The Deep End of the Sea (31 page)

He offers me something in the parking garage of the Salt Lake City airport? I’m immediately dubious. “What kind of peace offering?”

“One to help answer questions, and hopefully soothe heart. But only you will be able to decide if those are the outcomes. Will you agree to my terms?”

I must admit, I’m intrigued. “Name them.”

“You will be allowed to witness a series of events that normally go unnoticed,” he tells me, his dark eyes flat yet probing. “It will be crucial for me to cloak you and place you at a distance where there is no chance of your discovery. Furthermore, by my hand, you will be silenced. It is imperative that you remain hidden to any and all sets of eyes here tonight, Maddy. All except mine.”

The parking lot is dim and quiet. From my vantage point, the only eyes around are those within this car. “What are the terms?”

“There may come a point when you might try to find your voice or move from your location. It will only be natural for you to do so, even in multiple moments. If you were to do so, you would be uncovered. And I cannot have that, Maddy. You must give me your word that if I allow you to witness tonight’s events, you will become one of the statues you used to create. There will be no movement, no sound, no anything that could give you away.”

Something to soothe my heart ... in a garage, no less. From Death. Huh. I’ll admit it. I’m intrigued enough to agree to his terms. Death binds me to my oath by cutting my hand with a scythe he pulls out of the back seat (It’s embarrassing, but I jumped when I saw it) and smearing my blood to the blade. Within seconds, the blade cleans itself and is spotless once more. He passes me an old-fashioned handkerchief to wrap my hand in.

Too bad my hand doesn’t heal as fast as Hermes’ did.

Minutes later, we’re out of the car and across the level. Jocko positions me into a sitting position on the ground next to a beige minivan. “This may sting,” he tells me, and it does when he lays the flat edge of the scythe over my head. A veil of darkness drapes over me, heavy and sticky. It makes me tired, and my eyes fight to stay open. But open they remain, because if Jocko went to all this trouble to get me here, I know I have to see whatever it is he wants me to.

It feels like forever, but a man and a woman appear at the end of the row, suitcases in hand. They are talking softly to one another—arguing, by the looks of it, and completely oblivious to Jocko. The words grow progressively louder until they reach a small red compact; there, the words escalate until they become shouts. They are so wrapped up in these hateful, angry barbs that they do not notice another man quietly step out from behind a white van. I watch in perverse horror from behind the black veil as he approaches them, gun tucked in the back of his black jeans. A tattoo covers the side of his neck, one of a phoenix. Other than that, he is clean cut in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and nice shoes.

“Excuse me,” he says, and it has to be repeated until the couple ceases their argument. “Just got back from Chicago and found my tire flat. Can you believe it? Just my luck. Any chance you have a tire changing kit in your trunk?”

The woman tut-tuts sympathetically, glancing over at the van, which, sure enough, has a flat tire. Her companion is more leery until she encourages him to help. He digs a rolled, black package out of the back of his car and the three of them head back towards the van.

“Never used it before myself,” the kit owner says. “I sure hope you know how to change a tire, because I’ll be of no help, unfortunately.”

The woman smacks his arm lightly and laughs, as if this is delightful and they had not just been caught arguing viciously with one another. He grins sheepishly at her and passes the kit over to the Phoenix.

Phoenix smiles and takes it. And then, so fast it stuns me, his gun is out, and threats are issued. There are tears, and pleading, and so many awful things that include useless bargaining, and my screams are voiceless when Phoenix shoots the man first, right between his eyes, and the woman second, twice in her chest. There is a silencer on his gun, and the sounds are small puffs of pushed air—loud enough for me to hear, but not strong enough that anyone on any other level might discover. Keys are removed from the dead man’s pocket and money and suitcases and a purse are checked before Phoenix drives off in the compact.

I am horrified. I am beyond horrified. I have killed many a person in my long life, and yet I have never witnessed such an act of vicious brutality face to face. I want to scream, to cry, to run over to these people and check on them, help them, but the veil is so heavy, so sticky, that any small motion from me burns like wildfire in my veins.

Silence
, Jocko had made me swear with my blood.
Stillness
.

Jocko appears by their bodies, his long scythe at attention next to him. He looks down at their forms, so still and surprisingly free of massive bloodshed, with an expression that is nothing more than mild interest. There is no revulsion on his face, no distraught. I try to reason with myself, this is Death and he has seen every kind of loss of life there is to experience. Me, though? I want to rail against the unfairness of it all. They were young. They had futures. It’s all gone now, and done so in a matter of seconds.

Jocko taps the scythe a few times on the ground, reminding me of the way Bernie wields her cane. Did she know this is what he wanted to show me tonight? And, stars above, did he really think
this
would make me feel better? What was his rationale? That I have it better off than these poor souls?

But then Jocko looks up from the bodies, down towards the end of the aisle past me and smiles that bland smile of his, as if there weren’t two people dead at his feet with bullets in their heads and chests. “Ah. Wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.”

I cannot turn to see whom he is talking to, but I don’t need to, not when a voice so dear to me answers. “After receiving your strongly worded encouragement to personally ferry these souls? Tell me, old friend. What is it about tonight’s deaths that require my presence?”

My heart slams hard in my chest. Hermes is here.
My Hermes is here
. Jocko didn’t bring me here to see these poor people die. He brought me here so I could see Hermes. Elation I haven’t felt in months surges through me.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Jocko says, and Hermes finally steps into view. He is everything I remember, even more. He is beautiful and so achingly familiar that my fingers literally yearn to reach out just to touch him. But they are frozen, just like the rest of me, trapped behind this veil.

And now he’s walking right past me. I have never wanted to scream so loudly in my entire existence. To make myself known, if even for the tiniest of seconds. Can he not sense me? “If I remember correctly,” Hermes says, and it’s done sharply, “that’s been by your choice, not mine.”

“Necessary due to circumstances, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” Jocko doesn’t look bothered in the least to be chastised by one of the gods.

Hermes glances down at the bodies below their feet. I wish I could see his face, but his back is to me. Does he see that this loss deserves his compassion? Or does he have the same look of carefully cultivated disinterest Death has?

Please let it be compassion. Please let him be the man I know him to be.

“How are things?” Jocko asks. “Last I heard, you’ve been having a go at it.”

“That’s certainly a nice way to put it.” Hermes shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, though. I have some new leads I’m following.”

Jocko’s head inclines. “Of course.”

Hermes nods at the bodies on the ground. “They were so young.” And I rejoice that he sounds truly sad.

“In love, too,” Jocko says.

Hermes squats down and pushes a strand of the woman’s brown hair out of her face. Jocko adds, “Many of their last words to one another were done in anger. Pity, really.”

“I cannot say for certain, but I have a feeling my uncle will judge them fairly and they will find much time to rectify that.” Hermes looks back up at Jocko. “I hate to do this to you, but I have a very busy schedule tonight—”

“Of course,” Jocko says. “If you don’t mind moving to the side, I will happily harvest their souls for you.”

Hermes stands up and takes a few steps back. Jocko sticks out the scythe and angles it to his left; I can hear Hermes’ amused sigh, but he shifts like he’s asked to. And this finally gives me the chance to see his face. That face that I love so much. The one I dream about every single night.

Jocko swings the scythe: once, twice. He cuts cleanly into each body; a pair of flashes of light follow. When I look to the bodies, I see nothing more than they were before—eyes wide open, bullet holes, marble skin. The only change is the woman’s hair, now moved by my beloved’s hand. I envy the dead, not for the first time in my life, and now not because they entered a stage in their existences that I wished for, but for a different reason. I envy her what I am denied, and it’s just a simple movement of a hand against hair and skin.

“Old friend,” Hermes says quietly, and I have to strain to hear his voice. “I ... I find myself ... I have to ask. You know I do.”

My breath stills in my chest at the same time Jocko stills the shining blade. “By your own hand, I am sworn to silence. You know this.”

“Yes, of course you are, and for that I am eternally grateful. But I still find that I cannot, in good conscience, leave without assuring myself that we are doing the right thing here.”

Jocko inclines his head once more. “The gods always do what is right.”

Hermes laughs at that and runs a hand through his wonderfully messy hair. “Oh, if only that were the case.” Then, the laughter dies away and he takes a step closer to Death. Eyes serious, he places a hand over his heart. And here, in this garage, there is a powerful god silently demanding—pleading—an answer.

Jocko nods. Just once.

Hermes’ eyes close for the briefest of moments, his head tilted toward the ceiling. Then he holds out the other hand. “I owe you everything.”

Jocko lays his blade in Hermes’ outstretched palm and the shining dissipates whisper quiet into the god’s flesh. He straightens his staff, the blade now dull. “Is there anything else, sir?”

Hermes drops his hand to his side. “Tell her, will you? That every thought ...” He shakes his head and laughs, rueful and embarrassed. “I’m a mess, aren’t I? Like some kind of green lad who didn’t know better. If only I was more like the way they say I am.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t be the one she loves,” Jocko tells him.

A smile so gorgeous, so bright it nearly blinds me through the dark veil breaks out across his face. “Then I am fortunate to be as I am and will never wish to be different again.” He closes his fist and turns toward where he first arrived. Just before the rush of wings beat in the air, he calls out, “I will wish, however, that someday you will experience love for yourself. Love makes every misery, every struggle, every moment of life worth it.”

I am crying when Jocko removes the veil. They’re tears of happiness, though, because he was right. Despite how bittersweet this moment was, my heart, still aching, is indeed soothed.

“Did you clean out the cages in the back?”

I put a broom and dustpan into the closet and turn around. “Yep. I also hit up the kennels on the east side. The poor beagle out there is having a rough go of it lately, by the way.”

Frank, the supervisor I work under at the local no-kill animal shelter, grins and pats my back. “You are a godsend, Maddy.” If only he knew, I can’t help but think. “Do you have a minute we can talk?”

I follow him back to his office and sit down on a worn chair. He sits on the edge of a desk that must have been built thirty years ago; unlike certain pieces that age well, this desk is in its death throes, kept together by duct tape and love. “The board of directors have been discussing shuffling some funds around here at the shelter so they can hire you on part-time. Everybody’s been impressed with your work ethic over the last few months. What say you? Would you be interested in the job?”

I’ve been in Jackson half a year now, a number of those working for free at this shelter. I glance around Frank’s office, at the peeling paint, stained carpet, and dented file cabinet in the corner. It’s not a hard decision. “I thank you for the offer, but I’m going to have to decline.” He goes to protest, so I hold up my hand. “That said, I’d love to continue volunteering for you as I have in the past; if you need me to work more hours, I am more than happy to do that. I love it here.”

I make myself a mental note to have Bernie cut us an anonymous check to the shelter immediately.

He squints at me in confusion. “Are you sure? You work so hard here. You deserve to get paid for it.”

I also have more money than Midas in my bank account. Giving it away doesn’t seem to lessen the numbers one bit; the next day, money reappears to replace it. Bernie has given up trying to rein my donations in; she’s also in on finding good places for us to support on a daily basis. I’ve given to the shelter in the past, but not nearly enough—it shames me now. Tonight, at least seven figures will come their way.