by Mike Resnick
How long I remained there I do not know, for there is no means by which one can measure duration there. I only know that I felt I might as well have been in the Other Place, so bored was I with the eternal peace and perfection of my surroundings. It is an admission that would certainly offend all churchmen, but if there is one place in all the cosmos for which I am uniquely unsuited, it is Heaven.
In fact, I soon began to suspect that I was indeed in Hell, for if each of us makes his own Heaven and his own Hell, then my Hell must surely be a place where all my training and all my powers are of no use whatsoever. A place where the game is never afoot, indeed where there is no game at all, cannot possibly qualify as a Paradise for a man such as myself.
When I was bored beyond endurance back on Earth, I had discovered a method of relief, but this was denied me in my current circumstances. Still, it was a craving for cerebral stimulation, not for a seven percent solution of cocaine, that consumed me.
And then, when I was sure that I was facing an eternity of boredom, and was regretting all the chances I had forsaken to commit such sins as might have placed me in a situation where at least I would have had the challenge of escaping, I found myself confronted by a glowing entity that soon manifested itself in the outward form of a man with pale blue eyes and a massive white beard. He wore a robe of white, and above his head floated a golden halo.
Suddenly I, too, took on human shape, and I was amazed to discover that I had not until this very moment realized that I had no longer possessed a body.
“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” said my visitor.
“Welcome, Saint Peter,” I replied with my newfound voice.
“You know who I am?” he said, surprised. “Your indoctrination period is supposed to be instantly forgotten.”
“I remember nothing of my indoctrination period,” I assured him.
“Then how could you possibly know who I am?”
“Observation, analysis and deduction,” I explained. “You have obviously sought me out, for you addressed me by my name, and since I have evidently been a discorporate being, one of many billions, I assume you have the ability to distinguish between us all. That implies a certain authority. You have taken the body you used when you were alive, and I perceive that the slight indentations on the fingers of your right hand were made by a crude fishing line. You possess a halo while I do not, which therefore implies that you are a saint. Now, who among the many saints was a fisherman and would have some authority in Heaven?”
Saint Peter smiled. “You are quite amazing, Mr. Holmes.”
“I am quite bored, Saint Peter.”
“I know,” he said, “and for this I am sorry. You are unique among all the souls in Heaven in your discontent.”
“That is no longer true,” I said, “for do I not perceive a certain lack of content upon your own features?”
“That is correct, Mr. Holmes,” he agreed. “We have a problem here—a problem of my own making—and I have elected to solicit your aid in solving it. It seems the very least I can do to make your stay here more tolerable to you.” He paused awkwardly. “Also, it may well be that you are the one soul in my domain who is capable of solving it.”
“Cannot God instantly solve any problem that arises?” I asked.
“He can, and eventually He will. But since I have created this problem, I requested that I be allowed to solve it—or attempt to solve it—first.”
“How much time has He given you?”
“Time has no meaning here, Mr. Holmes. If He determines that I will fail, He will correct the problem Himself.” He paused again. “I hope you will be able to assist me to redeem myself in His eyes.”
“I shall certainly do my best,” I assured him. “Please state the nature of the problem.”
“It is most humiliating, Mr. Holmes,” he began. “For time beyond memory I have been the Keeper of the Pearly Gates. No one can enter Heaven without my approval, and until recently I had never made a mistake.”
“And now you have?”
He nodded his head wearily. “Now I have. A huge mistake.”
“Can’t you simply seek out the soul, as you have sought me out, and cast it out?”
“I wish it were that simple, Mr. Holmes,” he replied. “A Caligula, a Tamerlaine, an Attila I could find with no difficulty. But this soul, though it is blackened beyond belief, has thus far managed to elude me.”
“I see,” I said. “I am surprised that five such hideous murders do not make it instantly discernable.”
“Then you know?” he exclaimed.
“That you seek Jack the Ripper?” I replied. “Elementary. All of the others you mentioned were identified with their crimes, but the Ripper’s identity was never discovered. Further, since the man was mentally unbalanced, it seems possible to me, based on my admittedly limited knowledge of Heaven, that if he feels no guilt, his soul displays no guilt.”
“You are everything I had hoped you would be, Mr. Holmes,” said Saint Peter.
“Not quite everything,” I said. “For I do not understand your concern. If the Ripper’s soul displays no taint, why bother seeking him out? After all, the man was obviously insane and not responsible for his actions. On Earth, yes, I would not hesitate to lock him away where he could do no further damage—but here in Heaven, what possible harm can he do?”
“Things are not as simple as you believe them to be, Mr. Holmes,” replied Saint Peter. “Here we exist on a spiritual plane, but the same is not true of Purgatory or Hell. Recently, an unseen soul has been attempting to open the Pearly Gates from this side.” He frowned. “They were made to withstand efforts from without, but not within. Another attempt or two, and the soul may actually succeed. Once possessed of ectoplasmic attributes, there is no limit to the damage he could do in Purgatory.”
“Then why not simply let him out?”
“If I leave the gates open for him, we could be overwhelmed by even more unfit souls attempting to enter.”
“I see,” I said. “What leads you to believe that it is the Ripper?”
“Just as there is no duration in Heaven, neither is there location. The Pearly Gates, though quite small themselves, exist in all locations.”
“Ah!” I said, finally comprehending the nature of the problem. “Would I be correct in assuming that the attempt to break out was made in the vicinity of the souls of Elizabeth Stride, Annie Chapman, Catherine Eddowes, Mary Kelly and Mary Ann Nicholls?”
“His five victims,” said Saint Peter, nodding. “Actually, two of them are beyond even his reach, but Stride, Chapman and Kelly are in Purgatory.”
“Can you bring those three to Heaven?” I asked.
“As bait?” asked Saint Peter. “I am afraid not. No one may enter Heaven before his or her time. Besides,” he added, “there is nothing he can do to them in spiritual form. As you yourself know, one cannot even communicate with other souls here. One spends all eternity reveling in the glory of God.”
“So that is what one does here,” I said wryly.
“Please, Mr. Holmes!” he said severely.
“I apologize,” I said. “Well, it seems we must set a trap for the Ripper on his next escape attempt.”
“Can we be sure he will continue his attempts to escape?”
“He is perhaps the one soul less suited to Heaven than I myself,” I assured him.
“It seems an impossible undertaking,” said Saint Peter morosely. “He could try to leave at any point.”
“He will attempt to leave in the vicinity of his victims,” I answered.
“How can you be certain of that?” asked Saint Peter.
“Because those slayings were without motive.”
“I do not understand.”
“Where there is no motive,” I explained, “there is no reason to stop. You may rest assured that he will attempt to reach them again.”
“Even so, how am I to apprehend him—or even identify him?” asked Saint Peter.
“Is location necessar
ily meaningless in Heaven?” I asked.
He stared at me uncomprehendingly.
“Let me restate that,” I said. “Can you direct the Pearly Gates to remain in the vicinity of the souls in question?”
He shook his head. “You do not comprehend, Mr. Holmes. They exist in all times and places at once.”
“I see,” I said, wishing I had my pipe to draw upon now that I was in human form. “Can you create a second gate?”
“It would not be the same,” said Saint Peter.
“It needn’t be the same, as long as it similar to the perception of a soul.”
“He would know instantly.”
I shook my head. “He is quite insane. His thought processes, such as they are, are aberrant. If you do as I suggest, and place a false gate near the souls of his victims, my guess is that he will not pause to notice the difference. He is somehow drawn to them, and this will be a barrier to his desires. He will be more interested in attacking it than in analyzing it, even if he were capable of the latter, which I am inclined to doubt.”
“You’re quite sure?” asked Saint Peter doubtfully.
“He is compelled to perform his carnage upon prostitutes. For whatever reason, these seem to be the only souls he can identify as prostitutes. Therefore, it is these that he wishes to attack.” I paused again. “Create the false gates. The soul that goes through them will be the one you seek.”
“I hope you are correct, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Pride is a sin, but even I have a modicum of it, and I should hate to be shamed before my Lord.”
And with that, he was gone.
* * *
He returned after an indeterminate length of time, a triumphant smile upon his face.
“I assume that our little ruse worked?” I said.
“Exactly as you said it would!” replied Saint Peter. “Jack the Ripper is now where he belongs, and shall never desecrate Heaven with his presence again.” He stared at me. “You should be thrilled, Mr. Holmes, and yet you look unhappy.”
“I envy him in a way,” I said. “For at least he now has a challenge.”
“Do not envy him,” said Saint Peter. “Far from having a challenge, he can look forward to nothing but eternal suffering.”
“I have that in common with him,” I replied bitterly.
“Perhaps not,” said Saint Peter.
I was instantly alert. “Oh?”
“You have saved me from shame and embarrassment,” he said. “The very least I can do is reward you.”
“How?”
“I rather thought you might have a suggestion.”
“This may be Heaven to you,” I said, “but it is Hell to me. If you truly wish to reward me, send me to where I can put my abilities to use. There is evil abroad in the world; I am uniquely qualified to combat it.”
“You would really turn your back on Heaven to continue your pursuit of injustice, to put yourself at risk on almost a daily basis?” asked Saint Peter.
“I would.”
“Even knowing that, should you fall from the path of righteousness—and it is a trickier path than your churches would have you believe—this might not be your ultimate destination?”
“Even so.” And privately I thought: especially so.
“Then I see no reason why I should not grant your request,” said Saint Peter.
“Thank God!” I muttered.
Saint Peter smiled again. “Thank Him yourself—when you think of it. He does listen, you know.”
Suddenly I found myself back in that infinite gray landscape I had encountered after going over the falls at Reichenbach, only this time, instead of a shining light, I thought I could see a city in the distance …
* * *
“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?”
— The Adventure of the Empty House
***
This one was an assignment for a vampire anthology. I have never been able to take the icons of the horror story—vampires, werewolves, witches, etc.—seriously, but that doesn’t mean I can’t offer my less-than-serious take on them.
A Little Night Music
The Beatles?
Yeah, I remember ’em. Especially the little one—what was his name?—oh, yeah: Ringo.
The Stones? Sure I booked ‘em. That Mick what’s-his-name was a strange one, let me tell you.
Kiss, Led Zepplin, the Who, Eddie and the Cruisers, I’ve booked ‘em all at one time or another.
After awhile, they all kind of fade together in your memory. In fact, there’s just one group that stands out. Strange, too, since they never made any kind of a splash.
Ever hear of Vlad and the Impalers?
I didn’t think so. Hell, there’s no reason why you should have. I never heard of ‘em either, until Benny—he’s not exactly my partner, but we kind of cooperate together from time to time—calls me up one day and says he’s picked up a group and do I have any holes in the schedule? So I look at the calendar, and I see a couple of gigs that are open, and I say yeah, what the hell, send their agent over and maybe we can do a little business. Benny says they don’t have an agent, that this guy Vlad handles all the details himself. Now, if you’ve ever had to deal with one of these jokers, you know why I wasn’t exactly thrilled, but the lead guitarist from this futuristic Buckets of Gor band has been hauled in for possession and I don’t see anyone racing to make his bail, so I tell Benny I’ve got half an hour open at three in the afternoon.
“No good, Murray,” he says. “The guy’s a late sleeper.”
“Most guys in this business are,” I say, “but three in the afternoon is almost tomorrow.”
“How’s about you two have dinner together, maybe around seven or so?” says Benny.
“Out of the question, baby,” I answer. “I got a hot date, and I just bought a new set of gold chains that figure to impress her right into the sack.”
“This Vlad guy don’t like to be kept waiting,” says Benny.
“Well, if he wants a booking, he can damn well learn to wait.”
“Okay, okay, let me check his schedule,” says Benny. He pauses for a minute. “So how’s three o’clock?”
“I thought you just said he couldn’t make it at three.”
“I mean three o’clock in the morning.”
“What is this guy, an insomniac?” I ask. But then I remember that powder-blue Mercedes 560 SL with the sun roof that I saw the other day, and I figure what the hell, maybe this guy’s group can earn my down payment for me, so I say that three in the A.M. is okay—and as it turns out, I could have met him at seven after all, because this broad throws a bowl of soup at me and walks out of the restaurant just because I try to play a little bit of Itsy-Bitsy-Spider on her thigh under the table.
So I go back to the office and lay down on the couch and take a nap, and when I wake up there’s this skinny guy dressed all in black, sitting down on a chair and staring at me. I figure he’s strung out on something, because his eyes have got like wall-to-wall pupils, and his skin is white as a sheet, and I try to remember how much cash I have lying around the place, but then he bows his head and speaks.
“Good evening, Mr. Barron,” he says. “I believe you were expecting me?”
“I was?” I say, sitting up and trying to focus my eyes.
“Your associate said that I was to meet you here,” he continues. “I am Vlad.”
“Oh, right,” I say, as my head starts to clear.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barron,” he says, extending his hand.
“Call me Murray,” I answer, taking his hand, which is cold as a dead fish and much the same texture. “Well, Vlad,” I say, dropping his hand as soon as I can and leaning back on the couch, “tell me a little something about you and your group. Where have you played?”
“Mostly overseas,” he says, and I realize that he’s got an accent, though I can’t quite pl
ace it.
“Well, nothing wrong with that,” I say. “Some of our best groups started in Liverpool. One of ‘em, anyway,” I add with a chuckle.
He just stares at me without smiling, which kind of puts me off, since if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a guy with no sense of humor. “You will book my group, then?” he says.
“That’s what I’m here for, Vlad bubby,” I say, starting to relax as I get used to those eyes and that skin. “Matter of fact, there’s an opening on a cruise ship going down to Acapulco. Six days and out. Five bills a night and all the waitresses you can grab.” I smile again, so he’ll know he’s dealing with a man of the world and not just some little schmuck who doesn’t understand what’s going on.
He shakes his head. “Nothing on water.”
“You get seasick?” I ask.
“Something like that.”
“Well,” I say, scratching my head and then making sure my hairpiece is still in place, “there’s a wedding party that’s looking for some entertainment at the reception.”
“What is their religion?” he asks.
“It makes a difference?” I say. “I mean, they’re looking for a rock group. Nobody’s asking you to play Have Nagila.”
“No churches,” he says.
“For a guy who’s looking for work, bubby, you got a lot of conditions,” I say. “You want to work with me, you got to meet me halfway.”
“We will work in any venue that is not a church or a boat,” he says. “We work only at night, and we require total privacy during the day.”
Well, at this point I figure I’m wasting my time, and I’m about to show him the door, and then he says the magic words: “If you will do as I ask, we will pay you 50% of our fee, rather than your usual commission.”
“Vlad, sweetheart,” I say, “I have the feeling that this is the beginning of a long and beautiful relationship!” I walk to the wet bar behind my desk and pull out a bottle of bubbly. “Shall we make it official?” I ask, reaching for a couple of glasses.
“I don’t drink … champagne,” he says.
I shrug. “Okay, name your poison, bubby.”
“I don’t drink poison, either.”