Jack thought, How do I get into these things? He said, "Yes, of course. It's when a—when someone journeys—(was that the right word?)—and brings back a missing piece of someone else."
"Yes, that's it." She nodded, with a flush of excitement. "That's what I think I need."
Jack sighed. "Mrs. Acker, I know what it is, but I'm not—I don't specialize in that. I'm sure there are better people. If you like, I could get you a referral."
"No!" she said, with more animation. "My—my husband's cousin said you were the person."
"Your husband's cousin?"
She looked down again. "Yes. I asked him to do it, and he said no."
"Why did you ask him?"
Eyes still down. "He, um, it's what he does. He's an urban shaman."
Better and better, Jack thought. He said, "Then why'd he say no?"
"Well, I guess maybe I wasn't always as supportive as I should have been."
So, Jack figured, the church lady was a bit scornful of hubby's weird cousin, with his drums and rattles and New Age jargon. Now suddenly she wants his help. He said, "If you don't mind, Carol, how did your cousin know of me? Was he the one who gave you my card?"
She looked up at him now, hopeful. "Yes, that's right. Jerry—my cousin-in-law—he said he couldn't do it, the retrieval, but then he said he knew just the person. And he got your card from a drawer and gave it to me."
Oh shit, Jack thought. Acker! He should have realized. Jerry fucking Acker.
It was not long after the death of Jack's wife, and his daughter's banishment to the limbo of the Forest of Souls. He was Crazy Johnny back then. He'd moved into the hotel and had the cards with his new address made, but really, he had no fucking idea what he was going to do. He'd been at some party—couldn't even remember how he got there—and he'd had too much to drink, and some asshole named Jerry Acker was holding forth on his mystical journeys to the spirit world, where he hung out with angels and power animals, and other great stuff. Finally, Jack decided to teach him a lesson. He turned Jerry's cocktail glass into a pair of snakes entwined together. It was quick, and Jack made sure no one else could see it, but as poor Jerry stood there, mouth open as if he couldn't decide whether to scream or vomit, Dumbass Jack stuck one of his brand-new cards in Acker's pocket, and whispered to him, "If you ever need the real thing, Jerry boy, come find me."
And now here was Cousin Carol, who was so fucking nice she figured she must be missing some part of her goddamn soul. And she didn't even know that she had come armed with one of the world's most potent magical weapons: Jack Shade's business card. Because of a self-imposed curse—a Guest, the Travelers called it—Jack could not refuse anyone who had his card and wanted to hire him.
"Can you help me?" Carol asked.
That was the question, wasn't it? Maybe she'd been so pressured as a kid to be a proper young lady that some part of her had said "Screw this. I'm out of here," and Jack could go find it and bring it home. He said "If you really are missing something I can locate it and return it to you."
"Thank you!" she said. Then, nervously, "Umm, can you tell me how much this will cost?"
Of course, Jack thought. That was one way to get rid of her, tell her some huge amount she couldn't possibly pay, and then it would be her who turned away, not him. And it wouldn't be entirely a lie. Jack's fees ranged from nothing to tens of thousands of dollars. Somehow, he could not bring himself to do that to her. He said "Five hundred dollars."
She gulped, then nodded. "When can we do it?"
"Can you come tomorrow afternoon? Three o'clock?"
"Yes. Yes I can. Thank you."
Carol walked stiffly to the door, her hands clutching her purse in front of her like a shield. At the door she turned her head and said again, "Thank you," then quickly left, as if afraid she might embarrass herself with all that emotion.
Jack looked at the door for a moment after she left. Something felt off about this situation. Was Jerry Acker setting him up in some way? He made a face. Poor Jerry was just too much of a jerk, he couldn't have any idea of the power hidden in Jack's card. Carol herself? Jack was pretty sure her meekness was not an act, any boldness in her soul was probably the part that left. And yet—
"Ray," he said, "what did you make of that?" Ray was Jack's guardian fox, mostly invisible even Jack, but always around. Only this time, no golden-haired sharp-nosed fox appeared. "What the hell?" Jack muttered, then louder, "Ray? Where are you?"
Over the next few seconds Ray flickered in and out of existence, as if he couldn't hold on. Or maybe he didn't want to be there, for when he finally manifested, his whole body was shaking. "Hey," Jack said, and knelt down to put his arms around his friend. "It's okay." He couldn't imagine what this would look like to any Linear person who happened to step into the room. Only Travelers and Powers could see creatures like Ray. "I'll be careful," Jack said. "Really I will." He let go, and Ray disappeared.
Carol arrived precisely at three the next day. She was dressed more casually, the same proper coat, but under it a light blue sweater, gray wool pants, and running shoes without any brand marks. Jack wondered if she'd read some book on soul retrieval, and it advised comfortable clothing.
Jack was dressed for work, for travel. He wore loose fitting black jeans, high black boots with his carbon knife hidden in its sheath along the right calf, and a long-sleeved black canvas tunic buttoned to his neck. The tunic had a lot of pockets, and Jack had spent a couple of hours choosing what to put in them. He ended up with charms and small carvings, a bone flute, Monopoly money, a nineteenth century London Bobby's police whistle, a miniature blow gun with darts, and a couple of (forged) letters of recommendation from high level Powers. Ray's strange behavior had made Jack realize this job might not be as simple as it looked, and he better prepare himself.
Carol stared at him, then blurted "You look darker." Immediately she gasped, and actually put her hand over her mouth, a gesture Jack found sweet. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't—I mean—"
Jack said "I put a line of charcoal down the center of my face, and on my cheekbones."
"Oh," she said, not sure if she should be relieved, or more embarrassed. She let her attention shift to the room, where a single wooden chair stood in the center of a wide ring of rose petals. "Is that for me? Am I supposed to sit there?"
"Yes."
"It's . . . it's lovely. Thank you."
What it was, Jack thought, was a pain in the ass. The petals came from a pair of bushes that grew on either side of the Manhattan Gate of Paradise. They were probably the only roses outside a florist's shop in late November, but even if it had been July it wouldn't have made a difference. In New York, if you wanted to form a Whisper of Protection, as the circle was called, the petals had to come from that one Gate. And unlike the five Gates of Paradise in the other boroughs, the Manhattan Gate moved. It had taken Jack nearly three hours to track down its current location, in a non-descript stone archway at the eastern end of Broome Sreet The whole time he was searching he told himself how ridiculous it all was, he was over-doing a very simple job. But then he thought of Ray and kept at it.
Carol asked, "What do we do?"
"You don't have to do anything, but sit in the chair. Though you probably should take your coat off and set down your purse." As Carol moved to the table, Jack said "Do you have the fee ready? You might be emotional later and want to go straight home."
"Yes, of course," she said, and reached in her purse for a check, which she waved in the air, as if to say, "Ta da," before laying it on the table.
"Thank you," Jack said.
"And now I sit?"
"That's right." Jack watched her step carefully over the rose petals to take her place, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Jack suddenly hoped that whatever he returned to her would make her as happy as she seemed to expect. He noticed again the onyx ring on her right han
d and thought how it might help, how the missing piece might appear as someone wearing the same ring. He said "How long have you had that ring with the black stone?"
She opened her eyes to look at it. "Oh this? I don't know, a long time. I found it in a thrift shop when I was just in high school."
Jack nodded. "We're going to start now." He stepped inside the circle.
"I'm so excited," Carol said, and closed her eyes again. "Should I meditate or something?"
"No, you just have to sit there." That sounded kind of dismissive, he thought, so he added, "I'll tell you what. Keep your eyes closed and breathe deeply, and, um, focus on welcoming home the missing part of yourself. Imagine a joyous reunion party. With a cake and candles."
Carol smiled. "That's lovely."
Jesus, Jack thought, there are people who make a living saying shit like that?
Eyes closed, Carol said "Are you going to drum now?"
"No, I don't do that. No natural rhythm."
"Oh," Carol said, and blushed.
Enough, Jack scolded himself. It was time to stop screwing with the client and get serious. He said "Carol, it's best that we stop talking now. I won't be able to answer soon." Carol nodded, and Jack added, "And if you hear or even feel anything a little strange, it's okay. Just keep your eyes closed and breathe naturally." Another nod, a little more tentative this time.
Jack began to circle her, slowly, bent towards her—and sniffing. He tried to keep it quiet but it was the only way he could find the place where the soul-piece had left the body. Carol tensed, but didn't move or speak. Jack really hoped it wouldn't be anywhere too embarrassing. Once—
Focus, he ordered himself.
Most of Carol just smelled suburban. Cheap perfume, deodorant, kitchen aromas, air freshener, body waste, and traces of male sex, but not female. Her husband had probably screwed her a couple of days ago and she'd faked orgasm. But there wasn't—there! It was just a faint acrid smell at the opening of her left ear, like a long ago cut that looks fine but has never really healed. She must have been very young, Jack thought.
He stood up, took a breath, then blew his police whistle, softly, into Carol's ear. Once, twice—
—and he was falling. He passed through layers, places, unable to hold onto anything. A café in Brooklyn where people laughed and applauded as he went by. A cheap hotel room that stank of illegal surgery. A cowboy town that might have been a movie set. A lecture hall where a group of professors were shouting at each other but turned and stared at Jack as he passed. He fell through rock walls covered in lichens as sharp as barnacles. Finally, Jack discovered he still had the police whistle in his hand. Fuck this shit, he thought, and blew the whistle as hard as he could.
Just before he crashed he heard, then saw, a great wind. It whirled and whirled around itself, not funnel-shaped and black like a tornado, but a hurricane that had reduced itself to ten feet high, with its eye just two or three feet across. For an instant Jack thought he heard a voice inside all that noise, a child calling to him. He almost reached into the wind, but then it was gone.
Jack fell hard on a damp and dirty city street, at nighttime. He grunted and got up, then looked around. West Street down in the Village, he realized, for there was the Hudson, just beyond the West Side Highway, and across the river, Hoboken. Only, it looked like the old days, before the city got around to cleaning it up and raising the rents. Stores were empty, or even boarded up, with not many lights on in the apartments above them. What the hell? he thought. There's no one here.
Then he looked a little further down the street and saw, in fact, a whole group of people, neatly lined up and waiting to get inside some dimly lit club. A crude sign above the door declared it "The Iron Cage." Jack stared at the line and realized they were all men, and all dressed in black leather. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he said out loud. "A leather bar?" Jack had been a kid when that scene was going on, but he remembered hearing about it. And he knew a Traveler who'd come from that world and liked to talk—in way too much detail—about the "good old days."
He shook his head. Maybe Carol Acker was meant to be a transman heavy into bondage, and her parents, or just society, drove it out of her. Now how would that work when he brought it back? Talk about getting more than you bargained for.
With a slight limp Jack made his way towards the bar. The men in the line glanced at him as he approached, then looked away. They all dressed the same, tight black leather pants, padded to make their cocks look bigger, muscle shirts to show off all that work at the gym, leather caps worn over short haircuts and neat mustaches. Jack remembered they were called clones, all those men who'd been bullied in high school and were now trying for the same hyper-masculine look.
Then he got closer and saw that they didn't just look the same, they were the same. Same height, same face, same body. Not clones but duplicates, used as extras to make the whole scene more real. He ignored them and went up to the bouncer. At least he looked different, which meant he wasn't just a prop. Dressed in leather pants and a leather vest with no shirt, he was bigger than the dupes, bulkier. No cap on his shaven head. A red bulb over the door made his scalp glow. Half a foot taller than Jack's six foot two, he crossed his arms as he looked Jack up and down, lingering on the tunic. "Sorry," he said, "we don't do drag here, girlfriend."
"My name is Jack Shade," Jack said, "and I need to go inside."
Behind him, a couple of the clone dupers snorted, while another yelled "Get to the back of the line."
The bouncer snorted a laugh. "Do you think so?" he said. "Tell you what, Mary, get in line and maybe I'll decide to let you in when you reach the front. Don't bet on it, though."
Jack considered a glamour to make the bouncer look the other way and forget he'd ever seen the oddly dressed customer. But then he reminded himself that the bouncer was not some non-Traveler whose Linear senses could be easily shifted. He stared hard at the tall figure, then closed his eyes. He opened them as narrowly as he possibly could, and for just a second saw the bouncer in his true form. Bright sunlight obliterated the gray street, the bar, the line of men. A giant cheetah stood on its hind legs in front of Jack. Or rather, an image of a cheetah, with exaggerated whiskers, huge round eyes, large spots that looked painted on in thick daubs, and claws that curved out from human-like hands. Jack whispered, "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
Jack blinked and the bouncer was back, but now he stared at Jack with a strange look, his mouth slightly open. Jack reached into one of his side pockets and pulled out a charm, a frog carved from an antelope bone. He held it out in his left hand. "Here," he said, "maybe this will help you when you get home. After all this is done." Sometimes, he thought, you bring something and you have no idea why until you need it. The bouncer took the charm in his huge hands and held it up before his eyes. His mouth opened and closed, and he said something Jack couldn't hear. Jack slid past him into the bar.
Bare red bulbs hanging from the ceiling lit up a crowded room. A rough wooden bar ran across one wall, with men who looked just like the ones outside leaning against it and swigging beer from unlabeled bottles. Behind the bar, a shirtless bartender handed out more bottles, his face glistening with sweat. Some kind of heavy metal band blared from loudspeakers suspended from the ceiling. Jack found himself longing for Judy Garland. Or The Sound Of Music. A thick layer of sawdust covered the floor. If it was supposed to absorb any wetness or stains it wasn't doing a very good job. Jack could see blood, and brown spots, and could smell other things. When he got back, he thought, he was definitely charging extra.
He looked around, first at the men by the bar or on the dance floor, then at the ones along the walls and in the corners, most of whom were doing various things to each other in improbable positions. Would he have to go examine each one of them for Carol's onyx ring? He imagined walking up to someone and asking, "Do you mind removing your fist for a moment?"
&
nbsp; No. He was being too literal. The scene jarred him, and it was meant to do that. Meant to make it hard for him to think. If these men were all dupes they couldn't all be Carol. He needed to find someone who was different. As he thought this, he noticed a slight change in the men. They didn't stop what they were doing, but shifted, as if to keep watch on him.
Ignore them, he thought, and closed his eyes. He couldn't block the noise, or the smells, but underneath it all, faintly . . . he opened his eyes to focus on the wall furthest from the door, where a man was spread-eagled against a large wooden X, his wrists and ankles manacled to the ends. Two other men were lashing him with bullwhips that struck him almost horizontally, so that he was criss-crossed with lines, his t-shirt and jeans in shreds. His cries of mixed pain and pleasure sounded like others around the room, except that faintly, underneath them, Jack could hear the tears of a child. It was then that he realized. Whatever had happened to drive Carol Acker's soul piece from her body, her soul wasn't hiding. It was being held prisoner. He studied the man through slitted eyes. There it was, on the right hand. The onyx ring.
And something else. If he turned his head to look at an angle, so that he could barely see the figure on the wall, the whip marks became lines that swirled and moved all on their own, like the winds that Jack had seen before he fell into the street. A cage, he thought. A cage of wind.
As Jack began to move towards the man on the X the clone tried to block him. Some made crude passes at him, grabbing or rubbing his crotch, others pretended to dance in front of him. He tried to push his way through to the prisoner but more and more of them crowded him. Finally, he took out his police whistle and blew a loud blast. The clones fell back, holding their ears. Now Jack held up one of his forged documents. Covered with a script unknown to language scholars was a painting of a beautiful young man flying naked above a mountain range. "My name is John Shade," Jack called out, "and I come under the banner and protection of Cthermes, Lord of Travelers!"
Whatever their true nature, the men in the bar were real enough to what they were supposed to be that they let him pass. Some stared at the picture, with hunger or a deep sadness. Jack moved quickly, but didn't run, to the wall.
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