Gatekeeper

by Natasha Deen

  “You were never worried for him? Kent, I mean.”

  “At first, when Kent wouldn’t tell me where he’d been.” She shrugged. “But when I went to check up on Doug, I realized what was going on. When Kent was little, he’d sneak off to see his dad. Doug was a long-haul truck driver and when he was in town, that’s where I’d find Kent. Then the kid got older. If he wasn’t with his dad, he was jogging or at the library or volunteering. Trust me, there was nothing to worry about with him. He was too focused on becoming a doctor and too much a creature of habit to get himself in trouble. Saving the world through medicine and running the same path through town, that was Kent in a nutshell.” She pushed her mug around in a circle. “But I felt for him.” She sighed. “Much as I wanted to take my Taser to Marlo, I felt for her, too, but her overprotectiveness frustrated me, I could only imagine what it was like for Kent to be on the receiving end of her fears.”

  “Not that anyone’s asking my opinion,” said Dad. “But I think the reason he did so well in school was because he wanted out of this town. The family was poor, getting that university scholarship was the only way he was going to fund his escape.”

  “But if she was such an anxious mother, how did Kent die and no one know? You’d think if he missed checking in with her once he arrived back at school, she’d have called in the army.”

  “Which begs the question, did he make it back to the university after Thanksgiving,” Dad said. “Or is his body somewhere between us and Edmonton?”

  “That’s probably a question best asked by a member of law enforcement,” I said and gave Nancy my best begging face. “If only there was someone who could step in and help.”

  “Oh boy, stop before you pull a muscle. I’ll put in a phone call.” She checked her watch. “It’ll have to wait until the offices open.” She frowned. “Don’t you have a supernatural, superhero boyfriend? Can’t Craig answer this?”

  I made a face, then made another one when I realized I hadn’t thought of him. Again. Craig was my first boyfriend. Was it bad girlfriend karma to forget about him because of everything going on with Kent? Or was that the healthy relationship thing of each of us having separate lives? I dug my cell out of my pocket and checked to see if he’d texted. “Battery’s dead.”

  “Don’t we have an agreement about that cell always being charged?” asked Dad.

  “Give me a break,” I said. “It was probably because of Craig. Between the psychic energy he puts off and the electricity Serge puts out when we’re doing our supernatural thing, I’m lucky the phone doesn’t explode.”

  His expression smoothed out, then shifted as his mouth pulled down. “I thought you guys figured out how to avoid the shorting out of the cell?”

  “We did, but the other night with Rori and Kent…all of our energies were spiking. That’s probably why the phone shorted out.”

  Dad pulled off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sighed. “There should be some kind of support group for parents like me. At least he was with you, if anything had happened.” Setting his glasses back on his nose, he asked, “Any updates on Rori?”

  “Nell said she’s doing better.”

  “Everyone living is good, which brings me back to Craig,” said Nancy. “Can’t he help?”

  “I don’t think so.” I talked around a mouthful of chocolate chips. “He only gets info on souls that he’s charged with transitioning, and Kent’s not his charge.”

  She sighed. “Too bad. It would’ve made things…less complicated for me when I put in the call to Margo and the school tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for coming up with a reason to talk to the university.” I lifted what was left of the cookie. “And baking. Thanks for that, too.”

  They stood, shoved their chairs under the table.

  “Hopefully, you’ll be able to transition Kent to the afterlife by the end of the week,” said Nancy. “Maybe even in a couple of days.” She stopped as her phone buzzed, then let out a string of Italian.

  “Bad news?”

  “Some idiot’s vandalized the Pierson home.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I wish.” Another string of Italian. “I got to go and check this out.”

  “Will you be gone for the rest of the day?” I asked.

  “Nah. For sure I’ll be back in time to tell you goodnight.”

  If I ever had delusions about being cool, Nancy’s words obliterated the fantasy. Maybe normal seventeen-year-old girls detest their parents hugging them goodnight. Not me. There was something about having Dad and Nancy around me that made me feel like things—no matter how crazy they could get—would always work out. Let’s face it, with my life, I needed all the confirmation I could get.

  “I’ll check out Kent’s stuff ASAP, and who knows? We may have it all figured out by noon tomorrow.”

  I smiled, nodded. I didn’t have the heart to obliterate her fantasy, but the facts didn’t support her dream. Kent was dead, had been missing for weeks. The university didn’t know anything. If they had, there would have been a report or questions, and for sure, Kent’s mom would have been notified. Which meant Nancy would have been notified. Instinct said whatever had caused Kent’s death was going to be complicated, ugly, and that by the time we were through, I’d wish Kent had just stayed in the pond.

  I found Serge coming out of his room. “Everything okay?”

  “Need a break,” he said. “His story is a lot like my story, and it’s putting me in a bad place. Thought I’d do a lap around the house and come back.”

  “So, not going well?”

  He shrugged. “As good as can be. His relationship with his mother is almost as complicated as mine.” He gave me a small smile. “Almost. She’s more independent than my mother was, but he’s just as protective... and resentful.”

  Dysfunctional parental relationships. No wonder Serge was having a rough time.

  I left him and knocked on the door. “Kent,” I said, “Can we talk?”

  Kent turned from the window and nodded. “Sure, it’s your house, your rules, right?”

  “Yeah, but for the time being it’s kind of your room.”

  “I want to leave,” he said.

  “I’m trying to help with that—”

  “No, I mean your place. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  Well, gee, I’d have been a better hostess but since you don’t eat or drink or breathe—

  “I’m worried about my mom. I think I should go back home and look out for her.”

  Oh. That stopped my inner rant. “Sure, I can drive you in a bit, if you like.”

  He smiled and I understood why Nell had crushed out on him. There was a genuineness in the way Kent looked at you, like he saw the you that you wanted to be, and wanted to you to know he was present, listening, and happy to be around you. “You would have made a really good doctor.”

  His eyes turned glassy. “Thanks.”

  “Did you always want to do that?”

  “Actually, I wanted to be a vet, but I wasn’t smart enough.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “No, really. Doctors have to know the human body but a vet has to know dogs, cats, birds—plus…” He laughed sheepishly. “Besides, I have a better shot at objectivity with people.” I crossed the room to where he stood. There was no easy way to broach the topic, so I dived in. “I wondered how you felt about suicide?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you believe in it?”

  He laughed. “Suicide isn’t an intangible thing like Santa Claus or faith, Maggie. You don’t believe or not believe in it. It’s an act, a choice.”

  “Okay…how do you feel about suicide as a choice?”

  “I saw a lot when I volunteered at the hospital and some of it…” He leaned his shoulder against the window jamb and looked out into the grey morn
ing. “There were some patients that were in all kinds of pain and the only way to help them was to dope them with so much morphine, they weren’t even conscious anymore. And I’d think, if this person was a dog or a cat, I could euthanize them and people would congratulate me on my act of mercy. But they’re human and I can’t do anything but watch.” He turned his gaze from the window back to me.

  His eyes were clear, blue, the sincerity in them, unencumbered.

  “The majority of the time I see people speaking out against doctor-assisted suicide, they’re healthy people. Think on that.”

  I had asked about suicide and he’d answered with euthanasia and terminally ill patients. “So…you’re not against it?”

  He watched me for a second, then, “Holy crap! You think that’s what I did? That I killed myself?”

  “I’m trying to figure out why you would have gone into limbo and I was wondering…”

  “Geez! No, I didn’t off myself. I know that, for sure!”

  “But how—”

  “Because I’m a med student and I’ve learned all the possible ways to kill yourself. Trust me, the sure-fire methods involve a lot of pain and blood.” A flush of red touched his cheeks. “I’m kind of a wuss when it comes to my pain and my blood.”

  “But there are other ways—”

  “And those aren’t a 100%. Believe me, whenever I do anything it’s at 100% but suicide isn’t one of those things.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.”

  He exhaled a long, slow breath, slid to the floor.

  I joined him.

  “Any other theories?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never really had anyone with your circumstances before. I mean, I’ve transitioned souls who’ve wandered for days, even hundreds of years, before deciding to move on…but I never had a conversation with them about why they wandered or if they’d been asleep…”

  “Trust me to be the outlier in your experiences,” he said.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s not so bad.”

  “It kind of is. I used to hear about ghosts that could move furniture or make objects spin—”

  “Hey.” Serge came into the room. “Is this a private conversation or can any ghoul join in?”

  “We’re talking poltergeists,” I said.

  “You’d think if all I am now is energy,” said Kent. “I’d be able to do amazing things.”

  “Serge blew up a house last month,” I said.

  Kent’s eyes went wide. “You did? Why?”

  “It was part of my anger management training.” He sat down with us.

  I checked him out. “Wait a second, Serge, there’s something else you can do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You text and fix hearts and blow up houses—” I pointed at him. “But you change clothes, too.”

  He looked down at his jeans and long-sleeve crewneck. “Yeah, I guess I do…so?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems like another talent,” I said.

  Kent pulled on his sweater. “This is the last thing I remember wearing when I was alive.”

  “It’s also the same thing you’ve been wearing since we found you,” I said.

  Kent looked at his jogging pants and hoodie. “I wonder what the practical applications of that talent would be?”

  Serge was staring at his outfit. “Actually, that’s kind of weird and random. It’s not like anyone sees me except you and Craig—and Kent, now.” He looked up at me. “Why would it matter, anyway?”

  “It’s part of your self-identity,” I said.

  “So what does that mean?” asked Kent.

  “I think it means whatever happened to you, you are really stuck in it,” I said to Kent.

  “Great,” he muttered, “just great. I’m going to be here, forever.”

  Chapter Eight

  Early the next morning, bleary-eyed and barely aware of what clothes I’d tossed on, I sat in the passenger seat of Nell’s car, waiting in the drive-thru of the Tim Hortons’.

  “What do you think Nancy will find out when she calls the university?” Nell asked.

  “Nothing. The university probably doesn’t even know Kent’s gone.”

  “That’s what I figure, too.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “How’s Casper doing with his new brother?”

  “They were both sleeping when I left.” I checked out the overturned garbage cans along the street. Of the things I’ll never understand, vandalism has to be in my top twenty. “I’m assuming they’re fine. Kent said he’s going to go home today. He can’t do much, but he wants to be around his mom.”

  “It must be nice for him—Serge, I mean. Having someone who understands his situation.”

  “I understand his situation!”

  Nell gave me a soft smile. “You know his situation, but Serge gets it. Serge’s living it.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “No pun intended.” She put the car in gear and pulled up to the menu board.

  “My treat,” I said when she’d finished ordering two large double-doubles and a pack of ten Timbits.

  She shook her head. “Save your money.” She glanced at my sweater. “Use it to pay for a nice funeral for that outfit.”

  “Hey!”

  Nell pulled up to the next window, paid, and got our breakfast. “I suggest cremation. That sweater should be burned.”

  “I would, but considering your top looks like it’s painted on, the fumes might present a fire hazard.”

  Nell grinned at me from the top of her cup. “Baby, I am a fire hazard.” She took a pull of her drink. “Since we’re talking hot topics, did you hear from Craig?”

  “Radio silence.” I pulled the tab off my cup and let the vapours of dark roast coffee scent the air. “Should I be worried?”

  “I don’t think his silence is regular boyfriend silence, and I don’t think you should worry.”

  Her mention of worry reminded me of Rori. “Does your dad have any updates on Rori?”

  She nodded. “He said Dr. Pierson’s been hovering and so’s Mrs. Pierson. They’re a couple of basket cases. I guess one of the nurses had to ask them to leave because they were fighting in her room.”

  Whoa. “A nurse kicking out worried parents—one of whom is a doctor at the hospital? That’s big.”

  “Major big, but it was upsetting the kid. Other than that, Rori’s doing great. They’re waiting on the test results, but so far she has a mild concussion and they’re going to keep her for a couple of days—mostly to give her a break from her folks, but she should be fine. Her mom says she’s asking about us. You up for a visit when she gets home?”

  I nodded, pulled a Timbit from the box, and bit into the bite-sized frosted pastry. Man, nothing like sugar, caffeine, a warm car and a good friend to help me feel like I was going to figure out Kent and his death. I scarfed down the Timbit, reached for another, and let the town pass me by in a blur of grey sky and barren trees.

  The buzz of my cell caught my attention. I pulled it out and checked the screen. “It’s a text from Craig.” I opened the app and read, In the middle of all of it, there is still beauty. I smiled and turned the phone so Nell could see the picture he’d included: zebras silhouetted against the red sky of a setting sun.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird, that kid going missing?” Bruce asked when Nell and I found him and Tammy in the school cafeteria.

  The faint smell of bacon and hash browns wafted from the kitchen but I was happy with the cup of coffee in my hand. “Weird?”

  “Come on.” He leaned forward. “First Serge, then you, some doctor’s kid.”

  “Rori,” said Nell. “Her name is Rori.”

  He leaned back, made the blue plastic chair squeak. “Don’t you see the connection?”

  I figured he was missing a connection—or three. Judging from the earnest
look on his face, saying so would have been hurtful, so I went with, “No, sorry, I’m missing it.”

  “Serge died, then you almost died, then Rori almost died.”

  “Serge was murdered, I was caught in the crosshairs of a murder investigation, and Rori slipped on a ladder.”

  Bruce shook his head. “It’s Serge.”

  Disbelief worked like a psychic homing beacon and brought Serge to me.

  He flashed into the seat beside me. “What’s going on? I was just teaching Kent about using text apps—”

  “Serge?” I said as Nell’s phone beeped his text.

  She glanced at it and I continued, “You think Serge was behind what happened to Rori Pierson.”

  Serge’s eyes went wide, then narrowed into slits. “Are you kidding me? Even dead, I’m being blamed for the bad stuff that happens in this town?”

  Bruce nodded. “Until Serge, how many people had been murdered in town?”

  I shrugged. So did the rest of the group.

  “There have been two murders in the last twenty-seven years,” said Bruce. “Then Serge dies. That’s one death—well, plus the stuff with his folks. But then you almost die, so does that little kid. All within the last month.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Trust me, Serge is behind this.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—” Serge said, shaking his head.

  Nell looked up from her phone. “Why are you blaming him? He’s dead.”

  Bruce straightened. “I’m not blaming—the opposite. I think Serge is trapped in between our world and the next. He’s calling for help—”

  “—and almost killing kids in the process?” I asked.

  Bruce shrugged. “It’s Serge. It’s not like he’s going to write a polite note asking for help.”

  Serge laughed, the sound partly hollow and mostly sad. “He’s got a point.”