Be the Death of Me (17 page)

“DON’T!” I shout, but it’s too late. His hand slashes through the air and though he remains in his seat, the wheel, clutched tightly beneath my hands careens sharply out of my grasp. The car lurches out of control, acting with a mind of its own, spinning, turning, spiraling with unstoppable force. Shannon’s scream rings in my ears, and I have one final thought as the windows explode with impact.

At least I’ll see Billie again.

Billie

“What in the name of St. George and the dragon were you thinking, Foster?!”

I shrug and continue twisting a strand of hair between my fingers, coiling and releasing it in turn. “I dunno.”

The Captain scowls at my obvious lack of fight. He tilts his carrot head to the side and narrows his eyes, the irises as dark and cloudy as an approaching thunderstorm. “Well, I don’t know what you expect me to say. Do you realize how many interventions had to be held on your account? The jeopardy you put our entire system in? Do you? I work my butt off to keep anything from happening to my Guardians, and how do you repay me? You go and meddle with the living! Damn it, Foster! You have no idea how lucky you are to be sitting here right now! The Elders would take you now if they had their way!”

“God, I wish they would,” I mumble under my breath, slumping farther down in my chair, staring blankly across the broad expanse of cherry wood desk separating us.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he snaps, standing and resting his large, pink hands on either side of the desktop. “What I will do, however, is let you forget you ever knew someone by the name of Benedict Bartholomew Ford. I will let you apologize for abusing my trust, and then I will let you get back to work toeing the line with your fellow Guardians. How does that sound?”

“Like a barrel of laughs, Cap.”

“What in the world is the matter with you, Foster? This is without a doubt the biggest blunder I have been privileged to witness in my years at this establishment. There are rules in our world! Rules that are there for a reason! Would you like me to list all the possible ways you could have botched up this assignment?”

I drop my hair and focus on a string dangling from the yawning hole in my pant leg. “Do we have that kind of time?”

“You refused to remain inconspicuous in the human world, going so far as to even encourage Mr. Ford into committing several misdemeanors in the process. You mistreated a partner who was not only selected for your benefit, but who actually seems to
care
about your well–being! And then, to add insult to injury, you became personally involved with your mark! Do you have any idea how bad this makes me look? How this makes the entire division look?”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to care?”

“And here comes my favorite part. The part where you pretend this problem is everyone else’s fault but your own. Poor, little dead girl. No one helped you when you needed it and now you’re stuck here with the rest of us. Well, guess what? Death is an ugly business, my dear. You don’t always get the help you think you deserve. You’re fortunate enough to have been granted a second chance, Foster, and yet you repay those who gave it to you by wasting it. So I’m telling you now, you’d better straighten up, because sooner or later your chances will run out.”

I finally raise my eyes to his, meeting his icy stare with a frosty gaze of my own. His speech wouldn’t bother me nearly as much if I thought anything would change because of it.  “Is that what you want, Cap?” I snarl through my teeth. “You and your Elders? To get rid of me? Fine! Go ahead and do it! I don’t care anymore!”

Around us, a waltz plays. The sweet music taunts me, echoing a chorus of joy. Then it happens. For one, unforeseeable moment the Captain breaks, Atlas shouldering a universe of suffering. And for the first time, a maze of lines and shadows adorn his face, made drawn by the simple sound of a sigh.

“What would you have me do, Foster?” he asks quietly, slumping back into his plush armchair. “What you’re asking for is impossible. There is nothing I can do to make the Elders see reason in this. So tell me, please, what would you have me do?”

“I want you to treat me like a Guardian instead of a child who needs looking after.” The words spill from my mouth before I can stop them. “I want you to let me do my job, let me go back to Ford, and understand that I made a promise to him. I want you to live by the high standards you set for us and be proud that for the first time, I understand why I was chosen to protect. And most importantly, I would hope you would at least wait to hear my side of the story before jumping to conclusions. Because if you
had
, you would know that there is nothing going on between me and my assignment.”

His narrowed eyes grow from tiny slits to large, white saucers. “There isn’t?”

“No!” I stand. “And I thought you of all people, oh wise one, would know better! Whatever Tuck thought he saw . . .  he was wrong. He’s just . . .  jealous.”

“Jealous of what? I thought you said there was nothing going on.”

“There isn’t!” A part of me has splintered, a vital piece that held everything together. Now that it’s gone, all I can manage to feel is uncontrollable anger. “I. Have. No. Romantic. Feelings. For. Ford.” I say each word slowly, returning to my seat. “I care for him as a friend, as an assignment. And Tuck . . .  he . . .  I thought I knew him. I thought he . . .  I mean, we . . .  I mean, I would have . . .  but I was wrong. Do you see?”

“Not at all, Foster.” The Captain’s lined face cracks into a grin. “Not at all.”

I can almost see the pieces falling into place inside my superior’s head. “Don’t,” I warn. “I mean it, Cap. Don’t even go there.” I grit my teeth and chew on the inside of my cheek.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he chuckles. “I will, however, speak to the Elders about this little . . .  mishap. Perhaps they were misinformed.”

“You think?”

“No need for derision, young lady.” He continues to smile, an expression altogether more infuriating than his outright resentment. “I promise I will talk with the Elders. You, on the other hand, will stay put until further notice.”

I jump out of my chair. “Why? You just said there’s been a mistake. Ford’s probably wondering where I am. That is if Tuck hasn’t killed him already! Come on, Cap!”

“I’m sure Mr. Reid is taking good care of your mark,” he says, smoothing his copper mustache down at the corners. “And even if he isn’t, I need hardly remind you there’s really nothing you can do about it. The Elders have ordered your immediate removal from the case. You’ve been forbidden contact with Mr. Ford, visual, verbal or otherwise. And believe me when I say they will not be so forgiving should there be another . . .  mistake. So, for once in your afterlife, follow orders and stay put. I refuse to lose a member of my team.”

I nod, understanding all too well.

He presses the button to the callbox at the corner of his desk. “Abby, dear, would you please schedule a meeting with the Elders as soon as possible. Tell them it’s urgent.”

Her voice crackles through the speaker. “WHAT SHOULD I TELL THEM IT’S IN REGARDS TO, CAPTAIN?”

“Oh, I’m certain they will already know.”

“CAPTAIN, DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT’S A GOOD IDEA? SHE’S NOT—”

“Thank you, Miss Maguire.” He cuts her off, clicking the button to the off position. “You may go, but stay close,” he adds as an afterthought. I stand to leave. “Oh, and Foster?”

I turn back, expectant. The Captain sits, legs propped on the desk, the familiar white flower from his breast pocket now twirling round and round between his fingers.

“Simply because you’re denied contact with your assignment does not mean the same rule applies to his remaining Guardian. Talk to Tucker.” He smiles. “That’s an order.”

I fling the door open. Were it possible, my face would flush with heat, stained crimson with embarrassment. As it is, my steel–blue shimmer pulses around me, seeming to know the correct neurological response for public humiliation. The Captain’s booming laughter fades into oblivion as the heavy office door closes behind me.

Tucker

She’s going to kill me . . . 

I’ll be honest. I’m legitimately frightened. If anyone is capable of killing a dead man, it’s probably her. Truth be told, I’d almost welcome her temper at this point. It’s the waiting that worries me, the painful, drawn–out hours, knowing she’ll find out sooner or later, knowing she’ll blame me for what happened.

A feathery breeze blows in through the open window, ruffling the hospital’s generic lace curtains. I stretch out my legs in front of me and shuffle my shoe over the shining, white tile. Waiting. Still waiting. Still wondering. An accident? Ha. I find it hard to believe what happened to Ford’s car could ever be considered an accident. The police on the scene certainly didn’t think so. They said the brake line had been cut. Not broken. Cut. And either way, the outcome is still the same. I did my job. I did what needed to be done, the
only
thing that could be done in a situation like that. I saved him.

“Am I dead?” comes Ford’s voice, groggy and soft from the far end of the room. “Because if this is the afterlife, the digs could use some serious work.”

I uncross my ankles and leave the armchair behind. “You’re not dead,” I tell him, feeling the usual animosity bubble toward the surface now that he’s awake.

“Are you sure?” His face crumples into a childish frown. “Why do I feel so out of it? Why am I in a hospital bed? Why are there daisies of death on the nightstand?”

“Those,” I say, gesturing to the small, clay pot of yellow flowers beside him, “were left by the previous tenants.” I show him the card attached.

He snatches it from me with his good hand. “
To Vanessa and Adam: Congratulations! It’s a Girl
.”

Then, realizing what I’ve been staring at for the last hour or so, he holds up his left arm. His wrist and forearm are covered by thick, blue plaster, on which I managed to scribble “Property of Bent–dick Ford” while he was sleeping.

“What’s wrong with my arm?” he cries, shaking his hand in my face. He winces in pain from the sudden movement, draping it begrudgingly over one side of the bed railing.

I give a semi–sympathetic shrug. “You fractured your wrist in the accident and cracked a rib. You’ve got a few bangs and bruises on you, but other than that, nothing too serious. In fact, the doctors said you’ll be fine. Fay is out dealing with the insurance paperwork and tow truck driver right now.”

“Tow truck?”

“They needed it to get what was left of your Chevette off the street. Apparently there were quite a few pieces to clean up.”

“Pieces?” he gulps.

“Yeah. Looks like whoever’s trying to kill you missed and got your car instead.”

He covers his face with his hands, muffling a groan that sounds more like the mating call of a harp seal.

“Listen, Ford. Your car may not have survived, but you’ll be fine,” I say. “You got lucky. Look, you’re not even hooked up to an IV.”

“How long have I been out?” he asks, finally starting to see the big picture. He glances down at his torn jeans and t–shirt, realizing he hasn’t been assigned a hospital gown. He moans and his face twists into a grimace. “And why do I have such a headache?” He brings his good hand to his face, wincing as his fingertips come in contact with a large purple and gray bruise stretching over his cheek.

I shrug and fiddle with the base of my tie. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you were just in a massive car wreck. Or maybe it’s because your pillow is too firm. Then again, maybe it’s just a side–effect of the sedative the paramedics gave you to stop you from crying.”

“I was in a car accident!” he asserts, pushing himself up on his good elbow. “And I wasn’t crying.”

I clear my throat.
“Oh my God! I’m dying! My arm is going to fall off! Help me!  I’m dying! I’m dying!”

He flops backward onto the bed, clearly not appreciating the Ford imitation I’d spent the evening perfecting. “That’s not funny,” he says.

“It’s a little funny.” I find a place to sit at the foot of the bed. The truth of the matter is, Ford’s survival, the fact he can’t even seem to die properly,
is
a little amusing. The results of his attacker’s actions, however, are far from humorous. I shut my eyes against the instant replay in my head, silently begging him to forget what I can’t seem to shake.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“Oh my God!” he shouts, sitting up. “Where’s Shannon?”

Damn.

“Is she okay? Is she here?”

“She’s here,” I answer him, moving to the window. “She’s sleeping just down the hall.”

“I saw what you did, with the wheel,” he slurs, drowsiness claiming him once more. “You shouldn’t have . . .  You . . .” His eyes close.

I walk to the window, pressing my forehead against the glass. The walkway directly below the window is surrounded by a lush, green stretch of grass on which mingle both the sick and the mending. They shuffle along the sidewalk, dressed in their hospital gowns and robes. The ill, the visiting, the old and young, all of them unaware of what this place truly is, what I and few others recognize it as: an interruption, a delay, one giant rescheduling of death. The doctors and nurses, credit where credit is due, are simply postponing the inevitable.

It isn’t exactly a sunny outlook, but there’s really no other viewpoint when you’re dead. I–all of us–have seen too much. I haven’t forgotten that I once worked in sacrifice, that I had an existence outside the Captain and his Guardians. The Counselors, they called us. The Special, showered with gifts and rewarded with a task so horrible I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. My job, my privilege they said, was to comfort the newly dead, a job that sounds easy enough in theory, but can break what remains of your heart in no time at all. The murder victims, the accidents, the heart attacks, the drunk drivers, the young that go too soon, the old that hang on too long, I’ve met them all. I’ve heard their stories, listened to their cries, over and over and over again. And all of them want only one thing. A second chance. They want another try, a redo, a shot to fix all their past mistakes, the “I love you” they never said, the money they never made, the children never born. They promise to be better. They swear they won’t waste the opportunity the second time around. But no matter how they wail or scream or beg to go back, our answer is always the same.

It’s too late now.

Perhaps it’s the hospital. Maybe it’s finally losing the only thing I had left to lose, but all I can feel now is bitterness, an unrelenting hatred towards those like Ford who get their chance, and for those like me, like Billie . . . like Shannon, who won’t.

When I finally open my eyes I discover my grip has left behind imprints, dents in the antique, wooden windowsill. The world below continues to turn, forever spinning, forever overlooked by those lucky enough to still be living in it. Behind me, a deep snore rumbles through the empty room. A nurse passes by the doorway, pausing just long enough to look in on the sleeping Ford and close the door with a smile. He sleeps, mouth slightly open, his plaster–protected wrist resting on a gently rising and falling chest. In his fingers is clasped the tiny, white card of congratulations meant for new parents Adam and Vanessa. I take it from him, ready to crumble it up in my hand, no more that trivial garbage, but find myself stopped by what I see. The message has changed. Gone is the nondescript handwriting, replaced with familiar curly Q letters. I read the card again. Once. Twice. The words refuse to change. I blink for good measure. They remain, as perfect and absolute as I could ever hope for. The note floats gracefully to the floor, floating to the tile with all the glory of a thunderclap. Glancing around the empty room, I listen carefully for the sound of the footsteps and hospital riot just outside the door. I look to where Ford lies sleeping, blissfully unaware he’s about to be left alone. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t find the willpower to make myself stay. I phase on the spot, the words as fixed and permanent in my mind as if they’d been branded there:

Don’t give up on me.