Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  “How are you doing, Ms. Guzman?” one of the ­paramedics asks, his thick eyebrows drawn together with concern. He’s built like a Lego figure, a ­compilation of different square shapes stuck together. His biceps are so overdeveloped, the cotton sleeve of his uniform looks like it’s about to burst.

  I give him a thumbs-up as we enter the foyer. He looks at me dubiously.

  “Your neck is pretty bruised up,” he says. “Emergency is packed, but we’ll try to get you looked at as soon as we can. The city’s homeless have been making every excuse to pack in here at night now, with the murders ­happening. It’s hard for us to turn them away when we know they might end up disappearing … or dead.”

  I want to tell him I get it, that I wouldn’t send ­anyone out there until the sun was up either, especially after what I saw tonight.

  “I’m going to grab a quick chicory and video message your mum to see if she’s been able to secure a ride,” Mr. Khan says, leaning over me. His dark eyes radiate worry. “I want to be sure Jade’s coming with her … that they’re getting here safely.”

  I give him a thumbs-up too. The thought of Mom and Jade heading here in the dark makes my blood run cold.

  I’m wheeled past a marble statue of a winged man. One of his pale arms points at the sky, a chipped index finger stretching heavenward. The other hand holds a sword that’s stuck into what looks like a demon at its feet. The statue is doing the job of a Seer.

  I try to turn my head to get a better look, but the pain radiating through my throat drags me back down onto the pillow of the gurney.

  “That statue … what’s it about?” My voice sounds more frog than human.

  The muscular paramedic cocks his head in the ­direction of the statue. “The one back there? That’s St. Michael. He’s the patron saint of the hospital. Reckon he’s ­looking after everyone who comes in and out of here.”

  I stare at him, my heart beating harder in my chest. St. Michael?

  “He’s an angel, right?”

  The paramedic stares hard at me. He’s wondering if I’m crazy or if I somehow missed the newsflash that angels have wings. Nice. Sometimes being able to read minds is a pain in the ass.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, angels have wings.” The ­paramedic glances at me, surprised. I ignore his ­reaction, ­knowing Mr. Khan would kill me if he knew I what I just did. Seers are supposed to keep their ­abilities under wraps at all times. “What’s at his feet?” I ask. “The thing with the sword sticking out of its back?”

  “It’s a demon. Looks like some sort of dragon to me,” he replies with a shrug. “Supposed to be St. Michael, the archangel, killing the devil, Lucifer, in the last ­battle. At least that’s what I was told when I was a young lad. Grew up Irish Catholic.” A faint blush rises to his cheeks. “Learned about all this stuff as though it were truth when I was in school.”

  I can’t help but wonder what he’d say if I told him I used to live in the same apartment building as St. Michael and even kissed his brother. Would probably be a good way to get myself a one-way ticket to the psych ward.

  The paramedics wheel my gurney against the wall of a long hallway filled with at least a dozen other ­gurneys. The hall is painted a dreary, gunmetal grey, its walls mottled with dents and scuff marks. Talk about ­depressing. To top it off, most of the people parked here are elderly. Some lie moaning quietly to themselves with no one attending to them, tufts of cotton-like white hair peeking out from over their pillows. I feel bad that so many of them are here alone.

  Mr. Khan arrives, a cup of steaming chicory in his hand. He’s walking so quickly that brown liquid sloshes over the side of the cup.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, glancing around the ­hallway. “Why are we just sitting here? We need to see a doctor ASAP. She could have internal injuries to her throat.”

  “Jasmine’s going to be seen shortly,” one of the ­paramedics replies. “The ER doctors are tending to the ­patients out here. We’re part of the overflow. Every ­hospital is bursting at the seams. There’s nowhere for ambulances to be diverted to, because every emergency room in Toronto is in the same situation.”

  I wave at Mr. Khan. “I’m right here.” There’s nothing I hate more than being spoken about as though I’m not even present. He should know that. “Are Jade and Mom coming?” My voice is still more of a croak.

  He nods. “They’re on their way. I told Jade to ­message when they’re close so I can go out and meet them.” Taking a sip of his chicory, he leans against the wall. “I imagine the emergency rooms will be filling even more than this tonight. The hospital cafe was just broadcasting a breaking news story when I was there. That’s why it took me so long. Seems the police found a body in the downtown core about half an hour ago. This one’s been decapitated. Head taken clean off. Turns out he’s the young bartender that disappeared a few weeks back. Was struggling with a pretty severe cocaine addiction, so it seems the mother was ­holding out hope he was hopped up in some crackhouse or something.” Mr. Khan pauses and stares at me hard. “The police are hunting a new killer now. And Sandra Smith is holding a press conference about it in about fifteen minutes.”

  His words hit me like a sack of bricks. “Do they have any leads?” I think about the security cameras ­dotted all over the city. You can’t pick your nose without being caught on film. Thousands of cameras went up ­overnight just a few months ago as part of the ­government’s ­antiterror action plan.

  Mr. Khan shrugs and sips at his chicory again. I know he’s trying to act as casual as he can because of the ­paramedics being with us. “But I think I should ­definitely try to get back to the cafe to watch that news conference, if your mom and Jade are here by that time.”

  I lie back in my gurney and watch a ­frazzled-looking doctor stride toward us. Sandra Smith. A knot of worry begins to form in my stomach. Lola’s friend and Toronto’s esteemed mayor. And someone I suspect knows a lot more about Seers and what’s going on in our city than she lets on.

  JADE

  It’s hard for me to really see anything beyond the street ­because of the speed we’re travelling and the dimmed ­street lights (another energy-saving initiative), but I can’t help but try anyhow. I have a deep-seated feeling that we’re being followed, that something out there in the inky blackness is tracking us, even though I know that’s crazy. There are no headlights behind us, and no one except Mr. Khan and Jasmine know we’re on our way to St. Mike’s. Still …

  “It took a long time for us to get a ride,” Mom says to our driver as she turns on her video phone. “Thank you for taking our … solicitud …” She look over at me. This happens to her a lot when she’s stressed. English words disappear from her vocabulary.

  “Our request,” I say. “We’re glad you picked us up. Have you been very busy tonight?”

  The driver eyes me through the rear-view mirror. He’s surprisingly young, with a strong, chiselled jaw and deep-blue eyes. His black hair is short and unkempt. Beneath his relaxed appearance, a nervous energy seethes. He’s scared. Fear rolls off him in waves.

  “You’re my first customers,” he says. “I just came on. A lot of drivers aren’t working tonight. I wasn’t going to either, considering what just happened, but …”

  “What’s just happened?” I ask, knowing Mom is going to be really upset that I’ve interrupted the ­driver midsentence. Good manners are something she’s rabid about.

  “You haven’t heard?” He glances at us in the ­mirror again. “There’s been a killing already this evening. A body’s been found in the downtown core. Head taken clean off. Apparently it’s some bartender that ­disappeared a few weeks back. Honestly, if you were men, I wouldn’t have accepted the drive request. But when I saw your profile, I figured you two aren’t ­exactly the decapitating type.” He laughs nervously.

  I laugh as well, hoping it sounds sincere. Little does he know I could take the head
off a demon in less than five seconds flat, and his even faster than that.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the news?” he asks, ­unwrapping a stick of gum with one hand. He folds it in half and pops it into his mouth. “I feel safer knowing what’s going on.”

  “I’d like to know what’s happening as well,” Mom says, leaning forward in her seat. “Please, go ahead.”

  “Toronto city news,” he says. The video screens on the backs of the headrests in front of Mom and me blossom into life.

  Bright lights shine down on a middle-aged reporter with a gleaming scalp and bleached white teeth. He’s standing in the foyer of City Hall. From the colour of his skin, he’s familiar with the inside of a tanning bed. He lifts the microphone to speak, his face serious.

  “We’re waiting just inside City Hall for Toronto mayor Sandra Smith, who has called an emergency media ­conference tonight in the wake of yet another ­murder. It’s highly unusual for the mayor to comment on a ­homicide so soon after the discovery of a body, but the victim’s next-of-kin has already been notified, and Mayor Smith says the situation has reached a crisis point.”

  A photograph of the victim fills the screen. He’s young and cute, with blond hair that flops over one eye. In the photo he’s smiling widely, standing behind a bar, a bottle of expensive vodka in his hand.

  I’ve seen him before. Recognition hits me with the force of a sucker-punch to the stomach. The blue eyes were black and the face deathly pale, but it’s definitely the same person that attacked Jasmine and me tonight. Or thing.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to steady myself.

  That’s impossible, though. Demons are from the Place-in-Between and originate from a place even ­darker than that. This bartender was alive just a few weeks ago.

  “Bless his family,” Mom says, wiping at her eyes. “Such a handsome young man. I hope Ms. Smith finds the psychopaths who are doing this and makes an example of them. It’s time to get tough with those ­climate-change terrorists as well.”

  “Some people say she’s going to bring in the death penalty,” our driver says. “Apparently there are a few ­cities thinking that it might help put a stop to some of the ­violence that’s happening. I don’t think it will work, since a lot of these people don’t seem to mind blowing themselves up at the same time as they’re killing innocent people.”

  “What I don’t understand is what the climate-change terrorists think bombing subways and killing people is going to change. It doesn’t make sense,” I say.

  “They feel the Canadian, American, and UK ­governments, amongst others, haven’t done enough to combat climate change. Remember that these ­terrorists are originally from countries that have been ­decimated by environmental disasters. They don’t like that so much power has been given to cities like Toronto and New York to create laws and govern themselves. And they ­certainly don’t believe in closing borders to ­climate-change ­refugees.” His words are like machine gun fire, rapid and forceful. It’s clearly a subject about which he’s ­passionate and more than just a little angry. “I’m not sure why they don’t fess up to the bombings either. But I don’t doubt they’re behind some of these ­disappearances and killings as well. Dishonest ­bastards. I think they just want to ­create chaos, to bring the ­establishment down. It’s not our fault we have more resources than their home countries.”

  I think about the videos from the terrorists that get posted almost ­weekly on various news feeds. Their faces are always fully hidden behind balaclavas and scarves. And their voices are altered, so it’s hard to tell much, if ­anything, about them. The broadcasters and government keep linking them to a variety of different countries, but I wonder how they can even know where the terrorists are from when they keep their identities so well hidden.

  “I agree with you completely,” Mom says to the ­driver. “Let them hang. I’m tired of having to be ­terrified every time my girls step outside the door. On top of ­everything else our governments have to deal with, this is too much. And we certainly don’t need more of them coming here.”

  My mouth drops open. Mom is an immigrant ­herself. Doesn’t she remember why she came here? Where would the three of us be today if she hadn’t been able to leave South America when she was young?

  “The mayor’s about to join us now,” the reporter says. The camera pans away from him and over to a podium. Sandra Smith strides toward it, dressed in a form-fitting red dress and dark heels, her hair cut short and bleached almost white. She’s flanked by two sunglasses-wearing security guards in dark uniforms and a short, heavy-set man with a patch over one eye.

  “Why are they wearing those stupid mirrored ­sunglasses when it’s night?” Mom says, her face ­scrunching into a frown.

  “And who’s the chubby pirate with her?” our driver asks. “Never seen him before, but he doesn’t look like he could offer up much protection.”

  Smith walks up to the microphone, scans the crowd of reporters in front of her, and holds up a hand. The room falls silent.

  “This evening between six thirty and seven thirty p.m., Jamie Linnekar, a twenty-two-year-old Torontonian, was found dead near the intersection of Sackville and King Street East. Mr. Linnekar, who was not known to ­police, was reported missing on September ­twenty-eighth.” Smith stops speaking and looks directly into the ­camera. “The victim died due to massive blood loss following his beheading. This is a marked departure from the state that the previous ­bodies found in the Toronto area over the last month were in. Forensics officers on the scene found the ­insignia of the climate-change terrorists on the sidewalk beside Mr. Linnekar’s body. The insignia was painted with the victim’s blood. It’s an act of shocking ­barbarism.”

  There’s an audible gasp from the crowd as a large screen lowers behind Mayor Smith’s head. She steps to one side and points to the roughly drawn crimson C ­enclosed in a circle that’s projected on the screen.

  “Clearly the climate-change terrorists want us to know they’re behind Linnekar’s abduction and murder. The police are now investigating the dozens of missing persons reports received over the last few weeks with the view that it might not be the work of one or two ­serial murderers, but rather the climate-change ­terrorists, whom we will refer to as the CCT from here on in for the sake of simplicity at this conference.”

  Our driver lets out a low whistle. I just hope he’s ­focusing his attention more on the road than the ­conference. We’re nearly at the hospital, so I text Mr. Khan, sure to keep one eye on the screen in front of me.

  “As such, I’ve decided to implement several new ­initiatives and laws aimed at bringing greater security to the people of Toronto. Tomorrow, city council will be voting to support the prime minister’s decision to close our country’s borders to climate-change refugees and, indeed, to any future immigration at all. I realize this decision is controversial, but we simply do not have the resources to properly sustain those of us living here now.”

  Several of the reporters begin to shout questions at the mayor, who holds up her hand again. The reporters fall silent like a pack of well-trained dogs.

  “For the last month, my new head of public works and safety, Mr. Sajid Jawad, and I have been developing a work scheme that will benefit our city enormously.” The man with the patch over his eye waddles forward and gives a brief wave. He’s almost as wide as he is tall, and just that little bit of movement causes beads of sweat to sprout on his red face.

  “Mr. Jawad and myself are starting a work-for­-welfare-and-rehab program. Again, I know this is ­controversial. However, our city needs repairs to much of its infrastructure, and we know that the world’s ­economic situation is ­increasingly grim. There simply is not the money to put into projects like solar panel repair and rainwater system maintenance. This program will allow struggling individuals living off the ­government and/or accessing expensive ­medical programs such as drug rehabilitation t
reatment to feel worthwhile and validated. More importantly, since these programs will be run at night, they may act as a deterrent to the ­terrorists.”

  She stops speaking and smiles at the reporters, her white teeth gleaming. As she runs a hand through her hair, the ring on her right hand glitters, caught in the beam of one of the lights. I remember that ring. She was wearing it last year when we went to her house up north. It was a strange silvery metal with a sort of Star of David on it. Definitely not a good match with her outfit tonight. It seems a bit unbelievable that we were at her house at all, but Sandra Smith was a good friend of Lola’s. As soon as Lola died, she’d have nothing to do with Mom or us. I guess she blames us for what ­happened, though the cause of the fire that ­destroyed her home and killed Lola and Mina was never ­discovered.

  “Now that’s leadership,” our driver says, turning the car toward the front entrance to the hospital. “You two be safe tonight and watch your backs. You never know when or where these terrorists are going to strike.”

  “Same to you,” Mom says as she opens her door. “Wish we could stay to watch the rest of the news ­conference, but I trust that whatever Smith does, it will benefit us in the long run.” She steps out the door, and I slide out after her.

  There are security guards flanking either side of the hospital’s entrance.

  “Identification and reason for coming to St. Mike’s,” one of them says, putting an arm out to block us from moving farther forward as soon as we approach. He’s cold and emotionless. Not the nicest welcome for ­families whose loved ones are injured and sick. They might as well get a robot to do his job.

  Mom taps her video watch and brings up her driver’s license. “This is my daughter, Jade. My other daughter, her twin sister, is here in emergency. She was attacked by a terrorist tonight.”