“What about the ones left behind?” Nick asked.
“They have more time to adjust,” Bob tried to explain. “They have more time to heal. It’s selfish to want to keep those here when they’re meant to go.”
“Selfish!” Nick challenged.
Bob couldn’t help but cringe at Nick’s shout. He looked around again, but it seemed the other guests were entertained by another performance from David and his friends.
“Selfish because if I don’t help him leave the part of his soul he can leave here, then he truly is dead,” he told Nick. Bob couldn’t help his temper. He knew what he needed to do, and for anyone to challenge that, in his mind, was ignorant.
“You mean if you don’t do what you came here to do, there’ll be nothing left?” Nick asked.
“That’s right,” Bob replied. “Everybody dies. It’s not if; it’s when, but if I don’t do my job, there’s nothing left of that person to go on. Your soul ... to me ... is a sort of liquid,” Bob said, using the best figurative analogy he could. “It starts out pure, clean. As you get older, it gains more substance, but after time, a soul begins to drain. I don’t know when or why. But my job is simple. When it is time, I help them find their way. In addition to that, I take a part of their soul. I take a very small part, only small enough to hold a memory. I take that part of a soul and give it to the one to whom it’s meant to go..”
The explanation was wordy. Bob honestly didn‘t know the correct way to phrase it. He found himself half wishing Drisc was around to explain it. Drisc had explained Bob’s job to him more than three hundred years ago. Bob explained it as well as he could, but even Drisc didn’t know the way it all worked.
“But it’s too soon,” Nick cried. “Not now.” Bob closed his eyes.
“Neither of us has a say in the matter,” Bob said gently.
The next thing Bob knew, he saw stars and was on the ground.
“Damned if I don’t,” Nick said gruffly. “You get out of here.”
Bob took a moment to wipe a bit of blood from his nose. “Nick, you don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Nick interrupted. “If you don’t leave out the side gate now, I’ll call every news company I can find.”
“No one would possibly believe you,” Bob said, praying he was right. He’d just made the biggest mistake a person with his job of a Journeyman could make.
“No, maybe not,” Nick said. “But try doing your job with the whole United States looking into your life.”
“You can’t run, Nick,” Bob said gently.
“Can you blame me for trying?”
“No, I suppose I can’t.”
“How much time do I have?”
“Less than twenty-four hours.”
“How will it happen?”
“I told you, I don’t know,” Bob said under his breath. “I don’t kill people.”
“But you’ll be there when it happens?” Nick answered.
“The next time you see—” Bob was interrupted by another punch.
“Get out,” Nick ordered.
23
Compromise
Richard watched Drifter’s car pull out of the Oak Mountain parking lot. His lights were dimmed, so anyone looking would think he was just another parent or friend of the family. Kyle sat next to him, eating a bag of chips. The only things louder than his crunching were his thoughts.
“I’m not wrong about him,” Richard said. Kyle ate another chip and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I know what the lieutenant said,” Richard argued. Kyle licked his lips. He could say something. Sure, Richard knew his partner; he knew where his thoughts were going, but that damn silent treatment was getting on his nerves. The worst thing was that Richard knew his partner knew the silence was getting to him.
“You don’t have to tell me how dangerous this could be to my career,” Richard said. Kyle turned to look at him as he chewed his chips. The point of eating the chips was to keep his mouth full so he couldn’t tell him what an idiot he was.
“What do you want me to do?” Richard barked the question.
Kyle took a moment to swallow his chips. He pulled a gas-station soda from a cup holder, took a few gulps, and cleared his throat. “I want you to take your wife to the ballet in four days,” he said. Richard had imagined his partner saying a whole lot, but that comment wasn’t on his list.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Richard asked.
“Because you can’t let things go,” Kyle replied. Richard was about to give a response of his own, but Kyle interrupted. “Don’t you try and tell me you don’t let work affect your life at home because we’re here, Richard. You’re here instead of at home with your wife, and I’m here eating chips and dip instead of calling Amanda and finding new ways to ruin a good thing. You keep this up, and you’ll learn how I do it.”
Richard’s mouth opened to talk, but words didn’t come. Lucky for him, his partner had a knack for knowing what he wanted to say.
“You say he’s a bad guy, fine, but let someone else catch him,” Kyle said. “I’m asking you to give your career and your marriage a break and let this go.”
Richard just stared at him. His partner gave a chuckled sigh. “But you can’t let go, and that’s the problem,” Kyle said. “So here’s the deal: you’re going to drop it.”
Richard opened his mouth again to argue, but Kyle pointed a finger at him to cut him off. “You’re going to drop it!” he yelled. Richard had a million things he wanted to say, one of which happened to be how rude it was to talk to a guy without giving him a chance to respond. It’d be nice if he’d keep his crumbs off the interior of the car as well. Linda hated food in the car.
“You’re going to let it go, take your wife to the ballet, and be home before dark, and you’ll be OK with it because I’ll watch him.” Kyle seemed to want to say more, but he held back.
“I don’t want to take away from your time,” Richard said; it sounded even feebler out loud than it did in his head. Kyle took a big handful of chips and shoved them in his mouth angrily. Richard thought about the situation as Kyle chased his chips down with another gulp of soda. “I get it, but why?”
“Are you willing to let go?” LeShea asked, hopefully.
Richard thought for a long moment. He had a lot going for him. With all he had against him: always too fat, just not smart enough, a little too slow, he had still managed to find a great life. What happened if he accepted it? What happened if he let Drifter go? Whose good life would he ruin? Richard couldn’t let that happen.
Kyle let out an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t think so,” his partner said. “Lucky for you, you have the greatest partner ever.” Truer words were never spoken. “So I’ll keep an eye on him. I still have a hunch on what might make this guy nervous, but if there’s nothing by the end of the week, we let it go.”
He glared at his partner. “We let it go, Richard!” Kyle snapped. “We’re damn good cops, but we’re human, and we have limits. If this guy is bad, and we can’t figure out why, then we will have lost this time. We lose; we get over it, and we look for another bad guy to put away. That’s how it is. Besides, we have other cases, real cases, we need to solve. That’s the deal, or I call Linda.”
“What would you tell her?” Richard asked, honestly confused.
“I’ll tell her I think you’re in danger, and you should lay off, and try getting out of the house after I have that conversation.” It was one of the worst things any cop could say to his partner’s wife. Linda hated Kyle, but one comment like that and Linda would call the lieutenant.
“You’d do—”
“Yeah,” Kyle said before he could finish asking the question. “Sure, Lieutenant will have your ass. Maybe mine, too, but you’d get pulled off the case, and we could get on with our jobs.” Richard had the feeling Kyle wanted to add something. Probably that nurse again. He must really like her if he wanted to call her back.
“OK,” Richard said, knowing when he�
�d lost. “One more week, and we’ll let it go.”
“Good,” Kyle said, suddenly cheerful. “Then you can drop me off. I have a phone call to make.”
Richard couldn’t help but smile at his partner. Maybe this Amanda was the one for him. He deserved that happiness. He was the kind of guy who could live happy and not worry about what might happen if he stopped long enough to enjoy it. Richard couldn’t. Not when he had so much to lose.
24
Death Trail
October 14, 2006
I’ve made a terrible mistake. In the history of Journeymen, I’ve never heard a reference to one of us getting discovered. I think Nick realized when I Took his pain. It was more instinct than anything else. To me, Taking pain is akin to giving someone a tissue when they sneeze. It was at that moment he noticed there was something different about me.
I’ve never complained about what I am. I don’t have the answers, but I’ve learned a thing or two in 338 years. Something happens after death. Whatever that is, I’m still lost to that part, but it happens. Each time a soul passes into me, I’m filled, for a moment, with comfort. Oddly, it burns as it enters. It burns, but it doesn’t hurt. Souls feel like slipping into a hot bath, only on the inside.
That’s not entirely true. Sometimes they’re frigid. Sometimes they scare me, and I can’t wait to be rid of them. Most times, though, they feel warm. Whatever happens after death, it can’t be so bad, with a feeling like that.
Drisc explained the rules to me, the basics. All but a small part of the soul gets Transported. It’s not always the same. Sometimes I take the souls to a spot that looks like a split in the horizon. Sometimes I send them to the ocean. Is heaven underwater?
The point is, I Transport souls. I help each soul Journey from this world to ... wherever it is they have to go next.
A small part, like a drop of water, is Passed On. Drisc taught me all of these terms, save “Journeyman.” I came up with that term. I was surprised when I noticed others of my kind take that name.
In Passing On a soul, I take the last drop of a person’s soul and mix it in with someone else’s. I keep track in my journals, trying to find the pattern. In everything, there is a pattern. I have found none except that until a soul is properly—I don’t know, maybe the best term is “mixed”—the individual will not die. Of course, I haven’t tested it under extreme circumstances. It’s only an observation.
I find it ironic that a person is pure until they meet me. They’re pure again when they see me a second time. Not that I Pass On the same soul over and over again. But the humble pattern of my job wasn’t enough for me. I recently grew tired of simple observation.
I’ve Transported children, young, old, kind, cruel, and all in between. Every one of them looked on me with fear, even when I knew wherever it was I Transported them, they were going someplace nice. I think hearts and souls are alike in many ways. In this way, I think just as a soul becomes dense, so does a heart. My heart would sink in the blackest oil. I swore if I could help make Transporting easier, if I could aid the journey in any way, I would.
I thought I could make it easier for David and Nick. I thought it was the right thing. I wanted to help people feel their lives were complete.
This is my reward. A man I would have called ‘friend’ has run off with the one I’m supposed to Transport. I’m forced to recall my first lesson.
“Learn well, Boyo,” Drisc told me. “If one dies and you’re not there to Transport ‘em, it’s bad.”
About a hundred years back, I asked him why. I’ve never seen him so angry and have never seen him that angry again.
“They’re gone!” he shouted in answer. What he meant was that their soul was gone. A part of them, and therefore the world, was gone forever.
Nick means well. He’s a good man. I can’t allow someone so close to him to be gone. Lucky for me, Nick doesn’t know my job so well. People like me have a knack for knowing where someone is about to die. That doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy explaining this to Drisc.
Bob must have stared at his phone for an hour. He was glad phone companies wouldn’t charge for each time he picked up his receiver. He’d owe a fortune.
In a rush of confidence, and with the help of a little scotch, Bob dialed the number.
“H-who’s dis?” a voice answered.
“Someone who’s in a great deal of trouble,” Bob answered.
Drisc was his best friend and confidant. It wasn’t uncommon for Bob to be overly concerned.
“I’m sure ya c’n work it out,” Drisc said. His Irish accent was even worse when he’d just woken up.
“Someone made me and ran off with my Transport,” Bob said. He was proud his voice didn’t crack. The silence at the other end of the line was worse than any sort of Irish temper.
“You lose a soul, Boyo, and it’ll be your arse.”
“I know.”
“You know where it’s headed?”
“Yeah, not far.”
“Then what’s the bloody problem?”
“I am.”
“Then git over it! Now,” Drisc shouted.
“How do I explain—”
“Dere’s no explaining,” Drisc said. “I love ye, man, but you’re bloody los’n it. Ye git over dere and Transport the soul. Ye don’ want find out what happens if ye don’.”
“What will happen to me if I fail?” Bob asked. He wasn’t sure when he’d lost his mind. Asking Drisc that question usually meant an ass- chewing.
“We don’ git fired, Pally,” Drisc explained. “Oh, sure, we might take your powers for a decade or so, but there’s a reason why we exist. There’s a point to what we do, and if you fail to get to the soul before it sours, it’ll haunt ye fer the rest of yer life. The cost is what it does ta ya when ye see it. D’ya need help?”
“You could?” Bob asked. Usually, Journeymen were assigned an area of sorts. There weren’t a large number of Journeymen in the world. While there was a certain amount of manpower needed to keep up with the dying, it was uncommon for two Journeymen to run into one another while on the job.
“Naught de way yer tinking, but I could be dere,” Drisc explained.
“I’ll handle it,” Bob said, wishing he sounded confident.
“Dat’s a good lad now,” Drisc said. He sounded like someone’s grandfather. Of course, Drisc was the oldest Journeyman Bob had ever met. “You finish up ‘n git over here fer a drink.”
“You ever think this job wasn’t for you?” Bob asked.
“No point, we are wha’ we are,” his mentor answered.
“Right,” Bob said. He hung up the phone after a final pleasantry.
Bob knew the risk. He’d never seen a Blacksoul. Drisc made it crystal clear that no one should ever have to see one.
Bob committed himself to his task, got in his car, and floored the gas toward San Diego.
Journeymen only have a few abilities. They can Take pain, but they can’t heal. If a person was in a horrible car crash, like Tom Stampson, and a Journeyman Took his pain, Tom was still going to bleed to death; the victim just wasn’t in agony while it happened. Journeymen can, on some level, Manipulate emotions. They can’t in any way make someone do something they wouldn’t. They can’t sell ice to Eskimos; unless, of course, the Eskimo actually needs it. If Bob had to say anything, he’d say Journeymen could amplify emotions and Sense death if it’s within a certain range. Death has a trail as well. An experienced Journeyman can track a soul.
Journeymen can’t, however, turn invisible. They can’t fly or teleport. As near as Bob could tell, they couldn’t do a damn useful thing. He had imagined, when he first began, that once he pointed a finger at a person, the unfortunate would drop dead. He would Collect the soul and Transport it, with the person none the wiser.
It was small solace to Bob that he didn’t control the manner of death. He’d trade the irrational guilt for the ability to keep cops from pulling him over. He had to make up time.
By his estimate
, Bob was about thirty minutes behind Nick. Bob had imagined the senior Taylor decided a sudden trip was in his family’s best interest.
After about an hour and a half of driving at more than a hundred miles per hour, Bob Sensed an approaching death. About ten minutes later, Bob saw Nick’s truck.
The Taylor family needed a pit stop. David insisted on breakfast in Gila Bend, and Drew wouldn’t last long in the truck without a walk. Nick needed a pit stop as well. Anxiety had forced five cups of coffee into him, and nature was calling for a porcelain appointment.
Nick flushed and washed his hands. When he came out, his heart dropped. Bob was sitting with David, who threw treats to Drew. The bathroom to the rest area was across the parking lot, with at least a hundred yards separating Nick from his grandson. He panicked.
“David!” Nick called. “Get over here now!” Nick’s heart was racing. He had to save his grandson. But can you save someone from Death himself?
David turned, and Bob looked up.
“I said come here!” Nick ordered.
Bob shook his head. He looked so sad. Did that mean it was coming?
David started to jog over to his grandfather. Drew noticed Nick’s mood and began to charge to his master. Neither one saw the car pulling into the rest area.
It came in; a part of Nick realized the car wasn’t speeding, just trying to get to a parking spot. Nick shouted. David turned his head, and Bob closed his eyes. The motorist’s tires squealed as it attempted to stop before there was a loud thump.
Nick turned away at the last second. He couldn’t look. He fell to his knees and could feel the remorse build up in his throat.
“Oh, God!” cried the middle-aged motorist as he got out of his car.
Nick sucked up the courage to rush to the car. He was there a few moments before Bob.
Nick was so confused that he didn’t notice Bob had made it to the scene. The small car pulled over to the side of the lot as it swerved to miss David. In the center of the entrance road to the rest stop was David, his body draped over something.
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