The Wrong Goodbye tc-2

by Chris F. Holm

  “You’re full of shit, Danny, and you know it. If you want to go on about friendship and compassion, that’s your business, but if you believed a single word of it, then why’d you take Varela’s soul?”

  “I had to be sure you’d come, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I get that. But if you and I were really friends, all you would have had to do was ask. Only you and I both know that ship sailed a long time ago, so let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is. You took something that was rightfully mine. I want it back. Now why don’t you tell me what I’m going to have to do to get it?”

  “So that’s it, is it —you think I planned to blackmail you? Well, fuck you, Sam Thornton. Fuck you very much. Of course I took your precious bloody soul —I knew there wasn’t any other way you’d meet with me. You ever ask yourself why it is that after all these years, you’re still so sodding mad at me? You tell yourself that I betrayed you —that I filled your precious Ana’s head with lies and stole her away from you. Only she was never your Ana to begin with, was she? And anyway, I did no such thing. If you ask me, you’re not angry because you think she never would’ve chosen me all on her own —you’re angry because you suspect she did.”

  “Damn it, Danny, that’s not what this is about!”

  “Ain’t it?” He fished a bundle of olive-drab cloth from his uniform shirt pocket and tossed it onto the table between us. “If it’s your soul you want, then take it and go. Sorry to have troubled you.”

  I eyed the bundle for a second, and then picked it up. “Look, it’s not like I don’t see where you’re coming from —I just don’t know what I could possibly do to help. I mean, a year ago, maybe, but now? Now I can’t. Not after what happened in New York. There’s a war brewing between heaven and hell, Danny, and our kind are being kept on an ever shorter leash.”

  He guffawed. “You think you need to tell me that?”

  “Apparently, I do. And believe me, no one’s under more scrutiny right now than I am. I mean shit, when the dust from the Manhattan job cleared, there were two demons dead —dead by my hand. We’re talking the first of their kind to be killed in millennia —the first since the last Great War. I’m lucky I’m not spending the rest of eternity getting flayed alive. Probably would be, if I hadn’t gone all Dirty Harry on the bad angel and averted an apocalypse in the process. But it ain’t like I’m getting a free pass in all of this. Lily’s spent the past ten months watching me like a hawk to ensure every job is by the book —and there isn’t an angel or a demon out there that wouldn’t like to see me burn. Which means for now, I walk the straight and narrow. Hell, I’ll be lucky if they don’t shelve me just for meeting with you. I’m sorry, Danny, but my hands are tied.”

  At that, Danny deflated, the fight gone out of him. He looked suddenly small, and frail, and afraid. Despite everything that had come between us, I wished there was something I could do to help him —that there was something I could say to keep him from feeling so alone. There wasn’t, though —or at least, that’s what I like to tell myself. It sounds better than the truth. Better than I didn’t even try.

  Danny’s gaze drifted over to the building opposite the café, an elegant Spanish colonial with balconies that overlooked the avenue below. A wan halfsmile spread across his weary face. “It was a hell of a job we pulled in there, wasn’t it? When was that —’81, ’82?”

  “’83,” I replied, a smile tugging at my lips as well.

  “’83, of course it was! Bloody hell, seven of them, all at once —that’s not something that you soon forget. And the fight they put up —it’s amazing we got out of there alive! I remember the last of them was so coked up, he laughed and laughed as, one after another, all his mates went down. When all was said and done, I was so exhausted I thought I might collapse, and Ana had to shower for an hour to get the blood out of her hair.”

  “I still remember the look on Lily’s face when she found out I’d pulled it off —she thought for sure they’d send me packing. Of course, she had no idea I had help.”

  “We were thick as thieves back then, Sam. Where did we go wrong?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “Thieves steal, Danny. That’s where we went wrong.”

  As soon as I said it, I regretted it, but Danny didn’t bristle. And at that moment, the waitress returned, carrying a steaming plate of tortilla-like flatbreads piled high with meat and cheese. She set the plate in front of me, and addressed Danny in Spanish too fast for me to follow.

  “Sorry, love,” he said to her, rising from his seat, “I can’t stop.” And then, to me, so earnestly it broke my heart: “Thanks for coming, Sam. It was good to see you.”

  He turned and left, then, his shoulders hunched against the mountain chill, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He set out in a diagonal across the street, heading back toward the plaza. I just sat and watched him go. I wanted to call to him, to tell him that I’d help, but I didn’t. I was too angry, I guess. Too afraid. Eventually, I lost sight of him within the crowded square, so I sat and stared at nothing.

  And then, as one, a thousand crows took flight and followed.

  4.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  At the sound of Lilith’s voice, I damn near jumped out of my shoes. Not that there was anything wrong with the sound of Lilith’s voice. Lilith’s voice is like a slow drink of whiskey —a throaty purr you can feel in your socks. The kind of voice that’d make a man do pretty much anything, provided she asked just right. And Lilith always asked just right. No, it wasn’t the timbre of her voice that startled me. It was the fact that it was coming from about three inches behind me.

  I tried to spin around to face her, but I’d been crouched low to the ground when she interrupted me, so I wound up landing on my ass. Said ass was now planted smack in the middle of Independence Park —several acres of rolling green criss-crossed with paths of brick, in the center of downtown Bogotá. After my meeting with Danny, I’d walked the streets for hours, trying to get my head straight. Eventually, I wound up here. Truth be told, the walk did nothing to sort out the jumble in my head, but at least the park afforded me the chance to inter Varela’s soul. Which was precisely what I was doing when Lilith decided to pop by and scare the living shit out of me.

  I propped myself up on one elbow, and willed the thudding of my meat-suit’s heart to slow. Lilith looked as beautiful as ever, her long red hair spilling down over alabaster shoulders to a scant silk dress the color of blood, of lust, of sin. Her long legs gleamed faintly in the evening light, and her bare feet did not disturb the grass beneath. By the smirk that graced her gorgeous face, I’d say her entrance had its intended effect.

  “Jesus, Lily —can’t you wear a bell or something? You scared this meat-suit half to death!”

  Her perfect nose crinkled with distaste at my chosen epithet. “Watch your tongue, Collector. I’ve no patience for your insolence today.”

  “That implies that there’s a time when you do.”

  “That’s precisely the sort of comment it would be prudent to avoid,” she said. “I assure you I’ve not come here to trade witticisms.”

  At that, she extended a slender, elegant hand to help me up. I took it, and she lifted me from the ground as easily as a parent might a fallen toddler. For a moment, we stood nose to nose. I was achingly aware of her breasts pressed tight against my chest beneath the thinnest wisp of claret-colored silk, and her scent was so intoxicating, I couldn’t speak, or think, or even breathe. On legs unwilling, I took a couple backward steps. The fog cleared, but just a little.

  “Then why have you come here?”

  “Why else?” she asked. “I came about a job. Or, to be more precise, I came about two jobs —the one I’m to assign you, and the one you’ve as yet failed to do.”

  Ah, so that explained the grumpiness —she was pissed about the Varela job. See, every Collector’s got a handler —someone who gives us our assignments, and cracks the whip when we step out of line. Lilith is min
e. Near as I can tell, she’s an oddity among handlers in that she’s not a demon —at least, not exactly. See demons —or the Fallen, as they prefer to be called —are angels who have turned their back on God, and Lilith is nothing of the kind. As to what she actually is, that’s complicated. If you’re inclined to believe the books, Lilith was the first woman on Earth, and she was cast out of Eden for refusing to be subservient to Adam —well, for that and her voracious sexual appetites. Now, they say, she rules the night. The southern wind. That she’s a lover to all demons, and mother to all incubi and succubi. That she is seduction itself. Whatever else she is, she’s my connection with the demon realm, my only formal contact to the hell in which I live. Since Collectors are forbidden from fraternizing with one another, and no demon not assigned to us would deign to associate with such lowly creatures as us, a Collector’s handler is all he’s got —his boss, his confessor, his corruptor, and his only friend, all rolled into one. You ask me, I think it’s hell’s way of keeping us docile and in line. Or at least their way of trying.

  I tapped a cigarette out of my pack and lit it behind cupped hands. “I haven’t failed to do anything,” I said, exhaling a blue-white plume of smoke in Lilith’s direction as I spoke. “The job just took a little longer than expected.”

  Lilith shot me a withering look from behind the veil of smoke. A sudden breeze kicked up from the south, and the veil lifted, scattered to the wind. “A little longer than expected? Is that what you call this? It’s been two weeks, Collector. Two weeks since you were tasked with collecting Varela’s soul. And in that time, I saw neither hide nor hair of you. I heard nothing by way of update —nothing I could pass along to explain your delinquent behavior. That is simply unacceptable.”

  “What can I say? Turns out Varela’s a hard man to find. Was, anyway,” I corrected, nodding at the fresh mound of earth that sat beside us at our feet. “Besides, the way I see it, taking a couple extra days to get the job done is a hell of a lot better than crawling back to you with my tail between my knees and telling you I couldn’t hack it.” I knew it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it sure as hell beat the truth. The way I figured it, all delays aside, I’d gotten the job done, so any dressing-down I got for dallying was nothing compared to the shit-storm that would ensue if I told her it was a rogue Collector who’d mucked things up —one I’d been in covert contact with on and off for going on sixty years.

  “I might accept that from some fledgling Collector, but it is shameful for someone of your talents to hide behind so paltry an excuse.”

  “Why, Lily, I do believe that was a compliment,” I said, an amused smile breaking across my face.

  Lilith colored, and screwed her face into a scowl. “I assure you, it was not intended as such. Tell me, Collector, in the two weeks that you’ve spent gallivanting around this country, have you perchance laid eyes on a newspaper?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” I said. “If you recall, I’m not so good with the Español.”

  “Oh, I think the pictures would have been quite sufficient.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Pictures of what?”

  “The commuter train that derailed in Osaka, for one. Or the as yet unidentified plague that wiped an entire Bantu village off the map. And, of course, there was the explosion at the Vatican…”

  “What’s your point, Lily?”

  “My point, Collector, is that ever since New York, the détente between heaven and hell has been crumbling around us. These petty skirmishes between the Fallen and their Chosen kin have only gotten worse of late, and both sides are itching for an excuse to escalate into all-out war. Even the mortal world can sense that something’s wrong, though of course they’ve no idea what that something might be. So you see, now is not the time to stray from the straight and narrow —now’s the time to keep your head down and do your job. Maybe in so doing, you’ll spare the both of us a world of hurt.”

  “Keep my head down and do my job? That’s pretty fucking rich, coming from you. You think I’ve forgotten that it was your private little war on God that got us into this mess in the first place? That it was you who orchestrated the damning of an innocent girl in an attempt to jump-start the End Days? Just because the bureaucrats on both sides are convinced the insurrection died with So’enel doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten. So why don’t you save your good little soldier speech for someone who doesn’t know it’s full of shit.”

  Lilith’s eyes gleamed with rage, and for a moment, I thought she was going to hit me, but instead she took a breath, and the anger drained from her face. “Even if what you say is true —and I’m not granting that it is —your actions in thwarting the MacNeil girl’s erroneous collection attracted no small measure of attention. Attention toward you, and by extension toward me. It seems to me that, all thoughts of revenge aside, only a fool would try to fan the flames of war while under that kind of scrutiny. Tell me, Collector, do you think me a fool?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I don’t think you’re a fool.”

  “Nor I you,” she replied. “Which means that for the moment, at least, our motives are aligned.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “I am glad you see the logic in my position,” she said. “But let me offer you a word of warning: should

  I ever suspect that your motives and mine are no longer aligned, I assure you my response will be as swift as it is final.”

  “Of that, Lily, I have no doubt.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  5.

  “Hey.”

  The pale man’s eyes fluttered for a moment, and then were still.

  “Hey, buddy —wake up!”

  His head lolled to one side, and his limbs twitched as if in a dream. A thin stream of drool extended from the corner of his mouth to the white tile floor below.

  “I said wake up!”

  “Hurm,” he muttered, though his eyes remained closed. “Grah.”

  I looked down at my naked torso, at the stab wound an inch above my navel. Though I held my hands as tight to it as I could, blood seeped red-black between my fingers. The wound was muscle-deep, and burned hotter than the bile that still scratched at the back of my throat. The blood loss was making me woozy —if the pale man didn’t wake up soon, it was going to be nap time for me as well, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like how that scenario played out. And since talking to him wasn’t doing the trick, it was time to move on to plan B.

  I tossed the sheet off of my naked legs and swung my feet onto the floor. Pain radiated from my stomach in nauseating waves as I sat up, and my eyes clenched shut as I willed myself not to puke. I’d already thrown up once —the channel that traced the perimeter of the stainless steel table on which I sat ran thick with evidence of that fact. But then, that’s what happens when you snag yourself a fresh meat-suit.

  Twenty minutes ago and a continent away, Lily and I were having our little powwow in the park. Now I was bleeding out in the back room of a mortuary in Aurora, Illinois. Most folks would probably call that a pretty unlikely turn of events. I call it an average workday.

  See, the assignment Lily gave me was for a job in Illinois. Some kind of bigwig at the local state house. So when she and I parted, I made my way through Bogotá’s evening rush to an internet café so I could find myself a suitable vessel.

  Now I’ll grant you, the hop from Bogotá to Illinois sounds impressive, but when it comes to possession, distance ain’t the issue. Once you leave a body, the physical realm sort of drops away, so it makes no difference whether you’re traveling three feet or three thousand miles. No, the issue is having a destination to focus on, which in my case means tracking down a fresh corpse.

  Which leads me to this guy. His name was Jonathan Gray. An insurance man, according to his obituary. He’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning the night before last, thanks to a family of chimney swifts who’d taken up residence in his flue. I wondered if his company’d ever ha
ndicapped the odds against that one. Anyways, he was perfect for my needs, on account of he was brand spanking dead, and his manner of death meant no obvious physical trauma. You get a body that’s too beat up, or one that’s been embalmed, and you may as well be trying to possess a bean-bag chair for all the good it’ll do you. Of course, what I didn’t count on was his mortician being a night owl.

  With one blood-slick hand, I snatched at the spray nozzle that hung over my head. Sluggish as this meat-suit was, the hose was hard to get a hold of. Eventually, though, I grabbed it, and turned it on my sleeping friend. His whole body went rigid when the cold water hit, and his eyelids sprang open like a pair of roll-up shades. Then he spotted me, and took off in a crab-walk away from me across the floor. Or, at least, he tried, but his hands and feet found no traction on the wet tiles, so he just sort of collapsed into a thrashing mound of knees and elbows.

  “Good, you’re awake,” I said, marveling at the effort it took to form the words. “Now would you mind maybe stitching me back up?”

  “B-b-but —I mean, y-y-you… you’re…”

  “Dead?” I offered. His head bobbed up and down.

  “Yeah, not so much. Now are you gonna be cool, or am I going to have to hit you with the hose again?”

  “N-no!” he shouted, and then he gathered his wits about him and tried again. “That won’t be necessary. Oh, God —your stomach!”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. And what the hell are you doing here, anyway? It’s a Sunday night, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m sorry, I —well, you see, I live around back, and sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I… oh, what’s it matter what I’m doing here —you’re dead! Or, at least, you were, until you sat up while I was making my incision so I could begin the embalming process. I guess I must have fainted then, because the next thing I know, you’re spraying water on me, and…” He trailed off, blinking hard a couple times as though convinced that with a little willpower, he could rid himself of this whole unpleasant situation. “This is all highly irregular,” he added. I wished I could agree.