The Wish List (17 page)

They were linked, somehow. Because Meg felt Lowrie go. “No!” she screamed, her remaining essence already fading. Belch was leaving too, but he was going with a smile on his face. “See you soon,” he laughed. “Really soon.”

The tunnel opened above their heads, poking through the clouds like a straw in a giant cola. It sucked them up like a vacuum.

Meg stretched out to her partner; she called to him, but he couldn't hear her. His body was in the final stages of shutting down. Only the brain was alive, and not for very long.

Elph buzzed past her. “Nice working with you,” he commented. “Maybe we can play for the same team once I ditch the moron.”

Meg didn't even hear the words. She could only watch her tears fall on the only man who had ever cared for her. It was over, all over. And she had failed. Again.

Flit was crouched on the tunnel rim, as per his instructions. It sounded simple enough. One favor for Peter and he was in. No one must ever know. That was the condition.

He saw the whole thing. The cliff and the storm, and then that thing with the motorbike. Very exciting. This is what it must be like to have a television.

Then their essence ran out and the tunnel had them. Belch floated by, a line of drool hanging from his grinning lips.

“Nice day,” said Flit pleasantly.

“Arf,” responded Belch uncertainly.

Then came the girl. She wasn't looking his way, still connected to the ground. She would have to let go, or her soul would never find peace.

“Girly girl!” shouted Flit, the knight in shining armor. Meg turned slowly, her face a puffy mask.

“Flit?” she said hesitantly.

“Yes, girly girl. Flitty Flit Flit. Girl remember stones?”

Meg frowned. “Stones?”

“Yes. Girl not understand plain honest wordies? Stones. In pocket. Blue stones.”

Suddenly Meg did remember. The stones. Flit had given her two blue stones when they'd first met. Life stones. Extra batteries he'd called them. She hadn't understood at the time, but now . . .

She fumbled in her pocket. They were still there. Blue and silver. Gleaming and hot. The second her fingers closed around them, her strength came back. The tunnel receded, its pulse weakening in her veins. And Meg floated back down to the supine old man.

It was a terrible thing to think, but Lowrie looked pathetic. The rain had destroyed all his new clothes, and there was a stream of mud flowing over his cheek. He wasn't breathing. But there was still a spark. An orange spark behind his right eyeball.

Meg placed one of the stones on his forehead, and it sank like ice into a hot plate. The effect was instantaneous. Lowrie's eyes shot open and he drew in the desperate breath of a sponge diver.

“Meg?” he gasped through the rain. “Am I . . .”

“No,” replied his partner. “You're alive. I don't know for how long. But alive, anyway.”

Lowrie spat out a mouthful of mud. “What about those other . . . things.”

“Gone, for good I think.”

“And you?”

Meg shrugged. “I don't know. I have one of these stones. It should keep me here for a while. If you'd like that.”

Lowrie smiled a watery smile. “Of course I'd like it. Who else would put up with all my moaning?”

That could have been it then. All settled, happy ever after. Except for Franco. He lay there catatonic. Not dead, but he'd never be truly alive again either. No one deserved that.

Meg caught Lowrie's eye. They both knew what had to be done.

“Good-bye,” said Lowrie simply.

“Bye,” mumbled Meg. She had to do it quickly, or she never would.

The stone sank into Franco's forehead, washing away the years. The life rushed back into his eyes. He was himself again, but not the same.

Meg took her stepfather's face in her hands. “Did he show you what it was like?” she asked.

Franco nodded, the horror of hell still fresh in his mind.

“Good. Don't forget it.”

Her stepfather shook his head. He couldn't forget it, even if he wanted to. Things were going to change.

Of course, giving the stone to her abusive stepfather was an act of pure good. An explosion of soft white light picked Meg up and catapulted her gently into the mouth of the tunnel.

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN ROLLED OFF TOWARD AMERICA.

Lowrie watched it go from the foot of a round tower. It was nice, still being around to appreciate nature.

He had more time now, he was certain of it. Meg had done something to him. Given him something. He didn't know what, but he was sure he wasn't going to waste it sitting in his apartment feeling sorry for himself. He had Sissy Ward's number in his pocket, and a Visa card with a bit of life still left in it.

A plucky sunray battered through the cloud cover and warmed his forehead.

“Thanks, partner,” he whispered at the sky, and spat over the Cliffs of Moher.

Meg was coming close to the fork. Up or down? The moment of truth. She squinted against the glow of hell's gate. Soot-blackened creatures were hanging on by their hooked toes, jabbing the unfortunate damned with vicious tridents. Meg held her breath, waiting for an invisible force to drag her down. It didn't come. She was floating straight by. Meg allowed herself a relieved smile. Mam, she thought. I'm on my way.

One of the winkle pickers launched himself into the currents. It was Belch. He could never escape the infernal gravity, but he might be able to reach just high enough. . . .

Belch wrapped himself around Meg's torso. Insane gibberings leaked from between his slobbering lips.

“Finn,” he muttered. “Finn going down.”

That was it for Meg. She'd just about had it. After all this time, he was still after her. A pit bull to the end. There was only one thing to say.

“Belch,” she screamed, raising a booted foot. “You can go to hell!”

She brought the boot down squarely on his wet nose, and the creature that had been Belch Brennan spiraled into the flames, with Meg's name stretching behind him like a prayer. Or a curse.

Damage-control time. Beelzebub wracked his brain for a way to put a positive spin on the whole Finn debacle. The Master had him waiting in the foyer. That wasn't good.

A platinum-blond movie actress buzzed him in. “The Lord of Darkness will see you now.”

Beelzebub contemplated vaporizing her for suspected casualness, but the Master was particular about his secretaries. Some of them lasted a whole week before being consigned to the scrap heap. Literally.

Satan was crouched in the corner of his office, playing a Gameboy. “Die, alien scum,” he was saying feverishly, wiggling horny thumbs.

“Ahem,” said Beelzebub.

Satan froze. So did Beelzebub. Maybe ahemming the Master of the Underworld was a bit of a no-no.

“You made me lose a life, Bub.”

“A thousand apologies, Master,” croaked hell's Number Two. “I have important news.”

Lucifer rose from the marble floor. He was dressed casually today. Sweatshirt and basketball shoes.

“News about the Irish girl, I hope.”

Beelzebub swallowed. “Yes, Master. News about the Irish girl.”

“Good news?”

“In the short term . . . No.”

The Devil looked up sharply.

“But in the long term, we've learned a valuable lesson.”

Satan raised an indulgent eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Um . . . we've learned not to trust Myishi's holowhatevers. One of them malfunctioned at a crucial moment and ruined the entire retrieval. We had the girl in the tunnel, for G—for Satan's sake.”

Lucifer clicked his talons on the desk. “We had her in the tunnel, eh?”

“Red aura, the whole enchilada.”

Satan made a decision. “That Myishi, too uppity by far. Put him in the sewage stream for a few centuries. We could do with a fresh filter.”

“Yes, Master,” bobbed Beelzebub, trying to hide a grin. “At once, Master.”

He hurried to the door. Get out while the getting was good.

“Oh—and Bub?”

The demon tensed, expecting the excruciating agony of vaporization to strike him between the shoulder blades.

“Yes, Master?”

“There's a movie director due to arrive here today. Very gothic. Dark superhero stuff. I'm very interested to see what he can do with the decor around here. Meet him yourself. Personally.”

The Devil paused to crack every bone in his fingers. “Don't foul it up this time, Bub. Or Myishi will have a companion in the sewage stream.”

Beelzebub bowed obsequiously. Always the theatrics, he thought. Always the theatrics.

“I don't know,” said Peter, tapping the screen of his brand-new computer. (A programmer had actually made it to the Pearlies.)

“You have quite a record for a minor. Not a whole lot in the plus column.”

Meg had her “I'm only a cute little girl” face on. It wasn't fooling anyone.

“Look here. Shoplifting. Fraud. Vandalism. Truancy. I could go on, but the screen isn't big enough.”

“Use the cursor,” suggested Meg.

“I know about the cursor,” snapped Saint Peter, in a very unsaintly fashion. “I'm trying to make a point here. You never know when to shut up, do you?”

“No,” said Meg, instead of shutting up.

“And you had to kick that Belch creature, didn't you? Violence in the tunnel. I think that's a first. Impressive, even for you.”

Meg mumbled something that she hoped sounded like an apology.

“Oh, I don't know. I suppose you did give your stepfather the stone.”

Meg nodded. Afraid to speak.

“And you did help that mortal complete his Wish List.”

More nods, faster ones.

Peter stroked his beard a few more times. It was worse than waiting for your numbers on the lottery.

“Well, I suppose. Okay, then.”

Peter reached beneath his desk and pressed a button. A door-shaped hole appeared in the sky. “I know,” said Peter. “It's not a pearly gate, but ‘pearly gate' looks better in print than ‘hole in sky.'” Meg kept on nodding—it seemed to be a winning formula. Peter waved his finger at her and she began to float. “Go on up,” he said gently. “I think someone wants to see you.”

Meg Finn floated toward the hole in the sky. There was a figure in the doorway, she couldn't make it out yet, but she could smell the sweet scent of jasmine.