Terminus (15 page)

“Look, you’ve been through a lot—more than I can imagine.”

Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around him so tight he could barely breathe.

“Don’t leave!  Whatever you do, don’t vanish again.”

“I won’t, but—”

“I’ll really go insane if you do.  Maybe I already am.”  She pinched his arm.

“Hey!”

“Okay, I guess you’re real.  But am I?”  She smiled.  “You pinch
me
!”

“I’m not going—”

“Fine.”  She reached up.  As though avoiding a punch, Nick backed away.  But then with both hands touched his face. Tracing the outline of his jaw, she gazed at him in wonder.

For a long moment.

At first, Nick meant to pull away.  But instead, he reached up and gently grasped her fingers. A tingling sensation ran through his being. For the first time in a century he felt the very real, very human sensation of touching, and being touched by a human.

His head felt light.

39

HE’D LOST TRACK OF HOW MUCH TIME had passed.   When you haven’t been touched by a woman meaningfully for over a hundred years, it takes you by surprise when it finally happens again. 

Finally, Hope pushed away just a bit, averting her gaze but not for long. 

“I’m
so
sorry.”  

“It’s...quite all right.”

“I don’t make a habit of touching strangers like that.” She let her hand slide down his neck, around the curve of his shoulder.  “But you’re not really a stranger, are you?”

Nick tried with no success whatsoever to collect his thoughts. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, backing away slightly.

“We met.  The day Chloe died.”

Still dazed by the effects of their contact, he could hardly think.  How did humans bear this without absolutely losing their minds? 

“Chloe...Yes, I remember.” 

“You touched me.  We looked into each other’s eyes.”  She took a small step back, her eyes ever widening in recognition.  “But it was so brief I always thought I’d imagined it.  Yet here you are.”

Regaining a little of his composure, he took a wobbly step back toward the chair. 

“Are you quite all right, Hope?”

“I think so.”  She touched her stomach, brushed his concern aside with a tentative smile.  “May I ask you a few questions?”

“A few?” Nick nearly fell back into the chair.  His head felt as though it was somewhere in the clouds.  “I don’t know if I’d make it through the first.”

Hope tightened the belt of her robe, came over to the edge of the chair, and knelt so she could look up into his face. 

“First question.  What’s your name?”

“Not sure I should tell you.”

“Why?”

“Is that question two?”

She smirked. 

“Okay, next.  Where did you come from?”  She narrowed her eyes scrutinizing him.

“That’s, um…classified.”

“Fine.” She gave him an appraising look.  “That brings us to question three.”

His throat gave out a tired groan, like an old St. Bernard rolling over in its sleep without waking up.  Nick had never before made such a sound, and Hope picked up on it.

“Are
you
quite all right, Clive?” she said, imitating his English accent.

“Never better.”  He reached for the other trash can and put his face into it, making a queer sound that was a cross between a grunt and the noise people make when punched in the gut.  Of course nothing came out since he neither ate nor drank.  Yet here he was, mirroring his subject.

When the feeling of nausea subsided he opened his eyes and found Hope looking at him with concern.  

“You’re looking awfully pale,” she said.

“Are you done with your questions?”

“I have one more.”

Nick placed his hand on her shoulder and sat up straight. 

“Let’s have it, then.” 

Again she looked him straight in the eyes. 

“
What
are you?”

40

NO TURNING BACK NOW.  Nick was committed.

And this time his rashness had forced him into a situation that sabotaged his future.  Yet somehow, he didn’t care. 

Which was why, with Hope gazing up at him expecting a truthful answer to her final question, he decided to give her one.

“Don’t you know what I am?” he said.

“I have an idea,” she said.  “But it’s crazy.”

He knew that expression on her face—part wonder and part fear.  He’d seen the fear in nonbelieving humans who just found out they’d sorely miscalculated their beliefs, or lack thereof during their wretched mortal lives.

And the wonder? That was for those who’d always believed and looked forward to the next step towards eternity—about which Nick’s knowledge was incomplete, since he’d never been allowed to board the trains that took souls to their final destination. 

“I’m what you would refer to as an angel,” he said.

“An angel.  Yes.”  She stood up, went over to the bed and sat on its edge.  “Now I understand.  You really
were
there when Chloe died.”

“I was.”  Nick went over to sit beside her.  Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Please, do you know if she...I have to know about my little girl.”

“She’s just fine,” he said.  “I accompanied her to the Terminus—it’s where all souls go to get sorted out before they take the long trip to eternity.  I’m sure Chloe went to heaven.  I saw her off myself.”

Hope buried her face in his chest and sobbed.  For a good minute or so.  Something about a beautiful woman weeping always softened Nick’s heart, no matter how firm his resolve.     

He put his arms around her and patted her back.  Hope lifted her head and wiped her eyes with a Kleenex from the nightstand.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“When Chloe died, all that was worth living for died with her.  You just gave me a glimmer.  Will I see her again?”

In the time that elapsed—which according to the clock was all of one second—Nick considered her question.  Saw the purity in her eyes, the innocence, the desperate need to be rescued, protected,
loved
—how could she possibly be a hell-bound danger to humankind?  And even if that were the case, hadn’t
he
broken laws of his own?  Was he any less a menace?

“I wish I could tell you,” he said.  “Just know that Chloe is safe, happy, and in the best place she could be.  You and I ought to focus on the here and now.”

“I suppose.”  She wiped her tears with the back of a hand.

“We might start by leaving this place,” Nick said.  “You’ve made a beastly mess.”

“I have, haven’t I?”  She laughed, which brought a smile to Nick’s face. 

“I’ll send for housekeeping,” he said.

“Wait a minute.”

“What now?”

Hope eyed him with the suspicion of a precocious girl he once knew, once loved dearly—arguably more than his own life.  It was a look of absolute wit, sharp and quick. 

“You’re an angel,” she said.  “And I almost believe it.”

“As well you should.”

“But I don’t see any reason why.”

Nick sighed.  “Truth is not contingent upon your belief, but as you mortals are so fond of saying: It is what it is. A most annoying phrase, if you ask me.”

“All right, then.  If you’re an angel…” She put both hands on his shoulders.  “Prove it.”

41

THE SOUND OF MUTED SNIFFLING and whimpers woke Jon.  At first, he was disoriented.  Golden light blinded him as he sat up and opened his eyes.  He blinked a couple of times before realizing he was on the sofa at home in the study.

Elaine, sitting in his desk chair, was staring at him with eyes reddened by tears. 

“Well?” she said.

Jon groaned and rubbed his stiff neck. 

“Well, what?”

She looked angry and at the same time, wounded. 

Compassion urged him to go comfort her.  Anger urged him to do no such thing—his own wounds were still  fresh. 

“What do you want, a detailed log of my every step?”  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.  “Aren’t you already tracking me with the built-in GPS?”

“What?”  She looked bewildered.  “Jon, what’s happened to you?”

He got up.  Thought about the mess he’d made. What if someone saw him last night walking into the hotel with Maria or going into her room?  What if  someone snapped photos with an iPhone?  They might go viral all over the internet, preceding the inevitable media fallout.  What was he going to do?  He hadn’t slept with the girl, but who would believe him? 

He felt unbearably vulnerable.

Flight or fight.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

“Mine?”  Elaine blinked several times in rapid succession.  “What did I do to deserve you running out in the middle of the night and staying out until after midnight?  Oh my God, Jon.  I was so worried!”

“I’ll
bet
you were.”  He swiped his jacket from the arm of the sofa and headed for the door.   “You started to worry about who would pay for your Italian shoes, your designer wardrobe—”

“No!  Jon, I really
was
worried about you!”

When he reached the door he turned, saw the despair on her face, and walked back to her.

“Oh, Jon...”

He came so close he could smell the scotch on her breath—occasionally, she drank when stressed out.  And he’d caused her plenty of stress last night. 

He reached straight over her, took the laptop from his desk, and walked out the door.  But not before saying something he knew he’d regret.

“You’re a bad liar, Elaine.”

Back in his office, Jon shut the door and left instructions for Carla:  No calls, no messages, nothing.  He sat at his desk with a cup of Starbucks that had grown cold about an hour ago and gazed vacuously at his laptop screen.

Click, click,
stare...

Click, click,
stare...

And so it went, for the entire morning.  He Googled twice for those damming pictures, but they hadn’t shown up.  Yet.  He thought about getting on his knees and repenting but his heart was still infested with bitterness—he’d just pray that he and his family would be spared the humiliation of a disgraced televangelist.  What good would another one of those do for the kingdom of heaven?  And what kind of prayer was that, treating God like…

If—when—the scandalous pictures came out, Elaine would own the high moral ground. 
I may not have been the best wife but I never shacked up in a hotel with some young buck!

His chest constricted.  His lungs refused to fully inflate.  Jon stood up, yanked loose his necktie, and fumbled with the top button of his shirt until he gave up and ripped the collar open so he could breathe.

He went to the window and slid it open.

In came a cool gust.

He sucked in air and tried to will his chest to expand sufficiently to inhale.  In the years of his ministry he’d faced protesters, death threats, media criticism, and general discouragement, but nothing robbed him of his joy like his negative feelings for Elaine.  How could one woman cause so much pain, weaken him to such an extent?

// YOU WANT A DIVORCE...YOU NEED TO DO IT //

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words whispered in his head, but he’d always pushed them away.  Today, as he stood staring out at the Pacific, the seagulls flying free in the clear skies, Jon said it out loud.

“I need to do this.”

His phone buzzed—a new text-message.

Maria: Are you all right
?

He didn’t particularly feel like answering it, but if he didn’t she might keep texting him—something he wouldn’t mind in another reality but had to discourage in this one. 

Jon: I’m okay.  How about you?

Maria: I’m so sorry about last night.

Jon:  My fault entirely. Will you forgive me?

Maria: LOL. You’re a good man.  Hope things work out.

Jon:  What are you going to do next?

Maria:  I don’t know.  But we should forget about last night...about  

everything, okay?

Jon:  Thanks for understanding.

Maria:  NP.  Take care, Jon.

He gazed at the screen for a long moment, took a deep breath, and with his thumb pressed the DELETE THREAD button on his display. For all intents and purposes, Maria Guzman never existed.

He was still holding the phone when it buzzed again.  The image of Elaine’s smiling face—a picture taken from their honeymoon in Maui—was on the screen.  For a moment he wanted desperately to answer, to apologize, say anything that might restore them to...to what?  How many years had it been since they’d truly been happy together? 

No.

He couldn’t deal with Elaine.

Not now. 

Not with an important speech to prepare.  Next week, he’d be at Cabrillo Stadium in San Diego before tens of thousands and millions more on television.  He hit a button, and Elaine’s face vanished.

42

YURI GOT PAST THE MEXICAN BORDER without a problem—his client obviously had friends in high enough places that he could pull important strings.  Through tinted windows he watched all the cars at Tijuana’s border checkpoint, marveling at how he’d gone from a potential enemy combatant to a VIP of the CIA, his cover that of a covert operative in unaccounted-for cold war nuclear devices. 

The driver let him off at the designated spot when the black Mercedes pulled up—the parking deck of the Wyndham Hotel near Mission Bay.  Yuri pulled the suitcase out from the trunk and walked directly into the backseat of the Mercedes, where a lethally beautiful brunette (code-named Raven) sat puffing on a cigarette.  She crossed her long black-leather-clad legs and eyed him with the warmth of a glacier.  She looked exactly like she did in the photo the client had texted him, so he didn’t hesitate to enter even though she seemed beautiful but deadly, the kind who’d kiss you then stab you in the back.