Til Death Do Us Part

by Leonard Petracci

  "Don't move if you want to live."

  Chapter 25

  "I bet you thought I wouldn't find you," said the voice in my ear. "I bet you thought I'd given up, or I'd forgotten. Well, that's where you're wrong."

  I lay stock still, listening to the voice. It was young, which meant it could have been someone who escaped Carcer during the explosion. It could be any number of people in the past, anyone who I had wronged or locked away.

  "And what, exactly," I replied, my voice dry, "have I done to piss you off?"

  "Oh, you stole something from me," came the answer. "Something very dear."

  "Which is? You'll have to pardon me, I steal a great many things. I am a thief." As I spoke, I mentally searched for the weapons I had around the room. Above me, on the windowsill, would be my gun, but undoubtedly that would have been removed by the intruder. There would be a knife on my desk, ten feet away, but if the intruder was armed I would never make it, especially if they were armed with my gun.

  "Oh, you don't remember?" said the voice, a whisper, so close to my ear I could feel hot breath against my skin, "I'll have to remind you then."

  Shivers raced up my spine at the first kiss, one that lingered at my earlobe and stole its way toward my mouth. And in the darkness, I saw a face above me, a face that I recognized easily after hours of watching it on television.

  Karen Miles.

  "You, Frederick Galvani," she said, her nose pressed against mine, and the contours of her body fitting into the gaps of my side, "stole my heart."

  And then Lisa’s leg hooked around mine, and she was on top of me, and I had even less sleep that night than I had anticipated.

  ***

  After the disappearance of Jamil, the world council held their doors open for him for years, leaving his seat purposefully unfilled. But for months, then years, then decades, then centuries, no one came to take his place.

  So instead of a leader, they settled with representatives. Honorarily, they never wrote Jamil out of power—he was a symbol for them, a reminder to push for the good of mankind. But the true power now lay with the council, with the men and women who represented countries, who made global decisions that could create or destroy empires.

  And among these representatives, a new leader emerged—not a leader by paper, or formal instruction, but rather by association. For he had the greatest wealth among them. His temperament was dominant, his past showcased lifetimes of obtaining results. And he had been known to be Jamil's greatest friend while he resided among them.

  Lingston had been his name in his first life, that of his acceptance into the council. And like the other council members, that name had followed him after rebirth, as he made his way back to the council building as soon as he was able. For councillors had great responsibilities on their shoulders. They led countries and armies. They directed fortunes that had been accumulated over centuries of care and nurture.

  The duty of identification of dead council members fell to the Passkeepers Guild, a sect of men and women dedicated to tracking the life cycles of those important and wealthy enough to afford it. Each client of the Passkeepers was given three agents, agents who held vows of silence so severe that, should they be broken, the agent would be tortured for three full cycles afterward. The client entrusted a different password to each of the three, who held it for their following lifetimes, until the client’s life ended and he or she returned from rebirth. Then the Passkeepers would either nod or shake their heads when the client whispered them their password.

  A nod from any of the Passkeepers meant that the password was correct, and their identity was confirmed.

  A shake meant death.

  The Passkeepers’ tongues were removed, and they wrote in a language without associated phonetics. Though this was nearly unnecessary—in their entire history, not one Passkeeper had ever revealed a password. At least, not one that had been discovered.

  After the disappearance of Jamil, and his failure to return to the Passkeepers to reclaim his identity, Lingston had prepared a speech in memory of his friend Jamil. Most of what was spoken has since been lost, but at a monument at the front of the world council, where Jamil's statue stands tall in an artist’s creative rendering of his more impressive legendary features, the stone base remembers only the end of the speech.

  "Let us remember Jamil for who he was—a man of morality, of compassion, of enlightenment. And let us hold those attributes in our hearts, so they will be open when he returns."

  But as the words faded from the rock, and the statue’s features wore away as time chiseled at its details, Jamil never came. And some wondered if he had ever existed at all. Perhaps the story was a ruse, maybe Jamil was simply a martyr invented by the world council when they first came to power.

  Since then, their power has only grown. After centuries of leadership exposure, only few among their ranks were unblemished by its temptations. Rumors spread of murder in the night of political opponents and of the direction of wars for economic gain. Rumors of crimes swept under the rug as if they had never happened, and of laws being erased from the litigation books by the page.

  Despite the rumors, few confronted the council. Those that did often had a crime in their past lives suddenly exposed, and were reconditioned in Carcer or an equivalent prison until they no longer cared about the council’s affairs. Even the most violent of protesters gained little traction against the council's regenerative nature—should a representative die, it was only a matter of time before he or she returned, only now with a more youthful body. So far, no measures had been found to combat the council members’ immortality.

  Which is why I, Frederick Galvanni, plan on a more permanent fix.

  Chapter 26

  "You can't stay here," I said as Lisa stretched out on the couch, a bowl of sugar-coated cereal in her hands, shoveling the floating bits into her mouth as she watched television. She wore one of my t-shirts paired with sweatpants that were too long and baggy for her and were rolled around her ankles.

  "I don't see why not," she said casually, taking another bite and being sure to emphasize the crunch. "Besides, you have the good cereal here. My manager would faint if he saw me eating this, he doesn't let me have sugar, and I've exceeded my daily carb count as of three spoonfuls ago. Won't let me eat what I want, and my face is even on the box. When they took that picture, they edited in the cereal on the spoon, so I didn't even get to have it then!"

  She held up the box, where her mouth was open wide as a spoonful of brightly colored cereal, shaped like tiny microphones, had passed behind her cherry red lipstick. Behind her, Marco shook his head, his eyes watching the television, frowning as bits of cereal found their way into the couch cushions. The orphanage had a strict no eating outside the kitchen or dining room policy. Lisa had a strict I do what I want policy and always had.

  On the television, yellow crime scene tape criss-crossed the screen, accompanied by the flashing, blue lights of police cars. A cluster of reporters were in the background, while the main spokesman stood up front, a microphone pressed close to his mouth. Behind him was a large blue house, a blue sports car and a blue monster truck parked in the driveway, and a horse, spotless except for the blue streaks in its hair, tethered in a single stable.

  "At this time, Miles Media is withholding our official statement," said the spokesman, straightening the tie on his suit. "More evidence is necessary to reach a conclusion. Authorities are encouraging anyone with information pertaining to the matter to step forward. All we know now is that Karen is missing, and we fear the worst may happen. Again, if you have information, step forward so that we can apprehend the kidnappers, should they exist."

  "What?" yelled Lisa, springing up from the couch to stand in front of the television, her hands held wide. "That's it? They're not going to report on the rest?"

  "The rest?" I asked with suspicion.

  "Of course the rest. I tore my room apart before I left, and there's blood on the floor. My blood.” She hel
d up a cut on her bicep, hidden by her sleeve. “It's bound to look like a kidnapping."

  "You did what?!" I shouted from across the room, my face turning red.

  "Faked my kidnapping, of course. Now my record sales are bound to double, and I can take a few days off." She settled back into the couch, crossing her legs over the coffee table. "You have no idea how much work it takes to be a pop star. Seriously, I'm being driven like a slave."

  "Like a slave? Isn't that a monster truck parked in your driveway?"

  "Well, yeah. I wanted one."

  "And a horse stabled at your house―no, your mansion?"

  "It's a pony. I never said I wasn't getting paid, I just said they work me too hard. So I'm taking a break. Or, even better, maybe I'll be done with singing and we can just focus on the plan. I'm getting restless, and it's near impossible to have any real fun when you're followed by cameras all the time."

  "Oh God," I said, my head in my hands. "So right now, right now, every police officer in Alani is out looking for you. More than that, every one of your deranged fans is searching the streets in hope of finding you. And you chose our headquarters, a place where not one, but now four wanted Carcer inmates are hiding, as your weekend getaway? Do you realize just how absurdly stupid that is?"

  "Of course I do," she said, sticking her tongue out, her voice mocking, "but you're Frederick Galvanni. Greatest thief of the century. Surely you can think of something. Until then, I'll be sleeping here."

  "You most certainly will not."

  "That's not what you said last night," she replied with a wink.

  My face started turning red again, and I struggled to keep my voice even.

  "You can't. All it takes is for one of your fans to spot you, then—"

  From the other side of the room there was a slam as several textbooks fell to the floor, and a boy stood open mouthed in the door frame. He tried to speak, but his voice caught. Then he managed again, starting with a whisper and ending with a yell.

  "Oh my God, it’s Karen Miles!" Pete exclaimed, his voice high, and ran over, a slip of paper already out of his pocket and glaring at me. "And you told me you didn't even like her music."

  Chapter 27

  "What do you mean she can't stay?" asked Pete, his brow furrowed.

  "Exactly as I said," I responded, "she's too much of a risk, Pete."

  "Too much of a risk my ass," he responded, "What're they going to discover when they come here? Besides you torturing me with hours of study."

  "Look, that's how it's going to be, or we risk failure," I answered. "But while she is here, we might as well take advantage of it and go over the plan."

  From the corner, the recently arrived Smokestack, who was nonplussed at Lisa’s arrival, took a drag on his cigarette. "'Bout time," he said. "I've been waiting for this for years. Literally."

  “Smokestack, as you already know, you will now be replacing me at aviation school. Do whatever you have to to get in—I don’t care if you smoke, it hasn’t stopped you in the past. But you’ll need to pass the physical tests, and you’ll need to graduate top of your class. Do whatever you need to—cheat, sabotage, anything—but make sure you’re known as the best.”

  “Got it, boss,” said Smokestack, and he lit a new cigarette, dropping his stub on the floor.

  “And be careful where you throw your duds, the orphans are starting to pick them up.”

  “What do you care?”

  “Just do it.”

  “Alright,” he said, and flicked the burnt end of an Almaretto out the window.

  “Now, Pete, you’ve been studying art for years. You’ve already started making a name for yourself among the local community. The orphan prodigy, the parentless painter. Same rules for you as for Smokestack—in college, you’re to make a name for yourself. You’re the best. You may not paint as well as everyone, but no one else knows the great painters like you do. You can tell a fake from a real painting by touch alone. Become a legend.”

  “Got it,” said Pete. “So do I get to cheat too, then?”

  “No cheating for you,” I said. “I’ve clocked your hours, and you’ve had nearly ten thousand focused on art. You’re an expert. You shouldn’t need to cheat, and when the test comes, you won’t be able to.”

  “How about just a little bit? I’ll give you ten million of my billion.”

  “No cheating. Non-negotiable, and you won’t be able to bribe me if we fail anyway. Also, start learning the prices of art, which will be crucial. And on the topic of negotiations, I know the black market that you’ve been running through the orphanage. God, this isn’t Carcer. Don’t sell the cigarettes and liquor in return for favors, got it? They’re orphans, damn it.”

  “Whatever, boss,” said Pete. “But in college, I’m doing what I want.”

  “I encourage it. I recruited you to be a master of the market, Pete. The art market specifically, but start generating your name in college. Get as much influence as you can.”

  I looked toward Lisa, who was blowing large, pink, gum bubbles. With an azure nail, she broke the surface of one so it emitted an audible pop, and she gave me a sly smile.

  “Lisa, you need to keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t come back here. We’ll be in contact once it’s time for you to make a move. Keep your music from getting too trashy. You are the unattainable pop star, the purist who withstood the corruptive power of the paparazzi. No man can have you—make a point of that. Turn down everyone. Turn down celebrities. Turn down models. Make sure it makes the news.”

  “But one man already got me,” she said with a sly smile.

  “Keep it that way.”

  “Wow, are you this jealous already, Frederick? By the way, I don’t feel like being a pop star anymore. I want to do something else.”

  I sighed, meeting her eyes as she challenged me. “If you want your billion dollars, you stay a pop star. Or you become an actress. Stay famous. Stay unattainable. Stay desirable.”

  “Whatever,” she said, blowing her hair up her forehead with a huffed breath.

  “The twins are already aware of their piece of the puzzle,” I said. “If you see them, pretend you don’t know them, or that you’re just meeting them. Avoid contact. And that concludes each of your assignments. We’re spending lifetimes on this because it has to be real. This isn’t a front—this is who you are. You are not an actor—you are an artist, you are a pilot, you are a popstar. Even if your new parents did pay your way into Hollywood, Lisa.”

  “It was sheer talent, Frederick,” she retorted. “It’s not my first time on stage.”

  “By the way,” said Pete, “You’ve never mentioned where the hell we’re getting this billion dollars from. Still seems like quite the imaginary figure. I don’t learn without pay, you know.”

  “I suppose it is about time for that,” I said, and everyone’s eyes turned to me. Lisa’s bubble was frozen half full. Smokestack’s cigarette burned between two of his fingers. Pete stopped peeling paint from his nails.

  “Our target is none other than Lingston, current leader of the world council. We’re delivering him to Hell, where he belongs, and collecting what he leaves behind.”

  Smokestack’s cigarette fell onto the carpet, Lisa’s bubble popped, and Pete spoke a single word.

  “Shit.”

  Chapter 28

  “Are you insane?” shouted Smokestack.

  “Wrong question—are you suicidal?” asked Pete. “What the hell have you gotten us into? I’m okay with losing a life here or there, but with Lingston, hell, with Lingston I’ll be hounded for a millennia if we’re found out.”

  “Do you want a billion dollars, or not?” I said, “I offered you a fortune, not minimum wage. You should have expected something of this magnitude.”

  Pete’s face strained, and he licked his lips. Then he spoke.

  “Fine. But I want to know your plan. And I want to know it now, before I spend my next life being flayed alive.”

  So I told them. Their eyes
widened, and Lisa smiled when I came to her part, her old confidence shining through her new face.

  “That,” said Pete, biting his lip, thinking, “that might actually work.”

  “Not might,” I corrected. “Will.”

  ***

  I’d like to think we left the orphanage better than we found it. But I'm not so sure.

  There were a few kids that benefited from their time there. Lives that were changed, destinies altered. Full stomachs instead of hungry ones. But as we walked down the stairs of Allego one last time, I couldn't help but think of what would happen to the children still there. What would happen ten, fifteen, twenty years down the road, as the fund we left behind dwindled, and the memory of us faded from within its walls.

  I'd like to think the children would be well cared for. But that's not the way our world works. Nothing's permanent. Life cycles on. The work put in gets washed away, the towers crumble, effort dissolves. And it slinks towards mediocrity.

  Even our memories will be eroded away, until we no longer know who we are, or what we stand for.

  I watched Pete leave the orphanage first, bags of canvases and pigments cast over his shoulder as he waited for the taxi. Then Smokestack left, tossing a final cigarette on the ground in testament to the orphanage.

  And I remembered watching Lisa go, a bus ticket clutched in one hand, and a hooded sweatshirt concealing her hair. She'd walked down two of the steps, then ran back up, throwing her arms around me in a hug.