Dead Souls

by J. Lincoln Fenn

  “Asthma. Pulmonary hemorrhage.”

  “Really,” he says with genuine interest. “I had no idea it was so dangerous. Something to remember.” Now he leans against the back of the island, holding his drink like we’re at a party, that same, feline ease. “You haven’t asked.”

  “Asked what?”

  “What’s on your card,” he says, pronouncing it cerd. “What your favor is.”

  This does cause my blood to chill. But I’m not about to give him the pleasure of knowing. “Maybe I don’t care.”

  He slaps his thigh, utterly delighted. “Damn, but don’t you remind me of Lizzie.”

  I don’t take the bait.

  He takes another sip, and again makes another appraisal. “Borden. Lizzie. Haven’t you heard of her?”

  “Sure, Borden makes great cream cheese.”

  “Oh now,” he says, wagging an index finger. “Now you’re just feckin’ with me.”

  I offer him a sly smile. It takes every ounce of nerve times infinity to slowly approach the kitchen island, right next to him. I grip the edge, lift myself up so I’m sitting on it, bare feet dangling. The smell of sulfur so intense now it feels like it’s kindling the passages of my nose. I’m very aware of the curve of my stomach, the soft indent of my belly button, and maybe he is too because his breath becomes ever so slightly ragged. Then slowly, slowly, I reach down for the can of Guinness, pop it open. Feel the mist of carbonation on my fingers. Take a sip. Yes, it’s not as good in a can, but it’ll do.

  He leans in. I feel his breath against the bare skin of my invisible shoulder. “What exactly are you up to, Fiona Dunn?”

  The first rule of marketing is desire. There is no part of this world, or any other, where that isn’t true.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HE DOES KEEP HIS WORD, I’ll give him that. Afterward, when I’m back in the car and I pull the card out of its case, I note that the inside is scorched, a small pile of ash covering the space after FAVOR. My heart starts to pound. But when I brush the ash away, I see there’s nothing new written. Still blank. I flick the overhead car light on for just a brief second to confirm, but no, not a single word marks it. I even try to hold it sideways to see if the indentation from the writing might still be visible—I can see something, but it’s not legible. The ash stains my fingertips black.

  Ash. I remember that first day I met Alejandro, the woman in the cemetery working away at her gravestone rubbings. It gives me an idea. I dig around in the car until I find a thin piece of paper—tucked in the folds of the backseat is a folded Street Spirit a homeless man gave me over a year ago. It’s yellowed, but it might work. I tear off an article—“Stop the Anti-­Poor Laws”—and press it over the card. Then I scoop what’s left of the ash from the organizer under the stereo, rub it over the paper with my index finger.

  It works, a little. I see a name, Justin.

  My hand starts to tremble. I was next. He was going to tell me to do something to Justin. A real and true panic starts to build, the kind that makes me want to find something sharp, something to dig into my skin until I can catch my breath again.

  I bought some time. I hold on to that thought, time, anchor myself in it. The cost I can’t think about. Not now. Maybe never.

  I flick the light in the car off. I hunt for my shirt, find it cold and crumpled on the car mat. Put it on. Christ, all I want to do is go home, shower for the next half hour, wash him off of me.

  Hands gripping mine, pressing them to the flat surface of the Koa wood.

  I hope it’s enough. Oh dear God, I hope it’s enough time.

  Tracing his finger along my upper thigh.

  “Just save me for last,” I’d asked, at the moment before, the moment when a woman can almost get anything. He buried his faceless face in my hair.

  “Lovely as you are,” he said, “that’s a little much.”

  We worked out an alternative. We made a trade.

  And if I fail? The memory of Gary shooting his daughter on the stage hits, even though I thought I’d safely bricked it away.

  My stomach surges and my hand reaches for the door latch, pushes it open. A passing car presses its horn, swerves to avoid a crash, but I don’t care, I lean over the asphalt, the Guinness making a return journey, not as pleasant as before. When it’s out, I sit up, press the back of my hand on my clammy forehead, close the door again.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. I feel violated, cheap, and guilty. Here I am, committing the very act I’d mentally tried and convicted Justin for just before I’d made my first trade with Scratch. A bitter irony. But it’s for Justin, I tell myself. This is all for him. Still, I sense a hollow spot in the wall where that thought lives. A whisper of an idea in my father’s voice, You sure you’re not doing this to save your own ass? ’Cause you’d run if you could. Only this time you can’t, kiddo.

  “Fuck you Dad,” I mutter. I brick that thought into its own compartment, seal it tight.

  Pants. I remember the jeans I’m sitting on—I don’t think they’ll let me in the New Parish without them. As I push the seat back, pull them on, I wonder if the dead-soul regulars are there now. Scratch dropped a hint, the only one of the night. Spending a lot of time at Fourth and Bellway, aren’t we?

  My cell tucked in the center console buzzes with a new message. I grab it, find I’ve missed several because, just like my clothes, tech doesn’t come with me when I ghost.

  Three from Opal—Justin has a fever, slight but concerning. Can I pick up some Tylenol on the way home? Couldn’t find any in the apartment so gave him some Advil. And what time will I be back? She has plans with her cousin who’s in town. A movie, about eight thirty, but if it’s a prob, no prob. Also we’re out of butter.

  One from Justin—selfie on the couch, holding an ice cream sandwich.

  Last one was saving for u but . . .

  It wrenches my heart and makes me feel hollow, distant, like an astronaut on another planet receiving messages sent from a dead Earth decades ago. I don’t know who I am anymore, or what it is exactly that I’m becoming.

  Messages from Renata, Jasmine, Clarissa.

  Where r u?—Renata

  Here. NP. Coming?—Jasmine

  Yes.—Renata

  Anyone heard from Alejandro?—Clarissa

  MIA.—Jasmine

  OMG. I’m scared. I’m really scared u guys.—Clarissa

  Where’s Fiona?—Clarissa

  Don’t panic. Heading for New Parish.—Renata

  I’m leaving, I gotta get out of the city—Jasmine

  Don’t. I’m coming—Renata

  I couldn’t get last, Scratch said being the last one wasn’t possible—there’s already a huge backlog of favors to collect and new dead souls trading daily. I’m thinking of outsourcing, he said wryly. Or cloning myself. One of the reasons he likes to collect in a batch. After that neither one of us spoke, because we were occupied with other things. Strange that I couldn’t see his lips but could feel them.

  So I got fourth, as in he moved my name down to fourth on his list, as in he’ll collect the favors of three dead souls before my card is inscribed again. Whether he means our weekly New Parish group, he wouldn’t confirm or deny. But what really set my heart alight was that I was able to renegotiate even a small part of the deal, and if one thing can be changed, then really anything’s possible if I can get his buy-in. I just need to craft the double deal carefully, not leave any part of it to chance.

  Unless this is just another twist in the snare trap. Fuck what Saul said, he’s in solitary with no one to love anymore.

  Buzz. A new text from Justin.

  Home soon?

  Stopping off at store for some Tylenol, then home, I text back. Not a realistic time-frame given I’m actually headed for the New Parish—maybe there will be an accident on the freeway, or I’ll hit a dog. Duplici
ty is becoming disturbingly second nature.

  Ok. miss u. XOXOXO

  I’m doing this for him, I tell myself. I’m a good person. I have to do a bad thing, maybe several bad things, but I’m doing bad things for a good reason. That’s morally cogent, right?

  The thing is, I’m not sure if even I believe me.

  I click back over to the group text.

  OMG!—Clarissa, and then she posts a link. I’m so scared I’m crying right now.

  A URL, standard blue font, underlined. So simple, so innocuous. I don’t want to click it, I want to roll down the car window, throw my phone out onto the street, and watch it get run over by a passing car, smashed to pieces, but I know that’s no protection. So instead I press the URL and land on a small image of a video screen, which I enlarge with my index finger. Another news story, with the thick bottom rolling ticker that appeared on 9/11 and never went away.

  He kissed my finger, after licking my palm.

  “Get a grip Fiona,” I tell myself out loud. Never a good sign, talking to myself. Always a last resort for when the world starts getting shifty.

  And I press Play.

  A WOMAN IN A TRENCH COAT holds a microphone in front of an unassuming white bungalow that, in San Jose, easily costs more than a million. She’s bathed in a secondary bright light that blanches her face to mime-white. Local news. Asian, she works too hard at making her voice deep, falls into the familiar cadence of Tom Brokaw.

  Authorities are seeking any information about the whereabouts of Ellen and Michael Alibozek, who were not found in the house with the bodies of their seven children. The grisly discovery was made earlier this afternoon after a family member received a disturbing e-mail Christmas card from Ellen’s Yahoo! account and notified police.”

  Ticker below: DOW PLUNGES 14 POINTS FROM GREEK DEFICIT WOES.

  My heart starts to beat faster. I turn up the volume.

  What we are about to report next may be unsuitable for some viewers, and discretion is advised. But police have confirmed that the children were murdered, dismembered [said with dramatic emphasis, a sick kind of relish, knowing this will air to millions online], and that two one-way tickets to Paraguay were purchased using the Alibozeks’ credit card after the expected time of death. We do not have a copy of that Christmas e-card; however, it was allegedly posted on the father’s Facebook account, and a KTRW viewer sent us screenshots taken before the account was disabled at the request of authorities. Again, what you are about to see is extremely disturbing. Parts of the image have been blurred.”

  MIAMI METRO OFFICER INDICTED IN DRUG STING

  Cut to Ellen and Mike, both wearing Santa hats, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, standing in front of the Christmas tree, smiles frozen on their faces, Happy Holidays from the Alibozek Family plastered just beneath them in some cheesy font, Brush Script probably. The petrified look in their puffy eyes is what grabs you first, sheer terror flattened into a JPEG, so at first you don’t notice the tree, but that’s okay because the editor at KRTW helps us out on that front, slowly zooming over Mike’s left shoulder so you can see the ornaments. Pixelated but still discernible, a little hand hangs from a pine branch next to blue ornaments, shiny tinsel. Just below, a little foot.

  “We’re just getting word . . . yes . . .” The reporter’s voice cuts in, excited. “We’re just getting word that police will be making an official statement in the next few minutes . . .”

  The zoom drifts down to the grandly wrapped presents at the tree’s base—small bodies among them, something that looks like an arm poking out between two legs, attached or not attached, hard to say, since the more graphic parts are blurred but that’s no help, no help, and just as those images are fixing to my brain, never to be removed, the camera pans up to the top of the tree where the star should be but is adorned instead with a tiny head, blinking lights pushed through empty eye sockets.

  And then—God help me—I open a new tab, click over to Google, scanning the stories for the time, the time. I don’t think I breathe for the next few seconds. When I find it, I praise all the deities that have ever been worshipped, because the bodies were discovered four hours ago. Before I made my trade with Scratch.

  A surge of relief hits—there’re still three he’ll collect before me—but that relief is quickly followed by the start of tears—oh good God, Ellen, Mike—but I don’t have time to dwell, to feel. For all I know, Scratch is collecting his next favor now, and there’s still so much to do, figure out.

  This Google article has a hi-res version of the screenshot—nothing the authorities can do, it’s gone viral—and with my index finger and thumb I enlarge the field just over Ellen’s shoulder, at the window behind her. Barely visible in the reflection is a figure, almost destroyed by the flash of the bulb. Someone took this picture. Scratch?

  Or Alejandro.

  As if he can sense the very thought of his name, suddenly, he calls.

  IT FEELS WRONG. It feels all levels of wrong, all levels of stupid, answering that call, but I do.

  “Tell me he has not called in your favor,” says Alejandro quickly before I can even speak.

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I look in the rearview mirror. No one on the streets, all lights off in Alejandro’s house. A streetlight pops on, and then they all do, small bursts of light.

  “Tell me, are you okay?”

  I keep my eyes on the mirror. For all I know Alejandro is hidden somewhere, watching. “Why did you take a naked picture of me?”

  I can hear him exhale softly on his end, wherever that is. “I would like to tell you a pretty lie, but the truth is I am an artist, a thief . . . an opportunist. You looked so beautiful in the morning light. Like Manet’s Olympia. I can resist many things, but true beauty, never. Perhaps, if souls can be trapped in photos, some part of yours will be preserved in that moment, forever at peace.”

  I start to laugh. Then I start to cry. And then I can’t stop either.

  “My dear girl, you must stay calm,” says Alejandro, “and gather yourself. I am afraid the days for weeping are over. You must be clear now. Present.”

  A gust of wind pushes through the limbs of a barren tree behind me. Without its leaves, the branches look like veins, arteries.

  “Present,” I say bitterly. “As if I could be anywhere else. As if I could be in the future. I have no future.”

  “We all have futures,” says Alejandro softly. “That is entirely the problem. But I am so glad to have this moment in time with you, before yours unfolds. When you are still you.”

  Here he is, the midnight Alejandro I remember, the calm voice in the storm that I used to trust. A part of me wants to lean in to it again. But I see the real man now—pretending to fill a paternal void when really it was a strategic act to manipulate me down the line. The thing about a lie is that for the lie to stick, your mark has to want to believe it.

  Never again. But will I pretend to trust him so I can fish for information?

  Hell yeah.

  “You’re right . . . as usual,” I say, adding a soft sigh for effect. “Did you hear about Ellen and Mike? It’s so horrible . . . I can’t even . . .”

  Now it’s his turn to say nothing.

  I keep digging. “There was a photo. And the thing is . . . I know this is crazy . . . but the others are saying they saw someone reflected in a window. The person who took the picture. And that person . . . it looked like you.”

  He doesn’t deny it, an answer in and of itself. Saul was right.

  Time to close in. “Some are even saying . . . well they think you might be working with him. I told them that was crazy. That you would never . . . and they’re only looking at it on their cell phones so the image isn’t great. When I get home, I’m going to bring it up in HD—I’ll be able to get a clear enough close-up to show them they’re wrong.”


  It’s quiet on the line, and I can feel him weighing his answer. If the others have turned on him, then I’m his only ally. He could lie some more, in which case I’ll be completely alienated when I see the HD image, or tell the truth and try to keep me on his side as long as he can.

  It’s cold outside, and the car is starting to fog with condensation. I draw a fishing line with a big, fat hook.

  And he bites. “Yes . . . I am working with him,” he says quietly. “For a long time I saw it more as a partnership, one that benefited us both. Now, I am not so sure. But you knew that, I suspect. A tenacious intellect. I can see why he has taken a genuine shine to you, which is rare. Whether that will turn out to be a good or bad thing, I cannot say.”

  Headlights appear in the rearview mirror, an approaching car momentarily illuminating me, my bruised lips, my disheveled hair. Yes, he has taken a shine to me. A bad thing. A very, very bad thing.

  I close my eyes, listen to the car roll by. Open them only after its damning light has passed.

  “You know, I once read a story called That Hell-Bound Train. It was about a man who sold his soul in exchange for a watch that could stop time,” says Alejandro. “The man thought he was very clever, because he could stop the watch at his happiest moment, and live in that moment forever. But the problem was that he could never decide which was his happiest moment. There was always something to look forward to, something better just ahead. Only he never found that time, and died, never having used his wish. The train for hell came to collect him, and as he was riding it, he decided that the train was better than hell, anything had to be better than hell, so that is when he stopped his watch.”

  “So he escaped.”

  “No, you do not understand. It is the idea of escape that binds you tighter. Cleverness didn’t cease his suffering. It perpetuated it. Our choices have consequences. You have made your choices, as I have made mine. We have to eat the fruit of the trees we planted, no matter how bitter it tastes. But I can, at least, help ease others into the inevitable. Like Opal is easing Justin into the inevitable.”