Dead Souls (16 page)

I feel the hard throb of my heart against my rib cage. I'm standing on the edge of a diving board, about to jump into unknown water.
How many people will he tell me to kill? What will he make me do to Justin?
I desperately want to cover my breasts with my arms, but suspect this might seem weak, so I don't.

“Is this small talk?”

“All talk is small talk,” he says. “It's the saddest form of communication ever invented. Completely inadequate.”

He walks past me into the empty living room,
creak
,
creak
,
creak
of the parquet floors. Stands in front of the Edwardian window, takes in the view of the Victorian on the opposite side of the street, exterior clapboard painted yellow with white trim, windows glowing warmly, obnoxiously, like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Beyond that, there's a grand descent of rooftops sloping down to the dark singularity of a major road, and in the distance the beacon of the Golden Gate lights rise through a thin layer of fog, then the black ocean that merges into the black night sky.

I press my question into the back of my throat, try to quell
the urge to run, disappear. He would just find me. Like the card, he will always find me. I watch him watching the house across the street. It casts enough light so I can see what he's wearing—dark denim jeans, an old thermal long-sleeved shirt, ragged denim vest with the sleeves cut off, boots of some kind. So innocuous on the one hand—from the back I could practically cast him in the Istanbul commercial as a bike messenger—so dangerous on the other. I remember Gary holding out his arms on either side like Jesus on the cross before letting himself fall from the balcony railing.

“Guess you don't have the card on you,” Scratch says wryly. Casually sticks his hands in his pockets.

Throb
,
throb
,
throb
goes my heart. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I've been trying to catch up on my writing, but there's so much of it these days. I lose track.”

“You lose
track
?”

“You don't have to get all huffy about it, love. Not like I can program an app. Wish I could. Be a lot easier.”

The lights flick on, flick off. “Have you written
me
?”

“That's just the thing,” he says. “Damn if I can remember. Oh no, right, I did. Been out drinking too much, I suspect. Speaking of which, anything left in the fridge?”

I'm stunned, and while I try to find words, while my mind tries to compute them, he walks past me again—closer this time—almost brushing my waist with the cuff of his sleeve. Heads for the kitchen. Lights flicker, but falter again.

I suppress the strange feeling that we are repeating something begun eons ago, that my smartest move would be to ghost out, or at the very least, run.

But instead, I follow.

“AH, THERE IT IS,”
says Scratch, holding the door of the red fridge open. Only when he says
there
it sounds like
ter
, that strange, foreign lilt again. He reaches into the belly of the fridge and pulls out a six-pack of Guinness, the cans beaded with condensation, and cradles them like a newborn.

I remember something I can't believe I'd forgotten over the course of the year. I never drank Guinness until that first time, with Scratch.

“Not as good as tap, but 'tis what it is.” He plops the six-pack on the kitchen island with the Koa countertop—illegally imported from one of the last groves in Kauai,
endangered
, Alejandro had said proudly—ignores the small stack of coasters purposely left behind, and pulls a can off the plastic ring. Pushes it in my direction.

Did Scratch bring the beer here, or plant them earlier? If the electric is off, the fridge wouldn't be working. It strikes me how little I know about the devil, what the limits of his power might, or might not be. How vulnerable I truly am.

I don't touch the beer, although my mouth does water at the sight of it.

The lights flicker again.

“Damn electricity,” says Scratch, popping another can open. “Doesn't seem to like me very much.” He holds his up. “Cheers.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I remember what happened the last time I went drinking with Scratch. It's not much ground to hold, but I hold it.

At this, he clutches at his heart theatrically. “Oh, now that
really hurts my feelings. Making me drink alone. Holding a grudge.” He shrugs again and raises his can to where his lips should be, takes a long, slow sip. And I realize this is theater, a performance of a human being, not an actual one I'm standing across from. It's a thing with the limbic, emotional range of a shark.

“You don't have to . . . you know,” he twirls his finger. “Stay invisible. Takes more effort these days, I'd imagine, and I can see you perfectly well anyway.”

“I'm fine,” I say tersely.

“Ah,” he says. “I see. Like the house?” I recognize the attempt to change the subject, draw me out, reveal something. I would do the very same thing with an ornery focus group participant.

I run a hand along the edge of the wainscoting to give it something to do. “It's a house.”

“It's a good house for a family. Don't have to try to wedge a pram in an elevator.”

My hand stops.
Can he read my mind too?
Would I kill to live in this house; would I sell the souls of the entire world, times two, to have a life, a real life with Justin? Maybe. But demonstrating interest is death in any trade. And what I need to buy right now is time.

I wrinkle my nose. “Smell that?”

“What?”

“Mildew. Probably some kind of black mold in the walls.”

“Ha!” He takes another sip, and I sense he's eyeing me in a different way. Like there's more to me than he thought. “You're a right funny one. What does black mold do again?”

“Asthma. Pulmonary hemorrhage.”

“
Really
,” he says with genuine interest. “I had no idea it was
so dangerous. Something to remember.” Now he leans against the back of the island, holding his drink like we're at a party, that same, feline ease. “You haven't asked.”

“Asked what?”

“What's on your card,” he says, pronouncing it
cerd
. “What your favor is.”

This does cause my blood to chill. But I'm not about to give him the pleasure of knowing. “Maybe I don't care.”

He slaps his thigh, utterly delighted. “Damn, but don't you remind me of Lizzie.”

I don't take the bait.

He takes another sip, and again makes another appraisal. “Borden. Lizzie. Haven't you heard of her?”

“Sure, Borden makes great cream cheese.”

“Oh now,” he says, wagging an index finger. “Now you're just feckin' with me.”

I offer him a sly smile. It takes every ounce of nerve times infinity to slowly approach the kitchen island, right next to him. I grip the edge, lift myself up so I'm sitting on it, bare feet dangling. The smell of sulfur so intense now it feels like it's kindling the passages of my nose. I'm very aware of the curve of my stomach, the soft indent of my belly button, and maybe he is too because his breath becomes ever so slightly ragged. Then slowly, slowly, I reach down for the can of Guinness, pop it open. Feel the mist of carbonation on my fingers. Take a sip. Yes, it's not as good in a can, but it'll do.

He leans in. I feel his breath against the bare skin of my invisible shoulder. “What exactly are you up to, Fiona Dunn?”

The first rule of marketing is desire. There is no part of this world, or any other, where that isn't true.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

H
E DOES KEEP HIS WORD,
I'll give him that. Afterward, when I'm back in the car and I pull the card out of its case, I note that the inside is scorched, a small pile of ash covering the space after
FAVOR
. My heart starts to pound. But when I brush the ash away, I see there's nothing new written. Still blank. I flick the overhead car light on for just a brief second to confirm, but no, not a single word marks it. I even try to hold it sideways to see if the indentation from the writing might still be visible—I can see something, but it's not legible. The ash stains my fingertips black.

Ash
. I remember that first day I met Alejandro, the woman in the cemetery working away at her gravestone rubbings. It gives me an idea. I dig around in the car until I find a thin piece of paper—tucked in the folds of the backseat is a folded
Street Spirit
a homeless man gave me over a year ago. It's yellowed, but it might work. I tear off an article—“Stop the Anti-­Poor Laws”—and press it over the card. Then I scoop what's left of the ash from the organizer under the stereo, rub it over the paper with my index finger.

It works, a little. I see a name,
Justin
.

My hand starts to tremble.
I
was
next
.
He was going to tell me to do something to Justin
. A real and true panic starts to build, the kind that makes me want to find something sharp, something to dig into my skin until I can catch my breath again.

I bought some time. I hold on to that thought, time, anchor myself in it. The cost I can't think about. Not now. Maybe never.

I flick the light in the car off. I hunt for my shirt, find it cold and crumpled on the car mat. Put it on. Christ, all I want to do is go home, shower for the next half hour, wash him off of me.

Hands gripping mine, pressing them to the flat surface of the Koa wood.

I hope it's enough. Oh dear God, I hope it's
enough
time.

Tracing his finger along my upper thigh.

“Just save me for last,” I'd asked, at the moment before, the moment when a woman can almost get anything. He buried his faceless face in my hair.

“Lovely as you are,” he said, “that's a little much.”

We worked out an alternative. We made a trade.

And if I fail?
The memory of Gary shooting his daughter on the stage hits, even though I thought I'd safely bricked it away.

My stomach surges and my hand reaches for the door latch, pushes it open. A passing car presses its horn, swerves to avoid a crash, but I don't care, I lean over the asphalt, the Guinness making a return journey, not as pleasant as before. When it's out, I sit up, press the back of my hand on my clammy forehead, close the door again.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I feel violated, cheap, and guilty. Here I am, committing the very act I'd mentally tried
and convicted Justin for just before I'd made my first trade with Scratch. A bitter irony.
But it's
for
Justin
, I tell myself.
This is all for him
. Still, I sense a hollow spot in the wall where that thought lives. A whisper of an idea in my father's voice,
You sure you're not doing this to save your own ass? 'Cause you'd run if you could. Only this time you can't, kiddo.

“Fuck you Dad,” I mutter. I brick that thought into its own compartment, seal it tight.

Pants. I remember the jeans I'm sitting on—I don't think they'll let me in the New Parish without them. As I push the seat back, pull them on, I wonder if the dead-soul regulars are there now. Scratch dropped a hint, the only one of the night.
Spending a lot of time at Fourth and Bellway, aren't we?

My cell tucked in the center console buzzes with a new message. I grab it, find I've missed several because, just like my clothes, tech doesn't come with me when I ghost.

Three from Opal—Justin has a fever, slight but concerning. Can I pick up some Tylenol on the way home? Couldn't find any in the apartment so gave him some Advil. And what time will I be back? She has plans with her cousin who's in town. A movie, about eight thirty, but if it's a prob, no prob. Also we're out of butter.

One from Justin—selfie on the couch, holding an ice cream sandwich.

Last one was saving for u but . . .

It wrenches my heart and makes me feel hollow, distant, like an astronaut on another planet receiving messages sent from a dead Earth decades ago. I don't know who I am anymore, or what it is exactly that I'm becoming.

Messages from Renata, Jasmine, Clarissa.

Where r u?
—Renata

Here. NP. Coming?
—Jasmine

Yes.
—Renata

Anyone heard from Alejandro?
—Clarissa

MIA.
—Jasmine

OMG. I'm scared. I'm really scared u guys.
—Clarissa

Where's Fiona?
—Clarissa

Don't panic. Heading for New Parish.
—Renata

I'm leaving, I gotta get out of the city
—Jasmine

Don't. I'm coming
—Renata

I couldn't get last, Scratch said being the last one wasn't possible—there's already a huge backlog of favors to collect and new dead souls trading daily.
I'm thinking of outsourcing
, he said wryly.
Or cloning myself
. One of the reasons he likes to collect in a batch. After that neither one of us spoke, because we were occupied with other things. Strange that I couldn't see his lips but could feel them.

So I got fourth, as in he moved my name down to fourth on his list, as in he'll collect the favors of three dead souls before my card is inscribed again. Whether he means our weekly New Parish group, he wouldn't confirm or deny. But what really set my heart alight was that I was able to renegotiate even a small part of the deal, and if one thing can be changed, then really anything's possible if I can get his buy-in. I just need to craft the double deal carefully, not leave any part of it to chance.

Unless this is just another twist in the snare trap.
Fuck what Saul said, he's in solitary with no one to love anymore.

Buzz
. A new text from Justin.

Home soon?

Stopping off at store for some Tylenol, then home,
I text back. Not a realistic time-frame given I'm actually headed for the New Parish—maybe there will be an accident on the freeway, or I'll hit a dog. Duplicity is becoming disturbingly second nature.

Ok. miss u. XOXOXO

I'm doing this for him, I tell myself. I'm a good person. I have to do a bad thing, maybe several bad things, but I'm doing bad things for a good reason.
That's morally cogent, right?

The thing is, I'm not sure if even I believe me.

I click back over to the group text.

OMG!
—Clarissa, and then she posts a link.
I'm so scared I'm crying right now.

A URL, standard blue font, underlined. So simple, so innocuous. I don't want to click it, I want to roll down the car window, throw my phone out onto the street, and watch it get run over by a passing car, smashed to pieces, but I know that's no protection. So instead I press the URL and land on a small image of a video screen, which I enlarge with my index finger. Another news story, with the thick bottom rolling ticker that appeared on 9/11 and never went away.

He kissed my finger, after licking my palm
.

“Get a grip Fiona,” I tell myself out loud. Never a good sign, talking to myself. Always a last resort for when the world starts getting shifty.

And I press
Play
.

A WOMAN IN A TRENCH COAT
holds a microphone in front of an unassuming white bungalow that, in San Jose, easily costs
more than a million. She's bathed in a secondary bright light that blanches her face to mime-white. Local news. Asian, she works too hard at making her voice deep, falls into the familiar cadence of Tom Brokaw.

Authorities are seeking any information about the whereabouts of Ellen and Michael Alibozek, who were not found in the house with the bodies of their seven children. The grisly discovery was made earlier this afternoon after a family member received a disturbing e-mail Christmas card from Ellen's Yahoo! account and notified police
.”

Ticker below:
DOW PLUNGES 14 POINTS FROM GREEK DEFICIT WOES.

My heart starts to beat faster. I turn up the volume.

What we are about to report next may be unsuitable for some viewers, and discretion is advised. But police have confirmed that the children were murdered,
dismembered
[said with dramatic emphasis, a sick kind of relish, knowing this will air to millions online],
and that two one-way tickets to Paraguay were purchased using the Alibozeks' credit card after the expected time of death. We do not have a copy of that Christmas e-card; however, it was allegedly posted on the father's Facebook account, and a KTRW viewer sent us screenshots taken before the account was disabled at the request of authorities. Again, what you are about to see is extremely disturbing. Parts of the image have been blurred
.
”

MIAMI METRO OFFICER INDICTED IN DRUG STING

Cut to Ellen and Mike, both wearing Santa hats, arms wrapped around each other's waists, standing in front of the Christmas tree, smiles frozen on their faces,
Happy Holidays from the Alibozek Family
plastered just beneath them in some
cheesy font, Brush Script probably. The petrified look in their puffy eyes is what grabs you first, sheer terror flattened into a JPEG, so at first you don't notice the tree, but that's okay because the editor at KRTW helps us out on that front, slowly zooming over Mike's left shoulder so you can see the ornaments. Pixelated but still discernible, a little hand hangs from a pine branch next to blue ornaments, shiny tinsel. Just below, a little foot.

“We're just getting word . . . yes . . .”
The reporter's voice cuts in, excited.
“We're just getting word that police will be making an official statement in the next few minutes . . .”

The zoom drifts down to the grandly wrapped presents at the tree's base—small bodies among them, something that looks like an arm poking out between two legs, attached or not attached, hard to say, since the more graphic parts are blurred but that's no help, no help, and just as
those
images are fixing to my brain, never to be removed, the camera pans up to the top of the tree where the star should be but is adorned instead with a tiny head, blinking lights pushed through empty eye sockets.

And then—
God help me
—I open a new tab, click over to Google, scanning the stories for the time, the
time
. I don't think I breathe for the next few seconds. When I find it, I praise all the deities that have ever been worshipped, because the bodies were discovered four hours ago. Before I made my trade with Scratch.

A surge of relief hits—there're still three he'll collect before me—but that relief is quickly followed by the start of tears—oh good God,
Ellen
, Mike—but I don't have time to dwell, to feel. For all I know, Scratch is collecting his next favor now, and there's still so much to do, figure out.

This Google article has a hi-res version of the screenshot—nothing the authorities can do, it's gone viral—and with my index finger and thumb I enlarge the field just over Ellen's shoulder, at the window behind her. Barely visible in the reflection is a figure, almost destroyed by the flash of the bulb. Someone took this picture. Scratch?

Or Alejandro
.

As if he can sense the very thought of his name, suddenly, he calls.