Dead Souls (17 page)

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.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “So this is
compassion
on your part.”

“Of a kind, yes. Think of me as a minister of the damned. Art and ministry are not so different, in the end. Different venues to ease the minds of those suffering. Both equally futile, but all that matters is maintaining the illusion. For most, the illusion is enough. But you . . . you
think
you want to see beyond it.”

“The Oz behind the curtain.”

Alejandro laughs. “Yes, the Oz who is no Oz, just a man like any other.”

“You
already
made a double deal.” A statement, not a question.

A long pause. “Very prescient. But I do not think the truth will make you feel any better. Let's just say I do not recommend it. Anything can become hell. Life especially.”

“So just give in? Like Mike and Ellen? You think that's preferable?”

“I think it is what it is,” says Alejandro. “Delaying the inevitable only causes more pain. For yourself, and others. Eventually it leads to madness. You see what happened to Saul's mind.”

I grip the phone tighter. “How do you know about that?”

“Go home, Fiona. Spend what time you have left with Justin.” I can hear raw emotion in his voice, true triste. “One day you will look back on even these hard times as happiness, compared to what comes next. But in a way, I envy you. Knowing it will all end, eventually. Take some comfort in that. Enjoy what is good in you, your humanity, as long as you can. Once it is gone, you can never truly find it again.”

With that he hangs up on me.

I drop my phone, slam my hand on the dashboard, hard. “Fuck!” Slam it three more times, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Then I grab the steering wheel, holding on for dear life because I want to punch my fist through the windshield, I want to feel the scrape of broken glass against skin, I want pain, and the release that comes with it.

It's been a decade since I've felt so abandoned, so alone, and so completely, utterly screwed.

Think, Fiona. Breathe
. I lean back in my seat, look down for the card. Still on the console where I left it. Still blank after the word
FAVOR
.
There's time
. I pick it up, put it on the dashboard, wondering at its stark whiteness. It almost glows, as if it has a
soul of its own. I can taste my dried tears on my lips, and when I think about what I'm about to do next, whether it's right, or wrong, I can't tell. Right and wrong are ghosts, long gone. So I focus on the last noble thought I had, which is to save Justin's life, or at least try. The only compass I have left.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

W
HEN I FINALLY GET TO THE CHOIR LOFT,
it feels like the after-party of the damned. Just Renata, Clarissa, and Jasmine. Empty chairs where Jeb and Dan would usually sit, a gaping space marking Mike's, Ellen's, and Alejandro's absences. Even the Virgin pressed in stained glass appears wan, bereft, forlorn.

I pull up a chair, note the noise it makes scraping across the floor. Surprisingly not too many patrons of the New Parish present on a Sunday evening, so it's a noticeable sound. Random heads below glance up momentarily, then look away.

My purpose is dark, and I wonder how well I'll be able to hide my true intentions. Renata in particular is a sharp one. But before any major deal, the first order of business is a competitive analysis—I need to know if anyone else is planning a double deal, and what their offer might be so I can trump it.
Only so many souls
, as Saul said. A limited quantity. And Alejandro already has a jump on all of us.

“Nothing from Alejandro?” Clarissa tremulously asks.

I shake my head, trying to emote the same despondence when really just the mention of his name makes me seethe.

“Not even a text?” Clarissa appears on the verge of tears. She bravely blinks them back. I remember that look she gave Alejandro, wonder how far their relationship went.

“It's really real, isn't it?” says Jasmine. She rolls a straw on the table with her finger. “It just didn't seem real until now.”

True. The thought of Scratch calling in our favors was always comfortingly abstract. We could focus on our conspiracy theories, swap stories about our daily lives, enjoy the fruit of our gifts. The book of dead souls was a record of what happened to people we didn't know, more like a history book than a predictive model for our own future, and we read it like it was just a collection of horror stories told at a campfire by counselors, holding their flashlights under their chin. How could such insanity possibly seem real in the twenty-first century? There are rovers on Mars, for Christ's sake. Nanobot viruses. Selling your soul is just such a medieval idea, like contracting bubonic plague or being tortured in an iron maiden.

“Do we have a choice?” asks Clarissa tentatively. “About doing the favor?”

“Do you think Ellen and Mike would have done
that
if they had a choice?” Renata's tone is caustic.

Jasmine takes her finger off the straw. “So what, he just calls in the favor and we're robots? What about free will? I thought the Bible was big on that.”

A waitress approaches, and we all immediately fall into a guilty silence. At first I order a Guinness, but then I quickly change it to a whiskey.

“We
had
free will,” says Clarissa, once the waitress is out of earshot. “We could have said no, at the beginning.”

“You don't have to be such a fucking martyr, Clarissa,” says Renata. “It's not like we were presented with the fine print. At least,
I
wasn't.”

Clarissa looks into her glass, eyes welling with tears again. “I just wanted to be pretty.”

Renata snorts.

“What?” says Jasmine. “What
exactly
is wrong with that? Please, enlighten us.”

“Well let's start with how we value women's bodies . . .”

Three
. There's three of them left. I could be sitting next to tomorrow's evening news. I should leave, I shouldn't be so visible in their company and they seem more interested in bickering than a double deal—but no wait, there's Jeb and Dan too. No one's heard from them.
Would
Scratch be here just to collect our small group? Why did he drop the location of New Parish's address? Either someone told him about it, or our theory about the devil abhorring churches is complete garbage and he's been here, watching us all this time.

Now a tear does roll down Clarissa's cheek. “I just wanted to be
noticed
.”

His hand at the small of my back.

Christ,
not now, not now
. I have to maintain the facade that I don't know any more than they do. I feel eyes flick toward me, Jasmine's. She suspects something.

We're all quiet again as the waitress returns with my whiskey.
She
also suspects something—we're far too still, tense. “Um, anything else I can get you girls?”

Renata bursts out with an inappropriate laugh.

“We're good, thanks,” says Jasmine, shooting daggers in Renata's direction.

The waitress clocks us and walks away. Looks back once over her shoulder, long enough to get a good description of us. I make a mental note to pay in cash.

“It's just
pathetic
, that's all.” Renata's wild hair is wilder, like she hasn't even bothered with a comb today. “Selling your soul to attain some bullshit patriarchal idea of beauty.”

I raise the glass, take a sip. My mouth is instantly on fire, but the burning feels good at the moment. I'll need more of it before the night is through. And God, trying not to think about what happened at Alejandro's house only triggers more thoughts—I feel like my pores exude sulfur. I look up to the Virgin pressed in glass, her gaze cemented downwards, something judgmental in her aspect tonight.
Where were
you
?
I ask her silently.
Where are your angels, your saints?

No reply. But then there never is, not from that side of the house.

“Like
you
did so well,” says Jasmine. “Really,
bravo
.” Maybe this is what she asked Scratch for—the ability to piss Renata off, not that it's hard.

“What
is
it with you anyways?” says Renata. “You've always had it in for me—”

My cell buzzes and everyone stops, stares.

I pull it out, look. “It's just Justin.”

They still look, not believing me. Our tribe is disintegrating into something out of
Lord of the Flies
. I hold the screen out to them, proof.

Must be a lot of Tylenol. Either that or you got into a car accident and are in a hospital in which case I forgive you.

I'm grateful for the excuse to exit. “He's getting sick. I
should go.” I knock back the rest of the whiskey, which makes my eyes water.

“He's been sick for a year,” says Renata. “Why the rush tonight?”

She's suspicious
. Is she planning a double deal too? But then she's Renata, of course she is. Maybe they all are, maybe they're
in cahoots
.

“We should check,” says Clarissa.

I'm confused, as both Renata and Jasmine appear to be.

“We should check our cards,” says Clarissa, firmly, decisively. “And each other's.”

It's a splash of cold water, instantly sobering, although damn, there's that part of me that notes the visual cliché of the moment, laying our cards on the table. But to avoid it would seem suspicious, so I reach into my purse and pull out my silver business card holder. I open it, take out my card, lay it down. Completely and utterly pristine. No one would ever guess something had been written there earlier.

They all lean in. A mixture of complicated emotions brew—if not me, then who?

Clarissa's next, she places her birdlike purse on the table (vintage, round), and pulls out an eyeglass case. Gingerly cracks it open like she's opening a ring case, anticipating a proposal. A smile teases.

She plucks the card out of her case, lays it on the table.
FAVOR:
blank.

Two down, two to go.

Renata stares at Jasmine, Jasmine stares at Renata, but Jasmine must want to move things along because she reaches into her back pocket for her wallet, opens it to the slots for credit
cards, pulls out hers and places it gracefully on the table.
FAVOR:
blank.

This leaves Renata in the unenviable position of being last, and it does feel like we're drawing straws and the odds are accruing against her. She seems nervous, unusually so. Sweat beads her forehead. Her foot
tap, tap, taps
the floor of the choir loft.

“This is bullshit,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm not playing.”

Jasmine focuses on her with a laser-like intensity. “Where is it?”

“I don't have to tell—”

Something lights across Jasmine's face, a
knowing
, and she leans forward aggressively, yanks Renata's shirt—Renata tries to push her away, but fails—and sticks her other hand down the front of Renata's shirt, feeling for her left breast.

“Hey, get the fuck off—”

And before she can finish her sentence Jasmine pulls out Renata's card, triumphant. Slaps it down on the table, like we're playing blackjack and she's got a king and an ace.

The card is thick with writing.

MY FIRST THOUGHT
is
Damn, only two more left before me
. I pick up my whiskey glass, realizing too late it's empty.

Maybe the favor was inscribed before I made my trade with Scratch.

“When did it happen?” The words tumble out before I really think about them, too late to realize that this is not the most appropriate or sensitive first question. And I haven't even read what's there.

Renata tries to scramble for the card but Clarissa is quicker, snatching it and scanning it quickly. Her lips purse.

“But it only tells you to steal an ambulance,” she says. “That's not so bad.” She looks at us all, her face beaming at the thought we all might get off so easily too. “That's not so bad at all. Right?”

“It's just the beginning,” says Renata thickly. “Not the whole favor.”

“And how exactly do you know that?” asks Jasmine.

Renata stares hard at the table, having a hard time focusing. For the first time I notice there are six empty shot glasses in front of her. I'm not the only one seeking liquid courage.

Without looking up, she says, “Mike texted me when he found something written on his card. All it said was to go pick up a Christmas tree. After that, I didn't hear from him again.”

A revelation. Everyone, including me, assumed that the favor would be inscribed in its entirety. The idea that we might be stepped along through the horrific process is chilling to say the least.

“You could have mentioned that before. Let me see it.”

Clarissa hands the card to Jasmine, obviously stunned, and Jasmine reads it. Renata slumps a bit in her chair, runs her hand along the balcony rail. I want to ask again about what time the card was inscribed, but that would raise a red flag, and I can't afford any red flags.

“How long have you known?” asks Jasmine, pointed and angry.

Praise Jesus
.

“An hour ago. I thought something electrical was burning in my car.”

I surreptitiously check my cell phone for the time. Goddamn,
after
. Her card was inscribed
after
I made my new trade. Does that leave two more before me, or does Renata only count after she's completed? Technicalities I should have thought of.
The devil is truly in the details
. I'm starting to see why Saul prefers solitary confinement to a double deal; there are already layers to just my simple contract adjustment, layers I'm sure Scratch was well aware of. I have to craft the language for my double deal so that it's unassailable, perfect, with all conditions thought through. It has to appear fair but lean toward protecting my own interest, like the credit card agreements you never read until your rate jumps from 3 percent to 33 because you paid a day after the bill was due.

“Has anyone heard from Jeb and Dan?” I ask.
What if their favors are being called in too?

“No,” says Clarissa. “Not even a text back.”

I have to go see them then—
fuck
, I thought I was buying a decent chunk of time to figure out next steps. My cell vibrates on the table again. We all look at it.

Fine. Whatever. Just go to hell.
—Justin

Renata laughs, and Jasmine slaps her arm.

“What?” says Renata. “That's so meta.”

But I'm not offended, I'm relieved, because I can viscerally feel the
tick
,
tick
,
tick
of each and every second. There's nothing else I can glean here.

“I'll walk you down,” says Jasmine.

Clarissa looks alarmed.
You're leaving me with
her
?
obvious on her face.

I would rather make a clean break by myself, but there's no
way to gracefully deflect Jasmine's offer. So I just murmur a “sure,” grab my coat, throw some bills on the table and sling my purse over my arm. Realize that I missed a button putting my clothes on in the car, and there's a peeking gap in my shirt at breast level. I slide the coat on to cover it.