Dying Light

by Kory M. Shrum

  She’s wearing a hospital band, evidence of where she’s spent the last couple of years.

  The man grabs her wrist and shoves it down. “Low profile, darling. Do you know what that means?”

  Rachel huffs. “Buy me a toffee latte, Cariño. Then I’ll promise to be a good girl.”

  The guy slides past me to the counter where he does just that.

  “He needs a bit of training,” Rachel says with a grin. “But he is awfully cute.”

  I have nothing to say to that. I walk to the counter and retrieve my white hot chocolate instead.

  Gloria’s looking out the festive window, surveying the street. “We need somewhere we can talk.”

  “Cariño has a place picked out.” Rachel turns her wrist over. “We’ll go there in two minutes.”

  I blow on my hot chocolate. “Why two minutes?”

  “Changing of the guard,” she says, as if I’m supposed to know what that means.

  “One toffee latte,” the guy most certainly not named Cariño says. He slips a warm drink into Rachel’s hands and then looks at his watch, just as Rachel did. “Ninety seconds, ladies. Are you ready for a little stroll?”

  Gloria adjusts her pack. “I’m ready.”

  “And you?” he asks, meeting my eyes.

  I lift my hot chocolate. “I’m good for a stroll.”

  “Seventy seconds,” he says.

  “It’s so sexy when you count down like that,” Rachel giggles into her latte, playfully biting the plastic lid.

  “Sixty seconds,” he says, his voice even more sultry than before.

  I look at Gloria and am relieved to see she is just as uncomfortable by this display of affection as I am.

  “Fifty seconds,” Rachel says, practically purring.

  “Forty-five.”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  I glance around the Starbucks to see if anyone is watching us, listening to this bizarre dialogue fit for a pornography film. Kids in the corner have big headphones on, typing furiously on the keypads in front of them. Another woman in a suit gesticulates wildly with someone on the phone while she scribbles notes.

  The biscotti guy is shuffling our way.

  “Ten. Nine. Eight…”

  “No thank you,” I say as he pushes the little silver tongs at me.

  “Seven, Six, Five…”

  He turns to Gloria next. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Three…Two…”

  Rachel reaches forward and grabs a handful of the biscotti off the man’s tray and with a wink is out the door at the same moment Cariño says, “one.”

  I take the last biscotti off the stunned man’s tray as an afterthought. “Thank you.”

  On the sidewalk, Rachel speaks to me around a mouthful of biscotti without turning around. “Stay close to us, all right? Don’t walk in front of me. Stay just behind me and close, but not so freaking close you step on my heels. I hate it when people do that.”

  The man is holding a device in his hand, making some kind of fine tuning adjustments with a big knob as we walk. He doesn’t look up, yet manages not to plow into anyone.

  “Eleven o’clock, darling.”

  Rachel looks up and to the left. “I see it.”

  I follow her gaze, but I don’t see anything. Then I do. A small black camera is slowly turning our way. Then it stops and begins to turn the opposite direction.

  “How did you—?” I can’t finish my sentence.

  The man smiles. “Trade secret, love. If I tell you, I’ll most certainly have to kill you.”

  It goes on like this for ten city blocks. The man calls out a position to Rachel. Rachel finds the camera and no sooner than she finds it, it begins to turn away from us.

  “Really, how are you doing that?” My chocolate sits cooling in my hand. For now the heat is still delicious.

  “She’s partis,” Gloria reminds me, whispering almost directly into my ear.

  “Careful what you say,” the man says, glancing up from his device for the first time, scowling.

  “If you’re doing your job, Cariño, they can’t hear us.”

  “Better safe than a dancing girl in Marrakesh, my love.”

  “Ooh, my love,” she says, making a small motion with her hand to turn away a traffic camera on our right. “That’s a new one.”

  “Are we almost there?” Gloria asks, her voice pained.

  “Two more blocks,” the man says.

  Two blocks later we are at the door of yet another apartment building. I’ve begun to feel as though I’ve taken a tour of Chicago’s apartments and now have a great sense of what the city has to offer. Unlike Gloria’s apartments, with their secret exits, this apartment is marvelous.

  A grand high ceiling greets us in the lobby. A crystal chandelier worthy of the Titanic dangles from the center of the room above marble floors. Huge columns stand half-exposed from the walls where we push a button to call down the elevator.

  “Whose place is this?” Gloria asks, clearly uncomfortable with the grandeur.

  “We’re using this flat while my friend is out of town,” the man says. “I called in a favor.”

  “You stole it.”

  “Ms. Jackson, what a horrible accusation. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

  Rachel grins, twirling girlishly in her petticoat. “He borrowed it.”

  “He won’t be back from Munich for another week. Trust me. It’ll be like we were never here at all.”

  I glance at Gloria. Who are these people?

  Gloria can’t see me because she’s too busy scowling at the man.

  The elevator opens and we step out into a beautiful penthouse, not unlike the immaculate lobby below. I feel like I’m in a 16th century chateau rather than a Chicago apartment. A chaise stretches before a huge glass window. Dresses of every kind are strewn all over the room.

  The man sees me eyeing them. “She’s been shopping.”

  “How?” I blurt. As far as I know, she escaped an asylum not two months ago. Where did she get the money to go shopping? And these dresses do not look cheap.

  “How have you been moving around the city undetected?” Gloria asks.

  The man offers her the device he’s been carrying. “This little guy. He’s quite handy. He blacks out all recording devices within a twenty foot radius.”

  “And I take care of the ones that are a little farther away,” Rachel adds.

  “And she’s fantastic at it.” He grins. Something in my gut churns. “As long as we carry this little guy, we are effectively a blind spot.”

  “You and your gadgets,” Gloria says, unamused. Now all of her attention turns to Rachel. “You look well.”

  “So much better,” Rachel says. “I thought escaping the asylum was the worst idea ever, but how could I tell Brinkley no? I got lucky.”

  “I picked her up,” the man says. “You should’ve seen her face when I pulled up in a Ferrari.”

  Gloria’s face is so red it might explode. “A Ferrari is not low profile, Gideon.”

  “Life’s little pleasures, Ms. Jackson. Who knows when we are going to die? Who would take the bus to hell when one can drive a beautiful car?”

  Gideon. The name rings a bell. Gideon. A line from Brinkley’s journal springs to mind. Idolizing an Iranian smuggler should have been my first hint.

  “You’re Gideon?” I ask. “Brinkley’s Gideon?”

  Gideon grins. “One and the same, my lady. And you’re Alice Gallagher, are you not?”

  “You wanted to be the most powerful man in the world,” I say, recalling the entry from Brinkley’s journal where Gideon—first taken from his family in Afghanistan—tells Brinkley what he wants to be when he grows up. So he can’t be more than twenty now.

  “Working on it, darling,” he says with a mischievous grin. “This vixen is quite the accessory.”

  Rachel preens.

  “So you all know each other,” I say. “You’re all tied to Brinkley.�
��

  A silence settles on the room. “May he rest in peace,” Gideon says in a serious tone.

  “I want to see his grave,” Rachel adds, equally somber. “Once we leave the city.”

  “He’s in Nashville,” Gloria says.

  “With all due respect,” I begin, and both Gideon and Rachel bite back laughs. “What?”

  “With all due respect,” Rachel chides.

  Gideon turns his eyes up at me. “Relax, darling. We are all friends here. Just say what’s on your mind.”

  “I’m not your darling, for starters.”

  “I call every beautiful woman, darling,” he says, with mock indignation. “Except Ms. Jackson, of course.”

  Rachel laughs. “Because she’ll break your arm again.”

  “She broke my hand, actually,” Gideon says, with a sideways glance. “But that’s a story for another day.”

  I take a breath. “All right. You’re Gloria’s backup, I assume. I also assume you’re here to help because Brinkley asked you to come after he was—gone.”

  “You’re on fire,” Gideon chides. “Don’t stop now.”

  “But what do you do?” I ask. “You’re probably not even old enough to buy alcohol, and last I heard, she was in an asylum half-insane.”

  Rachel grins. “Oh, I see why Jesse likes her. She’s feisty.”

  Gideon frowns. “I didn’t realize we were producing resumes for this little meeting, so you’ll have to forgive me for not having anything prepared.”

  “I—” I begin an apology but he doesn’t let me finish.

  He pulls a device from his pocket and pushes a button. The walls begin to clink and clatter, and I worry that I’ll regret chiding him. Panels flip. The ornate walls are false, revealing cabinets beneath. Some have weapons—a lot of weapons—almost as well stocked as Jeremiah’s tenth floor armory, but other cases have devices. Strange electronic things that I’ve never laid eyes on. A few look extremely complicated, with buttons covering their faces. Others have only one, large, menacing button.

  “I have well-equipped friends and many connections. I speak fourteen languages, know how to fly just about every aircraft ever designed. And I’m ridiculously rich.”

  Rachel snorts. “You shouldn’t brag.”

  “Brinkley taught me quite a lot,” Gideon says. “Far more than he ever taught his girls, I’m sure.”

  It takes me a second to realize he means Rachel and Jesse—they’re Brinkley’s girls.

  Rachel folds her arms in mock petulance. “Sexist, if you ask me.”

  Gideon pouts his lip sympathetically, but continues on. “And what he didn’t teach me, I either taught myself or learned through my connections.”

  “Some less than reputable,” Gloria adds as she sets her sketchbook on a table and goes to inspect one of the rifles on the wall.

  “I may have gone to one of the best boarding schools in the world, but I’m not elitist, Ms. Jackson,” Gideon says, more mock indignation.

  “Sometimes it’s like you’re the favorite child,” Rachel says. “You got the fancy boarding school and the money, while I got the asylum.”

  “It was a very nice asylum, love.”

  His whole couch slides backwards across the floor, bumping against the wall. Gideon rocks forward, laughing.

  “Careful,” he says to Rachel. “You’ll damage the furniture and this is very expensive to replace.”

  My heart hammers. “You’re telekinetic.”

  Rachel grins. “That’s one word for it.”

  Two guns lift off the wall and turn toward Gideon.

  “Hey, now,” he says, his voice losing its humor. “Never point a gun at someone, even in jest. It’s dangerous.”

  The guns return to their places on the wall.

  Gideon is red faced and breathing a little heavier than before. “No wonder Brinkley never gave you a gun. You’re a little rash.”

  She gives him a warning look.

  “In the most endearing and adorable way,” he adds.

  “Has Caldwell been hunting you too?” I ask her.

  “Yes, which is why I’ve teamed up with Gideon. He’s done a good job of keeping me hidden.”

  “I can’t even find you,” Gloria says.

  “Good,” Rachel says. “If he finds me, I’m sure he’ll kill me outright. I’m not Jesse.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  Rachel wets her lips.

  “You know about the angels, don’t you? That they talk to us?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “Jesse sees Gabriel.”

  She nods as if she already knows this. “Mine has tried to explain to me what’s going on and what I’m supposed to do.”

  I wait for her to go on.

  She bites her lip and sinks onto the couch that Gideon has pushed back into place. “It’s hard to explain. When I say it out loud, it sounds crazy.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll believe you. Whatever you say.”

  I’ll believe that she believes it anyway.

  This seems to be the right answer. “The Earth’s magnetic field comes at a price. It must be recharged every so often. It’s the price we pay for life. That’s where the partis come in. We have to choose whether or not we want to recharge the field, protecting the existing planet, or if we want to blow it up and create a new universe, starting all over. Does—does that make sense?”

  I remember the television turning itself on in Gloria’s apartment and the news story. “The ghost in your apartment,” I say to Gloria. “Is that news story connected to this somehow?”

  Gideon and Rachel burst out laughing as if I’ve made the funniest joke in the world.

  “You have a ghost?” Rachel asks Gloria.

  “Oh come on,” Gideon says. “You have to tell her.”

  They laugh for a moment longer while I stand in the center of the room. Then Rachel takes pity on me. “It was me. I’m the ghost.”

  “You turned on the TV?”

  “I pushed the button on the remote, yes, from a distance. It’s how I check in with Gloria so she knows we are okay and that things are still on track. I also wanted her to see the science report. I thought it was very fascinating.”

  “She watches the discovery channel day and night, this one,” Gideon says with an arched eyebrow. “The history channel. All that Ancient Aliens shit.”

  “The angels could be aliens. They could be beings from higher dimensions,” Rachel says, stamping her foot. “We don’t know. Have an open mind.”

  Gideon arches his eyebrows.

  “What’s wrong with watching educational TV? It’s good for you.”

  My head spins. “A new universe?”

  Rachel shakes her head. “Right. So the partis powers are the essential elements of the universe, and once one person has all of them they become the apex. Then the apex explodes, either with the intention of protecting the existing planet, or creating a new universe.”

  I collapse to my knees.

  Gloria comes to my side. “Alice, are you okay?”

  I breathe, in and out. “So either Jesse is murdered for her power or she explodes?”

  I feel sick. I swallow several times against the threat of vomiting.

  “Or we do my plan,” Rachel says, straightening the lace of her petticoat over her knees. “We kill Caldwell and the other partis, then live long and boring lives until we’re ready to die. I’ll let Jesse kill me and explode, saving the world—you know, when we are like a hundred years old.”

  I can’t breathe. A hand rubs my back.

  “Through your nose,” Gloria says. “In and out of your nose.”

  “Is she freaking out?” Rachel asks.

  “Most people find it difficult to accept their love is going to explode, darling,” Gideon says.

  “There’s no rule that says we have to recharge the shield now,” Rachel says. “We only have to stop Caldwell and the partis from trying to kill us now. After we survive that, we can take our sweet
time.”

  “Breathe,” Gloria says. I feel her hand on my back. “You’re not breathing.”

  I finally suck in air. “I don’t want her to explode.” My voice sounds small, childish.

  “Hel-lo,” Rachel says. “Are you listening to me? We have like a hundred years. Trust me, by the time we’re that old, we’ll want to die. Who wants to live forever with cataracts and arthritis and all that crap? Not me.”

  “You don’t age,” I remind her.

  “Uh, if I keep dying. But we’ll stop one day, right?”

  “It’s a good plan,” Gloria says, trying to bring my awareness back to the moment. “A long, happy life is the best one can hope for.”

  “Yes.” I squeeze the word out. “Yes, I guess it is our best option.”

  “And if you’re worried I’m going to go all Dolores Claiborne on her when she’s like ninety and decrepit, don’t worry. I’ll just, like, put a knife in Jesse’s hand and fall on it or something. It won’t be dramatic at all.”

  I give her a look. She says she’ll defer to Jesse, let her be the apex, but I am not sure I believe her. It is easy to be magnanimous in theory. If Rachel were actually faced with her death, I wonder if she would change her mind. Then again, if it comes down to just the two of them, ancient crones as Rachel puts it, maybe it wouldn’t matter. After all, both will die. It’s just a matter of who will go first.

  Rachel shrugs. “I’m trying to make you feel better.”

  My mind is swimming with this information. I take a breath and ask the only question I seem to be able to articulate. “You said something about forces of the universe?”

  Rachel nods as if remembering. “Angel speak is pretty incoherent, let me tell you. Well, I should say, when he’s trying to convey all this universal crap, it’s gibberish.”

  “I have a theory on that, love,” Gideon chimes in. “I think they’re simply doing their best to communicate a complex idea to a monkey.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Rachel says. “I am not an idiot, you know.”

  “Oh, of course not, darling,” he says with his sweetest smile yet. “Compared to your fellow monkeys. But if it were in fact a supreme being of some kind, I imagine it’s much like a master trying to get its dog to do a very specific trick.”

  She smirks. “Like play dead?”