“The Shroud?”
Tim nods.
“It is what you would call purgatory. A mirror of our own world, where the sky is purple, rather than blue. Everything that exists here is there, just much less populated.
“The first time I laid eyes on it, I woke up on a freeway in what I thought was New York City. Thought cars would run me down as I opened my eyes. Wished they would, too.
“Only two of us who were pulled into the Shroud left it. Myself, and one other.”
“So there’s two of you running around, killing people? That’s wonderful to know!”
“No,” Tim says, “She is not like me. Unlike me, she did not...acclimate to immortality as easily. We haven’t spoken in years, to be honest.”
And I thought I had problems.
“So, what happens now?”
“Maya will die in the next twelve hours, no matter what. But I promise you, Ramona; she will awaken in the Arcway, and never feel this kind of pain again.”
Torn between wishing I had never met this being and being grateful for the warning my world is about to fucking shatter, I have no words.
I have no means to process everything Tim has just told me. No means to force Patrick Barker to speak to me, or any leads on bringing Emily Rickard home. I am an insect among the stars; my loss in the grand scheme is negligible. Maya’s death is one of millions more. Billions, even.
Finally able to lay eyes on her gaping jaw and bunched brow, I walk to the woman who raised me, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.
I want to run away, and never fucking return.
“Do it,” I tell the man who calls himself Death, making for the door. I don’t want to be here when it happens, or be the one to find her body.
Already planning to call it in from the car, I cast Tim a glare, summing up the greatest conflict yet in our nonsensical relationship.
“I don’t want to see you for a while. Got it?”
Tim stands from the couch and says he understands. Clenching my jaw, I turn my back on them, piling sandbags against the tide coming for me. I reach for the door, exiting into darkness; disgusted I’m not even afforded the dignity of dealing with Death like everybody else.
Instead, I have to be an accomplice to my loved one’s end.
I am not a monster.
Chapter Eleven
I have never been an emotional person, which makes me the perfect candidate for a eulogy. Unfortunately, I am equally terrible at public speaking, usually resulting in the person asking me to do so being told to fuck themselves.
In Maya’s case, it is not an option. For all my mastery in avoidance, deflection and skirting around any conversation of emotional significance, the death of my only living relative is the antithesis to all those years of practice.
I don’t remember much about the two days following her death. Hardwick implored me to take a minute for myself. I was too stunned to care.
Only days ago, she was fine.
The details following her loss are irrelevant. I live in a cloud, having to be asked questions by concerned funeral directors when it comes to paying up. I tell them to take what they need, and return to daydreaming.
The details don’t matter, because all they care about is getting their money, putting the body in their care six feet under. I sign whatever documents I need, leaving no time to read the fine print. There are children missing, and I’m wasting time arguing with taxmen about Maya’s estate.
I’ll give you the same answer I give them.
Maya doesn’t have anything to put into an estate.
It’s my money laying her to rest.
The man who calls himself Death observed my wishes; I haven’t seen him since that night. Coming home from the hospital, an outline I’ve rarely seen- she was always in that damn chair- greeted me, and I burst into tears.
Everything was haunted, and I couldn’t stay there.
I wasn’t about to go begging Royce for another night at his apartment, so I went down to the car Maya helped me acquire- so proud, she was, that I made it into Quantico- and tried to sleep.
At this point, an impossibility.
So I did what any grieving woman in her prime would do- I went to work, hoping for a win; praying I might be endowed with some sense of pride in my life.
At some point around five-thirty in the morning, huddled over a conference room table, I am interrupted by John Hazel. Notorious for insomnia himself, I’ve overheard a rumour the Director lives in the building’s basement, and never leaves the building. Hauntin’ Hazel, they call him.
Nothing important; just some watercooler talk between interns.
“Late night?” he asks in the doorway. As I turn to meet his gaze, he holds a briefcase at his hip, gesturing to the mess of photos and files in front of me.
“Aunt passed away.”
Hazel smiles, looking at the ground.
“So I heard. I’m sorry, Ramona.”
“It’s alright,” I say, “Working through it.”
“Can I tell you a story?” the Director asks, gravitating to the chairs surrounding mine. He asks if he can sit, and I nod. He pulls the swivel chair back, slowly lowering himself into it. “When my first wife Rachel- I’m long remarried now- passed, I sank myself into work. Told myself whatever it was, this place could get me through it. I was just an agent at the time, already working long hours. Didn’t see my kids enough. Still don’t.
“Point is, I don’t think I went home for a week. Showered at the gym, spent dinner at bars, just...drowning out whatever was there. Eventually, I stopped caring, taking care of myself. Didn’t shave, eat or sleep.”
I want to say there’s nothing there, because I am dead inside. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I know self-pity will not benefit me, no matter how comforting John Hazel wants to be.
“One day,” Hazel continues, “I finally went home. Sat down in the armchair beside Rachel’s, where we spent so many wonderful evenings, and poured myself a drink. Forced myself to look over at that chair. All of a sudden, it just hit me, Knox.”
He clasps his mouth with his fingers, concealing twisted lips reliving the memory brings. “For all the time I spent convincing myself I was too dead to feel anything about my wife, it was there all along.”
Standing, he gently touches my arm, telling me not to let those emotions fester too long. Maya once told me something similar.
The longer they go ignored, the more devastating they will be when surfacing, Ro.
As he leaves me looking out at the clusterfuck of a case I have now accepted owns my soul, I don’t feel any closer to catharsis.
What’s worse, I don’t want to be.
For something comprised of so many decisions I don’t recall making, Maya’s service goes exactly as expected. She was cremated, as were her wishes. Whether the orchids were her choice, mine or the funeral director’s is lost to me.
Attendance at the small service is sparse, limited to myself, a priest, Hardwick, Royce and Ian Armstrong, my old professor from Quantico. I smile at the latter’s appearance; the old man is a beacon in my dark life, and it makes today a bit lighter to see him.
Taking the podium, I glance at the cheap ceramic urn seemingly chosen on my behalf- something tells me I would have gone for nicer options. I am further surprised to see John Hazel enter the room through the back, overcoat hanging off his arm. He scurries to the closest seat, nodding as we lock eyes.
Looking out at these people who didn’t know Maya whatsoever makes it somewhat easier.
“My aunt was...should have been...my mother. Truth is, I know so little about my actual mother, apart from how she died. All I really know is I should have died with her.
“But Maya...bless her soul, didn’t let me dwell in foster care. She didn’t leave me to the system, and for that...I owe her everything. She didn’t have to take me in at four years old; raise me into the woman I am today. She didn’t… have to do any of that, really.
“But,” I say, lookin
g up at the small sea of faces who have nothing to rely on but my word when it comes to the lady who saved my life, “she did. She did, and I can never express how much I love her.
“I’m not a person who says that, to anyone. Just not who I am. But … looking back now, maybe I should have told her more. Maybe I should have been as good of a daughter as she was at...being my mom.”
This seems to resonate with Director Hazel, who clearly assumed Maya was merely my aunt. She was my everything, and that’s something not easily explained to strangers.
No part of me wants to drone on. There’s not much more I can say, other than thanking them for attending what would have otherwise been a solitary moment.
Stepping down from the podium, I cast a final look at the ceramic urn where all that remains of my aunt is held, just as my colleagues surround me. The FBI Director shakes my hand, telling me what a beautiful eulogy it was. Ian hugs me, saying how good it is to see me. Hardwick and Royce linger in back, uncomfortable with the whole affair.
“Thank you all. For coming, I mean. Nobody else would have.”
“Please,” Hazel says, grasping my hand with his, “If you need anything, Ramona; the Bureau is behind you. Don’t hesitate to reach out.”
I say that I won’t, and my boss has to run. Hardwick and Royce feed me some crock about paperwork; they don’t want to be anywhere near this. I can’t blame them as they shuffle out of the funeral home, leaving me alone with my old professor. He has changed little since we last looked upon each other; curly white hair, a unique bow tie for each day of the week and a filthier mouth than a sailor on shore leave.
In contrast, I’m a completely different person.
“So?” he asks, beckoning me to take a seat with him. Where my audience previously watched me bare my naked soul before them, we huddle close. “Tell me everything.”
Only feet away, the urn taunts me; I resolve to ignore it.
“What should I say?”
“Whatever you want, Ramona. You know there’s no judgement here. Look, you were most brilliant fucking student I ever had, okay? If you have a problem with anything, you tell me, and I’ll take it up with John.”
“No.” I smile, because I’ve missed having this blunt honesty with another human being, “John- Director Hazel, I mean- has been wonderful. It’s not that, Ian.”
“What is it, then?”
I shake my head, barely able to summon the words.
“I don’t know. I knew it would be difficult. That...that I would eventually see things, and make calls I didn’t want to make. I just hoped they’d have let me find my feet before throwing me in the deep end.”
“My fault,” Ian admits, “But I didn’t make that recommendation lightly, Ramona. Almost didn’t make it all, actually.
“The day John called me,” he continues, marking the longest we’ve ever sustained a conversation without invoking profanity, “I had never heard such defeat in his tone. Here, the man’s dealing with agents down, kids disappearing left and right. There’s not a lead in the world to get us closer to Jordan West. In thirty goddamn years, I had never heard my friend so fucking….sad, I guess. Resigned.”
“And that made the decision for you,” I finish.
“Look Ramona, I know you’re hardly the type to seek out praise, let alone accept it. But every fibre of my being told me you were born to stop this. You have everything this case needs- smarts, physical aptitude-”
“A vagina?”
Ian laughs.
“I was going to say female intuition, but if we want me to talk to you like I do a stripper, you fucking got it, honey. Probably scaring the pants off the old guard, but half of them are dicks anyway.”
The next question from my mouth is unplanned, but rests on the pinnacle of self-doubt.
“What if I fail, Ian?” I ask, “What if I’m the wrong person to go after Jordan West?”
My old professor grimaces.
“If Ramona Knox can’t solve this, all hope for these kids may actually be lost.”
“No pressure, right?”
He only smiles in agreement. We admire the urn, forming a centerpiece to the complete lack of answers offered. For all the questions our little universe offers, there are only ashes and silence.
“Thank you for coming,” I tell him, “It really means a lot.”
Ian leans over the space dividing our folding chairs, pressing his rough lips to my forehead. When he pulls away, his hand rests on the back of my head before he stands and makes for the door.
I am left to watch for any sign of change in Maya’s remains, and wonder how long before the man who calls himself Death comes for me, too.
Chapter Twelve
The first time Tim appeared to me on a regular basis was shortly after I enrolled in Quantico. Anticipating I would require his guidance, he simply showed up one day, and never left.
Twenty rigorous weeks in the FBI training program left me physically and emotionally exhausted. It was a walk in the park compared to now; but after four years of college, another two where I thought I wanted to become a cop like Ryan Royce- graciously interrupted by a nameless recruiter- there were many nights regretting enrolment.
One night, I got drunk and vowed to quit Quantico the following day, and that was when he appeared.
Oh, I said, and where the fuck have you been? Fifteen years had passed since our last encounter, in the security room of a retailer where I was caught stealing makeup. Almost two decades gone since his last appearance, I thought I was hallucinating.
From that day on, the man who calls himself Death was here to stay. He appeared on the daily, taunting me over morning coffee. Any mortal would be stabbed. He offered unsolicited advice, acted as a sponge for my complaints.
Since that night, I have tried to figure out his motive for re-entering my life, just as I took on my greatest challenge yet. He has been my voice of reason, replacing one my parents should have instilled.
Sometimes, I wonder what they would think of their only daughter now.
Mostly, I don’t fucking care.
My first morning back at work, I am greeted by several agents whose names I can’t immediately recall. Even Hardwick casts a nod to signal he’s happy I’m back. I pass Hazel’s empty office, thankful he is not present to offer a similar gesture.
Like most mornings with Tim, I just want to drink my coffee and be spared conversation. As I round the corner into the conference room I have been working out of, though, awkwardness awaits. Leaning against the desk’s surface, John Hazel waits, smiling ear to ear.
“Ramona,” he says, “Good to have you back.”
I study the table, asking where all the files I left there have gone; wondering if I have been demoted.
“Oh,” Hazel replies, “we had that moved. Figured you could use some new digs, for all the good work you’ve been doing on this case.”
“Sir?”
Maybe I finally get that cubicle.
“Room seven-fourteen. All yours. And don’t shoot me,” he jokes, “but we tried not to mess up your paper trail too badly. You should find it as you left it.”
An actual office?
I don’t readily believe he is extending this olive branch based on merit. Maybe on my sex, or out of pity for Maya’s passing.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Please. Think nothing of it. I can only hope we will see progress on this case soon.” I’m working on it, John. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Just wanted to welcome you back.”
He extends his hand and I shake it, thanking him again. When he is gone, I can only stare into the empty conference room. I will somewhat miss its large sense of emptiness, mirroring my own.
Eventually, I am joined by Hardwick in the doorway, looking at me like I have three heads.
“What, wanted something bigger?” he asks.
“Stephen Hardwick,” I reply, “is that humour I hear coming from your mouth?”
My partner scoffs.
“Not at all. Although I bet you’re used to wishing for something bigger than Royce is probably packing, eh Knox?”
“Is that a question, Agent?”
“Nope,” Hardwick self-corrects, “Rhetorical. Completely. Don’t want to know.”
“Well, since you asked, it’s no wonder he’s a cop.”
My partner groans.
“Jesus, Knox! Said I didn’t want to know. So what you gonna do now, miss hotshot agent? Got a plan for your first day back?”
In the excitement of being given my own workspace which is not my aunt’s kitchen, an unloved conference room or the driver seat of my SUV, I hadn’t considered it. It probably informs what I say next, despite unawareness why I confide in him, from the door frame of a space I no longer require.
“When I was young,” I tell him, “I wondered what I did. To, you know, deserve what happened. I blamed myself because my dad shot my mom, then himself. I contemplated just...killing myself, either by jumping off a cliff or just...slowly. Overdose. Drink myself to death, or something.”
“Would fuck anyone up,” Hardwick acknowledges. “But you didn’t do any of that, Knox. You fought for something. And that says something about you as a person. Not even an agent, but a fucking human being, Ramona. Nobody can take that from you. Not me, not Jordan West, not the monster who eventually replace him in our mission to keep America safe.”
My entire life, I’ve felt as if I’ve taken up space. Been extraneous. Maybe I still am; maybe the idea of being given my own corner of the world from which I can protect it is a foreign feeling.
“I think we should try talking to Barker again,” I say, “It’s been a few days, and he’s had some time to think. He’s still on the fourth floor, right?”
Hardwick nods.
“Think he’s worth the effort, though? Wasn’t too intent on helping us before.”
Oh, he’ll help us, Stephen.
Three days ago, my aunt was alive and I still had some menial attachment to humanity. I had a guardian angel who calls him Death; who I sent away in anger and grief.
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