by Tim Greaton
I followed the noise coming from down the hall and discovered Uncle Finneus sprawled out, head propped up on one arm of the couch, shiny black shoes supported by the other. He giggled as some character he was watching said something or other. Though I had asked him to remove that confounded television a dozen times, it always seemed to find its way back to the corner of my living room. I had never actually seen a TV during my life, but somehow I didn’t think the ones on earth displayed the same kinds of warped, sadistic and just plain cruel images that Uncle Finneus apparently conjured from the depths of his twisted imagination.
Upon seeing Nate, his uncle sat bolt upright and smoothed his slacks and jacket. Nate was surprised he didn’t also slide his hat back on. He was very image conscious.
“Come in, come in, Young Nathaniel. This is an especially funny bit.”
I glanced at the screen to see a tiny, brunette girl dangling over a pot of boiling water by her hair. I closed my eyes.
“Uncle Finneus, please shut that diabolical box off!”
There was a click and silence. I opened my eyes to find the television completely gone. My corner was mercifully bare again.
“You, my young friend, are a sore sport,” Uncle Finneus said. He rose to his feet and moved back toward the kitchen.
I followed.
“I don’t suppose that if I promised not to do that again, it would cheer you up,” he said.
I shook my head. I knew my uncle well enough to know that he could have promised a dozen times and would have been just as likely to be watching TV in my living room tomorrow as he had been today. I didn’t like to think of him as entirely dishonest, but I knew a little promise like that wouldn’t even rate on his personal honor chart. Few things did. That said, however, ever since returning from saving Vicky, his previously charcoal black suits were now more dark shades of gray. I’m sure it had to do with the sacrifice and risks he had taken, but I also liked to think it had something to do with his roommate. As for me, my clothing and shoes remained pretty much white all the time.
“You have a problem,” Uncle Finneus announced.
“Do I?” I asked.
“There’s no life left in you, boy,” he said. “You’ve been moping around this Under-Heaven for almost a year now.
It seemed hard to believe, but it had been over a year since Uncle Finneus had reappeared. Other than feeling a great sense of relief that he was okay, I couldn’t remember much else having happened since then. Time sure did fly when you—well, time sure did fly. I settled onto one of my kitchen stools.
“Look at you, Nathaniel. You’re a wreck. You look as though you’ve just walked a hundred miles up hill. Now what’s this all about?”
I shook my head. Though I knew the crux of the problem, I didn’t think I could bring myself to admit I was bored. And it wasn’t just that. Though I loved all my angel relatives, and though I even loved my very flawed Uncle Finneus, I just couldn’t find anything to be personally concerned about. Nothing I did or could do here in Under-Heaven made any difference. In all the time I’d been in Under-Heaven, I had only influenced one life, the life of my sister Vicky; and even that had only been with Uncle Finneus’ help. It seemed to me that nothing I did mattered. It was as though I didn’t exist, and in a very real way that was true. Back on Earth I was less than a ghost; I could see but could not be seen. Here in Under-Heaven I existed, but to what end? Of course, I didn’t know much about Heaven, but I feared it would be more of the same. Somewhere deep inside myself, I cringed at the thought of spending an eternity of not mattering. And worse yet, I feared that during that eternity, I might not even matter to myself.
“Apparently, I must tell you a secret,” Uncle Finneus stated.
I shrugged again and didn’t bother to guess at what manipulation my uncle was about to try. In many respects I was beyond that. To be manipulated, you had to care about something, and I was finding that harder and harder to do.
“Whiskey,” Uncle Finneus said. “Did you know that Whiskey is still alive?”
Clay spent about an hour with Boston Police Detective Patricia Conroy, the lead investigator on Jesse’s disappearance. She had only a few leads, and nothing that Clay considered of value. Jesse Largess’s teacher hadn’t seen anything other than a black car driving off. Not only had she not gotten a plate number, she also hadn’t been able to provide a possible make or model of the car. Only one of the children had seen anything, a little boy by the name of Heath Gregoire.
“Could I arrange to meet that boy?” Clay asked.
“Not possible. Two days ago, the boy’s father let us do the first interview, but said he wanted to wait at least a week before we talk to his son again. Because the Largess boy was his son’s best friend, he’s worried talking to us will create too much trauma.”
“So how much trauma will it cause when his best friend dies because we couldn’t talk to him?”
Detective Conroy opened her mouth to speak but Clay shook his head and waved her to silence. He knew he was being flippant. On the one hand, he knew every second mattered in the search for Jesse, but on the other, young minds could be fragile and parents had every right to worry. Would it be right to endanger the Gregoire boy when he might not know anything helpful anyway? That was a question that only a parent could answer.
Clay opened Jesse’s Amber Alert police file and glanced down through the notes on the interview with Heath. “He described the kidnapper as very big with a black beard.”
“That’s right,” Detective Conroy said. She was a pretty woman, in her early forties he guessed. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but her ring finger had a pale line around it. Either she had recently had a fight with her husband, or she made it a point not to wear the ring to work.
“How big is Heath’s father?” Clay asked.
“About five foot ten, maybe two hundred pounds. Why?”
“Your guy is probably over six feet, maybe two-fifty,” Clay answered.
“You think he’s comparing the kidnapper to his father’s size?”
“Kid’s always do.”
“Maybe the guy was wearing a heavy down or other puffy jacket. That could make him look a lot bigger.”
“True,” Clay said. “Sounds like a good question to have the father ask his son.”
“Good angle,” Detective Conroy said, “have the father ask a few questions for us. Anything else you want to know?”
One of the best things about working with female officers, Clay thought, was that most didn’t have ego issues. Detective Conroy recognized that he was more experienced at this sort of investigation and immediately sought his help rather than trying to dismiss him in the midst of it all.
“See if he’ll ask his son what cartoon character the man reminded him of.”
Her blue eyes looked up from her legal pad.
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can that really help?”
“Put it to you this way, if a kid says a perp looked or acted like Bugs Bunny, that’s a much different image than Elmer Fudd. Besides, it will be good for the kid’s psyche to think of this more like a cartoon than reality.”
“Makes sense to me,” Detective Conroy said. “I’ll see what the father says. How will I reach you when I find out?”
Clay handed her his card. His cell phone was the only number listed.
“You up for drinks?” she asked him as the meeting wrapped up.
“Sorry, but I can’t,” he said. He was glad he didn’t have to make up an excuse. If she was making a pass, she was a little too old for him. Besides, he definitely didn’t want to get mixed up in any marital issues. “I’ve got to get over to that school. I want to look around the area before it’s too dark, and right now there shouldn’t be any kids around.”
She nodded with understanding and agreed to call the principal and let her know that Clay would be poking around the yard. He thanked her and left the station. He didn’t know it at the time, but when th
ey met again, Detective Conroy’s wedding band would be back on her finger.
Even I knew that dogs seldom lived to be more than twelve or fifteen years old. It just wasn’t possible that Whiskey could still be alive. Besides, Grandma Clara said he died shortly after the sheriff found Vicky. I’d be the first to admit my grandmother often gave cryptic responses to my questions, but she would never have lied to me. My Uncle Finneus, on the other hand, had made an art of lying. How could I believe him?
“It’s not possible,” I said. “It’s been almost twenty years since I was killed.”
“Dogs have souls, Nate. Well, some of them do.”
Now my ears were perked. Was it possible that my Whiskey was in Heaven? Though I had never seen pets here in Under-Heaven, that didn’t mean they didn’t move on to a different one or maybe even directly to Heaven. If any dog had deserved a place above, it was my amazing Whiskey. My insides quivered at the thought of being reunited with him again. With a few words, my Uncle Finneus had given me something to care about again. I had always known that one day my parents and I would be reunited, but I had never allowed myself to dream that Whiskey and I—
Tears were already streaming down my cheeks.
I would see my Whisky again!
Already, I could envision romping through the clouds, my dog at my side. Though it had taken nearly twenty years, my decision was made. I would move on to Heaven.
Uncle Finneus had one of those sly grins when I focused on him again.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Thank you, Uncle Finneus.” I hugged him before he had a chance to back away.
Though he endured it from time to time, he had never been one to display too much affection. His personal comfort zone seemed to be arm’s length or better. Whenever I got closer than that, he would make an excuse to move away. It probably had less to do with his status in Hell than with his personality. I guessed he had been much the same way when he was alive. As I would have expected, he allowed the hug to go on for only a moment before prying me loose. He did, however, surprise me when he reached down and tipped my chin up so that he could see my face.
“Don’t you want to see him?” he asked.
I wiped at the tears and nodded my head.
“I’m going to tell Grandma Clara tomorrow that I want to move on to Heaven.”
I’m not sure I had ever seen Uncle Finneus truly surprised before that moment. His mouth hung open, but no words came forth. He stared at me.
“Heaven?”
I knew what was bothering him. If I left my Under-Heaven, his only connection to this place would be severed. My leaving, would effectively force him to return to Hell. His vacation would be over.
His face went slack.
Guilt settled around my heart. I had never considered this implication.
“I don’t understand, Nathaniel,” he said, looking genuinely perplexed. “Why do you suddenly feel the need to Rise?”
“I could wait a little while,” I offered. “Whiskey and I have waited this long.”
It was as if I had suddenly poured a combined of sunlight and humor onto my uncle’s bewildered expression, because his face nearly exploded with happy mirth.
“My boy, now I understand! I have inadvertently misled you.”
My guilt was rapidly being replaced with anger. How could he lie about something as important as my Whiskey?
Then, suddenly, I knew I would have to discuss this with one of my angel relatives. I had to know what was true and what wasn’t. What I couldn’t understand was why Uncle Finneus had told me about Whiskey in the first place. He should have known I would want to be with my dog.
“I should have spoken more clearly,” my uncle continued, his voice having taken on what seemed to be a sincere tone. “Whiskey is somewhere on Earth. He’s likely been reincarnated four or five times by now.”
Now, it was my turn to be speechless. Why hadn’t I ever heard about this before? And if it wasn’t true, why would my uncle have concocted such a hurtful lie? My first inclination was to believe him—again—but that could simply have been an extension of my desperate desire to see my dog. The one thing I knew was that I had never spotted a dog soul when looking down at Earth. It’s hard to explain, but I had always known the life-lights that I saw in the fountain pool were human, much the way I could always tell which light was Vicky’s.
My thoughts were in such turmoil that I considered calling for my Aunt Alice because she was the most direct of my angel relatives. She would be honest and clear when answering questions about this entire issue, and unlike Grandma Clara, she wouldn’t lose me with double-speak or cryptic answers. Though sometimes brutal, My Aunt Alice was always straightforward.
“You don’t believe me,” Uncle Finneus said.
“I want to,” I told him honestly.
“Go out and look in the fountain right now,” he said. “You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
“Maybe I should talk to Aunt Alice first.”
“Suit yourself. But if it were me, I’d want to start looking for my dog right away.”
“Why haven’t I ever seen any animal life-lights before?”
Uncle Finneus settled onto one of my kitchen stools.
“It’s because people show up so much brighter than animals that you wouldn’t notice them without looking.”
“You mean I can’t see them?”
“No, I suspect you can, but it will take a bit of focus and practice.”
He had barely finished the last statement before I raced out into the front yard, crossed the cobbled circular street and sat at the edge of the fountain. In my excitement, it took me several tries to smooth the water.
Whoever had taken Jesse had cut the cyclone fencing with bolt cutters. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the sidewalk and most of the playground. Though it had apparently rained since the original work was done, Clay could still see faint traces of the yellow outline chalk showing where Jesse’s hat had been found just outside the fencing on the sidewalk.
Clay paced the area a dozen times, glancing up and down the street as he did so. His instincts rang loudly that Harry Bennerman was involved, but so far nothing other than his relationship to Wagner connected him. In his twenty or more years of investigation, Clay had learned one thing: hunches and instincts were more often right than wrong. His ill feeling about the owner of the tire warehouse was simply too pervasive to ignore.
“Come on, Harry, talk to me,” Clay whispered as he rubbed his key chain and ingested the scene.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked Grandma Clara when she arrived the next day. I had been awake the entire night and hadn’t left the pool until the morning sunlight made it impossible to discern the dim life-lights of the animals that outnumbered the people on Earth, hundreds to one. Though I would have thought the ratio of animals would have been higher, I soon realized that only certain animals had life forces bright enough for me to see.
“Your chances of finding him are so slim, Nate, it didn’t seem right to give you false hope.”
“I don’t understand why I can’t just think of him and zoom in like I do with Vicky,” I said.
“Animals are much simpler than people, Nate. Their souls evolve but only slowly and over hundreds of lives. The ones that you can see have probably been in existence since the dawn of man. Young animal souls have signatures so dim we can’t see them at all, even from Heaven.”
“You can see better from there?”
“Yes.” She paused. “But it’s not the same. In Heaven, you experience Earth more than see it.”
I wished she would clarify what she meant by “experience,” but Grandma Clara didn’t respond well to multiple questions about the same thing. I figured that if I asked, her answer would only further confuse me.
“Couldn’t you find Whiskey for me and then point him out?” I asked.
She gave me an uncomfortable smile. I knew her answer was “no,” just by her expression.
“I would help, Nate, but it would take hundreds of angels working together for months to find one animal soul like that. It’s not that we don’t love you, it’s just that there are so many other newcomers to look after.”
Though her response made me want to cry, I knew she was telling the truth. One of the reasons I saw so much of my Grandma Clara and so little of my other relatives was that the older an angel became, the longer their lineage stretched out. Angels as old as Amber, for instance, likely measured their lineage in the hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of souls. Granted, most of those souls were not newly dead, but it wouldn’t have surprised me to find that Amber had thousands upon thousands of new charges residing in the under-heavens at any given time. Grandma Clara, on the other hand, was a much more recent soul so she had fewer of us to look after.
“What are my chances of ever finding him?” I asked.
“You might never do it, Nate,” she said.
I then understood why Uncle Finneus’ had told me about Whiskey. The longer I stayed in Under-Heaven and looked for my dog, the longer he would also be able to stay.
For a while, anyway, his little trick worked.
Clay was seated at one of the many restaurants that crowded Boston’s suburban malls. This one was called Swiss Mountain, and they specialized in steak and lamb combinations. Artificial grassy knolls between every few tables and furniture formed to look like rocks and fallen logs, suggested it was a national chain, but in all his time on the road, Clay had never seen another one like it. After the meal arrived, he determined that the atmosphere was fortuitous because the food wasn't very good. He had ordered a vegetarian omelet and French-fries. What he thought he got back was reconstituted egg powder and some unnamable freeze-dried vegetable bits. Fortunately, the bottled beer was okay. He ordered a second beer from his waitress who, like all the other waitresses, was supposedly dressed like a Swedish sheepherder. He hadn’t known that sheepherders wore such tight, low-cut dresses. He was happy they did however. Watching the exposed cleavage was a good respite from the day he’d been having.