Secondhand Souls

by Christopher Moore

  When he pulled up out front in her Honda and she crawled in, she really wanted to shout at him—­hug him first, then maybe hit him a bunch of times, which caused her years of training to kick in, and instead she took a long, slow breath and let it out over a count of ten. One did not become the caretaker for the forgotten chapters of the Book of Living and Dying by indulging in random freak-­outs every time one encountered difficulty. So she only hit him once.

  “Ouch! What’s that for?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  She let that sit for a while. Were her reasons for not telling him about the massacre at the Buddhist Center any more pure? Wasn’t she just trying to keep him from being distressed? She had done so much wrong, with good intentions, but wrong nonetheless. She had done the right thing, not the easy thing, by not telling him. Probably. Maybe.

  The man in yellow wasn’t like the other creatures. He might be dark, he might be of darkness, but wasn’t darkness necessary? Light, dark, male, female, yin, yang: balance. He’d convinced her as much after saving her from the Morrigan.

  He’d righted an unbroken chair and pulled it over to where she lay bound on the floor, the remnants of shredded Squirrel ­People littered the room.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” he asked. The absurdity of him asking her approval when she was trussed up on the carpet almost made her laugh.

  “Please,” she said.

  He tipped his hat as if spilling silky sax notes off the brim, then took five shuffling steps to get around from the back of the chair to the front, shaking a leg on every other step. He sat, leaned forward.

  “How you doin’?” he said. He had a gold crown on an upper right bicuspid and he showed it to her with a smile.

  “I’m tied up on the floor and I’ve almost been murdered twice in five minutes.”

  “Well, the night is young,” he said, a little too much cheer in his voice.

  She took a deep breath, let it out while reciting a Sanskrit chant in her mind. Right now, in this instant, she was fine.

  He laughed, “I’m just fuckin’ with you. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you, Red. You mind I call you Red? That whole ‘venerable Rinpoche’ jazz a bit of a mouthful.”

  Strictly speaking, her hair wasn’t red, but auburn, but she nodded approval anyway. “And you are . . . Death?”

  “That really more a title than a name. You probably wanna gonna call me Yama.”

  “Yama?” She thought she’d been as surprised as she could be tonight. Apparently not. “Protector of Buddhism?”

  “That’s right, but we not using titles, right? Now, Red, I cut you loose, you not gonna freak out and go all kung fu and shit on me, are you?”

  “I’ll make tea,” she said.

  He laughed, pulled a straight razor from his jacket pocket, and leaned over. “Hold still, now.” He cut the tape on her wrists, then handed her the razor so she could do her ankles herself. The handle of the razor was ivory or bone, yellowed with age. She cut the tape then folded the razor and handed it back to him. Careful not to step in anyone, she braced herself and ripped the remaining tape off her ankles and wrists. He cringed at the sound, in sympathy with her pain.

  “You got somewhere else we can chat? Disorder in here harshing my mellow.”

  She led him through the dining room into the kitchen.

  “Your minions made that mess. Those were human souls?” She wasn’t afraid of him. She had come face-­to-­face with Death three times tonight already, including him, and she was unafraid.

  “Well, that is true,” he said, pulling out a chair at the oak table. “But they weren’t the ones put them human souls in those little monsters, now, were they? They freed those souls to their natural course. They methods can be rough, but they do get the job done. Truth told, they ain’t my minions, but I do admire a strong, black woman.”

  “They slaughtered them,” Audrey said.

  “Slaughtered who, Red? The ladies can’t take a soul from a human. Mighta been a time, back in the day, but not now. Them things you made weren’t ­people, they was prisons. The ladies just busted them out.”

  She was more shaken by that than by all the violence of the night. She had been wrong. Her intentions might have been pure, but her actions had not been. Had the Morrigan really freed the souls of the Squirrel ­People? She had seen them grow more solid, stronger, with each soul they devoured. She put on the kettle and went about the homey ritual of making tea. The fire on, she turned her back to the counter to face him.

  “You’re right. Why didn’t you let them kill me?”

  Lemon looked around, as if someone might be listening. “They no need for that. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “They killed Inspector Cavuto.”

  “Not my intention. You know how things get out of hand? They got out of hand that night. They was a long time down, they get a little drunk with being up here.”

  “So they’re not here to bring up the darkness to cover the world and reign for a thousand years, like they said before.”

  “Before? You mean when they with Orcus? That dumb motherfucker? Fuck no, that ain’t what I’m doing here. You tell soldiers what they need to hear to go to war. Bitches need a mission, not a goal. It’s my war.”

  “War on who?”

  He shrugged. “Not for me to say. I’m just fillin’ a need, puttin’ things in order. Ain’t no sides. Death don’t discriminate. I don’t judge. I don’t deny anyone. I don’t shun anybody. I accept everyone. Death be not proud, Red.” He shot his lapels, grinned. “Death be chic, baby, but not proud. I am loving-­kindness. You think you know what life worth more than me? I speed these souls on to become one with all things. Y’all fucked things up. Y’all and all these motherfuckers selling souls in this city. You know that, Red. What you think call me up after a thousand years? This ain’t your first barbecue; you think this through, you’ll see I ain’t the one knocking things out of order, I’m the one putting them back. Y’all just need to stay out of my way.”

  “Okay,” she said. There was a truth to what he said. A logic. The universe sought balance and the universe oscillated, and when it oscillated, between the beats of the heart of the universe, there rose the agent of change: chaos. Chaos sat at her table. “What kind of tea would you like?”

  “You got any decaf? Caffeine make me jumpy.”

  “Decaf green or decaf cinnamon spice?”

  “Cinnamon spice sound nice.”

  “So, you’re the Ghost Thief ?”

  “Thought we wasn’t using titles.”

  “Why did you move the souls to the bridge, then?”

  “The bridge? Yeah, the bridge. Well, you know, seems like a good place for safekeeping.”

  She had believed him then, believed that he was putting things in order, but now, after finding out about Mrs. Korjev’s heart attack, which Sophie insisted had been brought on by the man in yellow, after Minty Fresh had fallen under the Morrigan, well . . . Yama hadn’t really explained why he couldn’t control the Morrigan. He hadn’t explained why establishing his new order involved so much destruction, and for some reason, she hadn’t questioned him. She’d felt strangely calm after talking to him, drinking tea at the kitchen table, at peace. But now, not so much.

  Charlie parked in one of the hospital garages and they spent twenty minutes asking ­people where they might find a Mr. Fresh before Charlie’s phone buzzed with a text from Rivera directing them to intensive care.

  Rivera had shed his tactical gear but was still wearing the ill-­fitting sport coat.

  “I tried to talk the doctor into giving him some antivenom but he wanted to know the species of snake.”

  “Did you tell him ‘big’?” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, he wanted more than ‘big.’ He probably passed out f
rom blood loss or shock rather than the venom. The wound wasn’t as deep as we thought, but it nicked an artery. Lucky we got a tourniquet on him right away. He should be sewed up by now.”

  “Did someone call Lily?” Audrey asked.

  “Would you? Her number’s in my contacts.” Charlie handed her his phone and Audrey stepped outside of the waiting room.

  As soon as Audrey was out of earshot, Rivera said, “I went back in.”

  “What? Alone?” Charlie trying to whisper, but it was coming out ­louder than if he were talking in a normal voice. The few ­people sitting in the lobby looked up.

  “They were gone. I went all the way to the other side of the tunnel. It’s closed off.”

  “Do you think they are just gone, like before?” Charlie said. “Like when Sophie did whatever she did? Atomized them, I guess?”

  “I don’t think so. Certainly the one that clawed Fresh wasn’t hurt very badly. We hit the other ones hard, though. I saw what happened. But they were really strong, a lot more than the one I shot in the alley when—­you know.”

  “I was mesmerized by her or something,” said Charlie, still embarrassed about the time he had let the Morrigan give a handjob in an alley off Broadway and Rivera had delivered nine rounds of lifesaving .9-­mm cock-­block. “And sad. I was weak and sad.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Charlie. What I’m saying is they got out of that tunnel somehow, and there’s no way out except the entrance we came in, not even a maintenance passageway like in the BART tunnels. And they didn’t get by me.”

  “Did you check for drainage grates? You know they were sliding in and out of the storm sewers, they don’t need much space when they’re—­”

  “There’s a Buick in the tunnel,” Rivera said. “A big, old, yellow Buick. All the way at the Fort Mason end, which is boarded up with four-­inch-­thick beams. So either this man in yellow moved twenty pieces of heavy equipment out of the tunnel, parked his car, then moved twenty pieces back in, or he has another way of getting in and out of that tunnel. A way I can’t see.”

  Audrey came back through the glass double doors and joined them.

  “Her mom is bringing her over now.”

  “Oh, good, she’s not alone,” Charlie said. “Lily’s mom is nice. Kind of surprisingly.”

  “You’re dead to her,” Audrey said.

  “Why, what did I do to her?”

  “No, I mean you need to remember that Charlie Asher is dead to her. She’s not going to recognize you in this body.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  A nurse came in from the ward side of the waiting room and everyone looked up. She headed right for Rivera. “Inspector, he’s awake and asking for you.” She looked apologetically at Audrey and Charlie. “I can only let the inspector in, or family. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re family,” Charlie said.

  The nurse looked at him, then at Audrey, and seemed as if she was trying to think of exactly how to answer without seeming horrible and racist, when Rivera said, “They are part of this investigation. I didn’t want to tell the doctor, but this was an assault. Mr. Sullivan is a herpetologist and Ms. Rinpoche is a sketch artist.”

  The nurse appeared almost relieved, but did look for Audrey’s sketch pad. Audrey held up Charlie’s smartphone. “All digital now.”

  “We gave him something for the pain,” said the nurse.

  As the nurse led them into Minty’s room, which was behind a glass wall facing the nurses’ desk, Audrey whispered, “My last name isn’t Rinpoche, that’s a title.”

  “You’re not a sketch artist either, are you?” Rivera whispered back. “I couldn’t remember your last name.”

  Minty Fresh’s injured leg was bandaged and held in traction so his knee was at a right angle. His hospital bed was propped up about thirty degrees and his other leg jutted a foot and a half out into space. He smiled when they came in. His face was starting to go gray.

  “This is some bullshit,” said the Mint One. “I’ma die and my foot is cold.”

  Audrey tried to adjust his blanket, but with the one leg propped up she couldn’t make it work without uncovering him to the waist. She whipped off her sweater and wrapped it around his foot. “Until I can get the nurse to bring you another blanket.”

  “Thanks,” said the big man.

  “How you doing?” said Charlie.

  “How was you doing when this happened to you?” Minty looked to Audrey. “Don’t you put me in one of those creepy puppet things like you did him, just let me go, you hear?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Audrey said. She hugged his jutting foot. “I didn’t know. I would have warned you. I watched them get strong, so strong, with each of the Squirrel ­People they killed. It was so horrible. I didn’t know you were going to go after them. I didn’t know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  So she told them about the attack on the Buddhist Center, about how the Morrigan had grown, taken form as they slaughtered the Squirrel ­People. She told them about Yama releasing her, saving her from the Morrigan, and what he had said about trying to establish the new order.

  “He just let you go?” Charlie said.

  “Who the fuck Yama?” said Minty.

  “The man in yellow,” said Audrey. “He’s a Buddhist personification of Death. The legend was that he was a monk who was told if he meditated for fifty years, he would achieve enlightenment, so he went into a cave in the mountains, and he meditated for forty-­nine years, three hundred and sixty-­four days, and on the last day, some thieves came into the cave, leading a bull they had stolen, and they decapitated it, and when he asked to be spared, they decapitated him, too. He was reincarnated as Yama, a powerful demon-­god, and he put the head of the bull on his own body and then killed the thieves and became the prime ruler over Death, the protector of Buddhism. He’s one of the demons we’re told to ignore when we are training to lead ­people through bardo, from life to death.”

  “Yama, huh?” Minty Fresh said.

  “Yes, I’m so sorry, I should have told you all.”

  “That’s okay. How ’bout you let go my leg.”

  Audrey had been hugging his calf and foot through the entire Yama story, now she was embarrassed as well as sorry.

  “But you didn’t ignore him, right?” said Charlie.

  “Honestly, I didn’t really remember him until now. Does that make sense?”

  “It’s all right, Audrey,” Minty said. “He has some kind of gris-­gris he put on ­people. Kid that works for me was all woo-­woo with it, too, asking me about where my soul vessels went. I knew something was up with him. Motherfucker been sneaky since we was little.”

  “Pardon?” said Charlie.

  “Yama my cousin.”

  “Wait,” said Audrey. “What?”

  “He might be Yama now, but when I knew him, his name was Lemon, and he was my cousin.”

  “Lemon Fresh?” asked Charlie. “So that isn’t a nickname you made up?”

  Rivera turned aside and tried to hide his smile.

  “Don’t you laugh,” said Minty. “Lemon was not an uncommon name in Louisiana in those days. And I’m dying here.”

  “He said he’s just trying to establish a new order,” Audrey said, even more distressed now. “And that’s what we thought was happening. That’s part of the cycle, part of the wheel of life and death . . . Right?”

  “Audrey,” Minty Fresh said, his eyelids fluttering a bit now. “I don’t want to rush y’all, but I probably got a limited time to live, so if you could just tell us—­”

  “I think I told him the lost souls are on the bridge,” Audrey said.

  Minty Fresh looked from Charlie to Rivera back to Audrey. “Was anyone going to tell me?”

  “I was going to,” said Charlie, “but I only found out yesterday afternoon and things hav
e moved kind of fast since then. Were you going to tell us that the new menace to reality as we know it is your cousin?”

  “Don’t sass me, Charlie, I’m dying.”

  “You can’t keep playing the death card.”

  “I don’t want to keep playing the death card. But the death card been played. Just let me go with a little dignity.” He closed his eyes, took a gasping breath.

  “You mean instead of lying like a rug,” said Charlie.

  One of Minty Fresh’s eyes popped open, his dignified death having been postponed by being called on his shit. “You know, Asher, just because you have biceps now doesn’t mean you can talk to me like that.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “He sent me the book, all right? He made me into a Death Merchant twenty some years ago, then he disappeared. Only reason I knew he was in town is he still driving that raggedy old Buick Roadmaster. I would spit but my mouth is dry.”

  There was a squeeze bottle of water on the nightstand, Audrey held it for Minty Fresh to have a drink.

  “Where my shades? Let me die with a touch of cool.”

  Rivera took Minty Fresh’s sunglasses from his jacket pocket, helped fit them on the big man, then they all stood there for a minute, waiting.

  “Anybody got any ’Trane on they phone?” asked Minty. “Some Miles?”

  Sad shaking of heads.

  “Figures,” said Minty Fresh. He lay back as if he was hearing the notes. They all listened to his breathing and watched the cardiac monitor’s jagged line.

  The nurse came through the glass door and everyone stood a little straighter and tried to look a little more official, as if she couldn’t have seen them through the glass before she came in.