On Unfaithful Wings (21 page)

“Hi. I’m here to see Phil.” My mouth kept moving but nothing came out as I struggled to remember his surname. “Taggart. Phil Taggart.”

“Are you his wife?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Uh...do I look like his wife?”

“Father or mother?”

“No.”

She raised her eyes from the paper on which she’d been scribbling and appraised me with a look that plainly said she wouldn’t let me past. Apparently, she took her job more seriously than the 'roid monkey at the fitness center.

“Immediate family only.”

“I’m his brother.”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” she said in a bored tone and went back to writing. “Let’s see some ID.”

“That’s a bit of a problem. I’m from out of town, and I left my wallet in my hotel room.”

I patted my pockets to reinforce my point. The last time I saw my wallet, it lay open on the soggy grass of the churchyard. It probably still resided on a shelf in an evidence room. So, only a half-lie this time.

“That is a problem,” the nurse said. “Take a seat in the waiting room with everyone else who forgot their ID.”

I put my elbows on the counter and leaned toward her.

“I’m worried about my brother, Miss.” Since the charming smile failed miserably, I gave her the sad puppy dog eyes instead. “He’s been in bad shape since the cancer got him.” I glanced at the wall clock hanging behind her. Five minutes.

“Take a seat or I’ll call security.”

I opened my mouth to protest but she stopped me by pointing her pen at me in a vague threat.

“Sir.”

I left without further argument and returned to Poe standing, arms crossed, with a bright smile on her face. I didn’t share her amusement.

“How’d that go?”

“She must be a lesbian.”

Poe chuckled.

“It’s not funny. We’re running out of time.”

“I’ll handle this.”

I followed a couple steps behind, close enough to watch but not so close the nurse would notice me. My guardian angle stopped in front of the nurses’ station and, as the woman looked up to question her, a golden glow sprang to life around Poe. It radiated six inches around her, brighter than any aura I’d yet seen. The sour nurse’s expression thawed, her mouth fell open. I squeezed my eyes shut to dispel the illusion, but they opened on a version of Poe composed entirely of light, a radiant arm gesturing me past. I paused at the double doors, hand poised to push, and looked back at the mesmerized nurse. Not only did she not notice me, she didn’t look to know where she was anymore. Or who.

Determined to waste no more time, I swung the doors open and hurried down the hall to eight-twelve, bulling my way through the heavy door into the room. Rae’s father died of cancer before she took to hating me, and I’d visited him during his last days. Sallow cheeks, sunken eyes, weight loss: these I expected to see in my former drinking buddy, the results of the consuming disease which should have killed him . What I saw instead made me pause mid-step. Bandages covered Phil’s face, a spot of blood soaking through the gauze at his right temple. I rushed to the side of the bed and searched for the hospital ID on his wrist to ensure Gabe hadn’t given me the wrong room number. I doubted angels made those kinds of mistakes--to err is
human
, after all.

Taggart, Phil
, it said.

I should have known. I didn’t come to I.C.U. to visit Rae’s father. Cancer is so popular, it has its own floor.

“What happened?”

I didn’t expect an answer. He’d be dead in two minutes.

More bandages wound around his arms. I pulled the drab brown blanket and green hospital sheet down--more dressings on Phil’s legs. My back teeth ground together.

What the fuck?

The whisper of a footstep spun me around, heart jumping in my chest. When I saw Poe entering the room instead of a burly hospital security guard, a relieved breath hissed through my teeth. I thought about asking her what she’d done to the nurse, but Phil’s death was too close for curiosity and explanations now.

“What are you doing?”

“I expected him to die of cancer.” I waved my hand toward Phil’s prone form. “This doesn’t look like cancer.”

“No.” Poe laid a hand on one of the bandages, then pulled away suddenly, as though it burned her. She stepped back.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, wide eyes fixed on Phil, seeing something I didn’t.

“Poe?”

Surely she’d seen people dying before; something else about Phil freaked her out. Something bad to make an angel react like that.

One minute.

I pulled a bandage away from Phil’s arm. The tape holding it tugged his arm hair, but Phil was beyond feeling pain. I stared at what the bandage had been concealing: a wound in the shape of an inverted cross, now framed by the remnants of glue left by the tape holding the bandage. My brow creased and I pulled more bandages off. A pentacle, biblical references.

A rock dropped into the pit of my stomach.

“Who did this?”

The piece of medical equipment situated by the head of Phil’s bed replied, its steady beep quickening, the peaks and valleys scrawled across it in glowing blue became ragged and irregular. Personal experience told me what it meant.

The line flattened; the individual beeps melded into one long, electronic wail. Doctors and nurses would rush through the door any second and attempt to save a life already determined to end. A thought I hadn’t considered jumped to mind.

How will I get out?

Panic jerked me back to reality. I scanned the room for an avenue of escape. Out the window: a sheer drop to the parking lot eight floors below. A closet near the bed wouldn’t have passed muster auditioning for a job as a locker in a bus station. Nothing else. No more options. A little more planning might be apropos should I continue this line of work.

“C’mon, Phil,” I said, bunching the sheets in my fists. “Stop lolly-gagging.”

The screech of rubber soles on linoleum announcing the medical staff’s approach set my teeth on edge. Poe still stood transfixed by Phil’s wounds.

“Poe.” I shook her by the shoulders to loosen her trance. “You have to stall them.”

She nodded, blank expression unchanged. Behind her, the door swung open and the sour nurse entered, followed closely by a handsome man with short black hair and white lab coat worn over doctors’ greens. They skidded to a stop at the sight of us. Anger flashed across the nurse’s face; her mouth opened to chastise or call for help but, before words emerged, Poe faced them, her skin glowing. Their facial muscles slackened like wax figures left too long in the sun.

While Poe played with her new friends, Phil’s soul appeared on the edge of the bed. The spirit was a younger version of the Phil I knew, in his early thirties, with skin free of the symbols carved on his physical-self and vitality filling his previously sunken cheeks. He wore a plaid shirt open at the throat and a pair of beige dungarees. I wondered how spirits acquired their clothes. That thought and the sight of Phil’s good health in death brought a smile to my face.

“Ric? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Good to see you.”

“I thought you were dead.”

People keep saying that.

“I am. I was.” No point beating around the bush. “You are, too.”

He glanced at the body lying behind him, half a dozen bandages pulled away revealing the horror he’d experienced in his last days.

“Thank God.” He sighed and tilted his head toward the body. “That hurt, but not as much as the cancer.” He looked down at his hands in his lap, avoiding my gaze. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m glad it’s over.”

“Can’t say I blame you, pal. But don’t worry, I’ve got no one to tell.” More footsteps in the hall chased away my smile leaving anxiety behind.
How long can Poe hold them?
“We’ve got to go.”

Phil nodded and stood, flexing his knees as though trying on a new pair of legs for the first time. I grabbed his arm and guided him through the medical staff crowding the doorway--four of them now held in thrall by the angel--and into the hall.

“You ready, Poe?”

“I’ll meet you outside.” Her voice multiplied into many voices harmonizing the words in intricate patterns. Beautiful. I stopped. My soul begged for her to speak again, for her words to show me a slice of Heaven. I reached a hand out, took a step toward her, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me; rage flared in my chest.

“Come on, Ric.”

In comparison to Poe’s words, Phil’s voice sounded brash and wounded, sandpaper enough to pull me from the spell. With a brisk shake to clear my head, I led Phil down the hall and through the double doors with the frosted glass. Near the elevators he spoke again.

“Hey, there’s Marty.”

Marty looked up from inspecting the floor as though he’d heard Phil’s words. I’d thought no one would be able to see his spirit. Was I wrong?

“Hey,” he said as I punched the elevator call button. “Hey, you’re the guy from the bar.”

Equal parts relief he couldn’t see Phil and desperation at his recognition mixed through me. I pushed the button a few more times to make it hurry. Above the door, the number three illuminated. Marty stood, his expression suggesting he wasn’t happy to see me here.

“It’s okay, Marty. It’s Ric Fell, like he said,” Phil said.

“Save your breath.” I did my best ventriloquist impression out of the side of my mouth. “He can’t see or hear you. And he doesn’t recognize me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Marty said, shuffling his feet like he wanted to approach, but the kid with the blocks pinned him behind the coffee table on one end while two magazine-reading adults boxed him in on the other. I flicked a glance up again. Fifth floor.

“You’re mistaken,” I lied.

“No, you’re the guy who tried to pass himself off as Ric Fell.”

He stepped awkwardly over the magazine-cluttered table, catching his toe on the edge and hopping on one foot for a second to regain his balance. The elevator dinged the car’s arrival.

The time between the sound of the digital bell and the shush of the doors sliding open lasted an eternity as Marty started toward us, fists clenched at his side. When the doors opened, two men rushed out bumping my arm and passing through Phil’s spirit as they took a hard left toward the I.C.U. I backed into the elevator and hammered the ‘M’ button as Marty crossed the floor.

Rage twisted his face. “What did you do to Phil?”

For a second, I thought he’d get his arm between the elevator doors, prevent our departure, but they surged closed before he made it. The car jerked a little, sending me down to the hospital’s main floor with the spirit of one of my old drinking buddies in tow. We stood beside each other, quietly watching floor numbers tick past as I steadied my breathing to calm the gallop of my heart.

“What happened to you, Phil?” I asked without taking my eyes off the glowing numbers.

“I guess I should ask you the same thing.”

“You might say I got a new job.” The statement might have sounded humorous sitting in a bar; not so much in this situation. “I expected to find you dying of cancer.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“The marks under those bandages don’t look like cancer.”

“No. Some guy did it to me. He jumped me going home from Sully’s.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know. Never saw his face. Kept muttering about ‘the cost of sins must be repaid’ while he was carving me.”

I cringed--my murder seemed gentle compared to Phil’s. “That sucks.”

“You’re telling me.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Poe stood outside, hair disheveled, a worried look on her face. I didn’t bother to ask how she beat us down here.

“We have to hurry.” She grabbed my arm. I gestured for Phil to follow.

“Carrions?”

“No. Security.”

We hurried toward the exit, Poe pulling me along, and me pulling Phil in turn. Patients with dim and gloomy auras and their concerned-looking visitors jumped out of our way, startled by the unexpected commotion.

“Hey, you. Stop.”

I quickened my pace, reminiscent of an Olympic speed walker. I didn’t need to look to know they were yelling at me.

“You, in the black trench coat. Stop.”

Thanks for clearing up the confusion.

Still holding Phil’s arm, I broke into a run. Since no one else was able to see Phil’s spirit, I must have looked crazy: a guy dressed like a used car salesman in bad weather running through the hospital toting an invisible bag. I determined right then to either ditch the coat or get a fedora so I’d look like a Dashiell Hammett gumshoe. No one respects a car salesman.

A good Samaritan tried to tackle me and I felt a twinge of remorse for side-stepping and punching him in the head, but when someone’s soul depends on you, you gotta do what you gotta do. We burst through the sliding doors, sprinted past a group in hospital-issued wheelchairs gathered for a smoke, and took a left. The sound of polished black dress shoes beating pavement followed close behind. At least no one shot fireballs at us.