However, once I started taking a role in the lives of the dying, I found myself in a small bit of trouble. Drisc, and a few others who’ve been at this the longest, saw no “real” harm in my extracurricular activities. They allowed me to continue, but most accuse Drisc of helping a friend over protecting our secret.
Clearly, they don’t know Drisc. He yelled at me for an hour straight. What Drisc did to “help me” was tell me the vote was 2-1. He was opposed. Lucky for me, Drisc is the type of friend who supports me, even if he disagrees.
Bob was glad to have a chance to spend time with his old friend. Before the days of e-mail, cars, and steam-powered ships, the two had worked together in Ireland and often spent time together. Centuries passed, and it reached a point to where letters and phone calls held their friendship together. It was a rare treat for the two Journeymen to work in the same county, much less the same city.
Bob arrived in Liverpool about a week before Driscoll Navin, mentor to a number of Journeymen. Driscoll, like most Journeymen, only needed a week or so to Transport a soul and then see it Passed On to another person.
Bob made it his mission to share a few drinks with his best friend every night until business separated them again. Bob arrived at a small tavern down Highway 57. The bar sat in the middle of the room. The dim room made it hard to see what might be stuck to the thick, wooden table.
Drisc looked about the same as always, with his short, brown hair spiked from his forehead. He was nearly a half foot shorter than Bob, but Drisc was well built. The Irish, barhopping joker looked the part with his disarming smile and bright-green eyes. Bob was one of a few who knew how dedicated Drisc was to the work and how seriously he took it despite his efforts to appear lethargic.
Their conversation started out as casual as that of any ordinary pair of men sharing a few rounds after work. Bob told him about his teaching. Drisc insisted Bob speak a few lines from his “Sick Violet” performance, complete with the voice. Bob yielded, and the two laughed so hard they nearly spilled their drinks.
“It seems teach’n’ kids has been good fer ya,” Drisc said. His accent hadn’t wilted at all in the near 340 years Bob had known him.
“If I don’t find a soul to Transport soon, I’m going to consider this my retirement,” Bob said.
“I’ll be dammed if ye head out ta pasture before me, Bob Drifter,” Drisc chuckled. “I’ve got just-a-bout twice yer years in the job.”
“So you’re old and thick-headed.”
“Iye! Ta thick-headed fools,” Drisc said as he raised a glass. “May we never get smart enough to call it quits.”
Bob clanked his glass against Drisc’s and drank. Bob envied Drisc’s ability to live as much of a relaxed life as he did. Bob’s days were filled with questions and second-guesses. How does he do it? Bob thought to himself about his friend’s ability to appear so happy-go-lucky.
“Seriously, though, I’m starting to worry,” Bob said. Drisc started shaking his head even as Bob continued to speak. “I can’t Sense anything from any of them. Has anyone ever lost the ability to Sense without the Council taking it away?”
It was the most severe punishment for a Journeyman. The elder Journeymen, those older than four hundred, could focus their abilities to negate another Journeyman’s powers. The idea of living twenty or so years with no purpose was unsettling. The elders had to vote unanimously to do that, and it took three senior Journeymen to enforce the penalty.
“Lad!” Drisc said, somewhat gently slapping Bob on the cheek. “Stop worryin’. It comes when i’ comes. Aye figured ya’d enjoy all tha’ time you’d have ta make a difference.” Drisc said the last part with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“It matters to me,” Bob said. What made Drisc and Bob such great friends was the same thing that led to the biggest arguments. They were polar opposites. Drisc was good times and larger than life, while Bob was deep in thought and introverted. Drisc, one of the oldest Journeymen, was about enforcing the rules when he had to be. Bob was accepting of his circumstances, but he lacked the hard-and-fast approach Drisc was expected to uphold.
This was never more obvious than throughout the last year. After Bob met the Taylors, he allowed another Transport to learn who he was, and Bob had taken steps to help the man set things in order before he died.
Bob had called his friend for help when the situation got a bit out of hand. Drisc was kind. In his own way, he talked some sense into Bob. Then someone called a Council meeting to discuss Bob’s actions.
Drisc wasn’t the one who made it formal. He did, however, tell a few other “Seniors” about it. No one knows how many Senior Journeymen exist. Most assume there are between eight and ten. Drisc was the best known.
Drisc sat at Council as one of the mandatory three. Journeymen were invited to speak their minds, and when everyone had their say, the Seniors voted. A tie was the same as a vote against the counseled individual. In the world of Journeymen, a tie goes against the offender. There can be no risks in death. Bob hated that notion, since life was a risk in itself.
Bob brought himself back to the present with a long swallow of beer. Drisc, normally someone who didn’t like pregnant pauses, seemed content to stare at his mug.
“Can you sense your Transport?” Bob asked.
Drisc looked up from his beer as if surprised to see Bob. “Ho, me?” he said, flashing his carefree smile. “Oh eye’m ere on business, but not that sort.”
“A Council?” Bob asked.
Drisc grimaced. “Aye need to stop drinking with ye so much. But yes, a few of us geysers have a thing or two t’sort out.”
“Do you know anything about the Sense, then?”
Drisc plopped his mug down, sloshing beer onto the table, and gave his friend a flat look. “I git enough grief with the job when I have to do it. Aye don’ need it when I’m try’n to relax. Won’t ye let it go?”
“Have you known me to?” They stared at each other for a few moments.
“Fine,” Drisc said. “If your arse isn’t still sore from the last Council ye were at, ye can come see this one. It’ll bore ye out o yer mind, but at least then ye won’t tink der’s something wrong with you.”
“Thank you,” Bob said.
“O, don’t get me wrong, boyo, der’s something wrong wit ye,” Drisc said with a smile and a drink of beer to take the sting off the comment. “You’ll wind up in front of me and a few other geysers again if ye keep up wit dese games yer playing with the about-to-be dearly departed, and yer weird to boot.”
“Weird?” Bob asked.
“Aye,” Drisc said, tapping Bob’s mug with his own. “Only a weirdo would actually want to go to a Council.”
“It’s not all bad,” Bob said.
“Says you.” Drisc seemed to be moping. He didn’t enjoy Councils one bit.
4
Council
November 7, 2007
Drisc can be such a baby sometimes.
The green-and-white-speckled, thirteen-pound ball rolled quietly along the oak planks leading to the white pins at the end of the alley. Bob whooped as his ball crashed into them and knocked them all down. He enjoyed bowling. The Blue Bird Bowling Alley in Liverpool had eighteen lanes. Each lane ended with a white wall, where comic bluebirds lined up like bowling pins with looks of terror on their faces. Each lane had its own table and rack of bowling balls for anyone not self-respecting enough to have his own ball.
Drisc didn’t have his own ball. Then again, he’d never called himself a bowler.
“You can do it, Drisc!” Bob encouraged his friend. He hoped he sounded like he actually believed it.
Drisc lined himself up against the small, red, pointed triangles on the ground. With a grim look of determination, he started his approach and sent the ball on its way. It remained on the lane for perhaps three feet before it fell into the gutter and rolled harmlessly into the back of the lane. Bob had known Drisc for nearly four hundred years and had never seen him hit more than three pins in a game.
It was quite amazing to watch.
“Fuck!” Drisc yelled.
Todd Evens chuckled. His white teeth contrasted with his pitch-black skin. Somehow, that made his smile even more dazzling. “Maybe if you weren’t drunk, you’d be a bit more accurate,” he said, standing up to take his turn.
“No,” Bob said quickly. “He’s much better drunk than sober. Trust me.”
“That,” Drisc said, taking a seat to have another drink, “is why E’s my best friend.”
“That’s why he’s an enabler,” Todd said. He lined up his shot and sent his ball careening into the pins. Two remained standing on the left side of the alley. “Speaking of which, why is it you brought him to the Council?”
When Bob had started out, bowling had seemed an odd way for Journeymen to conduct business. Of course, hooded meetings in dark alleys would probably have been a little more out of the ordinary. So the Council found a way to meet in the open where very few others would care to take note of what they were doing. Todd exchanged a high-five with Peter Anders, the third-oldest member of the Council present, and the last man allowed to vote on any issues, brought up during the game.
There were five total, excluding Bob, who most members of the game tried to pretend wasn’t there. Drisc, Todd, and Peter would have voting authority because they were the three oldest. Martin Reden and Robin Verimontes were allowed to make case arguments if they wanted. Bob could bowl, watch, and say nothing unless it pertained to the game.
“Bob has some sert of bug ‘n his ear about his Death Sense,” Drisc said. They all watched Todd knock his last two pins down. Drisc cursed again before finishing. “Says he can’t sense anything.”
“Can he sense karma?” Robin asked. Robin might’ve been the most beautiful Journeyman. She was certainly the least liked. Where Drisc was a stickler for rules, Robin thought they were commands. The letter of the law mattered. Bob was lucky she wasn’t involved in the Council where Bob’s decision to help the dying was brought into question. She sent him a letter telling him exactly how lucky he was. It involved a very graphic description of how his balls would end up in some kitchen appliance. Bob wouldn’t be worried, but in 434 years, she’d won 326 martial-arts championships under various names.
Bob would never insult a woman, but the simple truth was that Robin Verimontes was both a beauty and a beast.
“I can sense karma as well as I can sarcasm, Ms. Verimontes. I’ve been here almost a month now and haven’t so much as seen an animal hit by a car,” Bob said.
“It’s not uncommon for there to be long periods between deaths,” Peter said, trying to sound casual. He looked at Bob a little too intently and ended up rolling a gutter ball on his turn. He was supposed to be the best bowler there, next to Bob, of course.
“I don’t mean for me,” Bob said. “I thought it was just me until Drisc told me he wasn’t here for a Transport.”
Ten eyes slid coolly over to Drisc, who looked like a child who’d just told a very big secret. Bob itched to ask what it was, but that would have gotten him kicked off the team, which meant he’d be exiled from attending any Councils.
“That’s not what I said,” Drisc argued. “I said I was ‘ere on business.”
“But not here to Transport someone,” Robin said. “Seems to me, he’s your friend. You should know he’s not a complete idiot.” Robin emphasized the word complete.
“Well, then, it’s simple enough,” Todd said after swallowing a mouthful of chili-cheese fries. “If it calms you down, Bob, I happen to have a Transport coming up.”
Bob was relieved. He noticed Robin and Drisc give the Senior Journeyman a guarded look.
“Can’t hurt to look into it any, either,” Drisc said after a pause. “I propose we reach out to all the Journeymen in the area and see if they notice anything.”
“How many are here?” Peter asked. He rolled a spare on his second bowl and sat down as Robin prepared to take her turn.
“Including us? Seven,” Drisc answered. Bob never understood how Drisc knew some of the things he did. Seven Journeymen in an area was a pretty small number, but there was only ever the number of Journeymen in an area needed to Transport whoever happened to die.
“Have any of them decided to whine because they don’t have some new puppy to save?” Robin asked. She rolled her ball down the lane and watched it crash into the pins. A seven-ten split. Bob smiled. He could only be so polite.
“Robin, ya really should lemme take ye out one even’n,” Drisc said pleasantly. “I think I could shift your mood.”
“I’ll call you if I ever feel like being bored,” she countered.
Drisc looked ready to start an argument, but Bob shook his head, causing Drisc to laugh instead. “Robin, one day, aye’ll see you smile.”
“I smile plenty,” she said. She rolled her ball down the right side of the lane. It struck the right pin on its right side and sent the pin flying at its brother on the end of the lane. She smiled. It looked beautiful, but it also looked like she was a lion about to pounce a gazelle.
“No, not a victory smile, lass,” Drisc said. “A good ‘ol fashion laugh fer the sake of laughter.”
“Before we start rolling on the floor laughing,” Robin said, taking her seat. She held out a hand for Drisc to take his turn, implying that would be the source of the laughter. “How about answering my question? Has anyone else mentioned anything strange about their Death Sense?”
No one answered, but Bob wondered if it really meant he was alone in his worries. Drisc picked up his ball. Bob wanted to call out to him, but Drisc was too quick. He tried to throw the ball down the lane. It bounced off the gutter, went into the lane beside theirs, and knocked down the wrong set of pins. The bowler in that lane looked at Drisc.
“What?” Drisc laughed. “I did ye a favor.” The people at both lanes laughed. Even Drisc smiled. He could always laugh at himself. Drisc took a second shot and watched it fly into the gutter.
“So, how do we vote on seeing if there’s something odd about the Death Sense?” Peter asked. “Those in favor?”
Drisc and Peter raised their hands. Todd shook his head. “Well, I already said there’s nothing wrong with my Death Sense, but why not.” He raised his hand.
“That’s settled,” Drisc said.
“Not quite,” Todd said, watching Drisc take off his bowling shirt. Drisc stopped to look at the other Journeyman. “We have five frames to go,” he finished with a smile.
“Oh, bloody ‘ell,” Drisc cursed.
5
Tracking Drifter
If a phone could taunt a man, Richard Hertly was sure his did. It sat there telling him Linda was just that far away—more than three thousand miles. It took him a day to get settled in Syracuse.
He found the cheapest hotel he could and set up his murder board, keeping his mind as busy as he could. He used different-colored pieces of yarn to connect Drifter’s movements to deaths he could confirm that may have involved him.
Knowing the bastard spent his days teaching, Richard had a few friends from the department monitor employee files. Somewhere in a chain of friends of friends, someone called and said Drifter was hired to work at a school in the Syracuse area. That meant Drifter had chosen a new hunting ground. Dozens of obituaries littered the wall, all possible victims of Robert Drifter, the monster who had ruined Richard’s life.
The collage of obituaries looked a little too much like a stalker’s trophy wall. Richard realized that if he found someone with such a collection of news clippings and pictures, he’d arrest them. He chuckled to himself as he looked at the blanket of photos featuring Drifter, maps with tacks labeling where he was, notes on how long he stayed, and the obituaries.
The busier he tried to keep himself, the more he looked at his phone. Have I ever gone a full day without speaking to Linda? It had been three since the night he’d left. He hadn’t slept since. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard her crying. He felt her hand slip from his fingers. No, he felt hi
mself let go of her hand. A man can only stand so much shame.
He picked up the hotel’s phone and dialed. It rang once, twice, and a third time before she answered. He just listened to her voice. She’d been crying again. “Hello?” she answered. Richard opened his mouth to say what an idiot he’d been. He meant to say how sorry he was and that he’d be home that night if she could ever forgive him.
“Richard?” she asked. “Richard, is that you?”
Yes, he thought to himself. Yes, hon, it’s me, and I love you. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I hurt you. Not a single word of it escaped his lips.
“Richard, come home,” Linda said calmly. He knew that tone. It was the same tone she used the night he left. Even then, she understood. All he had to do was say something and let go. He hung up instead.
He looked at his wall again. He focused on his job. He’d catch Drifter, somehow. Then, he could let Kyle rest, avenged, and go home to spend the rest of his life making up with Linda.
What did he know? He knew Drifter moved about every two or three years. He stayed in Ireland for four years in the ‘80s, but he’d never stayed anywhere else that long. In the past two years, Richard could tie Drifter to more than twenty deaths if he used really loose string. He was absolutely certain Bob was involved in at least six deaths, including that of Kyle and the robber from that night more than a year ago. Unfortunately, his absolute certainty wasn’t considered evidence in the eyes of the law. He had to catch Drifter in the act.
Richard briefly wondered if he’d let it get that far. Every inch of him wanted to kill Drifter, but that would mean going to prison and being away from Linda. The goal was to catch Drifter in the act, put him in jail for the rest of his life, and make sure he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. He knew Drifter was in the Syracuse area. All he had to do was find him, catch him, and then he could go home. It would be over.
Bob's Greatest Mistake_Part Two of The Journals of Bob Drifter Page 2