Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  Gowen stood up, collected his coat, and smiled wryly. “Choir practice is Thursday this week. And call the plumber back about the bathroom sink. I’ll clear out my office before next Sunday.”

  Gowen squinted in the cold December sun outside the church. He knew that he should be feeling regret, or anger, or something. What he really needed, he decided with absolute certainty, was a ham sandwich.

  “Reverend? How did it go?” The woman was wearing a thick, black coat and matching veil. You’d have to look closely to notice how young and pretty she was. It had been several weeks since Gowen had dragged her out of the burning basement.

  “They fired me. It’s what I expected.” He pulled his coat tight.

  “It’s my fault.” Her tone suggested that carrying society’s blame was nothing new to her.

  “If I’d let you burn in there, I’d probably still have a job. I don’t want to go back to that.”

  “But…”

  “Shh.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Eventually, Gowen broke the silence.

  “I have to go meet some friends.” The four survivors were going to meet in Roebuck’s office, to decide the next course of action. Was Saberhagen among the dead? Did they still need to worry?

  The young lady nodded and Gowen turned to go. Then he stopped.

  “Miss Jones?”

  “Call me Hester.”

  “Hester—would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Yes! Um, I’d love to, Reverend.”

  “Call me David.”

  – Chapter Twenty-Eight –

  The Scholars’ Academy was over. My little subterranean expedition, so soon on the heels of Steph’s murder, caused Mr. Schultz’s bosses to pull the plug. L.J., Aaron and John had already gone home.

  It was a cool day for July. Dad was getting his truck from long term parking. I didn’t think it was necessary for me to sit in a wheelchair as I waited for him, but it was hospital policy.

  I tried to make myself comfortable in the chair. Impossible. The vinyl stuck to my skin and the seat was made for the widest possible human butt. Predictably, my thoughts wandered back to recent events. Namely, Steph.

  Had Saberhagen sought her out, just because she was important to me? Or was it all just a nasty coincidence? I’d never know, but I’d always blame myself. Why hadn’t I told her to be careful?

  “You’re dwelling again.” Charlie, standing behind me, repeated her stern warning. She could always tell when my thoughts were getting too dark.

  I reached back and she took my hand. “Did you talk to the psychiatric doctors?”

  “Yeah.” She moved and sat down on a bench next to me. “They still won’t tell me anything, other than that Denton is no longer a patient. I tried Dr. Garcia in Fulton, but he wouldn’t even say that much.”

  So Denton was really gone. I wondered what new paths his adventures would take him down. Wherever he went, he’d know to look out for himself. He’d be cautious, cagey, and endlessly annoying to whoever he was with, be they Panamanians or angels.

  “So…” I could tell Charlie had something on her mind, and I had a good idea what. “Are you going to let them give you a glass eye?”

  I unconsciously touched my new eye patch. “I dunno, maybe someday.” In truth, that was one link with Rev. Gowen that I was not eager to explore.

  Charlie nodded, but her mind wasn’t there. She stood again and began to pace.

  “Sherman?” She took a breath. “Are you still coming here for school?” She tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it.

  I’d actually spent a lot of time thinking about that. “Charlie, I don’t think you could blame me if I never wanted to set foot in this city again.” She nodded, somberly. “I mean, I’ve lost track of the times I’ve almost died. Quite frankly, I only have one good memory here.” I took her arm.

  A real smile began to creep onto her face. “Sonic, right?”

  “C’mere, you.” I pulled her toward me in an attempt to snatch a kiss. She wasn’t expecting that and fell heavily onto my lap. I think I managed to cover my painful grunt by pressing my lips to hers.

  Eventually, she got up, allowing me to breathe easier. “Dad has this old Buick he’s been bugging me to help him fix up. If I can get it running, I’ll be in your hair every weekend.”

  “I never thought of you as the mechanical type, Sherman.”

  I stood, abandoning the farce of the wheelchair. “I told you, I’m full of surprises. L.J. said I could stay with him.”

  “Or we could find somewhere a little more private,” she said, leaning toward my ear. “You know how passionate librarians are.”

  We kissed for a long time. Only when we heard the polite beeping of Dad’s horn in the pickup area did we disengage. I stood there, holding both her hands for a moment.

  “Until…until very soon, Charlie.”

  “Good bye, Sherwin.”

  Regretfully, I started across the lobby.

  “Sherman?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think we should contact Rev. Gowen? Tell him what happened?”

  “Actually, I tried to call him this morning.”

  She stared at me with interest. I reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved a battered, singed photograph and turned it over. As Charlie watched over my shoulder, I took out a pen and added a fourth date below the other three.

  Gowen experienced the all too infrequent joy of mud oozing through his toes. ‘It’s a fine day,’ he reflected, ‘when you can get your feet dirty.’

  Almost skipping, he pounced into the shallows of the creek, scaring away minnows and crawdads. The water was freezing and he howled with the cold, with the break of the day, with life. Far away, a voice warned him that he was far too old for such foolishness. How old was he? Fifty? Sixty? It didn’t matter.

  Gowen rolled up his pants and splashed in the river. His clothes got soaked, but he didn’t actually care. In fact, he didn’t care about anything. Just the water, the forest, and this wonderful, wonderful day.

  As the sun continued to rise, Gowen returned to the bank and trotted along. He wasn’t surprised to find the fisherman slouched against a boulder, a battered straw hat pulled down over his brow, the rod carelessly held between his legs.

  Gowen walked silently, so as not to disturb the fish or the man. The extra pole was still there. Taking a seat on a log, he cast the line. There was nowhere to go, and finally, nothing he had to do.

  He had all the time in the world.