The Last Everything

by Frank Kennedy

  Jamie tossed the deposit bag onto the desk.

  “What now?”

  “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

  “Huh? You’re not arresting me? Are we meeting Ben?”

  Ignatius studied his phone and frowned.

  “First, I have a question. Think carefully. Right before you smashed the door, did you experience anything out of the ordinary? Headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”

  The questions flummoxed Jamie but triggered a memory. “What? I was scared. Almost passed out. But I was scared. What’s going on, Iggy?”

  “Hmm. Guess that clinches it. Too bad. But maybe it’s all for the best. Maybe if we had more time, I could explain.”

  The deputy cocked his weapon and ordered Jamie to move.

  2

  O UTSIDE THE BACK DOOR, Ignatius looked at the mess.

  “Suppose I’ll have to warn Jack before he comes in. I really did not want things to end this way.”

  “What things? Iggy, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Listen, Jamie. There are things in motion we can’t stop. Things that have been coming for a very long time. If we had known for sure it was happening tonight, I don’t think Ben would have …”

  “Where’s Ben? What’s happening?”

  “I texted him right after I saw you enter Jack’s. Hopefully, he’s not too far gone yet.”

  Another memory dislodged. Shortly after supper hours earlier, after a row between he and Ben, Jamie saw his brother out on the street, talking to Ignatius, arguing, gesticulating. At the time, he assumed it was all part of the continuing struggle to keep Ben on this side of the county line and away from the gushing booze. Jamie dismissed the moment, except to reinforce the idea that he needed to put distance between himself and Albion.

  “What’s been going on between you and Ben?”

  “None of that matters anymore, J. We need to move.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening, but I left my phone and a packed bag at the apartment. Can we stop by and …”

  “No. You were right about one thing, J. It’s time for you to leave this town, albeit for a more honorable reason than as a thief. I …”

  Ignatius cut himself off the instant they reached Main Street, which usually rolled up by 7 p.m. He found his Albion County sheriff’s sedan where he left it, two stores up from Jack’s. But his eyes focused on the headlights approaching from a block away. He stepped back, hiding himself and Jamie behind the corner of Sylvia’s Beauty Salon.

  “What’s wrong?” Jamie asked to no response.

  Ignatius kept his eyes glued on the other car, which slowed as it neared the sheriff’s vehicle. The car idled for a moment then slid in a full length behind the police sedan.

  “They wouldn’t,” Ignatius said. He grabbed his phone, fired off a text then turned to Jamie. “Possible change of plans.”

  He handed Jamie the Glock. “I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone if you didn’t have to.”

  Even in the dim glow of the streetlight, Jamie saw fear cross the deputy’s face.

  “What’s happening, Iggy? Speak to me.”

  “This has a trigger safety. Don’t release it unless you have to. I might be wrong about them. Just stay here and let me doing the talking. Understand, J?”

  “OK. Sure. I guess. I’ll …”

  “Stay here. Don’t show yourself. Not for a second.”

  Ignatius headed up the sidewalk. Jamie heard car doors open and the engine stall. The headlights cast distorted beams down Main Street. He moved as close to the street edge as possible and listened. At first, the voices stayed low. Back and forth, civil, disciplined. Soon, they raised.

  “This was sorted,” Ignatius told someone. “The vote was unanimous. We had fifteen years to debate. Go home. Wait it out.”

  “I beg to differ,” a woman said. “We are guided by a moral imperative which supersedes your obstructionist attempts at …”

  Jamie lost track of the words when he recognized her voice.

  “No way,” he whispered. “Can’t be.”

  “Last warning,” Ignatius said. “We will see this through and then all of us go home. Just as we agreed.”

  “You are not in charge,” another man insisted. “We abided your wishes for too long. We have to end that thing before it evolves. Like Agatha said, this is a moral choice. For the future. For everyone.”

  “And if I don’t let you near him?”

  “Do you think we have anything to lose?”

  Jamie knew the third voice as well. He released the trigger safety and stepped out into the open. He had no idea what he was doing. He also didn’t realize all three residents of Albion already drew on each other.

  “Don’t make me do this,” Ignatius said as Jamie stepped into the partial headlight beams.

  “There,” the woman pointed.

  A series of pops followed. Jamie froze as Ignatius groaned and fell to the sidewalk, two silhouettes approaching him. One of them stopped over the deputy and lowered a weapon. Flashes erupted from a long, slender suppressor. Ignatius lay silent and still.

  Jamie’s heart pounded as it might at the end of one of his evening jogs, yet he could not move his legs. He could not wrap his mind around this new nightmare, especially when he recognized the portly profile of Rand Paulus, a flour mill foreman who visited the house often after the Sheridan murders. Jamie tried to retreat, but the sidewalk betrayed him and he stumbled backward over uneven pavement.

  Rand Paulus aimed his weapon as the other, now familiar shadow closed in alongside him.

  “Sorry, son,” Rand said. “Has to be done. Everyone’s best interest.”

  In the instant before Rand pulled the trigger, Jamie regained his balance and fired the pistol without aiming. Bullets ricocheted off the beauty salon and the sheriff’s vehicle.

  “This ain’t real,” he jabbered. “It’s a freaking dream. Shit. Oh, shit. Not real.”

  Undaunted, Iggy’s attackers advanced in no particular hurry.

  “Once he’s down,” the woman told Rand, “empty your clip in him. No sense taking chances with it.”

  Both open fired at once, and Jamie responded in kind. He felt a pair of stings and stumbled backward, then turned down the alley next to Jack’s. He grabbed his flashlight, dropped in the confrontation, and took off full speed into the darkness. His lungs burned and his tears flowed.

  Bullets pinged the ground about him.

  He did not slow down, his newfound pain an unbearable yet clear signal he was still alive. As he dashed toward the shadows, he heard muffled pops, originating farther behind. A bullet grazed his left shoulder.

  Jamie didn’t know where he was running or why, fully expecting a bullet to rip through his back and end his pain at any second. He cursed Ben and cried out for his help. Jamie saw nothing ahead but empty streets, a lonely park and no one in this stifling little town to save him.

  3

  J AMIE SENSED THEY were all around, but he rarely saw them – fleeting shadows beneath distant streetlamps, a slow-moving car with the headlights off. The pain in his sides and belly grew sharper, his shirt soaked in sweat and blood. He didn’t know where the bullets hit him, only that as long as he stayed on concrete, he left a trail of red splotches for them to follow.

  He made quick work of the business district, which was no more than a few blocks of tiny shops, a barbershop with a pole that no longer lit, and a diner where he used to eat all the chicken and dumplings he wanted for free (a gift to an orphan). He hoped someone might be about, a rogue light in a window offering sanctuary.

  Yet only the pale hue of streetlamps gave him direction – as it did his pursuers. He raced through the town park, around which Albion was built. He cut past Horton’s Feed Store, dodged through an alley behind the Bowl-a-rama, sprinted across Coverdale Street, and ran into the woods bordering Alamander River.

  He stood at the edge of a dense collection of low scrub, tall pines and fallen branches, none of which he saw well. Sweat f
ell as tears over his eyes, which he wiped clear. He heard the pressing echo of a runner less than a block away. He convinced himself to press on, even without hope of aid. Perhaps the shots he fired woke the town. Perhaps not. He heard their apathy: Fools with firecrackers. Go back to sleep. Nothing to see here.

  “Nobody’s coming,” Jamie whispered. “I’m dead.”

  He didn’t stop running until he stumbled into the river, which was no more than a turbulent stream and never reached the bottom of his shorts as he crossed, fighting a testy current that wanted to drag him downstream. The bottom was soft and sandy, and the water seemed a brief, cool refresher that lessened the sting of his wounds. He heard a dog bark in the distance then climbed from the river, ambling over a log, where he sat.

  He set the gun on a rock then removed his shirt, fighting to contain a scream of agony, but he saw little in the dark. So many thoughts competed against the relentless pounding of his heart and the sudden, desperate thirst scorching his throat. He tried to control his breathing, something he did with ease when he jogged. He listened for pursuers but heard only the coursing of the river.

  He used his flashlight to find the bullet wounds. He discovered a tiny hole about an inch from his side. Jamie felt little pain, more like a tingle, but the slow current of blood was undeniable. Then, right about where his appendix was removed years ago, Jamie found the second hole. He remembered some of Iggy’s last words.

  “A thief shot dead. That’s how they’re going to remember me.”

  With his last fumes came dizziness. He grabbed hold of the log for support, certain he lost far more blood than he realized. How long before he’d lose consciousness? Should he tear the shirt into strips, tie it together, perhaps wrap it around, put pressure on the wounds?

  “No, this is stupid. Gotta find help. Gotta …”

  He was cold, his teeth chattering, and Jamie asked one word: Why?

  He thought he heard a twig snap.

  “I’m so sorry it has come to this,” a soft feminine voice said. “Expected yet still somewhat surprising.”

  Jamie froze and ducked. The voice came from several feet behind him, the second time someone stunned him from the darkness. He fought the dizziness and remembered the familiar voice of the woman who finished off Iggy with a silencer-equipped gun. This was not the same woman, her voice somehow softer.

  She emerged from the shadows wearing high heels, a smart business ensemble, the skirt cut beneath her knees. She was hefty in the midsection, her face full and eyes soft below distinctive wrinkles. Her jewelry glowed in the thick of night; a necklace of pearls complemented pearl earrings. Her red hair was coiffed, fresh from the salon. She smiled like a reassuring grandmother and bent down beside Jamie. She stretched a hand toward a bullet hole, but he jerked back, pressing hard against the log.

  “Who …. Who are you? C-can you help me?”

  “Oh, I wish I could, my sweet child. You cannot know how much.”

  “Look, lady. If you’re one of them, then just go ahead and do me, because I can’t take any more of this crap. But if you ain’t, please help me. They shot me, see …”

  She studied the wounds, a gentle sheen bouncing off her, as if the director of this absurd play had cast a spotlight on her.

  “I’m sure the creators never envisioned the end to be so sloppy,” she said. “Then again, they didn’t expect my program to take so long to boot.”

  “What? What the …”

  “Yes. Must have been the Caryllan pulse that shook me loose. Dear, dear. All these years. I should have had ample time to prepare you. Now I’ll have to improvise. This will be a sizable challenge.”

  “Lady, what’s wrong with you? You some kind of nut that goes wandering round in the woods in the middle of the night?”

  She laughed. “Any other time, I might suggest you get immediate help for your wounds. However, Jamie, they have become manageable.”

  Jamie found strength in his legs and lifted himself.

  “You … you know who I am? You are one of them.”

  “If you’re referring to the assassins, no my child. Alas, I can offer you no means of escape. My assignment was to prepare you. To condition you for the end, for the event that always was and always will be.”

  “I’m outta here, lady. You’re a whack-job.”

  “Please, Jamie. Hear me out. You are part of something that extends far beyond your imagination. Far beyond this universe, truth be told.”

  Jamie didn’t try to process her words. “Screw you.”

  “Run if you must. But know this, my dear sweet child: Even if you can elude the assassins, in just a few hours from now the boy known as Jamie Sheridan will cease to exist. I am so very, very sorry.”

  All at once, nature intervened with a shrill symphony. Jamie heard crickets, perhaps millions in unison, a chorus escalating to fever pitch. They seemed to be everywhere and closing in fast, screaming in his ears, their echoes bouncing off the tree tops like thunder. Just as Jamie raised his hands to cover his ears, the sound morphed into crackling, as if the land and the trees were covered in tin foil, all of it being crumpled by unseen, godlike hands. He looked to the sky, certain the loss of blood was sending him into shock. He saw a clear blanket of stars, his eyes fully adjusted to the natural light. And as the crackling turned into a scream, a shadow reached out and smudged the stars from existence.

  “The final stage has begun,” the woman shouted. “I am sorry for your pain, my dear sweet Jamie. But you had a good life, for a while.”

  Jamie stumbled into the woods, anything to get away from the scream. The shadow fell over the trees, slinking beyond the low brush and twisting into a horrid shape that seemed to have legs. He ran, the adrenaline rampaging through his blood once more. As the scream faded, Jamie heard the pounding of the forest floor, many legs scurrying at once, almost upon him. He had no sense of his bearings, no care for how much blood he lost or what was directly behind him. He forgot about the bullet holes in his gut.

  4

  10 miles west of Albion, Alabama

  2:30 a.m.

  B EN SHERIDAN FOUND pleasure in the sensation of warm liquor filling his belly and leaching into his bloodstream. He parked on an old hunting road a hundred yards off the highway. He sat on the hood of his blue Dodge pickup and toasted the moon, even though the moon wasn’t out.

  “Wherever the hell you are,” he said, raising his bottle.

  Ben tossed back the whiskey like someone chugging water on the hottest day of the year. Some of the whiskey missed its target and trickled onto his perpetual week-old beard.

  Ben always worked through this sordid business far from the eyes of a boy who once idolized him. He didn’t want to explain why he needed the booze. Jamie wouldn’t understand all the sacrifices and the desperate gambles. They argued enough without adding on the whole truth. So he found a liquid escape in the nearest wet county.

  He knew he had no business leaving Jamie alone. There was simply too much at stake, as Ignatius reminded him every day. He owed this much to Jamie: Be home, comfort him all the way to the end. Send him to his rest with peace and dignity. Even Tom and Marlena would have agreed.

  “Bastards,” he said, toasting his parents like he did every night.

  Ben shivered. As quickly as the ghostly image of his parents snuck in through the back door, he kicked them out.

  “Get a grip, Sheridan,” he mumbled. “Iggy knows what he’s doing.”

  He took out his phone, wondering why he received no texts.

  “Damn it.” Somewhere along the way, he muted the phone.

  That’s when he saw it.

  Caryllan pulse confirmed. Walt triangulating. Rebirth beginning. I have him. You know where to find us. He will need you.

  “Oh, hell. It’s too soon.”

  Ben called Ignatius. No response. Sent a text. No response. He called Jamie. No response. Then he saw the second text.

  traitors rp ab ??

  He took another swig and to
ssed the bottle aside. He fumbled for his keys and felt nauseous, but not because of the liquor.

  “What have I done?”

  He opened the driver’s door, braced himself against the side of the truck until the dizziness passed, and jumped in, dropping his keys between the seats. He cursed, wondering how to make the drive home. After taking a few deep breaths, Ben found his keys, flipped open the glove compartment, reached beneath the owner’s manual and grabbed his .45 semi-automatic. He attached a suppressor and sat the gun on the passenger seat.

  The truck jerked as he hit the gas. He struggled to keep the Dodge out of either ditch as he made several rough attempts at turning around. When he found his bearings, Ben did not know what was worse: The nausea or the panic. Neither compared to the sickening realization that even if he got to his brother in time, and even if his craziest theories were right, Ben couldn’t save Jamie from the inevitable.

  He balanced the wheel in one hand, his cell phone in the other. He called Jamie and Ignatius, but both phones went to voicemail.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before three.

  “Seven hours to go. Damn, J. We didn’t have enough time.”

  Entering Albion from the northwest, he passed the K-12 school, two churches, and the field where Jamie used to run track. The instant he turned onto Main Street - three blocks from home - Ben felt a wave of foreboding.

  The street was quiet, empty, yet Ben slowed the Dodge. He knew something was off. Then he saw it: An Albion County sheriff’s car parked in the alley next to Ol’ Jacks.

  Drive, you stupid bastard. Drive. Ben stopped the car anyway, grabbed his flashlight and gun, and stumbled to the police sedan.

  “The hell?”

  This made no sense. Ignatius and Jamie should have been far from Albion by now. Unless …

  That’s when he saw the dark red stain on the trunk, a handprint in blood. He dropped to one knee and vomited. After the final heave, and as he tried to regain his senses, Ben tried to lift the trunk. No luck. He raced around, opened the driver door, and pulled the trunk-release lever. He said a prayer before looking inside.