose. Do you suppose this ever happened to Peg? Maybe you could check her files.

The very mention of the former supervisor’s name gave Eugenia a crick in her neck. Peg wasn’t exactly the most thorough person. I haven’t yet made sense of half of what she left behind.

I wouldn’t know, so I’ll take your word for it. But what do you want me to do about this lady?

The Newton’s cradle continued its clickety-clack, clickety-clack. What, indeed? It sounds as if you’ve done all you can. I suppose we should go talk to her together.

The two women stood, Kate surpassing the diminutive Eugenia’s height by a good ten inches. The hallway was empty save for Albert at the far end, mopping in his herky-jerky fashion. Sometimes it was all Eugenia could do not to wrest the mop from his hands and show him the proper technique. But right now, she had more important business.

She turned the knob and pushed the door inward. Despite all efforts, meeting room three always smelled faintly like wet dog. The woman in the purple sweater looked up from her magazine as Eugenia stepped briskly forward. Good afternoon. I am Eugenia Kratt, the supervisor here. Your counselor, Kate, tells me there’s a bit of an issue.

The woman smiled. Her honey-blonde hair—surely not a natural color for a woman on the far side of fifty at least, Eugenia thought—hung to her chin in a neat bob. The issue is that I think there’s been a rather remarkable mistake, she said, in a voice without any identifiable accent.

How so? Eugenia asked.

Kate told me what happens in this place, and while it’s very fascinating, I don’t belong here.

And why not?

She paused for a long beat. Because I’m not dead.

Eugenia resisted the urge to sigh. The thing is, Mrs. … ?

I’m sorry, I don’t remember my name. Or the names of any family members, if I have them. Or where I live. Or my astrological sign, or—

All right, then. Eugenia put a stop to the unhelpful list of unknowns. The thing is, everyone here is dead. I, for example, suffered a stroke. Kate had a horse-riding accident. This is not the kind of facility where someone wanders in by accident.

The woman’s forehead creased. Well, how do you know you are dead? If you don’t mind me asking.

I remember the events that transpired immediately before my passing. Then I arrived here.

Kate nodded. Same for me. And as far as knowing … I guess it’s kind of like wearing underwear. You can just … feel it.

"By the same token, I feel quite strongly that I am not dead. She flashed a look at Kate. And I, too, know what wearing underwear feels like. So, it appears we’re at an impasse."

Eugenia tapped her toe. She had no patience for impasses. A person must either defecate or get off the toilet, as her uncle used to say, though not quite so politely. I know this all must feel very confusing. The transition between the living world and the afterlife can be jarring. But I am confident that in a few hours, a day perhaps, your memories will return. Until then, please make yourself at home. Kate will show you to a room. We have a cafeteria for meals and snacks. Movies for entertainment, and plenty of reading material. You will be quite comfortable while we get this sorted out.

All right, the woman in the sweater said, though there was a shade of doubt in her gray eyes. If you say so.

Eugenia watched Kate lead the client away, and then she returned to her office. Though not as thorough as they could and should be, Peg’s records weren’t in as bad of shape as Eugenia had implied, and she spent the next few hours combing through them for any reference to clients who denied being dead. She found a dozen or so cases where the clients were initially very confused, but they eventually remembered at least something about themselves and their lives. And they always remembered their names. A name, and its attendant identity, was a hard thing to shake. Even in the afterlife.

When her eyes began to burn and even the Newton’s cradle could not soothe her, Eugenia collected her bag and went to the cafeteria. Raymond and Amanda sat together at a far table. Eugenia got a cup of Earl Grey and joined them.

You’re frowning, Amanda said. She had begun growing her hair out, and her tiny blonde pigtails looked as if they belonged on a four-year-old. Even more than usual. Kate was here a minute ago showing that new gal around. They both acted a little strange. Is there trouble in paradise?

She claims she’s not dead. Eugenia vigorously dunked the teabag.

Amanda grinned and pushed her glass aside. Purple sweater lady? That’s awesome. Maybe with an interesting client like that, I would have enjoyed being a counselor more.

I think every case is interesting, in its own way, Raymond said.

Eugenia wasn’t surprised to hear him say it. He was a good counselor, with patience and empathy that surpassed Amanda’s on her best day. The girl’s current job as researcher and tech support suited her better.

Tell me her name, Amanda said. Things are kind of slow right now. It’ll give me something to work on.

"She doesn’t know her name, or where she lived, or anything else of consequence. It is not at all, as you said, ‘awesome.’ Eugenia brought the mug to her mouth. The tea was too hot to sip, so she blew on it instead. No matter. I’m sure that in a few hours—tomorrow morning at the latest—she’ll have remembered."

I don’t suppose she knows how to cook? Raymond asked. The green chili I had for lunch looked like it came from a swamp and tasted about the same. I almost expected to see Shrek working in the kitchen.

Eugenia didn’t miss Peg in the least, but her boyfriend (if one could apply that word to a man old enough to exit the off ramp from middle age before he died) had been a most remarkable chef. The two of them apparently ran off together, and his absence left a large and generally unappetizing hole. Eugenia assumed that somewhere, Peg had a good laugh over that one.

No need to be dramatic. It’s not that bad, Eugenia said. But she had seen—and smelled—the green chili and assumed Raymond’s assessment hit the mark.

Amanda made an impatient noise. Even death from the complications of anorexia had not been enough to release the young woman from her pugnacious aversion to food. Can we get back to the point here? What are you going to do about the woman in the purple sweater?

I’m going to wait, Eugenia said. I promise you, it’s only a matter of time before the situation resolves itself.

Chapter 2

Three days later, however, the only thing that had changed about the woman in purple was the color of her cardigan. She remembered nothing, not name, family, town, region of the country—or even the world—in which she most recently resided. She was pleasant enough about the whole thing, considering, but the strain had begun to show in her restless hands, the fingers that touched and tapped and stroked but rarely stilled.

Eugenia combed through Peg’s files even more thoroughly—blast it, the woman must have seen something similar in her nearly-six-year tenure—but came up empty.

Late in the evening, Eugenia sat alone in her office, stewing. On the subject, she thought with rancor, tonight’s lamb concoction was absolutely inedible.

Are you in? Kate pushed open the door.

Apparently, I am.

Mind if I sit?

Eugenia closed the cover of her notebook. Be my guest.

Kate pulled out a chair, sat, and took a bite of a peanut butter cookie burned black on the bottom. I’ve been thinking … this place is kind of like spiritual flypaper that catches some of the lost and restless souls flitting about, right?

That’s as a good of a description as any.

Well, sometimes other bugs get stuck to flypaper, too. What I mean to say is that honest mistakes happen all the time. Is there any way our anonymous client could be telling the truth? And she’s really not dead?

Eugenia felt the laugh rising in her throat, but it disappeared before it reached her lips. Based on everything I’ve seen in my time here, I can’t believe that’s possible.

"But just because it hasn’t happened on your watch doesn’t necessarily mean it’s impossible, either."

I suppose. Eugenia nearly cringed as Kate took another bite. That’s quite overdone, you know.

It doesn’t bother me. Amanda says she hasn’t been able to find out anything about the new gal. I know it’s pretty hard to search without even one little clue.

Yes.

Kate smiled, showing her straight, white teeth. Having had an orthodontist for a father, Eugenia approved. Considering our lack of other options, I have kind of a crazy idea. You could let me investigate.

Eugenia didn’t reply.

I know how to travel between here and there, Kate continued, brushing dark crumbs from her fingers. I passed the training with no problem at all. I know the protocol—how to keep things on the down low and not mess up anything for the living. And we have enough counselors right now to help with my workload if I’m gone for a bit.

All valid points. But still. Eugenia inhaled through her nose. Where would you even begin?

I could maybe take the client’s picture back with me, although I’ve never tried something like that. But at the very least, I could describe what she looks like.

To whom?

Well, I only worked with Dana Parker for a couple of weeks, but it was clear that the investigator who helped her sort through the whole Dominic Micelli business made a very positive impression.

Oh, heavens, I can’t begin to remember the man’s name, Eugenia said, though she would have made a note of it at the time.

I can. Sean Callahan.

The name did ring a bell. Eugenia started the Newton’s cradle and watched the balls on the end fly out in turn while the one in the middle remained steady. Transfer of energy, that’s all it is. That’s all anything is, really.

You don’t seem super-psyched about my idea, Kate said, with a wry smile. If you have a better one, I’m game.

Eugenia leaned back and crossed her arms. No, she wasn’t, quote, super-psyched. But neither did she have a better idea. All right, she finally said. I’ll send it to the committee.

I can go with you, if that helps, Kate said.

They don’t see anyone in person. They only allow conference calls. It’s all very secretive, Eugenia said. But first I’m going to have one more talk with this client. Alone. Would you please bring her here?

Of course. Kate stood. Be back in a jif.

She left, and Eugenia went to her hat rack and chose a gray herringbone fedora with a bit of pheasant feather on the black leather band. She had straightened it to her liking when Kate ushered the woman in.

I’ll let you two discuss. Kate closed the door behind her.

The client—in a teal sweater today—sat. Eugenia is it?

Yes.

Not very common. Does it run in your family?

No. It’s a plant in the myrtle family, and my mother liked the sound of it. I’m grateful I wasn’t named Myrtle, though it would have been easier for people to spell. But that’s neither here nor there. About your situation, I think we’re going to have to take extraordinary steps to help you figure out where you belong. Unless you’ve remembered?

She shook her head. "No. I’ve tried. Yesterday, I thought I was onto something, but then I realized it was the plot of Jane Eyre. Why I should remember that book and not my own identity, I have no idea. I also remember how to jumpstart a car battery and poach an egg. It’s an odd feeling, as if I’ve had a shot of Novocain to the part of my brain that remembers how to be me. You say this has never happened before?"

Eugenia wrote down car battery, egg, and Jane Eyre, with a question mark behind each. Not on my watch. Or my predecessor’s either, as far as I can tell.

Do you have any idea how to proceed? I’d really like to get … unstuck. Her fingers tapped along the arms of the chair. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for your care since I’ve been here. Though I have to be honest, the food leaves much to be desired. But the question of whether I am alive or dead weighs heavily, as I’m sure you can understand.

Of course, Eugenia said, feeling a burp of sympathy in her chest. This woman might literally be a lost soul. How unsettling.

The gray eyes searched Eugenia’s face for a moment. How did you get here? If you don’t mind my asking.

Eugenia let out a deep sigh. My husband Lindbergh had recently died, leaving me in charge of our publishing company. My son-in-law, a manipulative weasel if ever there was one, went to the board and tried to get a vote of no confidence. I swore I’d fight him to the end, and that’s exactly what happened.

I’m sorry. That can’t have been fun.

Oh, the stroke wasn’t so bad. It merely felt as if a lightbulb in my head burned out. But back to your case. Our protocol here generally forbids interaction with the living. Occasionally, however, circumstances arise, and we are allowed to take more direct measures. If our governing committee approves, Kate will return to the earthly realm to see what she can find out.

The client put a hand to the base of her throat. Is that dangerous?

No. Well, Eugenia mentally amended, Dana Parker found herself in a mess, but that was her own doing. Kate has been trained and understands what she can and cannot do. And, as luck would have it, she knows exactly where to start.

Really? Where?

By hiring a private investigator.

Chapter 3

It was nearly ten-thirty in the morning before Sean got to his office. His late arrival didn’t much matter. He had no appointments on the calendar. Same as yesterday. And the day before that.

The dust on the reception desk caught the morning light, and Sean again reminded himself to find the rag and clean it off. Instead, he turned down the hallway and took a seat behind his desk. He could hear banging and rustling and assumed Dennis was at work on some project or other.

Sean made the coffee—Folgers these days, not the organic stuff from the shop next door—and put in too much sugar in the hopes of augmenting the caffeine buzz. He hadn’t slept well last night.

Dennis poked his head through the doorway. Hey, boss. Great morning out there. I practically ice skated down my driveway. I freaking hate February.

I know what you mean. Despite the warm mug, Sean’s fingertips were still freezing. He’d lost one of his gloves and had yet to get a new pair. His knuckles felt stiff, and he wondered if he might be developing arthritis at the ripe old age of thirty-seven.

What’s on the docket today? Dennis asked, and Sean could hear the unsaid question: Any new work yet?

Not much. You know, Sean continued, feeling morose enough to speak his mind, if you’re thinking about leaving to join Luis’s business, I won’t hold it against you. You need to look out for yourself, like he did.

Dennis removed his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his thermal shirt. Nah. I’ve got enough irons in the fire. And I’m not cut out for selling insurance.

Well, I appreciate your loyalty. Though maybe it wouldn’t be horrible if Dennis did leave. Sean would miss his company and his help, but it would make meeting payroll a lot easier. He had been drawing from his own salary to pay his investigator, and things were getting tight. Tighter. I’m sorry. I know it’s slow.

It’ll pick up. It always does.

It was true, to a point, Sean thought. But business had never been this slow for this long. And it was his own fault. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about the work like he used to.

Guess I’ll get back to my project. Dennis donned his glasses. He was a few years younger than Sean, but the round wire-rims looked like they belonged on an old man.

Which is? Sean asked.

I’m turning my desk into a standing workstation.

It looks like you’ll have lots of uninterrupted time today.

Yeah, right? Dennis went down the short hallway. Sean noticed that he had missed a belt loop in the back of his cargo pants and his socks were mismatched. The investigator had a keen eye for details in his work that somehow didn’t translate to his person.

In his office, Sean tossed three advertising circulars into the recycle bin and watered the drooping plant on the file cabinet. Then he sat down, scrolled through his email without much interest, and checked his calendar. Sure enough, no appointments for the day. To pass the time, he opened the latest YouTube link from his mother, a video of a man who jumped onto a frozen pool but failed to break the ice and ended up sliding along like a curling stone. It didn’t strike Sean as particularly funny, because it probably hurt like hell. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if—

Hello?

Sean muted his computer. Had someone said hello, or was it part of the clip? He didn’t hear the bell on the door, but the volume—

Hello?

He stood. Definitely a voice coming from the lobby. A female voice. He went to take a look.

Tall, close to his height of five-eleven, with a white-blonde ponytail, she was dressed for the weather in a red parka, dark jeans, and fur-topped boots. A pair of the clearest blue eyes Sean had ever seen regarded him from under neatly trimmed bangs.

Sorry to call out like that, but … She gestured at the empty reception desk.

Our receptionist is out on maternity leave, Sean said, without adding indefinitely.

Oh. Well, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Sean Callahan.

He would have bet money that she was in the wrong office, and hearing his name took him aback. He managed a smile, wishing he had chosen more professional attire than a long-sleeved T-shirt that had been a giveaway at a car show four years ago. You found him.

Great. She smiled in return. Her lips had no winter chap to them. Is there someplace we can talk?

Sure. Come to my office. Would you like something to drink? I have Folger’s coffee and one Diet Dr. Pepper. I’m not exactly sure where it came from.

No, I’m good, she said, with a twinkle of humor in her eyes. I don’t want to deprive someone of the last Pepper.

Feeling warmish around the collar, Sean closed the door halfway. She sat in front of the desk and he, behind.

Thanks for seeing me on the spot. I guess I should have made an appointment, she said.

This is fine. I blocked out some time today. For administrative catch-up.

She nodded, glancing around, and he knew how pathetic his office must look. Tilting stacks of papers, dust in every corner, and the horrible, three-leafed plant he should have put out of its misery long ago.

The woman again met his gaze. My name is Kate Smith. You and I have never met. But we have a mutual acquaintance.

Oh? Who’s that?

Dana Parker.

For a moment, Sean felt like he was on one of those carnival rides that plunges in temporary free-fall. He gripped the edge of the desk and tried to draw a breath.

Wha … It was all he could manage.

I only worked with Dana for about two weeks, but she spoke very highly of you.

Sean’s brain tumbled and spun. He hadn’t met Dana until after she died, so that meant this woman … .

He swallowed twice. You’re from the same … place?

Yes. A wrinkle made a small V between her eyebrows, and he wondered what she saw on his face. I’m sorry to pull the rug out from under you, but I wanted to be honest right from the start. I know Dana had special circumstances that required her to be secretive. But I don’t. And I think it’s much easier if we both know where we stand.

Sean saw the fingers on his left hand trembling and moved it to his lap. Okay. But why have you come?

The same reason anyone walks through your door. I’m hoping to hire you.

He didn’t reply.

She told you about the work we do? Kate Smith asked.

She … He had first known Dana Parker as Natalie English, but in the time since her departure, she had become Dana to him, fully and completely.

You help people. Uh, dead people. Who have … unresolved issues. His voice sounded strained, and he cleared his throat.

That about covers it. Her eyes searched his face for a long moment, until he had to look down at his desk. I’m sorry, she said softly. I know this is strange.

Dana had apologized to him, too, almost verbatim. I’m sorry. This is too strange. And he had replied, with a calm he hadn’t felt, It is what it is. Not long after, she was gone.

Mr. Callahan, Kate said, and he raised his eyes. Should I continue?

No, he very nearly said. Leave me alone with this ghost you conjured. The ghost I’ve been running from, and running to, since she left me in that graveyard in the mountains. Since she moved on, and I stopped moving.

But his wounded heart’s opinion didn’t matter in this moment, because curiosity had the better of him. Yes. Go on.

"We’ve had a strange situation unfold in the past few days concerning a new client, a woman. She insists she is not dead. But she can’t remember anything about who she is, or where she’s from. Not even her name. We have no way of proving her wrong. Or right, for that matter. I remembered that Dana spoke so highly of you and how great you were to work with. So, I suggested to my boss that maybe you would consider helping us