by R. E. Vance
But that didn’t help Conner any. “I … I need more time,” I said. “Please.”
Conner stared at me for a long hard moment, obviously debating whether he should report what he saw to Michael. Possibly tell on me, too. Finally he nodded. “Miral said you were one of the good guys. If she trusts you, then so do I. OK, Jean … you’ll get more time from me. But the clock’s ticking. You better share something with me sooner rather than later.”
I nodded. “As soon as I know where those friggin’ Dungeons & Dragons rejects took the kid, you’ll be the first to know.”
“OK, Jean. But don’t make a fool out of Miral. And don’t make a fool out of me.”
“I won’t. Promise.” I crossed my heart, making a promise I honestly wasn’t sure I could keep.
Conner didn’t move.
“What?” I said. “I crossed my heart and everything.”
“There’s something else.”
I groaned. “There always is. Out with it.”
Conner sighed. “I’m worried about you.”
I groaned again, louder. “Conner, really? Look, you’re great, but we’ve had exactly four conversations. Our relationship isn’t exactly at the ‘I’m-worried-about-you’ stage. Slow down. Waaay down.”
Conner nodded, cool and relaxed, like he’d anticipated my reaction. “Oh, believe me, I would. But Miral made me promise I’d look after you—”
“Hey, she made me promise the same thing about you. She double-promised us! The sneaky, conniving angel of Heaven.”
“I know,” he smirked. “But I’ve gotten to know her quite well over the last few weeks. I think, although her words were the same, she wants us to look out for different things for each other. She knows that I’m a newbie when it comes to all this Other stuff. I’m out-gunned and out-classed here. But you … you know exactly how to handle yourself. So when she told you to look out for me, she wanted you to make sure I came back in one piece.”
Conner was smart enough to know he was out of his league. Didn’t mean he couldn’t get there eventually. And he was mature enough to admit it. I could respect that. “OK,” I said. “I’m here to keep you safe. What are you here for?”
“For your soul.”
“My soul,” I looked up at the officer, expecting a smirk, a “Just kidding,” any indication that he was having fun. He was dating an angel, after all. But his concerned eyes told me otherwise. “Conner, I don’t know what you’re talking about. For one thing, souls aren’t important anymore. Not since … you know.” I twiddled my fingers “goodbye” at the sky.
Conner held out his hands. “Hold on, hear me out first. I know that you think souls aren’t important, but that’s where you’re wrong. Your soul might not go anywhere after you’re gone, but it’s still part of you. And it is the part of you that holds in all the good and bad you’ve done. It is what will be weighed after you are gone.”
“For no reason,” I said, starting to rescan the earth.
“Again, I disagree. I think that it is more important than ever to lead good lives. Heaven and Hell, they were second chances of a sort. And as far as I’m concerned, they belonged to the ‘good enough’ and I’m glad to see them gone.”
“ ‘Good enough’?”
“Before, I just had to be ‘good enough’ to get to Heaven. Which means that most people did the bare minimum to get their ticket in, you know? But now, there is no ‘good enough.’ ”
“Yeah … and no one to punish you if you get your hand stuck in the proverbial cookie jar. People are free to do as they please, for better or worse.”
Conner nodded. “Possibly, and some will take advantage of that. But let’s be honest: before the gods left, most of us didn’t really put Heaven and Hell into our day-to-day calculations. We just went about our business, doing exactly as we pleased, vaguely aware of the rules. When we stopped to think about it, those of us who believed would say a prayer and hope we were ‘good enough’ to get in. And those of us who didn’t believe just shrugged and said, ‘I’m a good guy. I do my part for the planet, I’m nice to my neighbors. If there is a Heaven, I’m sure I’m “good enough” to get in.’ But nowadays it’s something else. There is no Heaven. No Hell. Nothing. ‘Good enough’ has to be replaced with ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’—and that is a much more honest question by which we should live.”
“Except that most people don’t take the time to ask that question of themselves. Ever.”
“True,” Conner admitted. “But those who do take the time will be faced with a much harsher mirror. ‘Good enough’ is no longer good enough. You are either good or bad. And it’s not a static answer. Bad people can do good things and good people can do bad things. The best that any of us can hope for is that at the end of the day, we are—on balance—good and bad. Jean … Miral has told me many stories about you. Perhaps more than was her right to share. And what I see is a man who was bad but did good things. Now, that very same man is good but does bad things.”
I stopped scanning, holding the metal detector over the base of the Tree, right near where Michael had been kneeling. I was feeling judged. I suddenly got the urge to punch Conner in his perfectly chiseled jaw. “Conner,” I said through gritted teeth. “As flattered as I am that I’m part of yours and Miral’s pillow-talk, I need you to either get to your point or stop talking. And frankly, given the little rant I just had to listen to, I’m really hoping you’ll choose the latter.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“What?” I said.
“Stabbing the shark head. Bashing the ijiraq’s skull in.”
“Come on—they deserved it.”
“Did the monster-under-your-bed deserve it? You terrified the poor creature.”
“To get him to talk. Which, by the way, brought us here. Remember that?”
“Maybe, but he was willing to help. You didn’t need to be so brutal with him. He would have told us everything we needed to know without all the threats and—”
“Are you friggin’ kidding me?” I shouted. “We are dealing with creatures with immense powers. Creatures who, might I add, don’t play by human rules. Ever tried to negotiate with a dwarf? It’s a staring contest that takes hours. How about a fairy? You have to give them buckets of glitter just to get them to listen. They don’t understand human culture—”
“So what? That gives you the right to beat them up just so you can get them to listen faster?”
I stopped. “No, that’s not what I mean.”
“I know that’s not what you meant, but you said it, and that’s the first step down a bad path. What path is that? A bad man doing bad things. I don’t want to see you going down that path, not again. Neither does Miral.” I knew exactly what he was referring to. Back when the gods left and the Others first came, I joined the Army and went into full rampage mode. Then I came home because I thought I was done with the hate.
Miral saw me then.
Then Bella died and the berserker in me came right back. I re-enlisted and who I became made rampage-mode me seem like a diplomat. I was a force that terrified Death itself (seriously—I met the angel once and she told me exactly how terrifying I was). But eventually my hate and rage subsided again and I came home.
Miral was there for that, too.
Of all the creatures I knew, Miral was there for me every step of the way. Firm, merciful … and good. Despite all I did, she was always there for me. I love that angel. Really, I do.
“Miral doesn’t want me to go down that path. That why she told you to look after me?” I asked.
Conner nodded. “A good man can do bad things. That’s life. But a bad man doing bad things? That’s evil.”
“And you honestly think I have the capacity to do evil?”
“You did. Once.”
“I did once!” I screamed, suddenly conscious of many eyes on us. I didn’t care. “I did. Once. And I stopped and tried everything in my power to only do good things, and what did that get me? A dead wife. A dead girlfriend. And
more trouble than I can bear. So before you judge me, maybe … just maybe you should walk a few steps in my shoes.”
“You’re right.” He pulled out his wallet. “Here.” He handed me a worn photo of a young Conner standing next to a pretty blonde. They were holding a little boy between them, he kissing the kid’s right cheek and she the kid’s left. The kid, in the middle, was laughing. “His name was Jack. She was Rebecca. We took that on his third birthday. He never saw his fourth.”
Conner took the photo back, took a long, hard look at it and put it back in his wallet. “Good people do bad things, I get that. Believe me, I do.” He let out a long breath and left me to my scanning.
I walked up to the Tree, trying to ignore the people still staring.
Good people do bad things. Bad people do good things. But a bad man doing bad things … was I bad when I fought in the Army? That was a question I had asked myself many times, always coming up with the same answer: yes.
Yes, I was.
↔
I leaned against the Tree, using it to balance myself, while I tried to process Conner’s words. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough, my phone rang and as I looked at it, I saw the name George softly glowing on the dark algae-green background of the screen’s LCD.
Crap. With everything going on, I had forgotten all about the memorial. I flipped open my old phone and answered with a dejected, “Hi, George.”
“Jean,” the voice on the other end said. “Where were you? We missed you last night.”
I groaned and pinched the bridged of my nose with my forefinger and thumb. “I’m sorry, George,” I said. “It’s been one of those years.”
“I know the feeling … but we would’ve loved to have had you. There were three myriads there—” George paused, his voice quivering slightly. He cleared his throat. “You know, Azzah always thought she was the only one left. During the GrandExodus, her family was wiped out and she was sure she was alone. But there were three of them. Three. All from distant clans … but still. She was so lonely …” His voice trembled. “It really is too bad she didn’t get to meet them. She would have been so happy.”
“Yeah, she would have been. But she wasn’t lonely. You were her friend, George. That much we know.”
He let out the long sigh of a man trying to put a cap on his emotions. Clearing his throat for a second time, he said, “The myriads know what you did. And who you lost, too. They wanted to pay you honor or something myriad-ish in thanks to their fallen Azzah.”
“I don’t know what I did for her, or anyone for that manner.”
“In their eyes, you avenged her death. That’s a big deal to them. Meeting you would be an honor to them … and not meeting you would be an insult. These guys don’t really do half measures.”
“OK, OK,” I said, not really feeling like I did anything but make things worse. “I’ll make sure that happens.”
George chuckled. “Do … but be careful. The last time Azzah honored me for something I did, she threw a full-grown manta ray on the oilrig floor. That thing flayed around and eventually flopped into the water … but not before it scared the bejeezus out of us. And when I told Azzah that throwing live fish was a cultural faux pas, she just gave me a disappointed look and said that she was giving me the honor of killing the damn thing. I tell you … Others.”
“Others,” I echoed. “What’s perfectly acceptable to them is damn near deadly to us.”
“Anyway … we should catch up for a coffee sometime. You know, just to chat.”
“Yeah,” I said in a noncommittal tone.
“Where are you, anyway?”
“Long, terrible, Other-filled story.”
“Huh. Been there. You take care of yourself.”
“You, too, George. You, too.” And with that I heard the click of the phone hanging up.
↔
I was so lost in my guilt over both what Conner said and letting down George that I completely forgot that I had the scanner in hand. I moved about—and it beeped.
I glanced over at the screen and saw that it had detected metal to the left. I moved it slowly along the Tree’s trunk, the device gradually beeping louder and louder until I found what it had detected.
Embedded in the wood was the RPG’s firing cap.
↔
When a missile fires from a handheld launcher, the person—or Other—firing the damn thing needs to brace themselves for a ton of blowback. If you’re not in the proper stance, the shock of a missile travelling up at speeds near the sound barrier will send you flying back. As a result, the average missile launcher has all kinds of safety measures so that you don’t pull that trigger unless you’re absolutely ready: safety locks, a key … and a firing cap.
Seems that the Occultists dropped the cap and it was caught in the missile’s blowback. That kind of force can send a three-ounce piece of metal flying off like a bullet—and that’s exactly what happened. Except instead of flying off into the desert, it got caught in the Tree.
I wiggled it out and into an evidence bag when Officer O’D came over. “That’s state property.”
“It’s evidence for an ongoing investigation in Paradise Lot,” I retorted.
By now, the crew of humans and Others who had spent the better part of three hours looking for something, anything, to tell us where the Occultists went were just happy for a clue. They all gathered around us as Baldy and I held our pissing contest.
“That’s right,” Officer O’D said. “An investigation headed by us. You heard your ‘Captain.’ ” He air-quoted the word Captain. “Now hand it over.”
“What? This?” I threw it at Hunter, whose cartilage hoof fanned out into a hand and caught it. “Give it to that guy.” I arbitrarily pointed at the closest human cop next to him. Hunter brayed in protest. “He’s right. Our Captain would want us to hand it over to their ‘Captain.’ ” Now it was my turn to air-quote.
The middle Gruff stomped his foot, but complied. “There,” I said. “Happy?”
Baldy narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what your play is, but it’s not funny. Not funny at all.”
“No, sir,” I said, saluting him melodramatically. “Just damn immature.”
Caps, Captains and Cains
The place was clean. So clean that the human cops must have thought we made up the whole thing. Except for the firing cap. That, at the very least, proved that something had happened here. After all, firing caps from friggin’ RPGs don’t just show up anywhere.
Case in point: RPG firing cap = RPG missile.
I handed the metal detector back to Baldy. He took it with a grunt. “This was a waste of time,” he snarled.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to pull something off of that cap.”
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t help that little girl today, does it?”
“No. It doesn’t.”
Back at his car, O’D put away the last of his equipment and turned to me. “You boys find anything, you be sure to call us.”
“Likewise,” I said—but from the way he shifted the toothpick in his mouth, I realized that likewise was never going to happen.
O’D stuck out a hand. “You take care of yourself.”
I shook his hand. “Likewise,” I said.
“Humph,” he grunted, and got in his car.
We watched them speed off back to their headquarters, spinning a trail of dust in their wake. As soon as they were out of sight I turned to Hunter. “Did you get a good whiff?”
“I did,” he brayed.
“Good. Then let’s get to it.”
↔
Michael and Penemue had stayed back, afraid that whatever mojo that brought the archangel to his knees was still there. Nobody said it aloud, but we all knew—whatever took a creature like Michael down would have had to be tailor-made for angels. And if it paralyzed Michael, then only the GoneGods knew what it would do to a lesser angel like Penemue.
But after a thorough investigation, both by O�
�D’s technology-based equipment and Paradise Lot PD’s team of experienced Other detectives, we were fairly confident that whatever was here was just that: a was.
So we gave Michael the all-clear and he appeared literally two seconds later. GoneGodDamn, he was fast. And right behind him was Penemue. I guess the two angels hung out together for the entire four hours we investigated the Tree. Made me wonder what kind of small talk they engaged in. Judging by Penemue’s steady gait, he hadn’t had the time to grab some Drambuie before he came to our rescue, which was a relief. For me, at least.
As soon as we debriefed Michael, Hunter went about doing his Gruff thing: first he sniffed the air, then the ground, his snout sucking in dust and dirt, pebbles and twigs. There was a lot sniffing, snorting and moving about, and the whole thing kinda grossed me out.
“So,” I said to Penemue. “Good talk with Michael?”
“Oh, the best,” he said, eyeing the archangel, who was on the other side of the Tree. “He told me that of all the angels he threw out of Heaven, I was his favorite.”
“Really?”
“No. Not really.”
“So I guess it’s not water under the bridge, huh?”
“Not at all. The water is still very much festering under the bridge—stagnant, full of algae and the perfect breeding ground for mosquitos.” Penemue put a hand on my shoulder. “We need to speak.”
