Be the Death of Me (20 page)

There, wounded, weeping, dying, my last thoughts are of her.

One thousand, one–hundred and thirty–three.

Billie

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?”

Abby glares up at me from her desk, a stack of folders to her right, her smile slowly slipping away, falling piece by piece like a house of cards. “Yeah,” she answers. “You. Two seconds ago. It isn’t going to work, Billie.”

I throw myself on top of the counter, scattering the neatly organized files in desperation. “Please, Abby! Can’t you understand where I’m coming from?”

“Understand or care?”

“It’s your job to help me break the rules!”

“That is, in fact,
not
my job.”

“Sister solidarity?”

“We’re not that close.”

“Please!”

She slams her stamp down on the top sheet of paper, closes the file and adds it to the chaotic heap. “Let me make one thing very clear,” she says, more formal now than I’ve ever heard her. “I’ve held my position as the face of Human Resources since long before you showed up. So it pretty much goes without saying that I take great pride in my work. I’m polite. I’m courteous. I work quickly under pressure, not to mention I’ve never once been accused of breaking the rules . . .” She eyes me head to toe. “Unlike some people.”

“Abby, if you would just–”

“If I just what?” she snaps. Her dazzling smile is gone now. I’ve never thought of Abby as anything other than a friendly, peace–loving, flower child.

I see now I was mistaken.

“If you’d just listen for a minute,” I say. “Ford is my assignment.”

“He wasn’t the last time I checked.”

“Then check again! All I’m asking for is a tiny snippet of information. Don’t you think I’ve earned it? Don’t you think I deserve it?”

“No.”

“That was a rhetorical question! Means you’re supposed to agree!”

“That is so not what rhetorical means.”

I crash my forehead against her desk. “Abby,” I groan into the countertop. “Honey. Sweetie. Best friend. I’m not asking you to break the rules. I’m simply asking for you to turn a blind eye so
I
can
break the rules. There’s a difference. Just . . . look away for a minute. Go refill a paper tray or something.”

Her smile is back, though colder this time, her lovely mocha skin glowing icy around the edges. “I can’t mess around with this sort of thing, Billie. Even if I
do
look the other way, you and I both know the Elders would find out eventually. I can’t risk penalty, and I’m a little offended you would ask me. Besides, Benedict Ford isn’t under your protection anymore. Why do you even care what happens to him?”

“ABBY, COULD YOU STEP INTO MY OFFICE A MOMENT PLEASE?”

The Captain’s gruff voice startles us both.

Abby presses the button on the small intercom system. “Uh, sir, I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now. I don’t feel that leaving my desk unattended is—”

“I DIDN’T ASK FOR YOUR CONSPIRACY THEORIES, MISS MAGUIRE. NOW GET IN HERE. THAT’S AN ORDER!”

Abby lingers just long enough to glare at me, a look that clearly states “Touch my desk and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

I stare back as ferociously as I dare, watching her fling her long, black hair over her shoulder and head quickly down the long corridor.

“BESIDES,” the intercom crackles to life, “THERE’S NO NEED TO WORRY ABOUT FOSTER. SHE’LL NEVER FIND WHAT SHE’S LOOKING FOR. NOT WHEN IT’S FILED UNDER CABINET 1593–762, DRAWER 2948B.”

My eyes dart about the room. Surely Cap knows Abby is no longer at her desk, and even if he believes I’ve left–
doubtful
–he still wouldn’t be careless enough to throw information like that around.

“I SAID,” comes the voice once more, “CABINET 1593–762, DRAWER 2948B!”

Message received. I don’t know how or why he’s helping me, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I phase to the far side of the room, not wanting to waste time walking. There’s no telling how much longer I have before Abby comes back.

The infinite expanse of wall is a myriad of filing cabinets. “1593–762, 1593–762, 1593–762, 1593–762,” I murmur to myself, bending, kneeling, crawling along the speckled carpet, searching for one cabinet out of billions. The numbers begin climbing upward, and with them, the probability of finding what I need.

“1593–762!” I literally jump for the joy at the sight of it. Upon further inspection, however, I discover the cabinet securely and obstinately locked.

“Oh, come on!” I’ve given up on stealth, concerned only with haste.

“DON’T CONCERN YOURSELF WITH FOSTER’S RECKLESSNESS, ABBY,” comes the Captain’s voice from the intercom system now on the far side of the room. “IT IN NO WAY REFLECTS UPON YOU. EVEN IF SHE
DOES
FIND THE CABINET, THE FILE IS LOCKED AWAY, SAFE AND SOUND. SHE WOULD HAVE TO KNOW THE COMBINATION TO GET IT. AND ONLY YOU AND I KNOW THAT.”

“Well, why don’t you let me in on your little secret?!” I shout to the heavens.

“HOW IN THE WORLD WOULD SHE EVER FIGURE OUT A COMBINATION LIKE 989–24–380.”

Bingo. Trembling all the while, my fingers fly over the brass slip–lock front. It releases as the numbers fall into place, unbolting with the softest of clicks.

I could be–
should
be–asking myself what I’m doing here, but I have nowhere else to look. With Logan Cartwright discounted as a plausible suspect, and Ford’s life still in danger, I have no choice but to dig at the place from which all mortal roads stem.

The past.

Kane. Kanjori. Kaplan. Kapoor.

Every name, every nationality, the files go on forever, the drawer traveling back further and further into the seemingly endless cabinet.

Kapeson, Karlson. Karnes. Kassel. Kassenbaum. Kassier. Kassopolis. Kastanellos!

I stare down at the file in my hands. It looks much like the others, same color, same size. And yet it feels as though the weight of what’s inside is so vital it can’t be held in comparison.

Kastanellos, Milo Nikolas

I have no time or interest for anything other than the tiny piece of information I’m after, and so flip quickly to the first page, a faded pink carbon copy of its original.

NAME: KATENELLOS, MILO NIKOLAS

BIRTHDATE: AUGUST 22, 1969

DATE OF DEATH: OCTOBER 4, 2005

POSITION: FILE COORDINATOR, CONFIRMATION DIVISION

DATE OF TRANSCENSION: NON–APPLICABLE

Perfect. My spirits soar as I place the file promptly back in its place, shutting the cabinet drawer behind me. Abby still hasn’t returned by the time I pass her desk, her empty swivel chair and desk just as she left them. I skip to the elevator and press the up arrow, a button I don’t often find use for, but will now lead me exactly where I need to be.

Floor 997 is a place not many Guardians see unless they’re either lost or running important errands for the Captain. And since neither of those circumstances is likely, the Paper–Pushers remain somewhat of a mystery.

I’m greeted with the feverish though familiar sound of what I can only assume is an army of typewriters. The clicks and clacks of the keys grow to a dull roar as I step onto the floor, allowing myself to bathe in the harsh fluorescent lighting and hard glare of linoleum flooring. There’s a reception area to my left, not nearly as inviting or warm as Abby’s, behind which sits a sight I’m
almost
certain can’t be real.

A clown sits behind a desk submerged in papers, some stacked and categorized, others slipping from the blanketed counter, landing in a chaotic heap on the floor. His nose is round and red, his face painted into a sloppy, perpetual frown. A bright, multicolored wig adorns the top of his head while a rainbow–colored, ruffled collar contrasts eerily against snow–white makeup. Stranger still is the bullet hole I see adorning the center of his forehead, decorating his face like some grotesque third eye. The wound is black and gaping, the skin puckered and caved in on itself, broad enough to glimpse a circle of the back wall through his skull.

“Why don’t you take a picture?”

Bozo doesn’t bother looking up from his typewriter long enough to chastise me for staring. Fingers covered by red and blue polka–dotted gloves fly across the key top.

“I’m . . .  sorry,” I mumble, unable to tear my eyes away from the monstrous deformity. “I never . . .  I mean . . .  I thought all scars were taken care of before we . . .  you know . . .  started working.”

“Not if you’re stuck in this hellhole,” he grumbles with the rasp of a heavy smoker, snatching the completed paper from the ribbon and jamming another in its place. “We’re not all as fortunate as the precious
Guardians
,” he sneers, finally lifting bloodshot eyes to meet mine.

My back stiffens in defense. “How did you know I was a Guardian?”

“Are you kidding, kid?” he growls, typing away. “I could smell human on you before you stepped out of the elevator. What are you doing here anyway? Got a message from the Captain?”

I figure it’s probably best to cut to the chase. Besides, Ringling here is beginning to give me the creeps. “Can you tell me where I can find Milo Kastanellos?”

“Twelfth row on your left, third stall to the right.”

I don’t move.

A pair of purple eyebrows rise in distaste. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not really,” I shrug. “I’m just waiting for the trick.”

“What trick?”

“The one where fifty clowns climb out from under your desk.”

I laugh and leave him to grumble over his work, following the row of seemingly infinite cubicles. They’re identical except for the tenants residing in them, and surprisingly enough, Chuckles isn’t the only one with battle scars.

The first person I come across is covered in purple and yellow bruises, his right eye dangling monstrously from its socket. He smiles at me as I pass, revealing no teeth but a mouth full of gums. A man on my left is covered in what looks like claw marks, the skin in tatters, ripped and ragged, his clothing not in much better condition, while a woman farther down looks as though she’s had half her face blown away. Her skin is blackened by ash, the left side of her hair singed and burned.

I find Milo situated behind yet another typewriter, hard at work. He’s lean and fit, though probably not as slight as he appears, with thick, coffee colored hair and a chiseled, protruding jaw covered in the fuzz of permanent five o’clock shadow. He looks up at me as I enter, staring me down with dark, heavy lidded eyes that, for the strangest reason, are alarmingly familiar.

“Can I help you?” he asks. His voice is deep and pleasant.

Without waiting for an invitation, I sit in the chair opposite his desk. There’s not much room in the tiny workspace, and I can’t help but get the feeling that I’m conducting an interview in a broom closet.

“Milo Kastanellos?” I ask for no reason whatsoever. I already know this is who I’ve come for.

He nods, two thick eyebrows clouding already shaded eyes. “Do I know you?”

“The name’s Billie.” I reach across the desk. He takes my hand in his and shakes it, his jaw set in confusion. “I’m here regarding someone named Benedict Ford.”

He doesn’t need to speak for me to know I’ve hit a nerve. His head bows in what appears to be contrition, eyes lowering to the desk in an expression that can only be described as pain. “What about him?”

“Listen, you may not know this already, but I’m a—”

“You’re a Guardian,” he interrupts. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Geez. Do I have the word stamped across my forehead or something?”

He chuckles darkly. “It’s easy for those of us trapped here to tell. You probably haven’t noticed, but you guys tend to glow a little brighter than the rest of us peons.”

I glance down at my arm. The pale blue light shimmers on my skin like glitter in the sun. Looking at the skin revealed at the collar of his prison issued jumpsuit, I begin to see what he’s talking about. His own glow is faded, almost gray, the color of worn blue jeans.

I narrow my eyes and try to focus. “Benedict Ford was . . . 
is
my latest assignment,” I stammer. He looks at me like I’m the slightest bit slow. “Have you had any contact with him since your death?”

He shakes his head and stares at me with unnervingly quizzical eyes. “Of course not. Why would I go near that kid now? I paid for that mistake when I was alive.”

He makes quick work of unfastening several buttons of his jumpsuit. Beneath the fabric is a yawning hole that tunnels deep into the left side of his chest. “Shank right through the ribs. I ended up suffocating on my own blood while an inmate named Gizmo stole my shoes.”

I try my hardest to smile. “That’s a lovely story.”

He leaves the suit flapping open. “So what is it you want? I said I was sorry for what happened, but if you ask me, I’m
still
paying for my mistakes. Why else would I have ended up here?”

I lean forward in my seat. “You said mistakes. Meaning more than one? What sort of mistakes are we talking about here?”

“It may not surprise you to learn that I wasn’t exactly the best person,” he answers slowly, running a trembling hand through long, espresso locks. “I was out of work. I couldn’t pay the mortgage. And then Samantha, my wife, kicked me out a few months later. I took to the bottle, and things only got worse from there.” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a pox of purple and black track marks marring the inside of his arms. “I found myself broke and sleeping on street corners. I was desperate.”

“Desperate enough to shoot an unarmed man in front of his kid?”

He balks at my question. “Listen,” he hisses, leaning forward like an animal on the attack. “You don’t know what I went through, okay? I didn’t mean to shoot the guy. When I ran out of that gas station, I couldn’t tell you where or who I was. I was high out of my mind. And I was scared. Is that what you want to hear?”

He sets his jaw and glares at me from across the desk, looking, for the first time since we met, like a hardened criminal.

“I’ve accepted the fact that this is the best things will ever get for me. I’ve accepted that not only did I take someone’s life, I destroyed another’s in the process. I will never forgive myself for what I did. I will never find peace. The only legacy I left behind was pain and a huge mess that could never be cleaned up. I left Samantha with a kid to raise and no means of getting by. It’s a burden I’ll carry around with me forever. So go back to your assignment. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“Wait a second.” I stand, completely unaware I’m on my feet until I realize we’re no longer eye to eye. “You had a kid?”

He tilts his head back to look up at me. “Yeah. So what? Bad enough I didn’t get to see my son when he was growing up, now you want to rub it in? Anything else you want to torture me with while you’re at it?”

The wheels in my head begin turning, sluggishly spinning to life. A son. A boy close to Ford’s age. A boy who grew up without many luxuries. A boy with his father’s eyes.

“Your son,” I say slowly, afraid of the answer I already know awaits me. “What’s his name?”

Milo smiles fondly and closes his deep–set lids.

“Riley.”