The Fall (Karma Police Book 5)

by Sean Platt

  And still, I don’t know what to do. How to capture Oliver's soul.

  An idea finds me.

  Until now, I’ve been an unseen spectator in this man’s mind, but I can make myself visible. So I do.

  I approach Oliver. He looks up at me, confused, scared, crying.

  “My dog. I killed my dog.”

  His soul hovers behind him, pulsating, growing darker, the aura blooming larger as the clear part shrinks, as if the aura would soon consume the soul.

  “I can help you,” I say.

  “How?”

  “I can make this go away.”

  He looks at me confused. “What do you mean go away?”

  “I can take this pain away. I can bring your dog back,” I lie, desperate for his trust.

  “How?”

  “You need to take my hand.”

  He looks at it uncertainly, suddenly a child, looking up at me, scared and crying. “Take your hand, and it goes away?”

  “Yes,” I say, trusting an idea that’s really only a hope.

  He reaches out and takes my hand.

  And then it happens.

  His soul crashes into him.

  His hand locks onto mine.

  And then the pain, his pain, is coursing through me, starting at my hands and winding its way through my body.

  But not just his pain, but every other emotion, spreading through me like a white-hot fire licking log cabin walls.

  Then it’s all I can feel.

  My instinct wants to let go, but I can’t.

  This is how I take his soul.

  And then, darkness.

  I open my eyes.

  I’m back in the operating theater.

  The beeping machine swears that Oliver’s dead.

  I’m overwhelmed by sorrow as I stare at my body.

  No, not mine. Oliver’s.

  And then confusion as his memories tangle with my own.

  I turn to Kotke to tell him I don’t feel well.

  Then I crash to the ground.

  **

  I wake to a blur.

  I’m sitting at the circular table in Eden’s room. Not the room she lives in, but the one where she talks with me and Willow, where we’ve done most of our experiments.

  Kotke is next to me and Eden is across the table.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  More of Oliver’s memories rip through me.

  I’m standing in his driveway again, but now it’s me getting out of the car and looking down at my dead dog.

  What the hell?

  “Can you hear me?” Kotke’s voice pulls me back into the real world. “What’s happening?”

  “His memories … they’re too much.”

  “I was afraid of this. I think his soul is trying to take control of you.”

  “What?”

  How can he even know this?

  Did he work with the Jumper program too?

  Is this a common thing?

  Kotke grabs my hand. “You need to get it out of you. Focus on uploading it to Eden.”

  Eden looks at me with that weird artificial smile that creeps Willow out as much as it does me. In her little girl’s voice, she says, “Are you ready, Ben?”

  “Yes,” I say, forging the connection with her as I have hundreds of times before while she’s mapped my mind to learn and perfect the Project.

  As we connect, I find myself in another of Oliver’s memories, this time I’m running through a burning house searching for my daughter.

  No, not mine, his.

  I have to find her!

  “Focus,” Kotke says, grabbing my hand tight, pulling me back.

  And then I connect with Eden.

  Her inner space is unlike the darkness of most people’s. Whenever I enter her mind, we’re in Fairchild’s enormous estate, usually in her bedroom. I’m not sure if this is a residual memory that Eden had of the house — I’m told there shouldn’t be any — or a computer simulation designed to create a stable space for our interaction.

  She appears in the space looking the same as she does in life, like a child.

  “Hello, Ben. What have you brought me?”

  I look behind me and see the soul is no longer a small fist-sized ball, but rather an unwieldy mess of darkness. A scribble come to life.

  Shaped like a human.

  Did I change its shape, or is this what happens to the soul once it’s in a new host?

  “Take its hand,” I say.

  She reaches out and takes it.

  The scribble-mess vanishes.

  And then I’m out of her mind.

  I exhale, relieved not to feel the pain of Oliver’s soul trying to assert control over me. Then I look at Eden, whose face has changed.

  She’s no longer wearing her usual, vacant expression.

  Now she looks confused.

  “Who are you people?” she asks, looking from me to Kotke.

  “Who are you?” Kotke asks.

  “Oliver. Oliver Remington.”

  Kotke smiles. “Oh my God, I think it worked.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 15

  Ben Shepherd Age 23

  I’m in the drive-through lane at Dunkin Donuts picking up a dozen donuts, coffee, and hot cocoa to surprise Willow and Ella before they wake up.

  It’s cold in the car, the streets are slick with snow, and I’m stuffed up, coming down with something that’s completely blocked my sense of smell. I’m anxious for the cocoa to kill some of the stuffiness.

  It’s been three months since our breakthrough. Surprisingly, Eden can control Oliver’s soul, allowing our access whenever we want.

  Despite the success, I can’t help but feel cruel when speaking to Oliver through Eden. He’s confused, asking why he’s stuck in this body, why can’t he leave the facility, and why I didn’t help him like I promised.

  I’ve asked Kotke and Mr. Fairchild when we can let the man go, as they’ve assured me that his soul can be released. But neither are prepared to do so just yet. They want to keep him for long term study, not just to determine the feasibility of using Eden’s body for Willow’s soul, but also to study the psychological effects of being in another person’s body for so long.

  So far, the prognosis doesn’t look good.

  The subject is depressed and angry. He begs me to die whenever I talk to him.

  Will that be Willow’s fate?

  She already disapproves of using Eden’s body, saying it ought to be properly buried, not be a tool of her father’s.

  I order donuts, hot cocoa for me, and coffee for Willow, then head back to the house wishing I could smell the donuts.

  I fumble with my keys to unlock the front door, step inside, and see Ella sitting on the living room floor, watching cartoons.

  “Where’s Mommy?” I ask, surprised to see our daughter in the living room without supervision.

  “Mommy won’t wake up.”

  “What?” I ask, putting the donuts and coffee on the dining room table before making my way to our bedroom.

  I open the door and step inside.

  Willow is still in bed, covers pulled over her, just as I’d left her before sneaking out that morning.

  I shake her, but she doesn’t rouse.

  A chill runs through me.

  I pull the covers aside.

  Her eyes are wide open.

  Vomit on her lips and down her chin, on the pillow.

  My stomach lurches as reality hits me like a train.

  No, no, no, no.

  I shake her again.

  “Willow?”

  She’s cold, her skin almost blue.

  “Is Mommy okay?” Ella asks, standing behind me.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  How long has she been dead?

  I try to feel for a connection, some way to capture her soul if it isn’t too late.

  But there’s nothing.

  “Mommy?” Ella asks coming over to the bed and pu
shing her.

  She giggles when she sees her mother’s eyes open, thinking she’s playing some game.

  “Mommy,” she says, “wake up.”

  When Willow doesn’t move, Ella realizes something’s wrong. Tears well in her eyes. “Mommy?”

  I grab Ella, carry her back to the living room, and set her on the couch. “Sit here a minute, okay?”

  She’s crying, scared, confused.

  I wonder if she has any concept of death.

  I grab the phone and dial 9-1-1 even though I know it’s too late.

  Then I call Arnold. “She’s … she’s dead.”

  **

  The next few hours pass in a flurry. Willow’s mom keeps Ella occupied while the police and Arnold grill me.

  How the hell did Willow overdose? How long had she been abusing the painkillers we found in her nightstand? And why didn’t I say anything?

  Yes, I knew she was depressed, but I don’t think she was abusing drugs.

  I have no answers.

  I didn’t see this coming.

  Arnold is devastated, at one point yelling, “Everything I’ve done is now for nothing!” before storming out.

  I’m left alone in the house, staring at the empty bed, my heart in countless pieces.

  I rip off the sheets, pissed, and carry them to the washing machine.

  I lift the lid, about to throw the sheets inside, when I see something taped to the interior lid.

  A yellow envelope.

  I drop the sheets and tear it open.

  It’s a letter in Willow’s handwriting:

  Dearest Ben,

  I’m so sorry that I had to do it like this.

  I’m even sorrier that I couldn’t tell you, knowing you’d try to stop me.

  The doctor told me that I have inoperable brain cancer. I might have a few months left, at best.

  I know that would’ve given you time to do that thing you and my father were planning, but I can’t let you.

  There’s something else I’ve learned in recent months, and again, it’s something I didn’t know how to tell you.

  My father is not a good man.

  If I let him put my soul into Eden’s body, bad things would have happened.

  I know the obvious question is WHAT sorts of bad things?

  And that I can’t tell you, other than to say the worst.

  You can’t trust him, Ben.

  You need to find a way to distance yourself AND ELLA from my father before it’s too late.

  I’m sorry if it seems like I’m being vague, but I don’t have better answers than that. I only know that I had to end things on my terms rather than becoming a pawn in what he’s planning next.

  Please tell Ella that I loved her more than she can ever know.

  Please protect her from my father.

  And thank you for saying yes to me despite knowing that you were agreeing to a tragedy.

  I wish things could have worked out differently.

  Perhaps we’ll meet again in whatever’s next.

  I love you,

  Willow Shepherd

  As I stand here, tears flowing down my cheeks, all I can think is that we were supposed to have one more year.

  One more year.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 16

  Ella Shepherd Age 7

  I wake up to a weird blue nightlight brightening my walls.

  I’m not a baby. I don’t have a nightlight. Did Daddy put one in my room?

  I look around and see that my posters are all gone, replaced with boy posters of football players and cars and superheroes.

  At first, I think Daddy’s playing a joke on me. But then I see other things that are different — the room is bigger, and so is my bed. The window and curtains are different. So is everything else.

  I look around, scared, my eyes starting to water.

  This isn’t my room.

  This isn’t our home.

  How did I get here?

  Did someone kidnap me?

  I jump out of bed and run to the bedroom door that isn’t mine.

  I open it.

  I’m in a big house I’ve never seen. It’s two stories.

  I run downstairs, not knowing where to go.

  But I can’t stay. I’m not supposed to be here.

  I need to find a phone.

  I need to call the police and then Daddy.

  I go into the kitchen looking for a phone on the wall like some houses still have, but I don’t see one.

  No!

  I look outside the kitchen window. Outside it’s dark and scary.

  I don’t know what to do. Do I go outside and look until I find someone with a phone? Or do I go upstairs and see if whoever lives here has a mobile?

  I start to go outside, but a dog barks in the yard and scares me.

  I could go out the front door instead, but what if the dog isn’t on a leash or behind a gate?

  I go back upstairs and peek inside the only open doors in sight. One is a bathroom, and the other is an office like Daddy’s at home.

  I go inside, looking for a phone.

  I find one on the desk.

  I pick it up. It’s different from Daddy’s, but I’m guessing it turns on the same way.

  I push the button at the bottom of the screen.

  The screen asks me for a passcode.

  No!

  I start to press numbers, hoping I might be lucky enough to guess the right one.

  Then the phone says it’s blocked.

  No!

  A light comes on.

  A fat woman is standing in her pajamas, looking at me.

  “Honey, why are you up?”

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  But my voice doesn’t sound like my voice.

  It sounds like a boy’s.

  What’s going on?

  “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” I say, rushing past her, into the bathroom.

  I flip on the light and look in the mirror.

  Instead of me, I see a brown-skinned boy about six years old.

  What is going on?

  I scream.

  “Honey?” the woman asks grabbing me, tight.

  No!

  I’ve got to get away.

  Got to go downstairs and run out the front door, dogs or not.

  Got to find a phone that I can use to call Daddy.

  “Let me go!” I yell, kicking, thrashing.

  The woman holds me tight, crying, “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “I’m not your honey!” I yell, kicking her hard in the leg.

  She finally lets go.

  I run towards the stairs, turn, grabbing the rail, trying to right myself before I hit the top step.

  Instead, my hand slips and I fly right over the rail.

  Then I’m back in my bed, screaming.

  Dad runs in. “What’s wrong, Ella?”

  “I don’t know!” I cry out as he holds me.

  I feel better in his arms, but not yet safe.

  What happened to me?

  Who was that boy?

  Was I really in that house?

  “Daddy, I need to tell you something you might not believe.”

  “What is it, Ella?”

  “You havta promise that you’ll believe me.”

  “I promise.”

  “I think I was in someone else’s body.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 17

  Ben Shepherd Age 28

  Ella relates her experience, and I tell her that she’s probably sick. Sometimes people hallucinate when they’re ill.

  Please don’t let her be one.

  Please, God.

  I have to keep the fear from showing. She’s hyper-intuitive, just like her mother. It makes lying impossible. I’ve always suspected that she might be a touch psychic and could read minds, even though she’s never said anything to prove it.

  But what if her gift is Jumping?

  I don’t know what to do.

  Shou
ld I tell her what I know?

  That sounds awful, especially since I barely know anything.

  And while I know that AD was trying to start a Jumper program, I don’t know if they ever got it off the ground.

  I think of Eden Jumping and never returning. Now she’s a damned robot.

  “Are you okay, Daddy?” Ella asks.

  “Yeah, yeah, just trying to decide what to do about school. I think you need to stay home.”

  “But I don’t feel sick.”

  Ella is one of those odd children who hates staying home and looks forward to school.

  “Yeah, but sometimes you don’t realize you’re sick. Let me call my work and tell them that I’m not coming in.”

  I bring Ella to the living room, scatter her stuffies on the couch all around her, along with her favorite pillows and blankets, then I find something she can watch on TV.

  I go into my home office, keeping the door open.

  I scan the local news websites and find a story about a young boy who fell down the stairs last night. He’s in intensive care. His mother told police that her son woke up screaming. The things he said match what Ella described to me.

  Shit.

  I deeply sigh as I pick up my phone to make a horrifying call.

  A call that Willow would kill me if she knew I was making.

  But who else can I turn to but Arnold Fairchild?

  I haven’t seen him since Willow’s funeral.

  I moved out of his guest house and quit working at AD.

  He wasn’t happy, said I was ruining so many things by leaving. That you just don’t abandon a project when the going gets rough.

  I told him this wasn’t about the “going getting rough” but rather about my daughter — his granddaughter — needing me more than him.

  He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t press hard after the Ella card was played.

  I still had money from my father’s insurance, so I found an apartment a few hours away and started doing some freelance handyman work at an old folk’s community nearby. We’re not rich, but we’re doing fine.