“I can explain,” I say, but then everything starts to fade in and out. I'm about to pass out, now. “I . . . can . . . exp . . . ”
Dying really takes it out of you.
3 hours later . . .
My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. Like I've been chewing on dandelions, gargling lint fresh out of a dryer, after eating a bail of hay. My body temperature is rising its way back up and I feel a warm spot on the left side of my body.
Oh, I so hope that I didn't wet the bed. I'll never hear the end of it . . . ever.
My stiff neck doesn't want to cooperate, but I use a combination of squirming and rolling and arching to turn to my left side. And beside me, curled-up like a small kitten, is the prettiest thing I know.
I don't disturb her. I just let her sleep while I study her face. It's so calm and quiet. She should be a painting, she's to perfect. And I just keep watching her.
I'd like to put my arms around her and hold her, but I have neither the strength nor the courage.
So, I'm just content to lay here admiring her. Her body slowly lifts as she breaths in, shrinking slightly as her warm breath escapes. It's so quiet we could be stuck in the middle of a dream. The only light in the room is the green glow that my digital alarm clock casts across us, making it seem like we're still stuck in the Land of Sorrows. Just the two of us in this peaceful green place. She smells like expensive bath products, sweet and flowery.
Then, as I'm watching her, her eyes flutter open like a light bulb blinking on. She doesn't yawn or stretch, or do any of the post-nap reactions that I'd expect. No, she just looks directly into my eyes, quiet as a period at the end of a sentence.
I swallow difficultly.
She swallows, her lips coming together to make a thin little line.
And then she whispers, “Hi,” with absolutely no volume in her voice. Just the air from her lungs making the sound as it passed her mouth.
Hi, I echo.
She reaches her hand to my face and with just the slightest touch she presses her finger to my nose like it's a button.
What she sees in me, I'll never know. Why she likes me, I'll never fully understand. I just hope it lasts. I feel like every moment I spend with her could be the last one. As if, somewhere, there is a tiny silk thread holding us together and at just the hint of a vibration it might break forever.
My shrink would probably say I've got intimacy issues and an overbearing fear of loss stemming from one of my parents, that I don't know, walking out on me as a child.
I'd counter that since I don't remember anything due to my gross defect in longterm memory, that it shouldn't matter one way or the other. He'd say that the proverbial house is crooked even though I don't remember the poor construction. And he would probably be right.
Angela looking at me, my eyes trying to record each and every second she's near me, she says, “Did you find her?”
I'm working on it, I whisper to her.
She blinks a couple of times, smiles, and then scoots closer to me, slowly closing her eyes. Angela curls back up in her little ball and she fades off to sleep.
And me, I'm just recording and downloading all of these images to my half broken harddrive. I need these memories. I can't loose them to Cerebral arteriosclerosis . . .
Or to degenerative brain disease . . .
A tumor . . .
Or advanced schizophrenia.
Whenever I look at an inkblot of a butterfly, from now on, my default answer will be Angela . If this moment was a color . . . it would be white and silver and gold. This is that quiet peace and serenity that I will always hope for, again.
My eyes eventually become so heavy that I can't fend off sleep, and I fade back into the darkness of my dreams. In a few hours we have to prepare to hunt evil.
And, where we're going, it's going to be a lot more like Hell than any of us has ever experienced.
51
The loft.
Sunday, 4:03 am . . .
I sit up suddenly, with that nervous feeling that somebody is watching me. I see a black form in front of me. And it's not a shadow.
Uriel?
He glances around, “Do you know any other Angels?”
Sarcasm, I say. I thought that was a human thing.
“We need to talk, Jack.”
I don't want to wake-up Angela, I say.
“Who?” he says, looking around the twisted bedroom.
I glance to my left, “Oh. We're there .”
He nods, “Come on,” and turns, walking towards the living room.
I follow like the lemming I've become. We get in, and he's standing at the corner, where a couch would normally be, staring out past the balcony. I see a few flying monsters out near the edge of the horizon, and it bothers me. It means this boundary place that I'm in isn't just me and the angel chewing the fat.
There's others here.
Dangerous things I can't predict.
Without turning to look at me, he says, “You have to go to South America.”
I know. We're already making plans. We've been tapping the Vatican. We'll probably be leaving tomorrow or Monday.
He's quiet for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, “This is a very dangerous undertaking.”
I'm thinking, that's the understatement of the century.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I'm going to be real careful.”
“Careful might not be enough. You must use every weapon at your disposal. You must kill them, Jack.”
“I will,” I tell him, still unsure about the actual killing part of the equation. “So, after I kill them, that's that . . . right?”
“No,” he says as he turns to face me. “That's not the end of it, at all.”
What is it, then? Some kind of ritual I've got to perform?
He nods slowly, and then he proceeds to explain to me the way in which I am to take the Evils back to the Land of Sorrows. The whole time, he's pretty much talking, and I'm pretty much holding my chin from falling out onto the cold grey floor. He goes on and on, until he's quite certain I get it.
Oh, I get it. I can't possibly do it, but I get it.
“You must.”
Don't you have shadowy monsters bred and trained for just this type of thing?
“It's got to be you, Jack. Only you. And you must do it quickly . . . when you have your chance.”
Look, I tell this large angelic form . . . I don't know if you remember or not, but I'm the sucker that screwed up the universal order. It's me, the braniac that got chumped into freeing evil upon the earth. That's me.
Certainly there have to be more capable beings than me. More qualified staff. Really, if you think about it . . . I'm like the ginormous ignoramus of all time. So, what you have to ask yourself is, do you really want a half-tard like me tasked with something this important?
He looks down on me, this Angel of Darkness and cold and flying beasts, and his face becomes stern, “It has to be you.”
I do something between a disgusted sigh and a frustrated hiss. I was tricked into being a savior, then they tell me I'm not anything like a savior, and to get my salvation I have to become a savior again. How ridiculous is this?
“You are not the person you don't remember being,” he says.
Oh, that's lucid.
Then he gets this sideways kind of grin, his head tilting back as he folds his arms across the front of his black cloak. “Those detective novels you read . . . what's the hero's name, again?”
One, I don't like the idea of you spying on me. Two, his name is Detective Todd Steele. And D, I don't like the idea of you spying on me.
He laughs quietly to himself.
“Seriously, dude, you can't be watching me like that. I need my privacy. I give you guys enough of my life, already.” And the whole time all I'm really thinking is, I hope he doesn't know about my aromatherapy soaps. The last thing I need is the entire underworld crowd snickering behind my back, making gay jokes and other feminine sounding jabs.
>
“Todd Steele,” he says, raising his voice above my protestations, “ . . . he never complains about the predicaments he finds himself in. He doesn't whine about the odds . . . ”
That's not fair. You're comparing me to some fictional character. A super detective.
“ . . . Todd Steele doesn't complain that maybe he's not the right guy for the job.”
This angel, I think he reads Todd Steele novels when he's not keeping the forces of evil at bay, or badgering me. He's a closet fan.
“ . . . and he never wants others to clean up his mistakes. He takes responsibility for his actions. If he brakes something he fixes it.”
I am not Todd Steele!
“No, you're not,” Uriel says as he steps closer to me. “He's a fictional character that lives in mass market paperbacks. You are Jack Pagan. And you will rise to this occasion.”
This Uriel, he's good.
“Fine!” I snap. “But stay out of my bathroom. That's me time, alright.” And then I turn and walk back to my bedroom so that I can wake-up next to the most beautiful creature on earth.
52
The loft.
8:18 am . . .
I slowly awaken and I'm resisting the urge to open my eyes. I'll either see bright light and Angela, or the dark blue and grey of a place where the forsaken wander aimlessly. Six in one hand, half-dozen in the other.
Finally, I squint open my eyes and see a mixture of both.
The sun is shining in across the loft as little fingers of yellow light cut across the furniture. Where Angela was, all there is left of her is a blue envelope with my name printed on it.
I sit up and take a breath. My arms are free of large-bore needles and rubber hoses so I know Ricky's been tending to me. My throat is dreadfully dry and I'd probably punch a nun for a glass of iced water. I take the letter and blink a few times to get the death out of my eyes.
First thing I do is sniff it a couple of times. There's just the hint of apple. That's probably from her shampoo. And as I inhale deeply there's even the trace aroma of cinnamon and . . .
“Are you serious?” Ricky says as he walks in. “You're actually sniffing that letter? I didn't raise you to be that kind of queer.”
No, I say. For real, I can smell her shampoo. It's that fruity—
He holds his hands up as he grabs my wrist, checking my pulse. “Whatever, Jack. Whatever. Angela's cool.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding as a stupid grin crosses my stubbled face.
Ricky feels around my throat, pressing his fingers here and there. “Plus . . . she's alive, unlike your last girlfriend.”
Just then I panic a bit, “Hey, dude, promise me you didn't say anything about Kristen and the twenty-three Evils to Angela.”
He doesn't answer, he just keeps on checking squishy parts of my neck and arms.
“Ricky!”
He laughs, “Relax, Jack. I'm not going to recount the tales of your infatuation with a dead chick. That's the kind of thing that might scare a girl off. And I'm not a cock-blocker.”
“I'm not kidding, Ricky. I like her,” I warn him.
Then he gets all serious, “Alright, we need to get the gear from the office to Addison Airport. Our plane should be leaving late this afternoon. So pack for the jungle.”
“I don't have jungle clothes,” I argue. “I'm not ready. I need to go shopping.”
He doesn't answer, my clever friend. No, he walks past me to my closet and opens both of the sliding doors so that I can see all the clothes that I own in the world.
Whoa!
The closet is full. Like, easily three times as full as it was the last time I opened it. I stand up and walk forward, my legs still quite stiff, my gait awkward and ungainly. I see khaki pants, camouflage jackets, boots, brown shirts, and all kinds of mercenary looking gear that I'm sure Ricky had a grand time purchasing.
I turn to him, and he's grinning like a pig in poop. “Where did you get all this stuff?”
“We're not going to half-ass it like we did in Damascus,” he says as he walks toward the door. “Also, I hired us a translator.”
A translator? Does he know what we're doing? I mean . . . the Evils and all that?
“He doesn't care about stuff like that. He's a security contractor that my dad turned me on to.”
What does that mean, he doesn't care ?
“He's a gunslinger, Jack. Used to be in the French Foreign Legion. Speaks like five or six languages. Fights wars for money, that sort of thing.” Ricky walks out of my bedroom yelling, “Pack heavy. We'll be heading out in an hour.”
And now it's just me and my new gear.
And my letter.
As much as I want to read it, I have to get my packing done. I decide to hold off reading Angela's words until we're airborne. It'll be easier that way.
I pull a large, waterproof, black duffel bag out of the closet, and it's already half full of socks, shrink-wrapped meals, a vest of some kind, a Rambo -style knife that looks big enough to cut a car in half, and empty grey magazines that look like they go into guns of some kind.
Ricky . . . what is all this?
“Pack your shit, Jack!” he barks back from his bedroom. “We'll sort it all out later.”
Once I've packed every conceivable thing I might need, I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I study myself in the mirror, wondering if I've changed since the last time I saw my reflection.
For me, it feels like time is stuck still and I'm the one rushing by in the blink of an instant. Like all the clocks in the universe are frozen and I'm the only one moving.
I'm living the opposite of Einstein's Equivalence Principle. Everyone and everything stops, and I keep on going. Gravity is jaded. Friction doesn't matter. I have a good feeling that this is all about to turn nasty.
53
ALG office.
9:38 am . . .
We're all on the upper parking garage walking back and forth between a big black van that we're loading all of our bags and equipment into. Ms. Josephine and Billtruck are coming down the elevator behind me. They had to discuss something important. Ricky is printing small maps for each of us.
Right now I'm playing with this clever GPS (Global Positioning System) device that Ricky gave me. Supposedly, I'll be able to pinpoint my location to within five meters, anywhere in the world. I'm glad we have these magical devices, and at the same time I'm a bit worried that we might need them.
I've never been in a jungle, as far as I can recall. And there are all kinds of horrible slithering slimy critters that call it their home. I hope they don't treat us with the same impunity as we show cockroaches and spiders that get into our apartment.
As Billtruck and Ms. Josephine approach, Billtruck squeezes my shoulder, “How you feeling, Jack? That was intense last night.”
Another day in the life of Jack Pagan, I say.
Ms. Josephine has two bags this time. One is her standard large purse of curiosities, and the second one is more of a tote bag, with some interesting voodooesque markings along the sides.
“I'm going to be analyzing the fMRI data this afternoon, so maybe I'll have something intriguing to tell you later on tonight,” Billtruck says as he lifts a small black plastic suitcase. He sits it up on the hood of the van and flicks the latches on both sides open. Then he looks at Ms. Josephine and I, “These are cool.”
He pulls this set of goggles out and they're kind of like those night vision goggles you see the military guys wearing, but they have two lenses instead of one. “These,” Billtruck says, “are the newest military hardware that isn't on the market.” He hands me a pair. “Give 'em a try.”
I slide the goggles on over my face and I can't see anything.
“Alright,” I hear him saying, “there's a toggle switch on the right to turn on the night vision. Try it.”
It won't mess them up? It's sunny out.
“No, no, they have an internal sensor and a shutter that adjusts for any light condition. The
y'll be fine.”
I feel for the switch and with a gentle click I see everything—the entire parking lot—in shades of green. It's much clearer and focused than you'd think. This is like when we're playing X-Box 360.
“Cool?” Billtruck says. “Now flip down the switch on the left side.”
I find the switch and slide it down.
“Whoa! Now that's cool.”
“Thermal imaging with an optional overlay function so that you can use both, or either,” he says, like he's a salesman at some arms convention. “Same technology in the SOPHIE thermal imagers, but at one tenth the size. Plus,” he adds, “it will relay what you're seeing to Hal and I, back here, with only a few seconds delay. You can even plug in your Motorola so we get your audio, too.”
I can see everything by its heat signature. I look over at Ms. Josephine, “You're hot Ms. Josephine. Bill, you're kind of warm. And Ricky . . . where is he?”
I see my skinny faux-brother coming with two cold green cases. I take off the goggles, handing them back to Billtruck. He puts them away as we load the last of the bags and close the van's back doors.
We all get inside and sit back as Ricky gets into the passenger seat. Billtruck comes around and jumps into the driver's seat, rocking the van back and forth.
Right when he gets the engine started, Ricky asks, “Are we there yet?”
Billtruck adjusts the rearview mirror and looks over at Ricky, “Quit asking or I'll turn this thing around.”
Ms. Josephine laughs to herself.
Fifteen minutes later we are making our way past the second of three guarded gates, on our way to Ricky's dad's private jet. A big one. It's got jet engines and silver stripes, and it looks like it belongs on the cover of some magazine for arrogant rich people.
“That's nonsense,” Ricky says. “Rich people pay other people to read for them. They'd have no use for such magazines.”
We park, we get out, and a host from MillionAir informs us that Mr. Green is already on-board, with his things stowed.
“Mr. Green?”
Ricky's eyebrows bounce up and down, “That's the interpreter guy I hired.”
Oh. The mercenary.
After we finish loading all of our bags and equipment we wait for the final approval from the pilots. A short, pleasant looking woman with curly brown hair approaches us. I remember her from last time.
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 22
