6
An Encounter
November 8, 2007
I met someone today who didn’t die within minutes of meeting me. I like her.
After another fruitless day, in terms of death, Bob decided to stop for some quality reading and hot chocolate. The coffee shop, Wake Up ‘N Go, was on Bob’s route home along Morgan Road. The Journeyman had made it his personal escape zone.
One reason for Bob’s love of reading was that it was portable. TVs were smaller than ever, but Bob maintained his preference for the images in his mind as opposed to the imaginations of others. He was halfway through Robert Stone’s Dog Soldiers and was totally enthralled.
A sudden collision brought Bob out of his book. He dropped his book. It took him an instant to realize he’d walked right into a young woman and knocked her coffee all over her.
“I’m so sorry!” he said.
The woman held her arms out, trying to fling the coffee off of her clothes and keep the hot liquid from burning her at the same time. Bob reflexively grabbed for some napkins. His mind told him a whole package wouldn’t help, and the blue coat she wore wouldn’t survive the operation. He felt guilty for surviving the crash without so much as a drip of coffee on his slacks.
“It’s OK,” she said with only a hint of frustration in her voice.
“No, really,” Bob insisted. “I should have been paying attention to where I was going.”
“I’m not exactly in a position to disagree. You gonna give me some of those?”
Bob realized he’d been holding the napkins halfway in the air and handed them over. He watched her pat her arms dry. She was small, with dark-red hair, and a slender frame.
He reflexively turned his eyes to the ground, not sure how to proceed. He noticed his book joined a small pile of drenched possessions on the floor. He bent down to pick up the woman’s purse. As he collected her items, he noticed a second book. The cover was drenched in coffee, but Bob could still make out the title.
Coffee and hot chocolate dripped off War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy as Bob picked it up. He could have wept. In one fell swoop, he’d managed to look like an idiot and ruin two books.
The woman grabbed her purse and the book. “Thanks,” she said; the annoyance a little more obvious.
“You’re reading Tolstoy,” he said.
“I was trying,” she said. “Now I’m reading coffee grounds.”
She didn’t throw the book out. Instead, she wrapped it in napkins and tucked the novel back into her purse.
“Again, I’m very sorry, Miss ...”
“Patience,” she said in a breath.
“I’m bothering you. I’m sorry,” Bob said. He stood, ready to leave.
“No, that’s my name,” she said.
“I see,” Bob said, but that was a white lie.
“My mom said she knew she’d need it the moment I was born,” Patience explained.
“Apparently, she passed that trait onto her daughter,” Bob smiled. “May I replace your coffee?”
“Really, I’m in a hurry.”
“It won’t take long.”
She eyed Bob suspiciously. “Only if you promise to keep it in a cup.”
“You have my word.”
She turned and noticed the line. She started to shake her head before Bob placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry; I’m something of a friend to the owner,” Bob said.
Bob waved a hand in the air to gain the attention of the old man behind the counter.
“Bob!” the man, Frank, shouted.
Bob smiled and spread his arms to show the mess.
“Right, not enough work here,” Frank said. “I need a hot chocolate, and another loaded with cream and four sugars.”
“He remembered my order,” Patience said.
“Frank is a veritable Rain Man when it comes to coffee orders,” Bob explained. A young man wearing a black apron brought Bob and Patience their drinks.
“So I’ve run into a celebrity?” Patience asked.
“Me? No, I’m just here a lot. My name is Bob.”
“Bob?”
“Yeah.”
“A celebrity named Bob?”
“I’m really no one important.”
“But the world should watch out so you can read?”
“I’m really very sorr—” Bob paused. It took him a moment, but he realized she was teasing him. It annoyed him a bit that she’d do anything to rub his embarrassment in.
“Well, I have to go,” she said. Bob noticed her smile. “Thanks for the bath, Celebrity.”
Bob watched her go. She wrapped herself up in her coat and walked into the parking lot. Bob let a chuckle escape his lips and sat down to enjoy his hot chocolate.
7
The Grimm
The two mugs of beer clanked together, sloshing some of the liquid onto the table. Drisc gulped more than half of his beer down as Bob took a healthy swig of his own. Drisc didn’t mind so much when people decided to point out all his stereotypical behaviors. Truth be told, some of them were useful. Bob knew him better, though, of course, but he didn’t stop Drisc from drinking, so it worked out for the best. Unfortunately, he also knew when Drisc was trying to avoid a subject.
“You and the Council did a fine job of interrogating me without doing too much to tell me that’s what was going on,” Bob said. He really was too smart for his own good sometimes. It must be all those books he keeps read’n, Drisc told himself.
“I’m not talk’n about work,” Drisc replied.
“I am.”
“Then yer talk’n to yerself.”
“This situation bothers me.”
“And what number of su’posed secrets de ye think will make tha situation more comfy for ya?”
“None of them, but I need to know.”
“Ye do, do ye?”
“Yes.”
“Funny, I think I remember people telling me I’m the elder Journeyman.”
“You’re really going to keep this from me?” Bob set his mug down. That wasn’t fair. A man can’t drink alone.
“Ye have a choice, laddie,” Drisc told the only friend he had. “Ye can change the subject now, or ye ask yer questions and live with the answers.”
“So there is something strange going on with the Death Sense?” Bob asked.
At least he didn’t know everything. Drisc smiled, shook his head, and took another gulp. He slapped the mug down with a sigh. He told the bartender to surprise him, and she did. He’d have to tip her well.
“Not exactly,” Drisc replied. He waived to get the waitress’s attention. “But there’s something going on that isn’t right. We think we know why, but it all depends on what we find out.”
“About what?” Bob asked, taking another sip of beer.
“He’s in New York,” Drisc said. Bob froze mid-sip. No two Journeymen ever needed to say who “he” was. They started calling “him” The Grimm about ninety years ago, when another Journeyman caught him tormenting a dying Transport with a scythe. The poor bastard who saw it pissed himself.
“Why?” Bob asked. He tried to look casual, but Drisc noticed his old friend was trying to keep something from him.
“We ‘ear he’s got a Transport in a few weeks,” Drisc answered. “That nutcase who New York means ta execute.”
“I thought the courts were close to granting a stay.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Drisc said with a sarcastic laugh. Death wasn’t funny, but sometimes knowing someone’s about to die gives a man perspective. The pretty little lass with a blonde ponytail brought Drisc a new beer. He asked for a different one every time, and she was happy to oblige.
Bob turned his mug idly on the brown tabletop. “I saw him last year.”
Drisc had time to be glad Bob was a good sport before reflexively spitting beer at him. “When the ‘ell were ye planning on tellin’ me this?” he asked angrily. He thought he should apologize as he watched Bob use some napkins to wipe the bee
r spray off his face. Honestly, it wasn’t that much.
“It’s not something I care to remember, what little of it I was conscious for,” Bob said. Drisc noticed that Bob shuddered.
“Well, get o’er that. Spill it. What happened?”
“When I Transported that cop, LeShea, Grimm showed up out of nowhere. He used ... something ... to fling me across the room.”
“And?” Drisc asked. The cute waitress brought him and Bob new beers. Yeah, he’d definitely have to leave a great tip. He’d love to try and see if she wanted anything other than a tip, but Bob just wouldn’t let him.
“And?” Bob echoed. “And I flew across the room and passed out. That’s all I know.”
“Ye didn’t see what he hit you with?” Drisc reached into his pocket. He kept his most important secret there, and he tried very hard not to think about it. He always failed.
Bob shook his head. “If tracking The Grimm was important to you, you should have told me.”
“Aye, cause I’m in the habit of pass’n Council business on to ye, right?” Drisc asked sarcastically.
“No, because I’m your friend, and if he’s dangerous, I should know to be on the lookout,” Bob argued with a raised voice.
“We call him The Grimm, for fuck’s sake, laddie! Would ye watch more carefully if we called him Mr. Very Bad Man?” They looked around the bar. The waitress looked like she’d rather forget the exchange, and the only other sop at the bar that early was already too drunk to remember his name. Drisc brought his voice back down to a low, conversational tone. “Besides, if I’m such an important friend, why didn’ ye trust me with the information?”
Bob opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. A moment later, both men knew they’d been acting like idiots. “Ah’m sorry,” Drisc said. “It’s hard bein yer friend these days, and Council business is what it is. If yer not there, and we don’t tell you, you probably don’t need or want to know.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Bob said. It was as close to admitting Drisc was right as Bob got. They agreed on most topics, but when it came to the job, Drisc was content with the way things were, and Bob seemed determined to change everything. Hard? Bein’ his friend and a Council member is like trying to drink and sing at the same time.
“If I remember anything else about that night, I’ll let you know right away,” Bob said.
“Ye can think about it on the way to New York City,” Drisc said.
Bob’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Why?” he asked in shock.
“Because ye have to come wit me.”
“For what?”
“To point him out; you’re the first Journeyman to see him in forty years.”
Bob took a considerably larger-than-average gulp of beer. “I’ll go, but trust me, you’ll know him when you see him. He takes that name and persona very seriously.”
8
When the Dying Live
Grimm watched the child walk hand in hand with its mother. New York was a busy place at any time of year, and winter made some of the mortals a bit hasty. The woman, however, found an interesting dress in a store window and went inside. Grimm wished for a moment he could kill her. She wasn’t even the one who was supposed to die. Only idiots called what he was “Death.” The purity of death was far more beautiful than just Transporting remnants of people.
Grimm thought for a moment that he had something in common with the woman. She wanted beauty, just as he wanted to kill. He could feel her emotions, like any other so-called Death. He could Manipulate them, just like they could. He fed her curiosity and, more importantly, her vanity, to help her decide to enter the store. It made life easier. He fed her desire to be beautiful. Her problem was that she wasn’t. Grimm was every bit as inept at killing as she was at being lovely. He felt himself wanting to kill her again and forced himself into being in control. He was becoming impatient, which would do nothing to help him.
The kid that was supposed to die was impatient too. Grimm watched the whelp idly kick the entrance to the shop. A street vendor called out to sell some sort of treat, and he took off running down the sidewalk. He was going to die because he didn’t take the time to look both ways before crossing an alley. He was going to die because the truck taking the alley was in a hurry to get ahead of traffic. Grimm wanted them all to die, but he had an experiment to finish. He didn’t want to ruin more than a month’s work.
Ronald heard the street vendor call out while his mom was still in the store shopping for some dress. Fresh-baked cinnamon buns sounded great. He could run and grab one with his allowance and be back before his mother even knew he was gone.
He was halfway there when he came on an alley splitting the two main roads. The delivery truck’s logo was the first thing he noticed. He thought he was dreaming for a moment. If it were possible to have a nightmare while he was awake, he was certain this was it. Sheets of black the size of pillowcases surrounded him; they screamed. For a moment, he couldn’t even hear the screeching tires of the truck over the noise the sheets of black made. They were loud and quiet at the same time. They wrapped around him and pulled him back. He felt terrified for a few moments as he was engulfed in total blackness. He couldn’t see anything at all, and he couldn’t hear anything except the screams. The next thing Ronald knew, he didn’t feel anything.
Grimm felt his power return to him. He only needed a small portion of it to stop the truck from hitting the boy. He heard the truck’s tires squeal, and for a moment, he hoped he didn’t get the kid in time. But he did, and that was to the good. He stopped the boy from dying, but he didn’t.
He watched the boy’s mother rush out of the store and pick up her son from where Grimm had dropped him. He watched the kid stand and saw the woman hug her son. He was alive but not. Grimm could already see his soul rot. It rotted, even while the body lived. The soul would sour, and whatever the boy became wasn’t human anymore. He was supposed to die in the truck accident. His soul wouldn’t last much longer. The woman would eventually come to wish the truck had killed him. Grimm smiled. At least he could cause some suffering.
Apparently, he could prevent physical death as well. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a way to take the boy’s soul. Not while the body lived. But if he could stop physical death, then perhaps with enough power, he could cause it. If he had even more power, he could actually tear the essence of a person. He’d been stopping people from having a physical death for a month.
Each time, the body lived, but the soul rotted anyway. It took much longer to sour, and Grimm had no way to get to it inside a living body. The experiment was a success. He was ready to move on to the next phase of his plan, and for that, he needed more power. Power was the key, and he had found a power that no other so-called Death ever had.
9
An Apology
November 9, 2007
I’m a fool, but if a man doesn’t do something foolish every hundred or so years, he tends to forget why a person should take risks. My risk was a little more personal. We’re all more or less human. No one cares if we decide to have a fling or two. Others have had deeper connections. A while back, one of those connections became a problem for our work. So the Council made a rule: “see” all the people you want, but no deep attachments. I’d be lying if I said I only wanted to “see” her. She’s different.
Bob nearly gave up sitting in one of the soft, leather chairs at Wake Up ‘N Go. He tried to read, but much to his surprise, he couldn’t focus. Each time the small bell on the door of the coffee shop rang, Bob looked around for her. She’s not that pretty, Bob chided himself, but she reads Tolstoy. Bright eyes, fire-red hair, and something about her smirk when she teased him had caught his attention and wouldn’t let go.
The bell rang again, and Bob looked around. The coffee shop’s brown and red design created a pleasing atmosphere. Plush leather seats sat around circular or rectangular tables. There was never any music. It was a quiet place where Bob could enjoy his hot chocolate and read in comfort with
more light than he had in his apartment. Frank calmly called out orders as people approached the counter. He had a man and teenage girl helping behind the counter. There were about four customers, and none of them had red hair.
One more chapter, and I’ll go home, he told himself.
Three chapters later, he decided to give up. She walked in as he finished a fourth. She wore a red coat to replace the blue one he had ruined. A camera hung off her right shoulder. Bob didn’t know cameras very well, but it looked professional and heavy. She patted some rain off her coat and took a moment to stomp her feet dry before walking to the counter, saying hello to Frank, and collecting her drink.
Bob took a few breaths. What am I so nervous about? He stood up and walked over to her. He meant to say something witty as he set the present down in front of her, but she shot a glare at him and gave that odd sort of half smile, the same one she’d given him when she’d teased at how much he apologized and how much of a fool he made of himself.
“Well, if it isn’t the celebrity,” she said calmly. He froze halfway between his table and hers. “I just bought this coat, so if you’re going to read here, please sit down first.”
“I’m not reading just now,” he said, trying to hide a bit of frustration. “I actually just came to talk to you.”
“That was the part where I offered you a seat,” she said with a light chuckle. She had a smoky quality to her voice. He laughed, hoping it sounded pleasant and not embarrassed.
“Is that a present for your kid?” she asked.
He looked down at the wrapped gift in his arms. “Yes,” he said. “No!” he barked suddenly.
“I’m sure it’s one of those,” she said with a smile.
He sat down slowly, determined to regain control of the moment. “Yes, it’s a present, but I don’t have a kid. It’s for you.”
Bob's Greatest Mistake_Part Two of The Journals of Bob Drifter Page 3
