See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die)

by Nicholas Black

  When I'm watching the spooks encircle their next victim, this old man is somewhere else, smiling as some wonderful creature delicately leads a good soul up and away to a place that probably smells like cotton candy. At the same time that I'm cringing as the gatherers claw and knife their way into someone's chest, looking to rip their soul from their body, this old man is hearing harps and flutes.

  Maybe.

  After I finished my sandwiches—tons of thin sliced turkey and chicken and ham, hold the mayo—I went back in and laid down. Ricky came and went a couple of times, probably going to meet that girl he met at the DMV, or the receptionist at the office complex.

  And that's what I did, just sit there trying to fall asleep for hours. Problem is, if you're not tired, you aren't going to get to sleep. And really, I'm not so much trying to sleep as I am actively avoiding the near future.

  I want to get that moment back at the carnival the other night. When I had won Angela all those stuffed horses, and she looked at me like, I don't know . . . like a real man. And when she kissed me, ever so briefly, it was perfect.

  If she had been a color that night, it would have been gold.

  All those words I wanted to say, all that built-up doubt giving way to her actually seeing something in me worth finding out about. All of it was said in that tiny little kiss.

  In the space between a smile, a million things can be said without so much as a word. And her face, it was just beaming. Her eyes said all kinds of things I may never be able to put into words. If I had a lifetime I couldn't explain it.

  A lifetime in a single kiss.

  How strange.

  I'm the last guy in the world to be a romantic, but being near her makes me realize how people can fall for other people. She's way too attractive a girl to be hanging around me. For whatever reason, she doesn't see it that way.

  You can jam a hundred dreams into a single moment, or spend a lifetime saying, I'm sorry. And now, after this whole thing with her roommate, I'm not sure which is more appropriate. I didn't kill Jesse, but I might as well have. Because once I told Angela, whether she believed me or not, she must have wondered, even if only for a fleeting second, if it was possible. And in that flash of consideration, she felt what I felt.

  She got to watch Jesse drown.

  With drowning, you're dead way before you actually die.

  So I'm wondering what I'll say to her. The funeral on Saturday, that's going to be difficult. And I don't know if her memories of me will forever be tainted with Jesse's death.

  Will I be Jack?

  Or will I be the guy she met when her roommate was dying?

  That's why I'm sitting here at nearly midnight, not able to sleep, not wanting to stay awake. And right about the time I roll over for the 732nd time, I hear a gentle knock on the door. Ricky will get it, if he's here. If not, it's probably for him, anyway.

  Knock, knock.

  I sigh, glance at my watch, and then sit up.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I scoot to the edge of the bed, blinking a few times to make sure I haven't accidentally dozed off into the boundary between here and the place between dogs and wolves and angels. I yawn, No. It doesn't appear that I have to duck to get out of my bedroom, so I'm still here.

  Knock, knock, knock, knock.

  Are you kidding me?

  I finally get up and head towards the front door of our loft. I have on a pair of sweat pants and no t-shirt, but I don't realize this until I'm opening up the door and she's looking at me with her mouth half open.

  41

  An uncomfortable pause later . . .

  How Angela's looking at me right now, I'm not sure if it's shock or awe, but it's somewhere in that neighborhood. It takes me a moment to realize I have no shirt on, and she is seeing me half naked for the first time.

  “I . . . I just wanted to talk,” she says. She doesn't have on any make-up, but she's still just about the loveliest thing I've ever seen. Her hair is concealed by a baseball cap from some team I don't recognize. She's wearing a grey t-shirt and sweat pants, with white Adidas track shoes.

  She's so cute, this girl. I don't know if she knows how attractive she is, even when she's dreadfully sad.

  And we just sit there for another long moment, her eyes crossing back and forth across my chest and arms. She's seeing a different version of me. Her paradigm is shifting, ever so slightly. The knives at the carnival, and now these spooky looking tattoos . . . she is learning me.

  “I can explain,” I say. But I quickly realize that maybe I can't.

  She takes a step closer to me, we're just inches apart, now. She's still looking at my tattoos. Without a word she slowly brings her hands up, her fingers lightly tracing just above my markings and symbols and protective talisman. Her delicate fingers, they're like extensions of her curiosity.

  With each gentle touch I feel a tingle. Kind of a spark that dissipates into my skin.

  All of my words are broken, my brain a perpetual non-sequitur. She makes my heartbeat rapid and fierce. Being this close to her, it's like I'm happy and scared, all at the same time.

  In the space of a breath I remembered all of the things I wanted to say tell her. But then she looks up at me, her eyes dark beneath the bill of her cap, and she blinks twice. And in those two little blinks I forget everything I was about to say.

  And we just stare at each other, from this way too close place we find ourselves in. We're not yet touching, but we might as well be. She smells like I remember the carnival, kind of sweet and warm. Really, I wish I could call Hal and ask him what my next move is.

  Do I retreat?

  Do I hold her?

  I don't know the rules. I don't understand what emotion is correct at a time like this. What is permissible? What is taboo? Any direction I go in might hurt her. And I've done enough of that, already.

  I don't know how much time has gone by. We're just standing so close to each other I can feel the heat of her body on mine. Her breath smells minty and cool. I can see this sincerity in her eyes that I don't think I've seen before. This is the real her. This is the Angela that she hides from the world.

  And then she closes her eyes, slowly resting her head on my chest. Our bodies gradually come together and we share our warmth, standing the way people do when there are no words for what they're feeling.

  Her arms slowly wrap around my back and she starts to cry. As I hold her in the threshold between the loft and the hallway, the door half open, her warm tears find their way to her cheek and my chest. I've never felt this close to anyone.

  With Kristen, I felt something that I didn't understand. I thought it was something real, but obviously I didn't have all the facts. But this moment right here, right now, with Angela . . . it is the most honest, real experience I have ever had, short of dying.

  And I realize that I have to tell her what's going on.

  But I know that I can't.

  This is dying, my new life.

  And there is a line I'm straddling right now, that I dare not cross. At this moment I'm numb and dizzy and peaceful. So relaxed that I could fall asleep standing here in the doorway, as her warm tears melt between our bodies. If I could freeze a moment in time, it would be this one. Because, no matter what happens, there will never be anything more pure and clear as this.

  We never did say anything to each other. We just held each other for what seemed like hours . . . and then she left.

  Not a single word.

  And I wouldn't have wanted it any different.

  42

  ALG office.

  Friday morning . . .

  For the last couple of hours Hal has been presenting his case for Ecuador. That term, Hostis Humanis Generis —the enemy of all mankind—has come up six different times during phone calls during the last 10 days. The number of missing children is between 15 and 17, depending on which catholic priest you listen to.

  Among the cities where children have been reported missing, there has been a rise in
Chupacabra sightings. Hal theorizes that this is simply mass hysteria in simple-minded faith-based societies. In the cities of Cayambe, Riobamba, Cotopaxi, and Ibarra, children have been reported missing in the last two weeks. Although he suggests that they are actually missing from smaller towns and villages on the outskirts of the larger, more industrialized cities.

  Still no substantial clues.

  Still no bodies.

  I asked Hal if there was enough information for us to really act on.

  “ . . . not at this time,” Hal answered. “But there are children missing.”

  The missing kids are spread out along cities and villages for several hundred miles. I asked, How do we know where to search?

  “ . . . there is insufficient information and evidence being reported at this time to initiate a realistic search with a high probability of success. But there are children missing.”

  Looking at maps of the Republica del Ecuador he shows me on the screen, I see the highest frequency of missing persons seems to be in the higher situated cities of the Andes Mountains. Right in the center of this mess is the world's highest continuously active volcano, in Cotopaxi. It sits 19,347 feet high, with an almost perfectly symmetrical cone that is interrupted only by a smaller cone—the Cabeza del Inca (the Inca's head). Apparently this puppy has quite a history of erupting violently and has rarely remained quiet for more than 15 year stretches.

  Hal's not telling me, so much as he is showing me. This place is hot, for more reasons than just the trachytic lava activity.

  Those kids could be anywhere, if they're even still alive, I tell Hal.

  “ . . . this is a correct assumption,” Hal replies, “ . . . but there are missing children.”

  And, although I'm rather daft, I get what he's telling me. The rules change when you're dealing with children.

  I ask him, Are there any plausible explanations for all of these missing kids?

  “ . . . yes. Animal attacks, cult activity, the spread of an undetermined infectious disease such as Ebola, sexual assault, errors in reporting, massive paranoia spreading throughout a small uneducated populous, child slavery and prostitution, organized crime, random accidents, crimes of violence, and pure coincidence.”

  And for a moment I'm just staring at the map of Ecuador, looking at this volcano in Cotopaxi.

  And then he adds, “ . . . but there are still—”

  I get it, Hal. I get it.

  “ . . . good,” he replies, “because I was laying it on thick enough, even for you, Jack.”

  I need more information, Hal. I have to have a starting point. Something. I need to know if this is the work of evil, or just the usual badness of humanity.

  “ . . . by definition, how could it not be evil?”

  The twenty-three Evils, Hal. The twenty-three.

  “ . . . is there evil that is not evil?”

  Ricky must have taught Hal to answer questions with questions.

  I don't understand.

  “ . . . evil ,” Hal says slowly, for my benefit, “ . . . is evil.”

  I can't save the whole world from pain and suffering. That's not my job. I just need to fix my mess of epic proportions.

  “ . . . what kind of hero ignores other beings' misery? What kind of hero are you?” Hal says, and it brings me pause. Where did he get the notion that I was somebody special?

  I'm . . . I'm not a hero, Hal. I'm like the opposite of a hero.

  Then there is a space of about 15 seconds where he doesn't respond. In the background Ms. Josephine is answering the red phone. It seems there is a two-story Tudor mansion with a three-car garage, an infinity swimming pool with waterfall, and an invisible crying woman in the living room right after sunset.

  Finally, Hal replies, “ . . . of course. My mistake.” And the way he says it, well, I know what disappointment sounds like. I'm so much of a letdown that computers pick up on it.

  Frustrated, I tell the computer, “Get me a starting point. Please.”

  “ . . . we're working as fast as technology will allow. Hunting evil is not an exact science. Humans have so much evil in their lives that it is difficult to discern what is the work of the twenty-three Evils from what is the intrinsic evil of man.

  “ . . . you built societies based on violence and misery, and they were constructed to such levels that it is difficult to see where Hell stops and Humanity begins. You hurt each other recklessly and without compunction, led by an insatiable greed for material possession and global dominance.”

  Yeah , I say. We're pretty screwed-up.

  “ . . . it's hard to comprehend how humans have evolved this far, with the cruelty and archaic tendencies you all have. That you survived the coming of thermonuclear weapons is, in and of itself, quite a miracle.”

  Okay, Hal . . . I get it. You're right. We suck.

  “ . . . if you must look for evil, you should do little more than study your own reflections in a mirror.”

  Our computer, it's ranting, now. I spin around in my chair and Ms. Josephine is sitting quietly. She looks sad. And she never seems sad, so this is kind of depressing. Her eyes are liquidy this morning, clear and disheveled. I guess she agrees with Hal.

  Hell, so do I.

  “Call me when you learn something, Hal,” I say as I stand.

  As I walk by Ms. Josephine grabs my hand, “Just imagine all of dose small children, lost in da darkness. Dese babies are still alive, Jack. And whether it's your Evils , or just plain evil, we 'ave to help dem.”

  I sigh, “Look . . . I'm not a savior, remember? I'm just some schmuck stuck in between. The world is a terrible, horrible, ugly place. But it's not all my fault. And it's not my job to fix it. Uriel says that I'm supposed to stay focused on—”

  “Uriel,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Some angel 'e is. Stuck on Deadside to watch you fight an Evil dat 'e couldn't contain.”

  That's not completely fair, I tell her.

  “Why ain't 'e 'ere, right now, searching wit us?” she asks, her eyes even more intolerant than before. “Why ain't Heaven lookin' for da twenty-three Evils da way we are? Dere ain't nobody else but you, Jack?” She shakes her head, her eyes lowering.

  I pull slowly away from her. I'm mad at myself for not having the balls to ask these questions. I'm mad at myself for being a failure.

  But mostly, I'm mad at myself for turning my back on the evil in the mirror.

  I feel like kicking puppies, or throwing knives at stuffed horses, or crashing cars into antique shops. Something destructive.

  Either that or some pizza.

  43

  The loft.

  9:23 am . . .

  I woke up early, giving myself plenty of time to properly dress for Jesse's funeral. Outside it's getting bright and sunny, not at all like I imagined it would be for a funeral. This is all very strange for me, seeing the human side of death. I'm used to witnessing the passing, itself, not the aftermath. And in my six months of awareness I have become almost desensitized to death. Inoculated against any kind of sadness that might come with it.

  Death Lite. Same great death, half the emotional calories.

  Ricky says we're all just objects. Things. Pieces of slowly cooling meat. And part of me obviously sees it his way. I wonder, does that make me more than mortal . . . or less than human?

  Ricky's standing next to me staring at us in a floor to ceiling mirror as I struggle with a tie. He's not helping me, mind you, just watching.

  I say, It's easier to die than it is to tie a damned tie.

  His reflection turns toward mine, and he puts his hands up like he's going to help me. “For a funeral with a bunch of people you've never met,” he says rather flatly, yanking away my tie, “you don't need to wear one of these.”

  I turn back to our reflections. Ricky's is wearing silver board shorts with black stripes down the sides of the legs, a white tank top, and some green flip-flops. My reflection is dressed in a solid black Hugo Boss suit, a dark grey button-up shirt, and white
socks that come to my lower ankles.

  “Put your shoes on,” Ricky says, “and walk your girlfriend through this mess.”

  She's strong, I say in her defense.

  “They're different than we are, Jack,” he says, referring to people who don't deal with death the way we do on a frighteningly regular basis. “For most people,” he adds, “ . . . it's easier not to know what's going on behind the cameras.”

  I shake my head. I'm really not looking forward to this funeral. “What happens if I get there and there are spooks all over the place? What do I say?”

  “You say nothing.”

  What if they're standing next to one of Angela's parents, or some of Jesse's relatives?

  “Nothing, Jack. You keep quiet.”

  How can you be so cold and cruel about dying?

  “What's more cruel,” he asks as he goes to my closet and pulls out a pair of expensive black shoes that I don't even remember the name of, “to see that somebody's going to die, or to tell them in advance?”

  But if they knew they were going to—

  “It makes no difference. Don't you see that, yet?” He set the shoes in front of my feet so that my reflection seemed to be wearing them. “You can't save them. You're not supposed to.”

  My reflection is dressed and ready to go. The two-dimensional me looks solid. Strong. He has his shit together.

  If Hal's right, I'm staring into the face of evil. The everyday kind. If Ricky's right, I'm an accidental servant of the Land of Sorrows. A skip tracer from a place worse than Hell. A bounty hunter. Just some thug that comes from the darkness to snatch away the life that Evil stole back.

  And me, I don't have any idea who I actually am. Am I this suit . . . this $800, hand sewn suit? Am I my $260 shirt with fabric so soft it might have been designed by Angels? Am I this pair of expensive-but-forgettable shoes?

  “No,” Ricky answers, “ . . . you're none of those things.”

  Then what the Hell am I? Who are we?

  Ricky's got this dark half smile on his face. You know, where just his mouth is smiling, but the rest of his face is distant and hollow. And he shakes his head a few times. “One thing I've learned from years of movies, video games, comic books, and working in the field of medicine, is that not all heroes are the good kind.”