Soul Food

by Gareth Lewis

  'I do tend to ask questions. But I usually ask them of other people.'

  She smiles faintly. 'I'll answer those I'm able.'

  'What drew you to science, if not curiosity?'

  'Oh, I never said I wasn't curious. I'm just less compulsive about it than he was. I learned enough to scare me, but was smart enough to know when to look away. Not that I mind discussing it now. To be honest, it's kind of a relief to have someone to talk to after so long.'

  'How much did you learn about souls?'

  'It was limited. Plenty of theories, but working out how to test hypotheses was always the challenging bit. We don't know whether they exist prior, though Pierre was convinced. If so, how do they find us? How do they choose us?'

  'Thought I was asking the questions?'

  'I'm telling you which ones I don't know answers to.' Her smile's slightly less subdued this time. 'We debated whether to call them souls. What is a soul? Thought processes are demonstrably affected by physical causes, so must be physical effects. Similarly, with feelings having determined chemical reactions. So, what do souls bring to the party? And what do they take? If they're nothing but a parasite that experiences our life alongside us, should we care what happens to them?'

  'Does everyone have a soul?' I ask.

  Marcy looks at me. She shrugs. 'Don't know I've encountered anyone who hasn't. Or how I'd know without scanning them at their death. Guess it'd depend on what the soul is. So I can't answer that without knowing the basics.'

  I'm quiet, letting it all sink in.

  We soon pull into the small parking lot, looking desolate at this time of night. The couple of cars are probably staff.

  I get a few stares as we walk in, but keep the badge pocketed unless it's called for. Then Marcy introduces me as a detective anyway. There're surprisingly few questions. The nurses know what Marcy does, and are relieved to see her.

  I follow Marcy into a darkened room, lit only by the sluggish flickers from the monitors.

  'Mrs. Peralta,' Marcy whispers to me. 'Her husband died last year. Her daughter lives abroad, and can't fly because of medical conditions. They skyped regularly. But she went into a coma a couple of days ago. It's only a matter of time now. She had a happy life.' The last bit sounds hopeful. Forced.

  We sit by the bed, waiting.

  'You sit with all the unaccompanied dying?' I ask.

  'Most.'

  'What if it comes for the accompanied? Do the families see it?'

  'Some used to. The staff now make sure they're in another wing. I don't understand the mechanics of their appearances, but they don't venture far.'

  'What about those who haven't had happy lives?'

  Marcy meets my gaze with a hint of shame. 'Some I sit with. But I'm less inclined to find the time. It's...' She looks away.

  'It's wearing on the soul to see so much dying,' I say. 'I know.'

  She meets my gaze, and squeezes my hand.

  We sit there, the silence broken only by the electronic echoes of a fading heartbeat.

  Questions keep intruding on my thoughts though, and it feels disrespectful that I'm not thinking about the dying woman before me. The questions don't care.

  Does the soul remember? Does it have any sense of identity? If the soul is just a parasite, then which of us is thinking these questions? Am I this body, or the parasite? If I'm the body, then is Marcy right? Does it matter what happens to the parasite? If not, then we've nothing to fear from these things. But not knowing, the questions are what will drive us insane.

  A skip in the echoed heartbeat yanks my attention from the existential crisis. Then it stops, falling into a subdued whine.

  We don't have to wait long.

  My first thought is that it's not a light in any visible sense. If anything, it makes the room's shadows that much darker. As though drawing all the light to itself.

  It's too dully bright to make out any real detail, and what I can see may be my mind filling in the blanks. Even so, I'm pretty sure those aren't wings.

  While it may not be shining any lighter than a low power bulb, I can't stare at it for too long before having to look away.

  Like with the demon, it gets hard to think around the angel. But instead of dread and fear overwhelming my thoughts, there's euphoria and a sense of peace.

  Mrs. Peralta's soul, also an amorphous blur when I look back at them, seems to emanate a transcendent joy.

  Or a drugged-out bliss.

  I can't avoid the voice in my head saying angels are just anaesthetising their prey to enhance the flavour. It makes the prospect no less enticing. Even as the light fades, and the immediacy of the high with it.

  There's still the afterglow. Am I safe to drive like this? We'd better give it at least five minutes.

  Marcy's hand is on my shoulder. Time to go. She looks equally blissful.

  The cop part of me wonders whether she's addicted. I can see how she would be.

  We pass the nurse on the way out, with only an exchange of nods. We're soon sitting in the car, waiting for the buzz to pass.

  'You see, there's hope,' says Marcy. She has maybe a bit too much hope in her eyes. Hope that it's true. Hope that this is really making her soul more appetising to her preferred post-mortem diner.

  'Maybe.' I'm only half aware of my words.

  She looks at me with a questioning gaze. Maybe a sliver of concern edging aside her bliss.

  'I'm still adjusting to this,' I say. 'That souls exist. And that I might actually have one.'

  'You doubted that?'

  I may be sharing too much. But what the hell. We're both drunk on death. 'I'm not right. Killing doesn't affect me the way it should. I can give the shrinks the right answers, but... It feels like there's nothing inside me. I'm missing whatever it is that lets people communicate with one another in any real way. And I know I'm not alone. And there's plenty who do feel who still kill. I've always figured I was a sociopath, or a psychopath or something. So I made rules for myself.'

  Why am I sharing so much? And why isn't she afraid?

  'It's a game. And I have rules to play by. To stop myself being the monster I know I could be. But I've never really felt. Certainly not as strongly as these things have made me feel. So I guess I must have something.'

  Marcy smiles vaguely, and strokes my cheek with the back of her hand. 'You're such a beautiful monster.'

  'We are really high right now.' High from an old woman's death.

  Her smile widens, and she nods.

  22

  I really need to cut down on sniffing angels. I still feel kind of unreal the next morning sitting at my desk. The office looks greyer than usual.

  'You believe her?' asks Jake. He seems to have taken in all I've told him, but it's hard to tell.

  'I saw it.'

  'An angel?' he asks, a bit too loud for comfort.

  'That's the terminology they chose to use. Not sure I want to link these things to religion.'

  Jake stares away in thought for a while, until work catches his attention again. 'The background check on Lyons and Carlisle matches what she told you. They were post-grad's together. Just before her record gets eclectic.'

  'And Pierre Bancroft?'

  'Still a guest at the nuthouse. And too far away for departmental budget to cover us questioning him.'

  'Don't know we'd get anything coherent anyway. And he's not going anywhere.'

  'Angels?' Jake says again. 'Really?'

  'Try not to shout.'

  He lowers his voice a touch, and leans forward. 'They really offer a happier afterlife?'

  'No idea,' I say. It's more reassuring than what I really think. 'Marcy believes they do.'

  'Marcy?'

  'It's her name.' I try not to sound defensive.

  'Okay,' says Jake. 'And do you believe?'

  'I believe she needs to believe. To deal with all of this. To avoid following Pierre.'

  Jake frowns, his gaze growing distant.

  Maybe I shouldn't be so cy
nical. Maybe this is what he needs too. Some hope that it can all be all right.

  'If she knew Mortimer worked for Carlisle, would it be motive for murder?' asks Jake.

  'Depends what he sent Mortimer to do. Because killing her wouldn't stop Carlisle knowing where Marcy was. And then she'd have trouble with us looking for the killer. Losing herself would be the smarter move. Killing seems extreme. And I get the impression she was genuinely surprised Mortimer wasn't who she seemed.'

  'You say she knew about the demon in the hotel. What if Mortimer had followed her there? Surprised her, she didn't want Carlisle to know...'

  'Too spurious. I believe her that she avoids those places. She's obsessed with making her life happy. Why would she go see one of those things, undo what she'd achieved?'

  Jake stares at me with an odd look.

  'What?' I ask.

  'You're not getting too close to her, are you?'

  'No. I haven't dismissed her as a suspect. I just can't see the motive.' Because I'm too close? I don't feel it. I'm not sure Jake believes it, but he moves on.

  'You think Carlisle knows about the hotel?' asks Jake. 'The demon?'

  'Maybe he's looking for them. Maybe that's why he had Mortimer spying on her. Their shared knowledge of this stuff is all I can see for a motive. If he wanted to stop her sharing it, he'd have killed her, or maybe just intimidated. Spying implies he wanted knowledge. Of something he thought she had, at least.'

  'And with him being a nutjob, that may have no connection to reality. So what could he think she's been doing since leaving him that could be so interesting. Could he believe she can contact the other side?'

  'We could ask him,' I say.

  Jake smiles. 'I assume a formal interview is out?'

  Probably. Which is frustrating. So much of this case will never be of use to a prosecution. It's getting increasingly unlikely I'll be able to close it. And other things keep diverting our attention.

  Is Jake even focussed on Mortimer's murder? Am I? Or is it the other things we want answers to?

  I'd started to think I was getting in the way of the cases, with the IA stuff. Now this, too.

  So many questions are swirling about that have nothing to do with the murder. And so few proper leads for the murder itself. Asking questions may be the only way forward. Especially while there's some individuals we're still allowed to talk to.

  'I couldn't find any hint of oddness at the hotel prior to the shootout with the traffickers,' says Jake. 'It'd declined by then because of financial reasons. You want me to do a search on where you saw the angel?'

  'It's not linked to the case, so it'll wait.'

  He frowns, but doesn't argue. 'What do we want to look at then?'

  'More history on Carlisle. What he's been doing since their experiments. Doubt we'll find the answers we need, but let's learn what we can before talking to him again. I want to understand his agenda.'

  23

  Knowing the situation is over when I get the call makes it that much harder to drag myself out of bed. But it's too close to the hotel to ignore, and it could be relevant.

  Jake is irritatingly still wired when he picks me up. Has he had any sleep? More disturbingly, has he slept at all since we saw it? I haven't had much myself, and what I did manage was far from refreshing.

  The cop cars and ambulance have lit up the vagrant camp when we get there. Most residents are as bleary and confused as I feel, but a few seem genuinely distraught. Almost panicking. I can differentiate between those who saw what happened and those just worried they're going to be moved along. I recognise something in the eyes of the witnesses.

  Sergeant Parker's directing things. And looking sullen at having to be out here in the cold.

  'Sorry to drag you out,' he says with an absolute lack of sincerity. He's career uniform, and sees inconveniencing detectives as a perk of his rank. 'One of the witnesses had your card, said he'd only talk to you.'

  I glance to where Billy's glares defiantly at the intruders. 'What happened?'

  'Probably mass hysteria,' says Parker. 'Alcohol induced. We've got one dead, but looks to be a heart attack. These idiots probably made the rest up to irritate me. Unless there's ghosts involved in your case?'

  'There is a medium,' I say.

  He snorts.

  'Do me a favour and have someone check the crime scene at the hotel for us, will you?' I ask.

  He gives me a look, before shrugging and turning to nominate a volunteer. At least someone will have the chance to get indoors. I doubt they'll find anything, but it doesn't hurt to check.

  Jake gives me a questioning look, but says nothing.

  'Who's the vic?' I ask Parker when he turns back to us.

  'Old guy. Freddy's all they know him as. Paramedics are sure it was his heart. Just not sure if it was before or after the panic the rest of these idiots started. Hope it is anyway. We're not equipped to deal with ghosts.'

  'Damn budget cuts.'

  Parker snorts again.

  Jake and I join Billy, nodding at the cop babysitting him to give us some space.

  Billy's glare deepens as we approach. 'When you gonna leave us alone?'

  'You asked for us.'

  'They're laughing at us.'

  'You think we won't?' asks Jake. Not helping.

  Billy focusses his glare on him.

  'What happened?' I ask.

  'The thing from the hotel,' he says with conviction.

  Not what I wanted to hear. Marcy was convinced they couldn't leave a limited area.

  'You've seen it before?'

  'No. Don't want to again, neither. But felt the same unease you get in the hotel. Squeezes your bladder and turns your innards to mush.'

  That sounds uncomfortably familiar. I note the local ambiance of piss is fresher than on our last visit.

  I glance at the ambulance as the stretcher's lifted in. Probably took some jurisdictional wrangling for them to take it rather than dragging the coroner's van out.

  Billy's quiet as he watches the ambulance leave. 'His face was contorted in anguish,' he says. 'Ain't no way to die.'

  'What exactly did you see?' Jake asks. A bit too forceful.

  Billy returns to glaring, jutting his chin out in defiance. 'The devil hisself. Walking among us.'

  I nod, and it seems to defuse some of his defensiveness. He expected ridicule. 'Walking from where?'

  'From the hotel.' He waves vaguely in that direction. 'Just drifted in. Already passing some tents when he was spotted.'

  He didn't just appear on someone's death? Or had he appeared for an earlier death and hung about looking for more action?

  'Freddy wasn't young,' says Billy. 'He'd had a heart attack before. When he saw the thing, he went white, seemed to be having trouble breathing. His fear drew it to him.'

  'It changed direction?'

  'Straight towards poor Freddy.' He looks down. 'We all kept out of its way. Let it have him. Freddy fell, and the thing hovered, waited for his soul to come out. Never seen a soul before. And to see that. Did I see that?'

  There's a pleading in his eyes. He doesn't quite believe it. Doesn't want to. And I know the feeling. Not sure it can go away though.

  'Do you think you saw it?' I ask. Vague enough to leave him with questions. It's up to him whether he can fool himself into believing it was alcohol.

  I squeeze his shoulder and we leave him to his own demons.

  Have to remember to wash my hands.

  Just as I thought we at least had a grasp on the rules of how these things work, it drifts from its domain and appears before death. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

  The story remains basically consistent as we question other witnesses. Those willing to tell us what they saw. Some may've slept through most of it, and some seem to either be suppressing it or lying to us. But a few are all we need to be sure what happened here.

  Not in any way we can write up, of course.

  Part of me still wishes I could suppre
ss the memory. But mostly I doubt that's possible. That's just lying to myself. And even if I could, the truth will still be in there. I can't believe it wouldn't affect me somehow.

  Makes me wonder if this was the first time I've seen one. It could maybe explain how I am the way I am. But that's just looking for an explanation for the way I am. Pointless, and not something I have time for.

  It's hardly going to make any impact on the city that a dozen vagrants have seen the demon. Life will go on around us. I doubt this'll even make the papers, unless it inconveniences someone that matters.

  Even if everyone who sees it believes, there's no way anyone who hasn't could be convinced. I know that.

  My growing depression is interrupted as Parker trudges towards us with a hint of urgency. He doesn't look happy.

  'There's something you'll need to see at the hotel.'

  24

  Most of the squad cars come with us. I have them secure the perimeter and wait for forensics.

  Leaving just the two of us in a familiar corridor. With the body.

  Shot, this time.

  'We really should have this place watched,' I say.

  'Maybe install a forensics lab downstairs.' Jake leans over the body for a look. 'Couple of hours, maybe?'

  I nod. At least an hour ago, probably no more than a few.

  'Before the attack on the vagrant camp,' says Jake. 'How long would it take the thing to wander over there?'

  I say nothing, having no answer.

  'I could really use some input on this,' says Jake. He looks concerned. 'I thought at least it was confined to the hotel. That it couldn't leave.'

  'As did I. And Marcy, I'm sure. There's no record of it doing so before. What's different this time.'

  'You think something to do with this body?'

  'I don't see how. Maybe there're other factors at play.'

  Jake stands from his inspection, phone in hand. He's not as squeamish as usual around bodies. He takes a picture of the body, then disappears out to the stairwell for a couple of minutes.

  Haven't found much by the time he returns.