by Liam Card
They all brought back memories.
“That last one I was there for first-hand. I’d been following the story for months, and I knew things were getting heated. Of course, by now humans had been dropping dead all over the place, but the word hadn’t spread yet. In this case, it sure hadn’t reached these characters, and I managed to catch the whole thing as it went down. I was there when the son of a bitch dropped. I swear it.”
Rob was referring to an earthly drama regarding two rival tow-truck companies based out of Richmond Hill. The first company, Get Toad, was owned and operated by Pete Curtis and his brother Dave. The two brothers had two black three-quarter-ton trucks boasting the head and torso of a voluptuous toad named Delilah. Delilah had huge Disney eyes with long lashes and ruby red lipstick. She also wore a red tube top, which she filled out nicely. Bold lettering under Delilah read, NEED TO GET TOAD?
Here’s how it all started.
After a night of drinking, Pete came up with the idea for the two brothers to quit their unreliable construction jobs and venture out on their own. Both had high-end pickup trucks due to their involvement in the construction world, so the cost to retrofit those trucks into proper tow trucks wasn’t going to kill them in start-up costs. Dave agreed, because that’s what Dave did.
They clinked beer bottles. And just like that, Get Toad was born.
Two months later, Delilah 1 and Delilah 2 were retrofitted and on the road. Business began to steadily increase. A few weeks after that, everyone knew about Get Toad and the phone was ringing off the hook.
Delilah and the brothers were a major hit.
However, market research is not something to be overlooked, and what caught the brothers by surprise was the fierce, and often violent, competition in the tow-truck business. In cases where two or three rival tow-truck companies would show up at the same wreck, arguments and fist fights would routinely break out as to who was there first and, ultimately, who would win the tow.
Winning the tow was everything.
That was where Dave Curtis shone.
Some people are tailor-made to fulfill certain roles in this world, and this is what Dave Curtis was made to do — win brawls at the scene of car accidents and breakdowns. Grinning and bloodied, he would win the tow, hook up the cars, and haul them off to the wrecking yard or auto body shops. Dave hadn’t felt adrenaline like this since junior hockey where he played the role of enforcer for the team. Moreover, he hadn’t filled a role for a long time and was beaming proud to be successfully moving the needle for his company.
Soon, Pete and Dave were household names in the tow truck community, Pete for this brains and gift of the gab, Dave for his muscle. And in flowed the money. Money like the two brothers had never seen before or imagined.
Life had never been better for Pete and Dave. One night, late in the garage, Pete thanked his brother for being such a poor skater but for having such wonderful fists.
“Honestly, man. The NHL is good and all. But I’m having so much fun working with you on this. Everything happens for a reason. This is it, man. I hope you’re happy too, brother.”
Dave thanked Pete for giving him back his confidence and for making him part of something he could be proud of. A hug was shared, complete with the required harsh slaps on the back and choking down of tears well before surfacing.
The other tow-truck company in this story is Pinky Tows. Pinky Tows was owned and operated by a former biker, Clark Dunleavy, who started a business upon his release from prison fifteen years ago. During his time behind bars, a group of rival inmates had cornered him in the laundry area and pulled both of Clark’s pinky fingers from his hands while trying to get information. No information was given by Clark during all of that gruelling tearing and snapping, and what is one to do with no information and two pinky fingers? The pinkys were flushed down the toilet, and Clark had the jagged, hanging skin where his pinkys used to be sewn up hours later by the prison doctor.
After that horrific experience, Clark was known as Pinky.
And it became known that if you were going to get information from Pinky, you’d have to do a hell of a lot more than rip his fingers off.
Since incorporation, Pinky had dominated the tow-truck business for many years, and the dozen or so companies that also existed in that area did so by taking the jobs that Pinky Dunleavy either passed on or was too busy to attend to. Part of this was due to Pinky’s noted affiliation with bikers. Part of this was due to the fellow ex-cons he hired to man the trucks, men who had no trouble duking it out to win tows at the scene of an accident. Of course, things began to change when Pete and Dave entered the market and rendered Pinky’s hired muscle useless. For the life of them, Pinky’s bruisers couldn’t beat Dave in a battle of fists. Not if their lives depended on it — which I’ll get to later.
By the time the police showed up at the scene of the accident, Dave would have won the fight and the Pinky Tows trucks would be driving off into the distance in a cloud of defeat. The cops would ask Dave if Pinky’s boys were giving him any trouble, and Dave would smile, a thin layer of blood covering his teeth and say, “No trouble at all, Officer.”
Naturally, these kinds of stories made Pinky angry. They affected his bottom line.
One night, Pinky brought his team of drivers together and announced that they were going to pay Get Toad a visit. He handed out knives and bats and encouraged his drivers to ensure that Pete and Dave got the message. A few of the drivers didn’t want any part of it. A few of them had only been released from jail a few weeks ago, and weren’t eager to be back behind bars. A few others had been properly tuned up by Dave a few days prior, and their broken noses were still stuffed with gauze.
One threatened to quit.
“If any of you pussies don’t want to participate or want to quit,” said Pinky, “the bats and knives will be headed your direction instead. That’s not a threat. That’s a fucking promise.”
Dave was washing down Delilah 2 in the garage while Pete worked on the company books in the corner under an old banker’s light. As Dave sprayed the soap off Delilah’s massive face, he wondered where he might take his family on vacation. He had never been on vacation and pictured his wife and two kids running down an exotic beach, splashing in the waves. He imagined his wife demanding that he and the kids put on sunscreen and refusing the sunscreen just so people back home would ask where he got such a terrible sunburn. This was so he could say, “Aruba. Ever been? It’s beautiful.” Dave wondered if he should buy something nice for his wife now that he was making good money. He went back and forth between a nice dinner out versus a gift.
Maybe both.
She sure deserves both, he thought. She sure loved me way before I was a kick-ass tow-truck-driving business owner.
Pete crunched numbers and wondered how they could save on fuel. He wondered if the trucks they had would last three more years and then compared the maintenance costs of older trucks to the financing costs of a new fleet. He wondered when might be the right time to tell Dave that he wanted to grow the business instead of paying themselves a higher salary. He wondered how Dave might react to that news, given that he’d been talking about fancy vacations for his family and a new house. Would he understand the need to grow the business? Would Dave work well with new members of the team? These questions spun around Pete’s head until he heard the smashing. The smashing turned out to be the lights and windshield of Delilah 1, parked outside.
Pete stood up. Dave stopped spraying.
Pinky Dunleavy entered the shop with six of his crew.
“Knock, knock!” said Pinky. Pete ran to Dave’s side. He thought they might just go away if he threatened to call 911. Dave recognized the smell of a fight. He knew they were in serious trouble but didn’t want to alarm Pete. He knew this visit meant broken bones and months of recovery. But he was set to do his best and minimize the injuries.
“
Listen, I’ll call 911 if you and your boys don’t leave. We’ll call it even on the damage so far. Just leave,” said Pete. Pinky swung his bat and crushed the taillights on Delilah 2.
“What about now? Or has too much damage been done?” said Pinky. One of Pinky’s men ran his knife through the decal of Delilah’s face. Another took a bat to Delilah’s torso, where the red tube top met the toad’s heaving bosom.
Dave stepped in front of Pete, his jaw and fists clenched.
“Here’s the deal, guys,” said Pinky. “Pete, I admire your work ethic and creativity. Dave, I admire your right hook, which has gotten the better of all of my boys. With skills like that, you should be fighting for a medal at the Olympics, not for Get fucking Toad.”
“I’m serious about calling the cops. I have the phone right here. Just leave and we’ll call it even,” said Pete, whose voice was now audibly trembling.
“Tell you what, boys. We’re going to work away at your trucks a little more first. You know, so they have some trouble turning over tomorrow morning. And then we’re going to do a little batting practice on the both of you. But we will leave after that on the condition that you boys play by the rules from now on. That you tow what’s left for you or what’s given to you. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Pete. “We understand. Just leave.”
Dave turned to Pete, as if betrayed by Judas himself. As if knifed in the back by Brutus.
“No,” said Dave. “That’s a shitty deal. ’Cause then our trucks are screwed and our bodies are all banged up and then I don’t go to Aruba and get a sunburn. So here’s the new deal: how about you and your boys bugger off before anyone gets hurt.”
With that, Dave raised the spray nozzle on the hose, pulled the trigger, and sent a laser beam of water into Pinky’s worn-leather face. Due to the high pressure of the nozzle, a great deal of water made its way into Pinky’s mouth and nasal cavities. Pinky coughed and sputtered for several seconds after Dave had stopped with the hosing.
“If your crew wants to win some tows, they’d better take some boxing lessons or learn to play fair like the rest of us,” said Dave. “I tell all of these skinny pricks of yours I don’t want to fight. They all want to be heroes, these ones.”
Pinky, wildly embarrassed at this point, dropped his baseball bat to the floor. It bounced around as bats do, head and toe, head and toe, before settling down and rolling away.
“Nobody disrespects me like that, boys,” said Pinky. “That’s a death sentence.” He drew a gun from a holster inside his leather jacket and pointed it at Dave. “This visit could have been about broken trucks and bones. Maybe a knife in the gut to embrace the spirit of friendly competition. Who knows. Puppy stuff. But then you went and made it about this.” He waved the gun to punctuate his point. “So this is really your own fault for being so goddamn stupid.”
And up popped the Thought Marker.
Pinky trained the gun on Dave and held the moment, hoping to see Dave squirm or break. But nothing happened.
Dave just stood there, holding his breath.
So Pinky thought, Oh well, and squeezed his index finger, which in turn applied pressure to the trigger. Pete Curtis threw himself in front of Dave to intercept the forthcoming bullet, but Pinky stood mystified. The weight of the gun became too much for his limp hand, and he collapsed to the floor. The blood from his eyes, ears, and nose promptly mixed with the soap suds on the garage floor and joined hands with them on their journey toward the drain.
The scene stood still.
Pinky’s right-hand man, Griff Stewart, flashed his knife in the air and came screaming toward Pete and Dave, only to suffer the same fate seconds later. He rag-dolled to the concrete floor beside Pinky and emptied his life matter into the drainage system as well.
The rest of Pinky’s crew dropped their weapons and slowly backed out of the garage. The pitter-patter of sprinting feet was heard for ten seconds or so.
And then it was all uncomfortably silent.
Ninety-three seconds of silence, in fact.
Not a peep out of them.
That was until Dave put his arms around his brother and tightly squeezed him into the meat of his own thick torso.
“You were going to take that bullet for me, huh.”
“I guess I was,” said Pete. “But it looks like you have some higher protection than little ol’ me.”
“Always knew I did, big brother. Always knew it.” Dave pointed to the roof of the garage. “The big guy wants us out there towing trucks and making bucks. Plain and simple.”
Dave stacked the bodies so he could get to work fixing the damaged Delilahs.
Rob saw me finish the upload and vibrated like crazy. He sent me a questionnaire as to what I thought of the story, and I got to filling it out.
“I was right there hovering in that garage the moment that all went down,” he said. “Highlight of my ghosting life, man. Honestly.”
He uploaded my questionnaire responses and quickly surmised that I wasn’t all that impressed.
“Okay, fine then, Luke. You share with me one story better. I dare you.”
So I did.
I sent him every single kill.
I uploaded to him the entirety of my dealings with Safia — up to and including the creation and execution of Operation Stopgap.
“How’s that for a trump card?” I said. Rob gave off a strange vibration and didn’t respond. “I wasn’t impressed with your story of Pete and Dave because I was the one who categorized Pinky Dunleavy’s Thought Marker and sent his coordinates for execution. Although the back-story was interesting. Thanks for the share.”
“Jesus, Luke. I was sure that all this was on account of the Bookkeeper or What’s Next. But this is just another ghost doing all this?” he said.
Given what I had just shared, I asked how he could possibly think that Safia was “just another ghost.” He sent me the image of a trucker hat that read, “Fair Enough, Amigo.”
“How is that possible?” he said.
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“Ghosts can’t do that. It says so right in the Handbook!”
“She gets around it. She’s not like us, Rob. She’s angry. She’s terribly angry, and she vibrates differently because of it. The Line failed her. The whole system failed her.”
“This is bad. This is really bad,” he said, and I could feel from the vibration he was giving off that he meant it. I could actually feel his fear rising and falling as he used Perspective from his time in the Line to level out his emotions.
“Why is it so bad?” I said, playing a card from Safia’s hand. “The world is a safe place. It’s a better place. Right?”
“It’s not so much what’s happened so far that scares me, Luke. It’s that kind of power that has me worried for the future.”
16
Located to the southwest of roaring London, England, is the county of Surrey. Inside the county of Surrey rests the village of Great Bookham. Just a stone’s throw from there, you’ll find the charming village of Little Bookham. And while nearly every village in the United Kingdom boasts an old church and an infamous pub to lay its pride upon, Little Bookham also housed one of the world’s top mediums, Catherine Seymour. Catherine lived in a humble stone house off Lower Road with her chow, Penelope. This was the kind of stone house where you find moss growing on the tile roof and vines climbing up to make friends with it. You find an active chimney billowing smoke year round and a cobblestone path leading up to the humble cottage made from the same stones you would find in the foundation of the house.
Seventy-one years old seemed young to Catherine, but you’d never be able to place her age unless she told you. Her thin face was too small for the horn-rimmed glasses she wore — given to her by a friend in the process of dying forty years ago. Her friend, Mabel Brighton, suggested that if Catherine wore her glas
ses, Mabel might be able to see the world from beyond the grave. Catherine didn’t know if it was the glasses or the deep grief due to the passing of her best friend, but after she put those horn-rimmed glasses on, she was able to feel the vibrations and receive whispers from the deceased.
After that, they became a permanent fixture.
Where many around the world were not, Catherine was the real deal.
For years, people came from all over the world to visit Little Bookham and the mossy old cottage off Lower Road. People would sit on her antique sofa, drink her tea, and listen as Catherine did her best to decode the vibrations, energy, and images being uploaded to her.
Sometimes what came out of her mouth blew people away.
Sometimes they wept.
Sometimes they laughed right out loud.
Sometimes they heard what they expected to hear, and sometimes the messages were shocking. At times, mortifying.
Either way, Catherine was simply exercising her gift and doing her job to the best of her ability. It was something she took great pride in.
• • •
Exactly one calendar week after my argument with Safia, she called me to the living room of Catherine Seymour. Catherine was in the middle of a session, and Safia and I could feel the vibrations of other ghosts in the room.
“I’m seeing a man,” said Catherine.
“Yes,” said the woman on the couch. Her name was Marielle Phillipe.
“He’s not an old man. He seems young. I’m seeing the number forty-one.”
“Yes, that’s right. He would have been forty-one this year.”
“I’m seeing the initials P and J. Is that right? Do you know someone with those initials?” said Catherine, and Marielle put her hands to her mouth in an attempt to stop an outburst. Her quivering lip certainly wasn’t going to be enough. She gathered herself moments later.
“Yes, that’s right. That’s him. Pierre Joseph. Well, those are his first and middle names.”