Dead Souls (29 page)

“He doesn't have a dark shadow though.”

Now it's time for Scratch to become suddenly interested in his slice of pork. For a moment he says nothing.

Sirens. Distant, but on their way.

He stabs a chunk of meat with his fork. “Why do you think that is?”

Why indeed? My mind clicks through all the possibilities: A) Scratch is lying, and isn't he renowned, after all, for being the father of lies? B) Justin found some way to mask his dark shadow, or C) Scratch is telling the truth, in which case Justin has already completed his favor.

The last thought is like a gut punch, which means it's probably true.

“What did you ask him to do?” I whisper.

Scratch smiles. “He took Jeb and me into Fealtee headquarters, where Jeb was able to directly hack into the NSA mainframe and send me the entire database of information in an encrypted file. But with everything else happening in the area these days, I think agencies will be too busy to notice a little blip of unusual activity.”

I drop my knife on my plate. Misdirection. Everything he's done has been to misdirect.

“Here's my problem though. What good is dissemination,” he says, holding the fork up to his mouth, “without the right messages?”

IT'S A JOB OFFER.
And maybe this is what was planned all along, why he allowed Alejandro to finally, mercifully die. Because he'd found a replacement.

A part of me is immensely flattered. The rest, not so sure.

The sirens now, closer.

“So . . . are you offering
me
a double deal?”

He chews thoughtfully, and swallows. Picks up his glass of Guinness and takes a sip. I let my fork trail through the liquid remains of the beans on my plate, making a kind of rainbow.

“Not so much a double deal as a choice, one which, of course, skews a bit more to my benefit.”

“Explain.”

He leans in, rests his lower arm on the table. “Your soul. While I never like to turn down a soul, one more in my collection isn't going to make a tremendous difference for me. It's like giving a billionaire a penny.”

I start to open my mouth to protest.

“Not that I'm saying there is anything particularly
inferior
about your soul. But why take one when you can take a hundred million? That's the kind of number that feels . . . exciting. Fresh.”

If I could see his mouth, I have no doubt there'd be a grin there.

I lean back in my chair. Body language is key in any kind of negotiation. It's important to seem calm, uninterested. “And my role and responsibilities would be . . .”

“Developing the messaging. Launching the campaign. Metrics and all that good stuff. I'm hoping for big conversions, obviously. Like you said.
Scalability
.”

I brush some crumbs off my lap. “So this is the plan that's to your benefit. What's in it for me?”

“Oh, I don't know . . .” He twirls his knife in the air. “Not going to hell for starters. I certainly enjoy it, but few others do.”

The siren is just outside now; I hear the
chirp, chirp
as the squad car is parked.

“Don't worry,” says Scratch. “I left the door to the elevator open. It'll take them some time to climb the stairs.”

Always hated high-pressure salesmen.

“Plus, if you're working for me, I won't call in your favor. Which, in this case, you might really want to avoid. It involves someone I suspect you still have feelings for. Maybe the only person other than yourself you care about. Is it just me, or do you think this would be better as a sandwich?” He reaches out for two slices of bread, drops them on his plate, then stabs another piece of pork, lays it out on the bread.

“Why, what did you have in mind for my favor?”

He arranges the pork slices neatly. “You know all the horrors of the world are born of love. Someone loves someone else, they get hurt, they turn their wrath and despair upon the world. Love is a scourge, a disease, a feast for madness. Do you have mustard?”

“Of course we have mustard.”
Easy, Fiona. Don't let him see you sweat
.

“Real mustard or just the kind you Americans squirt on hot dogs?”

“What did you have in mind for my favor?”

“I never reveal proprietary information.”

“How can I choose if I don't know what I'm choosing between?”

He laughs and stands. Heads for the fridge. “Well,” he says. “You know how much I enjoyed that foie gras sandwich. Fond memories of that night.”

In desperation, I try one last time to ghost. No such luck.

“Ah, ah, no cheating,” Scratch says. “Oh look, Dijon! You're rather civilized, after all.”

The pork suddenly doesn't feel so good in my stomach. It rumbles, like it might be slightly off. “So you just want me to make you a sandwich.”

“Exactly.” Scratch plucks the mustard from the fridge, and returns to the table. “Only I thought it would be interesting to mix it up with the ingredients a bit.”

“In what way?” I wonder how long it will take the officers to climb all the stairs. They have to have someone buzz them in first. That should give me a couple more minutes.

He dips the carving knife into the mustard, spreads some on the pale, white bread. “I was just thinking . . . we have everything we need right here. Wouldn't it be fun to make our own foie gras?”

I don't know what he means at first—my mind trips to ducks and geese . . . the lake nearby?

He picks up the sandwich, and I watch as the point where it meets his face blurs slightly. The pork I ate is turning mutinous. I can feel a small rise of vomit at the back of my throat.

“Only question is: what could we use as a gavage? We'd have to measure their throats to get the right diameter. Maybe take a trip to Home Depot. Although it's hard getting me out of Home Depot, so many sharp things there.”

Another muffled yell from the bedroom, louder this time.

“And look what they tried to do to you. Really, what do you owe them except contempt?”

Oh dear God. Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

Scratch picks up a napkin, dabs at where I'm estimating his mouth would be. “Just think, we'd be starting a whole new food trend. One even PETA wouldn't question.”

I laugh—God help me it's funny and I laugh. I laugh so hard tears stream down my cheeks, I laugh until my ribs and stomach ache, I laugh until I'm at the edge of hysteria, and then I'm past the edge into some new territory that is simply beyond—beyond hope, or love, beyond fear, or anger. An empty void where my heart used to be.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

I
N THE END,
it is Alejandro who guided me. Saul too, in his strange, mad way. And although the weeks that followed were torturous, soul numbing, and bitter, I hang on tight to whatever small glimmer of humanity I have left.

There is only one way to win when you deal with the devil, which is to never deal with him at all. Every word, thought, action, only leads to a series of interdependent and unknowable consequences, until you don't even know who you are anymore, until you're lost in the gray ambiguities. The middle of a blizzard at night. The gray hinterlands.

So I turn down the offer to be his right-hand woman, even though it would have spared me this favor, my personal immolation. And I do it with no illusions. I'm sure Scratch will easily be able to find a replacement for me—a dead soul willing to sell out millions to save themselves, in which case those millions are doomed anyway. I'm not saving anyone from anything. I know the world I'm in.

But I also know that here is where I stopped running, where I took some responsibility for my own actions. I had choices in the past; I made the wrong ones. So did Justin. And I'm not going to blow this last opportunity to make a course correction. Just because my hands are bloody doesn't mean I need to immerse myself completely.

I do have more compassion for my parents now. I understand that sometimes you only have bad options.

I get two plates from the cabinet. I set the table.

I tried to be kind, during. I sat on a chair next to the bed, reading aloud from the different mysteries they'd both enjoyed. I felt compassion for them too when I stuck the plastic oil filter into their throats, and poured a special protein shake enhanced with thick, heavy whipping cream. I cleaned their bodies carefully every day. It took two weeks. Scratch, being Scratch, healed them both from their gunshot wounds, although Opal will linger, alive and suffering for years afterward. She wasn't able to complete her favor, which was to kill me, so she still carries the burden of immortality, at least unless he decides otherwise. I picked out a nice mausoleum in the cemetery for her. I might be compassionate, but that doesn't mean I forgive her.

It did nearly drive me insane, truly, watching Justin's belly swell again. I had some hard moments.

I get a loaf of bread from the cabinet. Scratch bought it especially for this day. It's a nice, thick French loaf, with an amber crust. Slices nicely under the serrated knife.

I get the tomato from the fridge, a plump heirloom, along with a head of lettuce and specialty mustard that Scratch swears will convert me forever. Lakeshore Wholegrain Mustard with Irish Stout.

I place the mustard on the table. Go back to the counter to slice the tomato. Wonder what kind of cheese he's going to pick up. Next I pull off the first leaves of lettuce and throw them away—I always think the outside ones have the most pesticide. Wash the next four off and pat them dry.

The police are onto me—they questioned me intensely this morning but had to let me go because their evidence so far is circumstantial, digital. I'm expecting a search warrant, but I might have about a week more of freedom.

I wish though that I'd taken the apartment across the hall a couple of years back when it opened up. Two hundred more in rent, but it had a nice view of the lake. I've come to appreciate nature more now that I know I'm going to permanently be separated from it. A hummingbird flew to the windowsill the other day, peeked at me, hovering, and it was so beautiful, wondrous, I was briefly overcome with pure joy. Small things like this mean more these days.

I place the tomatoes on a white plate. It's smooth, and white, and modern. Another one of Justin's QVC purchases. I place the washed lettuce leaves next to the tomato slices, making a fan.

Then I reach into the fridge for our homemade foie gras. It helps, somewhat, that there's a French word for it. And I hope Justin is finally at peace.

I place the two livers on another, longer plate, with the carving knife next to it. I remember something Scratch had said that rainy night in Make Westing, an eternity ago.
It's the suffering that gives it flavor
. In which case this should be the most delicious meal ever. Still, it's hard to ignore the rotting smell from the bedroom. We'll have to get them both out soon, or the neighbors will get suspicious.

Occasionally, despite my best intentions, my tenacious will to survive and that fiendish thing called hope, pull at me.
It's not too late, you could still take Scratch's offer. You could be rich, you could make anyone love you
—
why not sell the world when no one in it gives a shit about you?
I try to push these thoughts away. But I worry how well I'll hold up in the end. How much I can really stand.

You can escape everything but yourself
.

There's a click in the lock, and I pause, holding the plate in both hands, the good hausfrau. I'm even wearing an apron.

The door opens, and my guest arrives. Time to see this farce to the end.

I put a smile on my face. Press it there. “Bon appétit.”

It is monstrous, what I'm about to do; yet it's also strangely my finest, most selfless moment.
Sublime,
as Alejandro would say.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

B
EFORE YOU PUBLISH
your first book you have this concept of the writer alone, churning out magical pages that magically land in a bookstore, but the reality is that a book requires the hard work, input, and support of many.

Thanks to my family I was fed and given the inordinate time needed to write. My husband was my rock during the rough patches, and my son a daily inspiration to keep going no matter how many wolves howled at the door.

My champion of an agent, Jill Marr, saw the potential of fifteen pages I'd sent her, which evolved into a book proposal and then this book. I'm thrilled it landed in the Gallery Books family, and working with the insightful Ed Schlesinger has been a true pleasure.

Finally I'd like to thank my readers, because without you this would just be an object sitting on a shelf in a room. Your imagination brings it to life and inspires me to continue.