The Wrong Goodbye

by Chris F. Holm

  How she could see that in the dark wash of predawn blue, the flicker of firelight, I don't know – but then, I reminded myself for perhaps the thousandth time, Lilith is not so human as she appears to be.

  It would seem neither of us are.

  "I'm fine," I said.

  "You look anything but fine."

  Fuck it, I thought. She'd been straight with me. I may as well return the favor. "This Charon," I said. "I met him. In the desert, on the night that we last spoke. He damn near killed me."

  "And yet he came when summoned to heal you this night," she said. "Most interesting."

  "He told me I had three days to return the Varela soul to him, or he would plunge me into Nothingness for all eternity. My guess is, he only healed me so I could complete my task."

  She considered it. "Perhaps," she said, frowning. "Though I'm forced to wonder, why you? Charon could have just as easily called on any of your kind. I suspect there is a reason you, specifically, were chosen. Perhaps Charon's developed a certain affection for you."

  I thought back to our meeting in the desert. To the biting anger in his tone, the seething fury of his assault. "Not likely," I said.

  "Then perhaps you serve a purpose in his plan. A being as powerful as he no doubt sees a great deal more of the board than do such lowly pawns as you or I."

  "Exactly how powerful is this Charon?" I asked.

  "How do you mean?" Lilith replied, suddenly cagey, as though there were something in my tone she didn't like.

  "When we met in the desert, Charon claimed he was an Old God. That my God is nothing more than a pretender to the throne. A seditionist. A fraud."

  "And this troubles you?"

  "I don't know. I suppose it does."

  "Why?"

  "It's hard to explain," I said. "But to me – to all of humankind – the very existence of a loving God is the greatest comfort we could ever know. Even," I added ruefully, "for those of us removed from His good grace. And the thought that He might've stolen his throne – taken it through violence or deceit like a common criminal – robs me of that comfort. It makes him no better than the rest of us."

  "Oh, Collector, when are you going to learn? For all of your moralistic hand-wringing – about your role in this world, your perceptions of my actions, or the origins of your precious Maker – existence is not as simple as all that. There are no good guys, no bad guys – just a giant fucking mess, and a bunch of damaged beings trying to muddle through as best as they can. Perhaps your Maker did steal his throne. Perhaps Charon is lying – you'd be amazed at how many beings like myself have carved out a chunk of history passing themselves off as a deity to one religion or another. Only the Maker Himself could tell you for sure who's been lying all these millennia, and in case you hadn't noticed, He's been quite silent of late. Either way, who are we to judge? We're each of us nothing but frauds and liars. I mean, look at you! You fancy yourself a decent man, but if that's the case, then how did you wind up here? How did any of us? There is one thing I do know, though: whatever Charon is, he does not abide insubordination. You'd do well not to cross him."

  "That much, I gathered."

  "So what do you intend to do?"

  "Same as before," I said. "Track down Danny. Find Varela's soul."

  "Have you any idea where he's gone?"

  "Where worlds draw thin," I muttered, remembering the inscription on his hovel wall.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I wish I knew."

  "Well, then," she said, "you'd best go get that rotund dowsing rod of yours and find out. It seems you've one day left."

  28.

  Problem was, my dowsing rod was gone.

  By the time I hit the edge of town, the sun hung high overhead, baking cracks into the earth and obliterating all trace of the numbing chill of desert night. I'd stripped my filthy, tattered suit coat off during the ride, letting it flutter away on the breeze to be claimed by the desert. Once a somber, tasteful black, it'd ended up as dun-colored as the arid wasteland in which I left it – as dun-colored as the once-red Cadillac I drove. I chucked my one remaining shoe as well, this dead man's dress socks stuffed inside. Even barefoot and in rolled-up shirtsleeves, I was sweating, and I could feel my face and neck begin to burn under a sun that shone as hard and bright as a lamp without a shade.

  The Caddy creaked as though arthritic when I braked to a halt in front of the squat, its brakes and shocks no doubt as full of grit as my eyes and clothes, as the lines and creases of my skin. The paved drive way was soft and hot beneath my feet, scorching my soles as I stepped out of the car and setting me highstepping toward the door.

  Inside, the squat was still and dark, and stuffy as well – the air heavy and ill-smelling from the breath and sweat of people too long confined. "Gio?" I tried to call, but my voice came out a dry croak. "Hello?"

  My feet made little sound as I padded through the skeletal interior of the half-finished house. I strained to hear any signs of life, but there were none. The Gio I knew was not a slight or nimble man; surely, if he were here, I'd hear him. And what of Roscoe? That old coot couldn't go ten seconds without shouting his fool head off.

  No. They were gone. They had to be. Hell, I'd told Gio to do exactly that before I'd left. Of course, I hadn't realized by doing so I'd be consigning myself to an eternity of Nothingness. Without Gio, I had no way to locate Danny. Without Gio, I was toast.

  I strolled the house less cautiously now that I'd convinced myself there was nothing there to find. I remained convinced of that right up until a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air – so loud and so close, if I'd been wearing socks, I would've jumped clean out of them.

  I turned and caught a glimpse of denim-clad fury. Then a wide, rectangular something swung downward toward me, blotting out my field of vision. I threw my hands up to block the coming assault, but I was too late. The rectangular something connected with my face in a squish of poky bristles and a plume of stale, woody house dust.

  I sneezed – which maybe, on reflection, doesn't do justice to the ferocity or effectiveness of the fwacking I'd received. I mean to say I sneezed a lot.

  "Sam?" drawled my attacker, his thick Texas accent somehow finding a second syllable I never knew Sam had. "Sam, is that you?"

  Next thing I knew, I was the unwitting recipient of one hell of a bear-hug, the old man levering me off the floor with his prodigious gut and squeezing so hard I couldn't find the breath to sneeze.

  When I'd last seen Roscoe, he'd been tied to the toilet, pleading for his life. Guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

  "Jesus, Sam, it's good to see you!" he said, once he finally released me from his grasp.

  "Thanks," I said, brushing myself off and trying to get the tickling in my nose under control. "What the hell'd you hit me with?"

  "Push broom," he said.

  "And you were gonna what – sweep me to death with it?"

  He scowled at me, faux anger hiding embarrassment. "By the look a you, you could maybe use a decent brooming. And besides, it was all I could find by way a weapons in this place. A man gets mighty paranoid, holed up too long alone."

  "Alone? Roscoe, where's Gio?"

  "Left late yesterday, and don't you go blamin' him for it, neither. The both of us done thought you were a goner, an' yet that boy stayed anyways, for as long as he could stand."

  "If you both thought I was dead, what're you still doing here? I told Gio if I didn't come back, he was supposed to let you go."

  Roscoe did a little soft-shoe, showing off his unbound limbs. "You see anythin' keeping me here? I stayed because I wanted to. Was the only way I could get that boy to go. He said someone oughta be here in case you came back."

  "No offense, Roscoe, but why? I mean, I appreciate your sticking around and all, but we kidnapped you. We tied you up. Why on earth would you decide to help us out?"

  "Figured I owed you," he said.

  "How's that?"

  "Now, Sam, I ain't
the most religious man, but I do believe the good Lord sent you two boys to rattle my cage a bit, shake me off the path I was on. I made some decisions I ain't proud of lately – decisions that wound up with me passing out piss-drunk in a strip club parking lot. And even then, I didn't see I'd hit rock bottom. But then you two jokers come along, and of all the cars in the world you coulda jacked, you wound up taking mine. You and Gio, you showed me ain't no good can come of the life that I was leadin', and aside a sticking me in the trunk a while, you boys treated me just fine. Least I can do to show my thanks is help you two find your own way."

  "That's sweet and all, but I've gotta tell you, me and Gio are no messengers from God. We took your car because it was pretty and it was there to take – and believe me when I tell you, we had no idea you were passed out in back. And unfortunately, as far as finding my own way, there's nobody who can help with that but Gio, and he's long gone."

  Roscoe shook his head and smiled. "Just 'cause you don't know the good Lord sent you don't mean it ain't so. And as for finding Gio," he said, nudging me with his elbow like we were co-conspirators, "maybe I can help with that. 'Fore he left, he gave me a message to give to you."

  "Yeah?"

  He screwed up his face, like he was trying to get it right. "'Though she is blind, she has the sight. Her visions, they are always right. Into the future, she will peek, and put you on the path you seek.'"

  I blinked at him a moment. Wondered was this some kind of joke. But if it was, he wasn't letting on. "Roscoe, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

  "How the hell should I know? You two are the spooky Reaper types. Thought maybe it was like some kinda magic words or somethin' – 'specially after he made me say it back so many times, till he was sure I had it right. Figured it'd mean something to you. Foolish a me, I guess. Sounds more like some bullshit psychic-hotline jingle than anything else."

  Well, I'll be damned, I thought. That's exactly what it sounded like.

  "Roscoe, you're a genius!"

  He laughed. "Ain't nobody accused me a that one before. You sayin' you know where you can find him?"

  "No, but I've got an idea. I'm afraid I'm gonna need a favor, though."

  "The car?" he asked. I nodded. "Take her," he said. "Me and Bertha, we had a good run, but there's only one woman in this world for me, and that's my Jolene."

  "The same Jolene you called a thieving devilwoman not two days back?"

  "Hey, ain't none of us're perfect, Sam. And the fact is, you can't help who you're meant to be with – or, for that matter, who you're meant to be."

  Truer words were never spoken.

  "You want a lift somewhere, at least?"

  Roscoe squinted at me and cocked his head. "Look at this Grim Reapin' sumbitch, up against some kinda scary deadline, God knows what-all nipping at his heels, and he's still got manners enough to offer me a ride. You know what, Sam? You're all right. And speakin' of, I'll be all right too – don't you worry none for me. Now, git."

  We shook hands and parted friends.

  Then I headed north, following the breadcrumbs Gio left behind.

  Las Cruces to Las Vegas is eleven hours on a good day, I-10 cutting a jagged northwest diagonal out of southwestern New Mexico and clear up to the southernmost tip of Nevada – bisecting Arizona like a through-and-through. Eleven hours of khaki-colored desert interrupted only by the occasional, reluctant green that accompanied human settlement, jutting from the arid soil like weeds through a sidewalk crack. Eleven hours between me and my only hope of finding Danny.

  I made the drive in nine.

  Not bad, I'll admit – but I could've shaved off another half hour if I hadn't had to stop for gas, money, and a change of clothes. I was so focused on my task, I damn near forgot this battleship of a car ate gas like Gio's meat-suit went through Ring Dings. But somewhere outside of Tucson, the engine started sputtering, and I realized the needle was on E.

  And me without a penny to my name.

  Took another ten minutes for me to spot a truck stop, and by then, poor Bertha was on fumes. I doubt she could've gone another mile. Hell, I thought she was going to quit long before she did, but that old girl took pity on me. I was grateful. I'd spent far too long in the desert the past two days to relish the thought of hoofing it.

  The truck stop was huge: three acres of fresh-lined pavement, pumps, and gleaming big rigs, all rippling in the late morning heat. At the center of the automotive sprawl loomed a massive central building trimmed in red neon piping and boasting a lunch counter, a convenience store, a set of jumbo-sized car wash bays, and – if the signs were to be believed – shower facilities both hot and clean. Why in God's name hot was a selling point six inches from the surface of the sun was beyond me.

  I pulled the Caddy up to a pump out of sight of the main building next to a municipal truck stacked high with orange traffic barrels and caked with hot-mix asphalt. The faded state seal stenciled across the side of the truck bed read Ditat Deus. God Enriches, if my rusty Latin served. Though as I watched the trucks belch black diesel fumes into the cloudless sky and set out across the lifeless earth, I didn't see much evidence to support that claim.

  Even in the shade, the pavement burned my soles. I trotted barefoot to the door, thinking inconspicuous thoughts. Turns out, I needn't have bothered; bare feet aside, I wasn't any rougher around the edges than half their clientele.

  The store inside was more Walmart than 7-Eleven. Everything from tube socks and trucker caps to televisions and toaster ovens, the latter two made special to plug into a truck's cigarette lighter. The clothes – mostly novelty Ts and off-brand jeans – weren't much my style, but they were tempting nonetheless. Still, tough to walk off with a whole outfit hidden in your pants, so instead I settled on pocketing a hammer and a flat-head screwdriver. Wish I could've snagged some aloe vera while I was at it; after two hours of being chased westward by the sunrise, the back of my neck was hot enough to fry an egg. But all pharmacy items were on a rack up by the register. Guess they didn't want the truckers lifting the No-Doz.

  The signs for the showers led me down a long, narrow white-tiled hallway, cracked here and there and yellowed with age, but clean enough not to put the lie to the signs outside. As I pushed through the swinging door to the men's locker room, I heard the sound of running water. The locker room was only slightly wider than the hall, with two benches running parallel to one another in the center, and a wall of lockers on either side. To my right, a doorway led to a series of toilet stalls, a wall of sinks and mirrors opposite. Another doorway on the far left of the room led to the showers, if the steam billowing through the aperture was any indication.

  Sounded like at least a couple of them were running, which I was psyched about. Meant I'd have me some selection. Occasionally, one of the showers' occupants let slip a line or two of Skynyrd, neither tuneful nor lyrically accurate. That I could've lived without.

  I turned my attention to the lockers. Two banks of small, square boxes, painted institutional gray. The kind where you put in quarters and take the key, which was perfect for my purposes, since a) you can tell at a glance which ones are occupied, and b) they're by far the shittiest-constructed type of lockers on the planet.

  Three of them were occupied. I popped 'em each in turn. A nosy parent with a paperclip would've had more trouble with their daughter's diary than I had with these bad boys. Insert screwdriver in lock and tap with hammer, as easy as you please. Hell, I even had the sound of running water to drown out my hammering, and its sudden absence would let me know if the owners of this crap were coming back. My only worry in the world right then was that these guys would be too short or too fat for their clothes to fit.

  I laid out the contents of the lockers on the wooden bench nearest me. Grayed with age and damp and mildew, the bench was bolted to the floor nonetheless. Who'd want to take the fucking thing was beyond me, and that's even granting my only purpose for being there was to steal shit.

  I played Goldilocks a seco
nd, poked through my potential haul. A pair of cargo shorts, size 48: too big. Bright red shirt, all fringe and piping, and some skinny ink-blue jeans to match: too cowboy. Wellworn pair of boot-cut Levis and plain black T-shirt: just right.

  I dressed quickly. The shirt smelled of sweat, but likely far less than did I – and anyways, it fit, or near enough. The pants were maybe a size or two too big, but had a studded belt threaded through their loops. I buckled it, and all was well.

  The shoe situation was a tougher nut to crack. I looked to be a twelve at least. But all I had to work with was a pair of steel-toe work boots, pair of cowboys, and a ratty pair of high-tops – nines, tens, and (I shit you not) seven-and-a-halfs, respectively. The tiny high-tops came from the same locker as the tent-like cargos. I wondered how the guy stayed upright.

  Cowboy had a travel stick of Old Spice. I slathered some on. Big Dude and Just Right had left their wallets in their lockers; I guess Cowboy left his in his truck. I thumbed through them, fixing to take them both, but something stopped me.

  Pictures, encased in those cheap-ass clear vinyl books that you get with wallets – the ones most folks throw out. Big Dude hadn't, though. Instead, he'd stuffed them full of shots of him and his little girls. Smiling, happy. Had a smiling wife, too. In a couple pics, they had themselves a dog – a handsome little mutt, all ears and lolling tongue. Even he looked like he was smiling.