The Acceptance

by L. L. Foster

Possibly it was because in some small, indefinable way, Gaby recognized something of herself in Bliss. That didn’t make sense, but then, nothing of her life could be rationalized.

  Given the heat of Gaby’s stare, Bliss had to take a moment to soothe the man before leading him to a meager room. After she got him in the door, Bliss leaned out, gave Gaby a goofy, teasing look of reprimand, and blew her a kiss.

  It was something a younger sister might have done, and it pained Gaby as much as an arrow through her heart.

  Not that she’d ever let Bliss know.

  When the door closed, Gaby went back to her contemplation of Carver. Hard music filled her ears, pulsing through her veins, finding a cadence with her angered heartbeat.

  She decided that if she got bored and needed the exercise, she’d find Carver and . . .

  A swift bolt of tension impaled her, burning her soul and then spiraling into her veins with awesome speed until every part of her body burned with acute agony. The sensation was familiar, and grindingly painful.

  It gained momentum, gnashing Gaby’s muscles, boring into her heart.

  Ah. So this was why she’d felt the tension.

  Only one thing ever delivered on her this prodigious pain: Tonight, she had deific duties to attend.

  Loosing the ear pieces from her ears, Gaby sucked in deep breaths until she could isolate the pain, compartmentalize it for later use. She forced her constricted muscles to flex and pushed up to stand on her feet.

  It looked like her meeting with Luther would have to be postponed.

  Luther would be pissed.

  And truthfully, she’d miss him. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she’d looked forward to seeing him again.

  Focusing on Luther better enabled her to bridle the pain, keeping the worst of it at bay.

  In the furthest reaches of her mind, she heard one of the hookers saying, “Gaby?” And then with very real caring: “Oh God. What’s wrong with her? What should we do?”

  Fuck. Did her face look different?

  One of the more distressing things to come from her relationships with Luther and Mort was the realization that it wasn’t only evil incarnates who showed their authentic natures through bodily appearance.

  Gaby also suffered the affliction. By shared accounts, when called to duty, she looked different. Luther swore she wasn’t hideous, just altered in some way he could never elucidate.

  Mort, when seeing her thus, was frightened.

  Knowing she had to remove herself from the women before they witnessed too much, became too suspicious, Gaby swallowed hard and managed to whisper, “Butt out. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t be silly, Gaby,” Betty said with her thick accent. “You’re sick. I can see it. So what can I do?”

  Sick? Well, that was preferable to beastly. “I’m fine, I tell you.”

  “You ain’t,” Tiff insisted. “Come to my room. I’ll—”

  Bliss’s softer voice interrupted the others. “Gaby? What’s happenin’? How can I help?”

  Gaby dredged up a believable snicker, and a thick dose of vitriol. “Like I need help from any of you? Not likely.” In a daze, guided only by her inner sight, Gaby started on her way.

  “Stubborn to the bitter end,” Betty lamented.

  “And proud,” Bliss added.

  “Hey,” a guy called out. “I ain’t paying for this!”

  Gaby ignored them all.

  Now that she’d given in to the summons, each footfall grew stronger, more determined than the one before it. Her muscles became more fluid, her movements faster, more agile.

  She left the lugubrious presence of the motel and stepped into hazy sunlight congested with street noise, human virulence, and malodorous dormancy.

  No incarnation of evil lurked about.

  Instinctively, Gaby knew that she needed her car. The distance this time would be too far to traverse on foot. For protective purposes, Gaby kept her Ford Falcon parked well away from the motel. Still, with God-enhanced speed on her side, she reached it in only minutes. Keys hidden in the hub-cap kept her from having to carry them on her person.

  No one messed with her car.

  Why would they? Despite the automobile’s reliable runningcondition, it looked as deserted, as broken as any rust-ravaged heap in the junkyard.

  Because a speeding car was more obvious than a woman racing on foot, Gaby worried whenever she had to drive to a destination.

  She had no driver’s license.

  No IDs at all.

  The less anyone knew of her, the simpler her complicated existence became. She had to trust that God would guide her safely, as He always had, to wherever she needed to be.

  It was unclear to Gaby just how far she could travel within a paladin’s duty. Atrocities happened around the world; she felt only those in her small corner of society. If she couldn’t reach the malefactor, she couldn’t stop the evil committed.

  It was a huge conflict in the cycle of what she did, how she justified her actions. If her ability wasn’t far-reaching, how much did her existence really matter?

  As if to wring the doubts from her consciousness, more pain squeezed through her. Gaby gave in to the agony so that it could help her focus.

  Navigating by divine intervention, she made the journey by rote, unseeing and unhearing. Her muscles knotted and wrung in agony, in the urgency of the moment.

  The sun began its descent just as she reached the bank of a slow-moving, murky river. Dusk left everything dirty, cheerless and gray. Coasting her car up alongside a tree, Gaby put it in park and turned off the engine.

  Through the distortion of her ability, her gift, she saw nothing amiss. Clouds rolled in. The rippling surface of the river turned silver.

  Her pain receded—and under the circumstances, that wasn’t good at all.

  Fresh alarm replaced the hurt; only two things ever caused Gaby’s suffering to abate: Luther’s close proximity, or a missed opportunity.

  Breath catching and knife in hand, Gaby jerked around in her seat, looking out the rear window, searching the landscape, the prickling of scrub brush and dead trees. She saw wide-open spaces. There was no way for Luther to be nearby without her seeing him.

  Relief turned her spine to jelly and she slumped almost boneless in her seat. She didn’t want Luther to see her like this—ugly, murderous.

  More capable than any human being should be or could be.

  The abnormal effect Luther had on her would always leave her agitated. He got physically close, and despite the veil of God’s emphatic instructions, she saw more clearly.

  Rather than the evil within, she saw the human side of her target.

  She saw the destruction she wreaked.

  She saw her own vulnerability.

  Luther affected her as no one ever had. He softened her, robbing her of a crucial edge.

  During weaker moments, Gaby wanted to thank him for that. But when reality crashed around her, she knew it was far too dangerous to let him disturb her vantage over iniquity.

  Shaking her head to clear Luther from her thoughts, Gaby opened her car door and stepped out. Her knees still felt weak, but a humid breeze struck her, thick with the foul odors of the river, and that motivated her.

  As if it had never been, her pain evaporated altogether, leaving her sick at heart and muddled in spirit.

  Raw with regret.

  She was too late—but how could that be? It had never happened before.

  She was always on time. Tonight, she hadn’t even struggled with the summons. The whores hadn’t let her. They were there, observing her, leaving her no choice but to give in and comply before they saw more than they could ever comprehend.

  So . . . what did it mean?

  Had God given her a unique directive? Perhaps, this time, He wanted something aberrant, something other than a total destruction of evil about to corrupt.

  As silent as a wraith, Gaby walked away from the car toward the riverbank, awaiting guidance with each step. The heel
s of her boots sank into the loamy soil. Weeds prickled her ankles. Mosquitoes thought her a feast and dined on her flesh with gusto.

  Gaby searched the riverbank, the rocks, the washed-up tree limbs, swirling moss and reeds . . .

  Oh God. She went stock-still. She’d seen plenty of dead, massacred bodies.

  She’d done the massacring herself.

  But this . . . this was different.

  The body—a bloated, waterlogged sponge on the shoreline—wasn’t dead by her hand. Someone had killed, and dumped the body, and God sent her to . . . what?

  Find a murderer?

  Maybe before more murders took place?

  Okay, fine. But then, why the awful, wracking pain? Why the urgency?

  From a distance, Gaby could tell that the body had been in the river for the better part of a day. There was nothing urgent in a rotting corpse.

  Unless it was someone she’d recognize.

  Vision narrowing, Gaby stared at the white body while a litany raced around her mind. Please, don’t let it be Luther. Please, don’t let it be Mort.

  She calmed herself and studied what she could see—a rounded hip, a mutilated breast.

  Not a man, but a woman.

  The stench of decayed fish and humid refuse burned Gaby’s nostrils as she inhaled, exhaled, breathed in again.

  Feet leaden with dread, Gaby crept closer. Long slimy fingers of green sea moss teased over the carious body, impelled on each lapping wave, tickling, receding, rolling in and over it again, and again.

  Trepidation took a toll. Gaby forced the approach, and the human form became more distinguishable. Arms. Legs.

  Open, unseeing eyes.

  The torso and thighs were badly cut. All over. Long, thin slices made with a very sharp blade.

  A blade not unlike her own.

  Carver? Was the bastard sending her a message? Had he killed an innocent woman because he couldn’t kill Gaby?

  Mottled bruises almost disguised the features of the deceased, but Gaby recognized her.

  Not just any woman, but a woman she knew.

  One of the hookers.

  An . . . acquaintance, but not really a friend.

  Blinking hard and fast, Gaby forced herself to stay there, to take it all in.

  Could Carver have done this?

  And if so, why?

  If not Carver, then . . . the problem multiplied exponentially.

  Long bleached hair swam on the constantly moving surface of the river, catching on reeds, hiding tiny fish that pecked at the rotting flesh.

  Gaby sniffed, remembering how the other hookers had told the woman that her hair was over-bleached, that it felt like straw. Now, floating around the victim, the hair looked so soft.

  A cloudy film covered the open eyes, but Gaby could see that they were dark brown. It was an odd combination, one she wouldn’t forget.

  She sniffed again, tasting the atrocity of the scene before her. Lucy. Poor, poor Lucy. Her death had been gruesome. Given the shape of the corpse, she’d suffered, a lot.

  Gaby went from gasping in upset, to straightening tall and strong with restorative outrage. Somehow, some way, she’d find out who did this, and regardless if it was Carver or not, she would avenge Lucy.

  That’s why God had sent her here, she was sure. To let her know. To make her aware.

  To put her on guard and to prepare her to act.

  Gaby said a final farewell to the woman she hadn’t known well, but had pitied all the same. She didn’t touch the body. She didn’t dare.

  Her insides clenched and her guts gnarled. She looked around, but this particular section of river was far from picturesque. There were no riverboats, no fancy hotels or restaurants.

  Along the shore, remnants of fishing excursions remained: rotted carp heads, a broken reel, foam cups, and a broken lawn chair. Farther out, empty railroad tracks led to nowhere that she could see. In the distance, tall stacks from a factory billowed thick white smoke in the darkening sky.

  There was no place for someone to hide, but then, at this deserted location, secrecy wouldn’t be necessary.

  Had the body been dumped here, or had it floated here?

  For one of the very few times in her life, Gaby wished for the impossible—she wished for company.

  She wanted Luther. He’d know what to do.

  That made her snort. Luther would take her into custody first, and ask questions later.

  Mind made up, Gaby backed away from the grisly scene. Hating herself and her necessary choices that, at this particular moment, felt cowardly, she went to her car. Sitting inside the open door, she removed her boots and checked the soles for any evidence of dirt or debris.

  Once they were clean, she started the engine and drove in the opposite direction from the motel where she resided. It’d be safer for her to take care of business in a different part of town.

  She found a self-serve carwash and took infinite care in cleaning her shambles of a vehicle, making sure all river mud or indigenous weeds had been removed. There was no one around to see her, no one to later identify her.

  The moon crowned the black sky, again reminding her that she was supposed to meet Luther. Now, there was no reason to rush. He’d be too busy to concern himself with her.

  On a dark, dangerous stretch of road, Gaby stopped at a pay phone. She called the police station and reported the body, giving the sparest of details, and disguising her voice.

  When the officer started to ask questions, she hung up and quickly drove away. Taking her time, she coasted through the slums, making note of children still at play, drug exchanges, a few fights.

  By the time she parked the Falcon in the lot, the night dwellers had crawled out like cockroaches, crowding every corner, watching every movement for an advantage over another.

  During Gaby’s walk toward the motel, a tall black man hailed her, offering her pills, needles, or whatever else she might need.

  Burning with hatred, sick over Lucy’s fate, Gaby fixed her gaze on his, letting him feel what she felt. He backed up several steps, spewed a few vicious insults her way, and loped off. Someone laughed. Another person screamed.

  Gaby kept walking. There were people who deserved to suffer, and she sensed this was one of those people.

  Dreading it, steeped in guilt, Gaby approached the front of the motel. She had lost one of them when she’d made it her duty to keep them safe. She’d failed.

  And Lucy had suffered because of it.

  As one set of whores exited the motel, several others went in. They stayed busy hustling for johns, harassing those who turned them down, all in all faking an enjoyment that Gaby knew they couldn’t feel.

  With little conversation, she started to go up to her room. Bliss stopped her. “Gaby?”

  She turned, saw Bliss’s upset, and jumped on the opportunity to indulge in destruction. “What’s the matter?” Gaby stomped toward her. “Did someone do something to you?”

  Bliss blinked at her ferocity before twittering a laugh. “No, silly, it’s nothing like that. I’ve had a good night.”

  Meaning she’d made an adequate amount of cash. Gaby’s guts burned. “Then what is it?”

  Reaching out to touch Gaby’s shoulder, Bliss said, “I just wanted to ask about you. If you’re okay.”

  Gaby reared back. What the hell? “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I dunno. You looked pretty sick before and now you look kinda sad. It’s not like you.”

  Looking beyond Bliss, Gaby saw Jimbo standing alone, taking in the exchange with suspicion. Overall, Jimbo treated the women no differently than they expected. Gaby had yet to see him cross the proverbial line, to do anything to engage her wrath.

  Wrapping her fingers around Bliss’s upper arm, Gaby pulled her farther away from the bright streetlamp and into the dark shadows of a door overhang. An outraged cat screeched and vaulted away.

  Jerking in startled surprise, Bliss screeched, too. “Ohmigod. That poor l’il kit
ty scared me half to death.” She knelt down and made kissing noises. “Here, kitty, kitty. I won’t hurt you.”

  Impatient, Gaby said, “The cat’s gone, Bliss.”

  “Did it look hungry to you?” she asked as she straightened.

  Compassion got a stranglehold on Gaby, all because Bliss was worried about the animal. Not for herself. Not for a lifestyle that put her in peril against nutcases and disease alike. But for a stray cat.

  Another small piece of her heart warmed, melted, and turned to mush. Taking Bliss’s arm to regain her attention, Gaby said, “I need to know something, Bliss.” She cleared her throat, and her mind, and got right to the point. “When’s the last time you saw Lucy?”

  Chapter 5

  Nervously twining a long lock of her brown hair around her fingertips, Bliss said, “I dunno.” She stared up at Gaby. “Why? Are you mad at her for something?”

  Frowning over that bit of absurdity, Gaby asked, “Why the hell would I be mad at Lucy?”

  Bliss’s rounded shoulders lifted. “I dunno. But you look pretty pissed right now.” She licked her lips. “And you’re kinda hurtin’ my arm.”

  Gaby dropped her hand so fast that Bliss stumbled back. Until then, she hadn’t even noted how the girl strained against her hold.

  “I’m not mad,” Gaby repeated evenly, trying to prove it through a moderate tone and temperate disposition. “It’s just that I need to talk to her, but I can’t find her. That’s all.”

  Bliss frowned in thought. “It’s been a couple of days, I think.” She reached out and removed a cobweb from Gaby’s hair.

  Grooming her? Great. Just fucking great.

  Teeth sawing together, but expression as affable as she could manage, Gaby said, “Try to remember, Bliss. It’s important.”

  Lowering her head, Bliss concentrated, and finally said, “You know, I haven’t seen her since the first of the week. Do you think—?”

  Rather than let Bliss’s mind start wandering down the wrong path, Gaby interrupted. “What was she doing when you last saw her?”

  “Workin’, as usual.” Her blue eyes studied Gaby’s hair. “Well, sort of.” Distracted and far too familiar, Bliss urged Gaby to sit on a step, then she went behind her and, after retrieving a tie from her pocket, began finger-combing Gaby’s hair back into a ponytail.