The Wrong Goodbye

by Chris F. Holm

  "But I thought skim was just for demons," I said. "I didn't think they'd deign to deal to humans – alive or otherwise."

  "That's mostly true, I guess – but they've got to get their product somewhere, right?"

  I frowned. "You're saying Danny was funneling them souls? But why? How'd he get involved?"

  "About three years back, he was approached by a demon who runs a skim-joint outside of Las Cruces. Somehow – I don't know how – he'd found out about Danny's relationship with me, and he exploited it for all it was worth. He said it would be a shame if our handlers found out about us – especially when such a discovery could be so easily avoided. He offered us protection – that, and access to all the creature comforts we could ever want. In return, all he asked for was a day or so to tinker with whatever soul Danny had collected. Once he extracted what he needed from the soul, he returned it to Danny for interment, and no one was ever the wiser. The system worked well enough for a while – and I confess, distasteful as the demon's protection racket was, the nights Danny and I spent dining and drinking in the finest hotels without fear of discovery were among the happiest I've ever known. But then somewhere along the way, Danny's method of payment changed."

  My face twisted in disgust. "Do you have any idea how fucking stupid you two were not to simply break it off with one another? What if you'd been caught? Or what if Danny's demon-friend fucked up and cracked the soul Danny was assigned to inter? What do you suppose his handler would do then, huh? You want him to end up like Quinn? 'Cause make no mistake – if he were caught failing to perform his duties as a Collector, that's exactly what'd happen."

  "Of course it was stupid, Sam. I knew it; Danny knew it. But can you even remember what it's like being happy – even if for just a moment? Danny knew the risks, and as he told me a thousand times, even if he was caught, he wasn't hurting anybody but himself. Of course, when he started using, everything changed. He retreated into himself, and shut me out entirely."

  "So when your gravy train runs out, you up and bail, huh?"

  Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You're a bastard, you know that? You have no idea what it was like. You have no idea what that shit did to him. When he was skimming, it's like he wasn't even there – and when he came down, it was even worse. He was hollowed out. A ghost. After a year of trying to reason with him, of begging him to give it up, I couldn't take it anymore. So finally, I left. You know a thing or two about leaving, don't you, Sam?"

  I let that comment pass. "Still, Danny's actions don't track. I mean, the bigwigs only tolerate the skim-joints because they stay below the radar – they don't disturb the status quo. You said yourself, they borrowed Danny's souls, they didn't steal them. So where's the upside in having Danny snatching Varela?"

  "How the hell should I know? Maybe demand is on the rise, and the usual methods for obtaining skim can't keep up. Maybe the recent unrest between heaven and hell has disrupted the skim-joint's regular supply, forcing them to look elsewhere. Or maybe Danny's just desperate. Maybe he needed a fix, and figured you for the sucker he could take it from."

  I shook my head. "You know full well only a demon's got the reflexes to pull a successful skim. Danny wouldn't stand a chance – he'd crack the soul, and blow his meat-suit all to shit."

  "That's assuming he's still in his right mind."

  "Come on, Ana, this is Danny we're talking about. Junkie or not, you know he's working some kind of angle."

  "Maybe. But I certainly couldn't tell you what it is."

  I thought a moment, played the angles in my head. "This demon who's been pulling Danny's strings," I said, "he got a name?"

  Ana's gaze, which until now had met my own, dropped. She stared at the floor a moment, and when she spoke, her tone was scarcely more than a whisper.

  "Dumas," she said, her voice tinged with shame and regret. "The demon's name is Dumas."

  11.

  "So," Gio said, "you gonna tell me what the hell happened back there?"

  He twisted in the Fiesta's passenger seat to look at me, his worried frown rendered sickly green by the pale dashboard light. Our tires clattered against the blacktop as we barreled west on 20, the speedometer pushing eighty as I chased the sunset that had long since dipped beneath the horizon before us. The lights of Shreveport were fast receding in the rearview, which meant that there were damn near two states between me and my meeting with Ana. In my opinion, that was still a couple states too few. I pressed the pedal to the floor mat and felt the whole car shudder as the needle climbed to ninety.

  I guess I couldn't fault Gio for his concern – I looked a wreck after my tussle with Ana. My suit was a rumpled mess. My hair was mussed from when she'd yanked back my head. Dried blood crusted around the pinprick in my neck. Besides, I'd barely said five words since we'd left the rest home – I'd been so rattled by what Ana had told me, I didn't trust myself to speak. And even if I did, I sure as shit wasn't going to spill my guts to Gio. Not when it was that touchy-feely sharing bullshit that left me feeling like this in the first place.

  I guess Ana's betrayal shouldn't have taken me by surprise; after all, as far as she was concerned, I'd betrayed her long ago. And God knows Danny's screwed me over more times than I can count. But I'd always thought of Ana as being better than that.

  Turns out, I thought wrong.

  See, most demons have themselves a nasty sense of humor, which means when you cut yourself a deal with one, you'd best be careful what you wish for. Ana knows that better than anyone. She thought when she cut her deal to avenge her family that she was exacting justice. But there's no justice in the slaughter of innocents – there's only pain and remorse. Ana didn't realize that until it was too late, but you can be damn sure her demon knew. Now, that bastard already had her soul by way of payment regardless of what she wished for, but still he couldn't help but twist the knife by turning her into the very thing she most despised – by convincing her to kill. And since twisting the knife is what hell is all about, the powers that be used the same sadistic logic in determining her punishment. Having been unable to live with the fact that her revenge had driven her to become a vicious killer, Ana was condemned to kill for all eternity as a Collector.

  My story isn't so far off from her own. In life, I was a decent man – or so I thought. But then my wife fell ill, and I was offered a deal: essentially, my wife's life for my own. What I didn't know was that, before the demon took my life as payment, he would strip me of everything I held dear: my decency, my compassion, my respect for human life. Much like Ana's did to her, my demon turned me into a killer – a heartless bastard – and the kicker is, he did it with such ease that for years after my death, I wondered if maybe that was who I'd always been. It took a long time for me to realize it wasn't – that I'd simply been so desperate, so focused on saving Elizabeth, that I hadn't spared a thought about what that goal might cost me. In the end, her health returned, but she couldn't live with the person I'd become. She left, and took our unborn child with her. Looking back, I couldn't even blame her. By the time that evil son of a bitch was done with me, I was but an echo of the man Elizabeth had married – hollow, empty, cold. And when finally, I lay broken and alone, that fucker delighted in my misery, laughing at the ruined man that I'd become.

  That demon – that fucking monster – was named Dumas.

  Ana knew my story, of course, as I'd known hers. Which means she knew how much she and Danny getting into bed with Dumas would hurt me. Maybe in her mind, I deserved it. Hell, maybe I even did. Either way, it didn't make it hurt any less.

  But like I said, I wasn't going to say any of that to Gio. And since I couldn't think of anything else to say, I said nothing – a nothing that, so far, had stretched on for going on eight hours.

  "OK, if you don't wanna talk about it, could you at least tell me where we're going?"

  "Las Cruces," I said.

  "Las Cruces? As in New Mexico?"

  "That's right."

  "Is that where we're gonna f
ind our guy?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know."

  "Then why the hell are we going there?"

  "Because it turns out Danny's involved in some pretty nasty shit – sort of the undead equivalent of drug running, I suppose. Las Cruces is where his employer's at."

  "Ah, I gotcha – you think maybe we can shake him down, make him tell us where this Danny guy's been hiding."

  "Something like that," I lied. I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth: that it wasn't Danny I was really after. That as much as I'd like to see Danny pay for what he'd done, recovering the Varela soul was my only real priority. That there was a chance Danny wasn't in Las Cruces at all – that he'd simply left the soul there and moved on – and this errand I was dragging Gio on would bring him no closure, no justice, no peace of any kind.

  Only even that was a lie – it isn't that I didn't have the heart. I didn't tell him because I didn't yet know whether or not I'd need him, and so I had to keep him motivated – invested in a common goal. I didn't tell him the truth because if I did, I couldn't use him anymore.

  I guess Ana was right about me after all: I really am a bastard.

  "So this boss-man we're going to see," Gio said, "he a reaper-type like you?"

  "Dumas? No, Dumas is nothing like me – he's a demon."

  Gio looked impressed. "A demon, huh? He got, like, horns and shit?"

  "No," I said. "The monster shtick is strictly for the foot-soldiers. The higher-ups, they've got the juju to alter their appearance – to change the way your eye perceives them. They all look pretty much like you or me. But then, I thought you would've known that."

  "Why the hell would I have known that? It ain't like I've ever met a demon before."

  "Of course you have."

  "The fuck're you talking about?"

  "Gio, how do you think you ended up here?"

  "I dunno – I mean, I guess I done some shit I shouldn'ta done. Ain't that sorta how this works?"

  "Sure, for some. But that alone isn't enough to get you collected. No, to get collected, you've either got to be full-on Hitler bad, or you've got to make yourself a deal with a demon. And you, my friend, are the latter."

  "But that don't make no sense! If I'da made a deal with a demon, wouldn't I remember it? If I'da made a deal with a demon, wouldn't I at least have gotten something out of it?"

  I shook my head in disbelief. "You think you didn't?"

  "What – you're saying that I did?"

  "Gio, before you wound up working for the Outfit, what kind of shit were you pulling?"

  Gio hedged. "Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that."

  "Yeah, my guess is emphasis on little. The way I hear it, you were nothing but a two-bit thug. I'm guessing some mugging, a hold-up or two, maybe a little smash-and-grab, right?"

  Dude was frowning something fierce, now. When he spoke, his tone was sullen, petulant. "I did all right."

  "Sure you did," I said, "but you've got to admit, that sort of stuff doesn't exactly make you Outfit material, now does it?"

  "I… I guess not."

  "Only one day, a guy comes along, says he'll make your dreams come true – all you've got to do is come work for him, and he'll take care of the rest. Next thing you know, you're living large, and you can't believe your luck – but you aren't about to question it, because you're afraid that if you do, it's all going to go away. Am I close?"

  "A little too," he admitted.

  "That guy you met – he make you shake on it?"

  He thought on that a sec. "Yeah."

  "Demon."

  Gio fell silent for a while, mulling over what I'd just told him. Then he heaved a sigh and shook his head. "Shit," he said, "it ain't like I was ever in line for the pearly gates anyway – not after all I done. The way I see it, I still came out ahead."

  "Yeah, only now hell's got all of eternity to try to change your mind."

  We spent the next mile or so in silence. When Gio finally broke it, his tone was absent its usual bravado. He sounded small, fragile, afraid. "What's gonna happen to me? When this is all over, I mean."

  "You're asking what hell is like?"

  "Yeah."

  "I couldn't say."

  "You mean you're like forbidden?"

  "No, I mean I couldn't say. Hell is sort of like a tailored suit of bad. Everybody's is a little different, and everybody's is designed to deliver the punishment that best fits them. For me, hell is right here, right now – it's this world, this life, this thankless task. For you, I couldn't say."

  "That don't give me much to help prepare for it."

  "Sorry, but that's all I've got. And even if I had more to tell you, it wouldn't help. There's just no preparing for what you've got coming."

  "Jesus, dude – your bedside manner sucks. You trying to scare the shit outta me?"

  "I'm trying to tell you the truth," I said. It came out harsher than I intended. I took a breath and tried again. "Look, if you want to know what hell is really like, you've got to look inside yourself. Hell is your worst fear, your deepest insecurity, laid bare for all the world to see – again and again, for all eternity. You think you can psych yourself up for that, then be my guest. But if you want my advice, I suggest you enjoy what little time you've got left."

  "Speaking of," he said, "I got myself a special lady in Vegas I wouldn't mind seeing one last time before I'm dead for good. You think once we finish with this demon guy, we could maybe swing on by?"

  "No," I said.

  "Right. Figures."

  And then, for a while, we said nothing.

  For a while, we both had nothing left to say.

  12.

  "Collector!" she said, her voice echoing off the dingy bathroom tiles. "You want to tell me what it is you think you're doing?"

  I shut off the tap and looked in vain for a paper towel, instead settling on shaking the rust-scented water from my hands. We were at a truck stop an hour west of Abilene, in a stretch of countryside so brown and dead that, but for the occasional patch of scrub brush, it might as well have been on Mars. It was pushing three in the morning, and though there were a couple guys in the parking lot catching some shut-eye in their big rigs, the inside of the truck stop was deserted. Gio was outside, gassing up the Fiesta, which meant that in here, it was just me – well, me and Lilith, now.

  I watched her in the dingy mirror as she strolled barefoot from the bathroom stall, eyeing her new surroundings with distaste. She was clad in a sheer black evening gown rendered transparent by the fluorescent lights overhead. For a second there, as I stood looking at her, I forgot my own name.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed hard, and in dribs and drabs, my composure trickled back. "What I'm doing, Lily, is my job."

  "Is it, now? Because I was under the impression you've not been so concerned with doing that of late."

  I sighed. "So I guess you know about Varela, then."

  "As a point of fact, Collector, I know almost nothing about Varela. I know that you have thus far failed to collect him. I know my superiors are less than pleased about that fact. I know that when it came time for me to find you, you were on some kind of fucking field trip when you should have been out handling your business. So tell me – what else is there I ought to know?"

  "Nothing – I'm handling it."

  "That's funny, because last I saw you, you told me it had already been handled."

  "Yeah, well, there were some extenuating circumstances. Nothing you need to worry about. I've got it under control."

  "You do." Lily, incredulous.

  "Yes, I do."

  "Tell me, does your definition of under control include the undead soul in the fat-suit waiting outside for your return?"

  Shit. Gio. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I was hoping I could keep him off her radar. Oh, well – too late now to do anything but play it cool. "As a matter of fact, it does. And how the hell'd you even know? You can tell just by looking at him that the body he's wearing isn't his?"


  "Of course I can," she snapped. "That getup he's parading around in may be enough to fool a monkey like yourself, but I assure you, any creature not once bound to your precious mortal coil will see him coming from a mile away. Now I think it's time you stop playing around and tell me exactly what is going on."

  So I did – or sort of did, at least. I told her about tracking Varela through the jungle, and the fact that when I found him, he was dead. I told her that Varela's soul'd been missing, which meant he'd died by a Collector's hand. I told her that I'd tracked down that Collector, and taken back what I thought was Varela's soul – only to find that it was not. And I told her that I aimed to hunt down that Collector once more, and take back what was rightfully mine.

  What I didn't tell her was that I knew the Collector in question, and that I'd landed in this mess because apparently he and I had a score to settle. I couldn't see the upside in her knowing. As pissed as Lilith was at me right now, for the moment she and I were on the same side. But if she thought I'd brought this on myself, she wouldn't hesitate to sell me out. So my choice was either keep her in the dark, or spend the next few decades on the shelf. Not much of a choice, if you ask me.