The Wrong Goodbye

by Chris F. Holm

  I smiled. "Easy. Demons got themselves a nasty sense of humor. They've pretty much got their pick of living vessels, but usually they've got a reason for choosing the one they do. Sometimes, they'll snatch a priest, make him speak in tongues at Mass to fuck with him. Sometimes, they'll take some buttoneddown old schoolmarm and ditch her at a leather bar. Or sometimes, when they need to hitch a ride, they'll pick a guy because they think his name is funny."

  "What's so funny about Richard Shaw?"

  "Nothing in particular," I admitted. "But what do you want to bet he goes by Rick?"

  Richard Shaw's home was a low-slung yellow brick ranch in a quiet residential neighborhood about a mile north of the university. A pair of live oaks on either side of the pebbled front yard shaded the house from the light of the afternoon sun. I pulled the Cadillac into the short concrete drive, coming to a halt beside a beige Buick LeSabre adorned with a Jesus fish and a sticker for the local Christian station (REJOICE in the Lord!). Looks like whatever smart-ass demon decided to take himself a ride in a Rick Shaw got a twofer in the fucking-with-mortals department.

  Though the day was bright and clear, and the temperature a balmy seventy-five degrees, every window in the house was closed, and the blinds were drawn as well. Three days' worth of newspapers sat untouched atop the stoop, and the letterbox beside the door was overflowing.

  I scaled the porch steps and knocked.

  Nothing happened – unless, of course, you count me and Gio shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot in our filthy funeral suits like the most unlikely, bedraggled missionaries ever while we waited for the door to open as something happening.

  I knocked again. Still nothing.

  "Mr Shaw?" I called. "I was wondering if we could have a moment of your time."

  Inside I heard a scuff of feet on tile. A twitch of curtain revealed a glimpse of darkened living room as Shaw appraised us from inside. "Go away!" he cried, his voice plaintive and unsteady.

  Gio looked from the door to me and back again. Then he patted his prodigious stomach and smiled. "You think maybe if I do the Truffle Shuffle, he'll let us in?"

  "You're not helping," I replied under my breath. Then, louder toward the door: "I assure you, sir, we'll only be a minute; we just have some questions about what happened to you the other night."

  "I told you people a dozen times already – I'm not talking to reporters! Why can't you all just leave me alone? Isn't it enough you ruined my life, you… you… bunch of jerks!"

  Bunch of jerks. My, but that one stung.

  Time to try a different tack.

  "My associate and I are not reporters, Mr Shaw – we're Federal Marshals."

  Gio looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "We're what now?" he muttered.

  I shrugged my best roll with it shrug. Gio responded with what can only be described as a harrumph.

  There was a thunk as the deadbolt disengaged, and the door opened a crack. The chain was still set, and Shaw peeked out under it, wary but hopeful. He was a slight, small-boned, thirty-something man in a pink polo shirt and iron-creased jeans over off-brand tennis shoes of gleaming white. His features were delicate bordering on feminine, and he had wide, pale blue eyes that, from the lack of lines surrounding them, appeared unaccustomed to the doubt that now darkened his face. "Federal Marshals?"

  "That's right," I replied. "I'm Marshal Hutchinson, and this is my associate, Marshal Starsky. Now if you would please let us in, I believe we could shed some light on what happened to you Sunday night."

  "But how do I know you're real Marshals, and not reporters pretending to be Marshals so I'll let you in?"

  I sighed and dug Ethan Strickland's wallet from my inside coat-pocket, flipping it open and waving it at him as though it meant a damn. When he reached for it to take a closer look, I yanked it back. "Mr Shaw, attempting to handle a law officer's badge is a federal offense."

  "Oh. Of course," he said, withdrawing his hand as visions of prison time danced in his head. "And please, call me Rick."

  As Shaw closed the door, and disengaged the chain, Gio leaned in close, a grin plastered on his meaty face. "A federal offense, huh?"

  "Hey, it could be."

  "You're a fuckin' piece a work, you know that? And Starsky? Really? Why the hell couldn't I be Hutch?"

  The door swung open once more, this time all the way. "Please, come in." We complied. Once we entered, Shaw ducked his head outside, casting furtive glances left and right before shutting the door behind us. "Sorry about the mess."

  I looked around. Aside of a smattering of cellophane candy wrappers on the coffee table, the Spartan living room was immaculate. A floral couch sat beneath a simple wooden cross. Two royal blue recliners faced it from across the coffee table. No knick-knacks, no TV, and not a speck of dust in sight.

  "Please, sit down," he said, disappearing into the kitchen around the corner. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

  "Beer, if you have it," Gio said, as we both settled into the recliners.

  "I do not. Alcohol is the devil's gasoline, and I for one like to keep the great deceiver's tank on E. Besides, I thought officers couldn't drink on duty?"

  "That's only in the movies," I replied, and shot Gio a look that could've shattered glass.

  "Ah," he said. "Well, I shouldn't be surprised. As Reverend Bellows always says, fiction is lying. So: apple juice or Fresca?"

  Gio mimed gagging, and I punched him in the thigh. "Water would be fine," I said.

  "Water it is," he said. A couple minutes' puttering, and he returned carrying a tray laden with drinks, and a crystal dish of hard candies.

  "Care for one?" he said, grabbing a handful and unwrapping them with all the eagerness of a methhead looking to score. "They're sugar-free. Even still, I usually limit myself to two a day – Jesus hates a glutton – but this week has left me out of sorts. As if I need to tell you that, after my outburst at the door. I'm so sorry you had to witness that; my language was inexcusable."

  "The hell're you talkin' about?" Gio asked. "You mean when you said jerk?"

  Shaw colored. I fought the urge to punch Gio in the leg again.

  "You have to understand," Shaw said, "I'm simply at the end of my rope. I haven't slept a wink in days. My Mabel took the girls up to Branson to stay with their grandparents as soon as we returned home from the police station – she scarcely said a word to me that whole ride home, and now she won't even return my calls! Of course, normally in times of crisis, I'd find solace in the church, but once my story hit the papers, my congregation wanted nothing to do with me. I've been asked not to attend services until further notice. They gave away my choir solo to that cow Lorena Wilkins. Now I hear there's even talk of excommunication! I know the good Lord never presents us a challenge we can't handle, but right now, I don't see how I'm going to manage!"

  He popped three candies into his mouth and crunched away at them with zeal. The way they sounded, I was less worried about his mental state than his teeth.

  "Mr Shaw," I said.

  "Rick."

  "Rick. I understand this is a difficult time for you, but if we could ask you a few questions about what happened Sunday night–"

  "But that's just it! I have no idea what happened Sunday night. One minute, I'm putting the girls to bed, and the next, it's hours later, and I'm wandering like a Jew through the desert, naked as the day God made me! Mabel said I got up in the middle of First Corinthians and walked right out the front door, but I swear I don't remember doing it – and to this day, I haven't the faintest notion what became of my clothes."

  "Believe it or not, that's not uncommon in cases of this type. What we need to know is if there's anything at all you can tell us about your missing hours. Sights, smells, general impressions. Any detail you remember, no matter how small, would be a great help to us in our investigation."

  Shaw slumped in defeat. "I wish I could help you – really, I do. But I've been over that night a thousand times, and I've no memory of it at all. I
f you don't mind my asking, what, exactly, are you investigating? What could have done this to me?"

  "Demon," Gio muttered, but not quietly enough. Shaw's eyes went wide with sudden fear and disbelief.

  "Worshippers," I interjected. "Demon-worshippers. We've been tracking them across the lower fortyeight for months. They've got a nasty habit of drugging people and luring them out into the desert for their weird-ass ceremonies. Word is, they're trying to conjure up a demon. But you've got nothing to worry about, Mr Shaw. Once they strike, they're unlikely to return to the same target a second time, and the fallout from the drugging aside, they shouldn't pose any future threat to you or your family. They're just a bunch of misguided nuts with no more idea as to how to call a demon than you or I." More you than I, I thought. I mean, I'm not a crack conjurer or anything, but I know a couple blood rites that'll summon in a pinch.

  But Shaw found no comfort in my words. Instead, he looked pale and drawn, and his hand trembled as he reached for another batch of candy.

  "I wouldn't be too sure of that," he said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, I wouldn't be too sure of that. See, there is one thing that I recall from Sunday night – only it seemed so crazy, I assumed it was a dream."

  "And what's that?"

  "An awful stink, the likes of which I'd never smelled before. But even still, I know exactly what it was. Deep down, I guess I always knew."

  "Knew what? What was it that you smelled?"

  "Brimstone," he said. "The devil's stench."

  19.

  "So, do demons really smell like brimstone?" Gio asked once we were back on the open road.

  "Not any demon I ever met. Though I once knew one who wore way too much Drakkar."

  "Then why the hell'd we hightail it outta there so quick?"

  "Because that doesn't mean it's not a clue."

  "I don't follow."

  "Well, it seems to me if it wasn't the demons that reeked of sulfur, maybe it was the place they took him to."

  "You sayin' you know where that is?"

  "Nope," I said. "Not yet."

  "Then where the hell're we headed?"

  "Library."

  "Library?"

  "Yeah, you know – big building, lots of books. They were all kinds of popular back in the day when people actually used to read. Don't worry, you'll like it – they have Google."

  "Thanks, smart-ass. What I meant was, why are we going to the library?"

  "I'm working on a theory," I said. "One that's gonna take a little research to confirm. Believe me, when I know something, you'll know something, OK?"

  Gio fell silent for a moment. "Hey," he said finally, "you think Shaw's gonna be all right?"

  "Hard to say. Seems to me, it's fifty-fifty whether or not his wife comes back – and I'm pretty sure his spot on the choir is gone for good. But my guess is, he'll be OK."

  "Yeah? Why's that?"

  "He's got faith," I said. "And once the dust settles, his faith is going to be stronger than ever."

  "How the hell you figure that? The poor bastard just got bitch-slapped by the universe – you really think it's gonna help his faith?"

  "I don't see how it couldn't. The way I see it, even the most devout among us have their moments of doubt. Enough bad shit happens to good people in this world to rattle even the churchiest of Christians, and you can't tell me that a hardcore atheist doesn't plead with God to make it stop when he's got the bed-spins after a couple drinks too many. It's human nature – we're all of us stumbling in the dark, latching on to whatever brings us some measure of comfort and security, no matter how fleeting. Only Shaw managed to stumble into something bigger and scarier than himself – the kind of something his precious Bible's been warning him about all his life. Doesn't matter much the book was written by a bunch of clueless saps just like him, trying to piece together the unpieceable; once the shock of his encounter wears off, he's bound to start seeing his no-good-very-bad day as a big fat confirmation of everything he's ever believed."

  "The way you talk, you almost sound like you're jealous of the dude."

  "Jealous? No. If, in all of this, he loses the woman that he loves, he's gonna be hurting something fierce. That seems to me like way too high a price to pay for what he's getting in return. But a guy like Shaw? My guess is whatever happens, he'll accept that it was simply meant to be. God's plan and all that crap."

  Gio snorted at that last. "Don't put much truck in God's plan, do you?"

  "And you're what – surprised? Tell me, Gio, where did God's plan ever get you?"

  "Hey, I can't complain. I did OK for myself – good job, nice ride, a pretty lady to come home to every night."

  "Dude, do you even hear yourself? You're on your way to hell."

  "That ain't God's fault. I'm man enough to take responsibility for what I done. Ain't nobody to blame for where I ended up but me." He squinted appraisingly at me from the passenger seat and shook his head. "But hey, you feel like the big man's gotta take the fall for your fuck-ups, that's between you and Him – it ain't no business a mine."

  "No," I said. "I chose this path. But if God's plan hadn't included killing the woman that I loved, maybe I wouldn't have had to."

  A pause, long and awkward. Neither of us eager to break it.

  Finally, Gio did. "The deal you cut – it was to save your wife?"

  I clenched my jaw, gripped the wheel so tight it hurt. "Yeah."

  "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know."

  "Don't sweat it," I said, willing the aching in my chest to cease. "You couldn't have known."

  "Was she, like, sick or something?"

  "Do we have to talk about this?" I snapped.

  Gio flushed, fell silent.

  I let out a breath and willed the pounding of pulse in my ears to slow. "Tuberculosis," I said, once the knee-jerk flush of anger had subsided. "Diagnosed at nineteen, if you can believe it. Her whole life ahead of her, and then bam. For a couple years, she got off light. No sign, no symptoms. We started thinking hey, maybe we can make this work – after all, most folks with TB go their whole lives without ever getting past the latent stage. But then the coughing started, and she went downhill quick from there. This was in the days before a cure, mind you, and the two of us were poor as dirt. All we had was each other. I couldn't afford to give her the kind of care she needed, and if we'd thrown ourselves at the mercy of the medical community, they would've locked her ass away – another lunger off the streets, safe to rot within the walls of some decrepit sanitarium. So I did my best to take care of her at home – but of course, it wasn't enough. And when I got sick of watching her slowly drown in her own blood, I did what I had to do to save her life."

  When Gio spoke, his voice was small, unsure – as if he didn't know if he should respond. "Did it work?"

  The roadway blurred. I raised a hand to my eyes, and wiped away the moisture with my sleeve. "Yes."

  "Hey, that's somethin', right? I mean, you two got to live out your happily ever after for a while before you got collected – didn't you?"

  Happily ever after? Yeah, that's how I thought my deal would play out, too. But it very fucking didn't – Dumas made sure of that. See, part and parcel of my deal was, I was at his beck and call – required to do his bidding at a moment's notice, day or night. At the time, I didn't know he was a demon; Dumas had fashioned himself in the image of a gangster, which made me a gangster's errand boy. For months, he pushed me and he pushed me toward a life ever more dark and violent and despicable, until finally, I pushed back and killed him. Well, I thought I did, at least – turns out bullets aren't so effective when it comes to killing demons.

  But the fact he couldn't die doesn't absolve me of his murder; when I pulled the trigger, I thought I was ending a human life, and that level of moral corruption doesn't come without a price. The blood I spilled that night served to seal my deal for good. And of course the fucker played dead just long enough for me to tell Elizabeth what I'd done. She couldn't
stand the man that I'd become, and so she left – left me broken, alone, afraid – and took our unborn daughter with her.

  I suppose Dumas could've had me collected then, as I lay reeling from the loss of the woman I traded everything to save, but he didn't. Instead, he made sure I stuck around long enough to see Elizabeth find someone else – and to watch our daughter grow inside her, knowing full well that I'd never get to meet her, hold her, know her – before he sent the meanest, most vicious Collector hell had to offer to deliver me to my fate. By then, the pain of death seemed like a respite. Sure beat the pain of a life without Elizabeth.

  Or, at least, that's what I thought at the time.

  Now, of course, I know better. Now I know that I'll be living without Elizabeth for eternity. I'm sure the thought would bring a smile to that shit-bag demon's face, maybe put a little spring in his step.

  So happily ever after?

  "Not exactly," I replied.

  20.

  "Hey, Sam? I think I got something."

  We'd been at the library maybe twenty minutes. The first five of them I'd spent online searching the local paper's database for any mention of sulfur or further instances of naked wandering. I spent the next fifteen wrestling with the fucking microfiche machine, because it turns out if you want to read more than a line or two online, you have to pay for it. Gio watched over my shoulder for a while as I cursed and scowled and occasionally rapped the obstinate piece of junk on its side in an effort to get it to work, all to no avail. When he tired of chuckling at my expense, he returned to the bank of computers on the far wall, leaving me to stew in peace.