Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) (18 page)

W
hen I got
to the house, the garage door opened for me and the house key still worked. The doorjamb was still chewed-up, but I’d worry about it later.

I felt famished. Pop-Tarts and little orange crackers weren’t doing it for me, so I made myself a sandwich.

Tara came down from upstairs, folded her arms and said, “I want a divorce.”

If I acted like I wanted one too, that might hurt her. If I acted like I didn’t, maybe she’d worry I’d cause problems and wouldn’t sign the papers or whatever. Or worse, she’d feel relief that Scott wanted to fix the relationship. It wasn’t fixable, but there was no way I could tell her that. If she ever learned of those recordings, she’d be crushed.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

“We should get a divorce,” I said.

Tara wiped her cheek.

“What about the house?” she said. “I … we can’t live here together. And you’re not staying here while I’m stuck at my mom’s. I deserve better.”

“I’ll move out,” I said. “You stay here until we sell it.”

Tara was quiet for a time. “You’ll be with her.”

If I said yes, that’d seal the decision, give it permanence.

I shook my head and said, “I’ll get a room somewhere inexpensive.”

Tara nodded.

“Good,” she said, then turned and went back upstairs.

W
ith all the
sadness I’d seen in the last few hours, I decided it was time to get back to my roots. Dan Jenkins liked fun. Dan Jenkins hated evil moms who exploited their kids for money, and that’s why I went online looking for a Borders Bookstore somewhere in Toledo, because I’d never seen anyone evil in a bookstore even once.

Imagine my surprise: Borders had gone out of business.

It was like when I’d found out about 9/11 a month after it happened, except way less important.

I searched for another large bookstore and found one on Secor Road. It’d do in a pinch, and things were pinchy as hell at the moment.

After entering the store and experiencing that first rush of excitement—like anything was possible—I went hunting for something good to read. And by that I mean I went through the Fantasy and Science Fiction section and picked up books with cool covers and eyeball-scanned the pages, one by one. The memories wouldn’t crystalize until after I was back in the Great Wherever, but that was fine. In fact, that was the point—I’d have stuff to read.

Just like a camera, I made sure to capture every word without getting my thumbs or fingers in the way. I could do about a page a second, a book per five to six minutes on average. Starting with my favorite authors first, I scanned anything new they had, then moved to the folks I’d never heard of before.

A lot had changed since my last ride. Young adult books were overflowing in their own section, and werewolves were suddenly cool again. Vampires too. I made sure to scan a bunch of
Twilight
books to see what all the fuss was about.

“Sir, what are you doing?” a woman’s voice said from my right.

“Checking for mistakes.”

“Pardon?” she said.

A quick glance showed she was an employee, mid-twenties, with pink hair and a face like an angel. There’s something about bookstores that attracts girls with pink hair and faces like angels.

Still flipping pages, I said, “If I find a book with no spelling errors, I usually buy it. You don’t expect me to buy a defective book, do you?”

She made a brushing aside motion and said, “We’ve had complaints. You can’t just, you know, go through all the books like that. You could rip a page or something.”

I finished the last page of the third book in the
Twilight
series before putting it back on the shelf. Then I turned and gave her my full attention.

“What if I find a spelling error when I get home? Can I get a refund?”

In a suffering tone, she said, “You’re worried about
spelling
errors?”

I nodded. “Your website said you give refunds for defective books.”

I’d never been to their website, and I doubted she had either.

Rolling her pretty eyes she said, “Refunds are for torn pages and stuff, not spelling … this is ridiculous, just browse normally, okay?”

I picked an old favorite off the shelf and handed it to her.

“Page 256, there’s a typo. Third paragraph down, the author wrote
the the
when he clearly meant to have just one
the
.” I frowned and shook my head sadly. “To think I almost bought that thing.”

I put my faith in the cheapness of publishers that it hadn’t been fixed in five years.

The employee—Ashley, her name tag read—opened the book and thumbed through it. When she found the line, she sighed.

“Is that your big trick? Get a bunch of attention and then fool someone into thinking you’re Rain Man? What’s the scam?”

“No scam,” I said. “Pick a random page and read a line.”

For the first time, the skeptical smirk faded from her bookstore-girl face. She pursed her lips, then opened the book and read a line out loud.

“Now what, Rain Man?”

Also out loud, I read from memory from where she’d left off.

Ashley studied me with a puzzled expression, blinked in surprise, then quietly read along with me. I kept it up for two pages before picking another book off the shelf—a really thick one,
Battlefield Earth,
by L. Ron Hubbard—and handed it to her.

“Do your worst,” I said.

Ashley laughed like a little girl and read another line chosen from near the back. I followed with the rest of the page and three more after that. The whole time, I watched her lips mouthing the words as she read along with me. It was like we were in tune or something. I’d think something, say it, and she’d say it at the same time. It was the closest to simpatico I’d ever been with a pink-haired woman before.

At some point I noticed we’d attracted a small crowd of mostly young people. One of them started clapping. I got another book and handed it to him, then picked up two more books I’d read before and handed them out, making it all seem random.

“Go on and read something,” I said to the teenage boy.

“Anywhere?” he said.

I nodded.

He read a line and I took it from there. With every new book, I’d keep reading while putting the previous one away. That was the hard part, doing two things at once. Even harder, finding and picking new books without breaking stride.

Five minutes later, the crowd had grown to about fifteen people, each of them looking at me with expressions of admiration or shock. Then, about two minutes later, an older woman stepped through the spectators, breaching the respectful barrier they’d formed around me. Another bookstore employee, though without colored hair.

“Hel
lo
?” she said in a singsong voice. “What’s going
on
here?”

Though ostensibly friendly, she glanced from Ashley to me with an expression of thinly veiled disapproval, the set of her jaw threatening to suck the fun and joy from the atmosphere. Where Ashley had on jeans and a cool t-shirt, this woman had on less trendy, more professional, attire. Her name tag read: “Linda.” And underneath that, in thick bold lettering: “Manager.”

Ashley quickly told Linda what was going on. There were still four books out, so I took them back and put them away. I didn’t want to get Ashley in trouble.

“Sorry, Linda,” I said. “Just having a little literary fun.”

Linda glanced down at her name tag and then back at me.

“Fun’s
fine
,” she said, smiling tightly, her thin lips threatening to crack a tooth. “But Ashley has work to do,
and
we’re not supposed to have more than three people in any of the aisles at a
time
. Fire code regulations, I’m
sure
you understand.”

Oh how I wish I’d read a fire code even once in my life. I would have shown her. Total nonsense, of course. Fire codes only cared about occupancy or obstructed fire exits, not people packing the aisles and enjoying themselves. She was just mad someone was having fun without her permission.

“You’re right,” I said. “Fun’s over folks! Brun-Linda wants you to spread out, one per aisle. Make sure you don’t mess up and start any fires—especially you Ashley. You’re a scorcher.”

Ashley covered her mouth with her hand, but I saw she was smiling behind it. Probably wasn’t used to hearing stuff like that from older men with red hair and super memories. Or maybe she heard stuff like that all the time and that’s how she always reacted. I almost asked her about it, but—

“You will
not
talk to my employees that way,” Linda said with a look of triumph in her eyes. Now she had a reason to get rid of me that didn’t involve fabricated fire codes. “Sir, I think you need to go now.”

“Well, if you’re only thinking about it…”

“I’m
asking
you to leave,” she said.

“Well, if you’re only asking me…”

“Sir,” she said, “I’m
ordering
you off the premises!”

Laughing, I said, “But I’m not
selling
me off the premises.”

“Get out of my store!” she shouted.

“I can throw myself out fine, thank you,” I said, heading toward the front.

Linda paced me the entire way, her face fused in a granite-like grimace.

“Look, quick, moral turpitude!” I said and pointed at a young couple standing near the New Releases holding hands in a fire lane.

“Just keep going,” Linda said, marching along behind me.

Still going, I said, “So, how much do you bench? Two fifty? Were you ever in Nam? Do you sometimes wear an eye patch and raid other bookstores?”

“What?” she said.

When I got outside, the manager glared at me from behind the glass doors. A few seconds later, Ashley joined her and waved sadly.

Smiling, I dipped low into a mocking bow and then left.

T
he problem
, I decided, was that the Great Wherever was incredibly boring—like living in one of those sensory deprivation things for weeks, months, and now years at a time. Assuming the Great Whomever was God, it seemed maybe he could spruce the place up a little, give me a physical body and add a few pinball machines or something. The fact he hadn’t done so, after all my begging, was sort of a slap in the face. I mean I’d take anything. If I couldn’t have a real body, how about a thought-powered morphine drip so I could zone-out and not be aware anymore?

Popping into a ride like Scott—with food and TV and naked women everywhere—had turned me into the Jenkins equivalent of a drunken sailor.

But that was all over now.

My little showing-off excursion had done wonders for me. I’d gotten in too deep with this crowd of cheating, exploiting, Jeep-driving specimens of humanity, and I needed to step back. I was Dan Jenkins: immortal assassin, fast food aficionado, celibate provocateur of other people’s wives and girlfriends. I was aloof. I was the world’s greatest loof. Nothing much fazed me, or not for very long, because the world was doomed.

“We’re all doomed,” Joe said again. He was one of Scott’s legitimate patients, and he had come in Tuesday morning promptly at nine thirty.

“Doomed,” I said. “Absolutely.”

“Come again?”

“I agree—we’re all doomed.”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” he said, blinking at me in confusion.

“Do you want me to lie to you? Ok, we’re
not
doomed.”

According to Joe’s file, he was chronically depressed and had been ever since his wife left him, shortly after their wedding. He had a job as a mechanic, tended to overeat when he was feeling bad, and was frequently lonely. It was like talking with a more talented version of me.

“Doc, come on,” Joe said, smiling. “You’re supposed to cheer me up, remember?”

“Is that what I do around here?” I said, looking around and blinking.

“Someone’s gotta, right?”

“How about you?” I said. “Tell me something cheerful. Perk me up. Drive my doomy feelings away.”

Joe made a
huh
sort of laugh, and shook his head. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Is Bill Murray a doctor? He always drives my doomy feelings away.”

“I’m not Bill Murray, either,” he said. “And anyway, how can anyone be happy? My great grandmother died in the Holocaust. Now there’s all these wars and mass shootings and everything.”

“You’re Jewish?” I said.

“Yeah. That okay with you?”

“It’s just a little suspicious. A Jewish mechanic?”

Joe laughed. “I know, right? But I like what I do. I’m good at it. Ma won’t forgive me for it, either. Says Granny didn’t die in the Holocaust so I could wear greasy clothes. Says that’s why Clara left me.” He shook his head. “You feeling happy yet?”

“A little happy,” I said. “Genghis Khan was way worse than Hitler.”

Joe made a derisive sound. “You’re crazy. Hitler killed six million Jews, tore up Europe and destroyed all kinds of priceless art. Also, no offense, Doc, but you need to watch what you say. People get offended when you go around apologizing for Hitler.”

“Who’s apologizing?” I said. “Genghis Khan killed anywhere from twenty-five to fifty million people, and the Mongols tortured millions of men, women, and children before killing them.”

Joe cocked his head and studied me. “Really? They did all that? What else did they do?”

“There was a city in China called Zhongdu,” I said. “Over a million people lived there. The Chinese leaders didn’t send help when the Khan was fighting the Khwarezmian Shah in Iran. The Khan wanted revenge, so the Mongols killed everyone in the city. They also killed all the populace outside the city. He left giant mounds of bones all over the landscape. Travelers approaching Zhongdu after the massacre couldn’t even use the roads.” I smiled. “Go ahead and ask me why.”

Joe’s expression grew bleak. “Do I really wanna know?”

“No,” I said, “you don’t.”

After a moment’s hesitation he said, “Tell me.”

“The roads were too slippery,” I said.

“With blood, right?”

I shook my head.

“Then what was it?”

“A thick layer of liquefied human fat, covering the ground for miles.”

Joe jumped at that, his hands leaping up in front of him as if for protection.

“Eew!” he said.

“That was just one city,” I said. “The Mongols sacked ninety-two such cities in China. They did stuff like that everywhere, and not just China.”

Joe was shaking his head. “Wow. Makes Hitler look like an amateur. So they tortured all those people?”

I nodded.

“Man,” he said. “Where did you learn this stuff? I thought you were just a shrink.”

“Nobody’s just one thing,” I said. “Mostly I read science fiction and fantasy. But a few years back I went through a history phase and started reading anything that looked good. Pretty soon I discovered it all looked good, and I went a little crazy. Let’s just say I’ve read a lot of books. One of them was about Genghis Khan.”

What I didn’t tell him was how I’d gone to the Library of Congress and wore out their book runners by requesting hundreds of books a day, then eyeball-scanned them like I’d done at the bookstore. Eventually, just like at the bookstore, I was asked to leave. It was worth it. Between that ride and the next I read every one of those books I’d scanned.

“Wow,” Joe said. “Kind of makes me feel ignorant. All this time there was a worse guy out there than Hitler.”

“Hitler was still pretty bad,” I said.

“Human fat,” he said shaking his head. “I can’t even imagine it. Yuck.”

A soft pulsing tone came from the desk. I’d re-enabled the alarm clock Scott used to let patients know their time was up.

“Looks like we’re done,” Joe said. “If it’s okay, can you write down that Mongol book?”

“Sure,” I said, and went to write it down.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said when I handed it to him. “This was like the best time I ever had here.”

“How so?”

Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. Just different. I feel pretty good. Can’t wait to read that book. Then I can tell Ma how Granny got off lucky. Maybe I’ll pick a few more books. If I find something good, I’ll let you know.”

I nodded noncommittally and said, “Thank you. Take care, Joe.”

“You too, Doc.”

When my next patient showed up, she tried to take her clothes off. I stopped her and handed her the attendance sheet, then politely told her I didn’t do that anymore. She shrugged, neither happy nor unhappy about it, then signed the sheet and left.

M
elody hadn’t been
at the front desk when I showed up that day, and she wasn’t there when I left, around four thirty. Once again, I cancelled any remaining appointments with a jaunty “I’m feeling sick again” thrown over my shoulder at Pam.

Pam shouted back, “I said I’m not your damn secretary!”

As much as I didn’t like being hated by her, she was actually on my side without even realizing it. Go Pam.

When I got to the car, a call came from Tara.

“Are you coming straight home?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m leaving soon, as a matter of fact.”

“Good. There’s a real estate person showing up in ten minutes, and I was hoping you could be here for that.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I said. “Can you get all the finance stuff out of the way?”

“Just get here,” she said, and hung up.

I went to a doughnut shop I’d found online that morning. That way, Tara could talk about Scott’s salary and how much was owed on the house. Also, I wanted some doughnuts, though I’d have to enjoy them without milk. Another reason to hate Scott.

When I got to the shop, I gave the old woman behind the register my order and added I’d pay anything for a lemon-filled doughnut.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “We ran out of those this morning.”

I finished my doughnuts before I arrived and hid the bag behind the passenger seat. Otherwise Tara or the real estate agent would wonder why I hadn’t brought enough for them.

The first thing I noticed on getting out of the car was a brand new minivan parked on the road outside the house. The other first thing I noticed was the photograph plastered across the side of it.

Of my sister, Jane.

Jane looked like Jane, except more adult now. Great hair, though I couldn’t tell what color it was. She was younger than me by two years, which put her at forty. And now she was a real estate agent who happened to work out of Toledo … and happened to be in the house of a man who happened to be my ride.

I would have paused to consider my options but I didn’t have any. Also, when coincidence shows up plastered on the side of a minivan with indeterminate hair color, you do what you’re kind-of told—you go inside and deal with it. So that’s what I tried to do, except my feet wouldn’t move. Also, my hands were sweating. There had to be a reason why she was here. That’s how the Great Whomever worked. He put me where I was needed. Did she need me? Was someone trying to kill her, something like that?

“Why?” I said, looking at the sky.

Suddenly, as if answering my question, several cumulus clouds formed together into the face of a wizened old man with a booming voice, and … all right, no, that didn’t happen. Would have been cool, though, and definitely more helpful.

I went inside and found Tara and my sister in the dining room. Together, they turned toward me—the one frowning, the other smiling professionally. I wanted to laugh. This was the same girl who’d spent a whole summer walking around barefoot because
that’s what the Indians did.
She used to play in the mud. Now she was all dressed up and acting completely different.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Jane Jenkins.”

“Scott,” I said.

We shook hands. It took everything in me not to hold on a fraction too long. My sister’s hand, after all these years.

Why is she a Jenkins again?

Jane had gotten married when she was nineteen, a few months before my death. We all figured it was a rebellion thing. It was a little weird, too. The groom’s family had ponied up the money for a great wedding with a live band, a team of photographers, and a catered reception on a river cruiser. A thirty-one-year-old man marrying a nineteen-year-old girl, but she said she loved him, and Jane always got her way. Nobody thought it would last, and clearly it hadn’t. I wondered if they’d had kids.

I checked out her rings, of which there were several. She could have re-married and hadn’t changed her last name this time. Plenty of people kept their names for professional reasons, or when their husbands’ last names were things like Dickmeister or Fugenheimer.

Jane Fugenheimer…

“Something funny, Mr. Schaefer?” Jane said, smiling curiously. Not at all like the girl who’d purposely burst into tears when Dad walked into the room, and then lie and say I’d hit her. Now she was talking like a grownup.

“Just something I heard on the way in,” I said. “On the radio. Those shock jocks, I tell you.”

“They are amusing,” she said.

Tara glanced from me to Jane and back again.

“We were just going over our situation,” Tara said.

“Great,” I said. “How do we look?”

Jane whipped out an iPad, something that hadn’t existed on my last ride, and began pecking away at it.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any good news,” she said. “You’re upside down on the house. The government has a program for folks in your situation, but with your income, Mr. Schaefer, you don’t qualify. So you’ll have to come up with the additional fifty thousand at closing.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m really sorry.”

Tara said, “I was thinking with our savings, and some help from my mom and Scott’s dad, we might be able to do it. Or maybe we can just … you know … walk away?”

Jane shook her head and said, “That’s a really bad idea, Mrs. Schaefer. They’ll auction the house off for less than I can get for it and you’ll owe that much more. Plus it’ll destroy your credit. Talk to your mom, and you, talk to your dad. Also, it’s worth a shot to check with the bank. They might be willing to forgive a portion of the money if they thought you were entertaining ideas of walking away.” She shrugged. “Worst that happens is they say no.”

To think this was the same girl who’d brought a brick to school for show and tell.

Tara studied me and said, “Why are you still smiling?”

“Just keeping a positive outlook on life, that’s all.”

“Hey, that’s right,” Jane said. “Mrs. Schaefer tells me you’re a psychologist.”

Chuckling politely, I said, “I dabble…”

A bit loudly, Tara said, “I
insist
you call me Tara.”

For the first time since arriving, Jane’s professional face slipped. She looked in my eyes and appeared momentarily confused—no longer the self-assured real estate agent. And maybe I was imagining it, but for a second it seemed some hidden knowledge passed between us, special and deep and thicker than water.

Jane blinked her eyes and smiled embarrassedly.

“Forgive me,” she said. “But … um, can I come by your office some time? Make an appointment? It’s about my mother.”

Then, realizing how that sounded, she added, “Not that way. It’s just … well, it’s sort of personal, and that’s not why I’m here today, I know. I’ve just been worried about her.”

“Not at all,” I said, grinning to put her at ease. “If it weren’t for families, I’d be broke.”

Jane smiled weakly.

Tara was watching me, her head cocked at an arch angle. She glanced at Jane and then back at me again.

This was my chance to throw a monkey wrench into the Great Whomever’s plans. He’d set this whole scenario up just to get me alone with my sister for who knew what reason. Whatever it was, I probably wouldn’t like it. Also, I was worried. People around Dan Jenkins had a statistically higher chance of getting shot or stabbed than, say, Eliot Jenkins or Marty Jenkins or even Leopold Jenkins. But if Jane was in some kind of trouble, I couldn’t just walk away.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow? Say, nine thirty?”