Date: 2012-06-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fantasy
Description: YOU'VE TAKEN PAYMENT FOR A DEATH THAT DOESN'T BELONG TO YOU. WHAT WERE THREE ARE NOW ONE, AND I AM FURY... Herman and Janet Erikson are going through a crisis of grief and suffering after losing their daughter in a hit and run. They've given up on each other, they've given up on themselves. They are living day by day. One afternoon, to make a horrible situation worse, their dog goes missing in the coyote-infested badlands behind their property. Herman, resolved in preventing another tragedy, goes to find the dog, completely unaware he's on a hike to the River Styx, which according to Greek myt
Publisher: Redrum Horror

BOTTLED ABYSS

BENJAMIN KANE ETHRIDGE

BOTTLED ABYSS by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

First REDRUM HORROR Edition

Redrum Horror #5

June 2012

Published by

ABATTOIR PRESS

Austin, TX

Copyright © 2012 by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The ABATTOIR PRESS and REDRUM HORROR logos are property of Redrum Horror.

Cover art by Vance Trancygier.

Layout by Joshua Hansen.

Visit us online at www.redrumhorror.com

CHAPTER I

The Coins

Herman watched the caramel colored whiskey flow down the neck of the bottle to Janet’s pressed lips. Her brown eyes filled and she set the Jim Beam down on the cigarette ash spotted TV tray. “I’m going to kill myself today,” she told him.

Herman had just put on his windbreaker to leave and had one arm stuck into a sleeve at a bad angle. “You’ve said that before,” he replied.

Janet’s eyes seemed near to shutting; it was difficult now to discern their normal weight from the burden of drink. They’d sagged that way for almost a year now, that slight thinning of the vision, like someone sleepwalking or struggling to read an eye chart. She placed a hand back on the whiskey but thought better of taking another tug.

“Don’t drink any more today, okay?”

It took him a moment to remember what he’d been doing before he gently wiggled his arm inside the sleeve. He was getting so damned fat. Soon double extra large would be worn not for comfort but necessity. Going back to the weight room might have been good for him, but he’d just not found the time between jobs.

“Where are you going?”

“To the foothills. Lester’s out there somewhere.”

“Sure he is,” Janet answered with a sick twist of her mouth.

“Are you taking your pills?”

“All of them.”

He waited for her to give herself away. Janet did not elaborate, however, and instead tapped listlessly on her yellow teeth. He remembered her bright white smile once upon a time and wasn’t sure when it had changed. She used to brush after every meal and floss twice a day. The teeth-tapping was something she’d started to do recently and it could last sometimes for several hours. She wouldn’t say anything during these events. Just tap, tap, tap, tapping; eyes wide and overflowing with emptiness, scarce moments taken for blinking; knees locked to her chest. A flashback normally triggered this fugue state.

Just last month, Herman had gotten her to finally tell him which haunted moment was paralyzing her. It wasn’t at all what he guessed. It wasn’t that awful first day, nor was it the day following the hit and run, when the doctor let them into the operating room to be with her.

The moment their Melody was gone forever.

No, the recollection was when they spread some of her ashes at Greenhill Pond, a benign event for Herman, but obviously one capable of serious damage to Janet.

He did have his memories of that day, though.

That duck stuck its head through the ashes.

It didn’t. I can’t take this. Just stop talking.

You didn’t see? It has her ashes on its feathers now. Why did it do that?

Herman shook away that thought. His daughter had been too much in his mind this morning. It wasn’t healthy. People still had to live, didn’t they? People had to carry on after a tragedy, not make it grow into some gigantic life-ending monster. There was work to do. Bills to pay. Air to breathe. And runaway Border Collies to find.

“When was the last time you saw Lester?” he asked.

Tap, tap, went Janet’s teeth.

Tap.

“Did you let him out to pee?”

Tap.

“Did he already get his wet food? You know he’ll be back if he’s hungry.”

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

“He probably isn’t much farther than the dirt bike trail. He never goes out that far.”

Janet stopped tapping and Herman froze. He would take any break in pattern as a good sign. She looked at him squarely and the tip of her tongue glided over her teeth. In an instant, she took another sip of the Jim Beam.

Herman took his keys off the top of the oak entertainment center.

“The dog’s gone,” she said. “Don’t bother. The coyotes were howling all last night. He’s not coming back. I know I wouldn’t.”

“You should start tidying up. Evan and Faye are going to make us dinner tomorrow.”

“You aren’t working?”

“I can go into the shop late. They don’t care.”

“I don’t want to be alone right now. Stay.”

“I need to find our dog, Janet.”

She gave him one of her recent inappropriate looks, layered in drunkenness. “I… want you.”

Herman snorted resolutely and went over for the bottle. Janet put it behind her back, crushing it between her and the sofa.

“Give it.”

She looked away, far away.

He tried to work his hand around her body to get at the bottle, but she thrust herself back, reflexively poking her elbows down. Herman pulled back with a tired sigh.

“I hate you sometimes,” she whispered.

“I don’t really give a shit.”

He left her for the kitchen. He could hear her weeping softly in the next room. She responded fairly well to being comforted now, and although he might have taken a chance at mending her mood, he didn’t want to look at her another second. He grabbed Lester’s jerky snacks from the counter, from the junk drawer a leash, his cell phone and a flashlight from the cupboard, then from the fridge a bottle of water.

Outside on the porch, Herman checked the door to make certain the lock really was engaging. Strange that he did this, for the most dangerous thing that could befall Janet was really in here already, with her.

He set out across the sun-bleached yard and left the gate open, in case his dog showed back up before he did. Sunlight funneled down a long break between the rocky foothills. The afternoon was growing older. Dusk would be here soon enough. He’d have to figure on turning back at a good time if he didn’t want a long nighttime stroll through the desert.

Lester’s coat was blacker than it was white, so distinguishing his shape out here in the Southern Californian wasteland would take eagle eyes. Herman couldn’t believe the dog hadn’t come right back after a couple of hours. But then he had no clear idea when Lester had gone missing because he’d been working. On a regular day he volunteered as a mechanic at the water treatment plant from four to about ten in the morning or so, drove into Redlands for his shift at Jorge’s Burgers around noon. After a full eight hour shift there he’d return home for dinner, smelling like a six foot fried zucchini, and then he was off to the body shop from nine until midnight. But the shop only called him when they had large rush jobs for insurance companies.

Today wasn’t one of those days and he’d dreaded coming home to spend a full evening with Janet. Morbidly, he was almost grateful to get out of the house. He knew it wasn’t good to think like this though. Lester could be hurt out here. A snake could have bitten him, a coyote could have gotten at him, he could have broken his legs falling down a ravine. The world’s stage did awful things to its best players. Herman counted on that now. He figured anyone would, had their two year old daughter been run over by a getaway car. In a better universe, Melody should have been safe playing in the front yard with other children in her daycare. Those murdering immoral assholes should have found another residential street to speed through after they robbed that bank. They shouldn’t have taken that corner so sharp and gone up over the sidewalk—

Herman whipped his head from side to side.

This was what hanging out with Janet would get you. For even half an hour, it was like being tossed into a dumpster with every other nightmare he’d tried to throw away. Most of the images burned into his mind he thought would heal if he just ignored them long enough. The method was cowardly and overused, but Herman could not deny how effective it was, at least until his wife decided to have one of her tapping fits and then his own bad images and ideas would start to surface.

What would it be this time? The spanking he gave Melody the morning of the day she died? Her bent, pouting lip and watering eyes as he scolded her for leaving toys in the bathroom when he’d told her three times before? The way he kicked her purple rubber ducky into a corner and startled her?

Or would it be the big unanswered question? When he dropped off Melody to daycare, had he still been grumpy with her? He couldn’t remember if he’d made up with her or not. That memory was gone.

He had held grudges in the past. He could remember times when he dropped her off and didn’t say a word. He could recall being stern, being sour. Melody would give him a hug and tell him goodbye and he would say nothing in return; he wanted her to understand the value of upsetting him. Had the day she was hit by the car been one of those days?

Or had he let it go?

Had Herman told her he loved her and to have fun playing with the other kids?

How long did a two-year old harbor shame for disappointing a parent?

Did she feel, in those moments before passing away, that the car had been some sort of punishment?

Herman closed his eyes, swam in the maddening sadness for a moment, and then shook his head until it made him dizzy. He staggered through the dirt and a pebble went inside his tennis shoe. Stooping, he fished for it with his finger.

The desert expanded before him in all its miserable beauty. Stumpy trees lined a couple ridges, their leaves bursting in full, trying so urgently to be vibrant, but instead possessed a chalky, lusterless avocado color. Shallow lavender puddles of wild flowers contrasted with long stretches of similarly self-loathing gray scrub, as though to reinforce the bone-deep ugliness in everything else.

The rock in his shoe had evaded Herman, but he couldn’t feel it digging into him any longer. It was like it wasn’t there.

He started off again in the direction he thought Lester might have gone, this time at a stronger pace. The land descended into a basin that came sharply together in a collection of weeds. He hopped over and through some of the thorny underbrush and continued out onto a new plateau of hard, colorless sand, only occasionally interrupted by distant brown sugar dollops of tumbleweeds.

The first paw print he found just at the base of a serpentine washout of pebbles and grit, the dirt rippling there like a freeze-frame shot of a dirty river.

“Lester!” he hollered.

He called again.

Herman searched out the direction of the paw prints, though the path wasn’t explicit like in the movies; the prints often disappeared, were half-formed, or extremely faint, causing him to second-guess whether some weren’t just random disruptions of earth. He went where he ultimately thought they might lead, in a direction that took him south, toward the foothills.

He tried to whistle, but had never been much good at it. Lester hadn’t ever been extremely responsive to high pitched sounds anyway. The vet said he had hearing loss, likely from some event in his puppyhood before Herman and Janet adopted him from the shelter. After Melody’s death, he felt like they never gave Lester all the attention he needed. This escape wasn’t the first and if they continued to shuffle about the house with their eyes always turned inwards, it probably wouldn’t be the last.

Herman made a vow to not let that happen.

“Lester!”

Only the slip-sliding wind again.

Herman hurried on, thinking of drinking from his water bottle, and then dismissing it as being fidgety. A mile off he could see the procession of electricity transmission pylons marching into infinity, a gang of defunct robot warriors.

There was another paw print in an area where shadows crossed the earth in lengthy swatches. Herman followed the illogical trajectory of the prints for a few steps when he heard the call. The sound was goat-like and miniscule. He attempted to track its location, absurdly by pulling open his left ear. It seemed like it would work. The bleating came again and he quickly scaled a dune popping with soft, grainy weeds.

The bleating again. Once more. Louder? Closer? He wasn’t certain if he was getting anywhere near it.

He searched the land before him, wondering momentarily if his vision had deteriorated since his thirtieth birthday. He drew near an old rowboat half buried in the sand. Some of its wooden siding had been stripped away, making its exposed end look like the ribs of some paleontology discovery. The darker sand surrounding the boat had the unsettling look of eyeless faces screaming silent screams. Lester’s paw prints tracked through the faces, blurring some of their misery.

The bleating sound bent into a yelp that was undeniably canine.

Herman raced up an incline slashed with brittle vegetation. Just at the other side, the earth fell away in moist clumps. His ankle twisted a bit, but he kept on anyway. The next call came out, a snapping vicious growl-bark-yipe.

The foothills slowly embraced him with their craggy arms, the sun completely hidden now. He could distinguish the large open mouth of an abandoned mine shaft he didn’t recognize. Hiking on the other side of the hills, he had seen a couple of older mining shafts where teenagers had bonfires, but it was odd to find one so isolated from the others.

Just as he began hoping Lester hadn’t gone into the shaft, another cry of animal pain registered from the other side of the hill. Herman felt his mouth go dry. That one was close. He wanted to convince himself the cry had not sounded like his Border Collie, but he couldn’t delude himself.

He crossed over to a series of snapping jaws and growls. Lester lay on his side, paws up, fangs bared. His black fur was shiny with blood. Two coyotes rounded him, only to then switch postures on hearing Herman breaking down the slope. The pair of scrawny fiends took off. He tried to kick one as it shot past him, but it was quicker than him by far.

Lester rested his head and wagged his tail as Herman approached.

He dropped to his knees. “No, please, no...”

The dog, tail wagging, mouth gasping for air, didn’t seem to mind its predicament. Herman took out his water bottle, twisted off the cap and poured water over the bloody fur around its neck. Water and blood mixed pink on the badge of white on Lester’s cheek. Carefully, Herman lifted up some of the fur. It was too messy to really see any wounds.

The dog tried to raise its head and whined.

“It’s okay, buddy. I’m going to help you. Hang in there.”

Herman took out his cell phone and dialed Janet. He was only getting one bar of reception out here, but that should have been enough to call home.

Janet picked up.

Her voice was a radio transmission from Hell. The phone reception garbled and flexed and fauceted sound in torrents. Herman attempted to talk through it, but then the call was lost.

He called back.

Lester yelped and Herman pulled his fingers away from his wounds.

The next call didn’t go through.

Could you call 911 for a dog?

In the face of escalating doubt, Herman dialed and waited. His phone returned a signal transmission error. He squeezed the phone hatefully before shoving it back in his jeans.

“I’m going to have to carry you, buddy.” Herman went down on his haunches and slid one hand underneath Lester and at once felt a surge of blood around his fingers. As Herman drew his hand back, Lester snapped with a fierceness he’d never seen from the dog before. He scooted away in a rustle of dirt. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”

His mind raced so fast it took a while to even define the problem. Lester was still alive, but his breathing was shallow. He was losing a lot of blood. If he left to go get help, there would be no saving the dog.

Lester whined again, as though sensing the same thing now. His eyes were wide and frightened, though his open, panting mouth betrayed him for a smile.

Herman slipped off his windbreaker and bent over the dog. He pushed the sleeve under Lester’s mouth, then took both ends and drew it around the neck. Lester snorted but made no other attempt to snap. Herman tied the sleeve together with the other sleeve, to a point where he felt it was secure but not strangling. After he was done, he looked disparagingly at his vermillion hands.

It always looks like there’s more blood than there is—isn’t that what they always say? Herman wondered if “they” weren’t just chockfull of shit, but he hoped not.

He stood and the world blackened. His heart quaked and thundered and pounded and slammed inside his chest. Should he try to move the dog again? What if that made him bleed faster? Maybe he could just run until he got a better signal on his phone?

Lester’s breathing came slower now; it wasn’t as wild and labored, it was more deliberate, it was a last call for oxygen.

“I’m going to get help, Les,” said Herman. He could hear a tremor in his voice. God, he was so tired of the man he’d become this past year.

He took a couple timid steps away and Lester started whining deep from the gut. Herman closed his eyes and took another step away. This life…oh this life…all of this in a year. In a fucking year. This wasn’t really happening, was it? People don’t suffer this much? Do they?

A rustling came from behind him.

“Is there trouble here?”

Herman turned. Parting the weeds with a dark walking stick, a gaunt middle aged man with long strawberry blond hair came into the clearing. He was dressed in a black sweat shirt and jeans that almost appeared to blend into one another like a robe. His dirty boots crunched the gravel softly and the sound stopped when he saw the dog.

“My,” he said, pyrite eyes studying the scene.

“It was coyotes—do you have cell service out here?” asked Herman.

The man hesitated, then pulled his eyes away from Lester. “I’m afraid not.”

“Can you go for help? I don’t want to leave him.”

“Of course. I was a medic once, a long time ago. Would you care for me to have a look first?”

“Oh God yes, please, thank you.”

The man dropped his walking stick back against the weeds, which kept it standing. The stick came down into a thin paddle at its end, almost making resemble an oar. Herman had never seen one like it before. Must have been handmade.

He shook the man’s ice cold hand as he walked by. “Thank you for helping. I’m Herman Erikson.”

The man mumbled something that sounded like Charleston and then got down next to Lester. “You mind gripping the fur behind his neck, keep him from biting me?”

Herman knelt and grabbed a wad of Lester’s dusty black fur at the back of his neck.

The man leaned over, blond ponytail hanging off his shoulder, and slowly stripped away the hasty windbreaker tourniquet. When he saw the blood he blew out of the side of his mouth and his eyes worked back and forth for a minute.

“What?” Herman asked.

“There’s a bulging here and here—I think maybe that’s internal issues. I don’t know with dogs. He’s pretty well chewed up. This needs to be shaved, cleaned up and evaluated. Have you tried to move him?”

“He’s wounded on his side too. I felt…something there.”

Charleston’s eyes fixed on him a moment and it was a little unsettling. “Can I see?”

“Yes, go ahead,” said Herman.

The man gently lifted the dog’s hind quarters. Lester made a miserable squeal. After a moment’s study, he let him gently down.

“That’s even worse than the throat. He’s keeping himself together by laying on it. Too bad, such a beautiful, beautiful hound. How much did you pay for him?”

Herman shook his head, taken back. “We got him at a shelter.”

Charleston looked at him a moment as though he hadn’t understood, but said, “I see.”

“So what can I do? Anything?”

The man took a long breath of air in through his sharp nose and pursed his lips in thought. “This one’s suffering…well enough, and dragging him a mile or two will probably be worse. You could chance it, possibly.”

“My wife can’t see him like this.”

“I understand.” Charleston got to his feet and dusted off his knees. “I’ll go ahead and head out to the main road over there. I’m not a fast traveler but I can probably make it in less than an hour or so.”

“That won’t do. Maybe I should just go. Thank you for helping.”

“It’s no problem, friend.”

Herman faded back a little bit, shaking his head. Lester’s eyes were glazing over. Herman couldn’t watch this anymore. He took one more step back and bumped into Charleston.

“Pardon—”

The man’s gold-flaked eyes stared into him, hard. “There’s one more thing. Not proud to say it, but I have some… liquid poppy with me.”

“Morphine?”

“Of course, of course. I will give some to the dog, if you like.”

Herman’s first instinct was to say no, but his merry-go-round head could not find a good reason for it. “He’s not going to make it. I guess that would be okay. He’s in pain. It’ll help right?”

“It will help,” Charleston said.

From inside the front pouch of the man’s sweat shirt, he pulled free an obsidian bottle. Its patina would suggest a metal composite material, although the long flutelike neck ended in a flat, circular opening which revealed the interior as glass. The bottle, without a doubt, was an archaic looking item for a hiker to carry. Herman didn’t want to ask what the deal was at this point, for fear of embarrassing the man, but he was beginning to form an impression of Charleston. He’d met a man who was likely an oddball coot that wandered the wastelands out here, as high as Benjamin Franklin’s electrified kite.

“That’s a beautiful bottle,” remarked Herman. He meant it, too. What he didn’t say was the bottle was also equally troubling for some reason.

“Thank you.” Charleston took a knee once more near Lester. “It’s all I have of my old home. The poppy helps my back pain and the bottle helps me remember everything that used to be good. Do you have anything like that, friend?”

Herman did indeed, but such items were landmines hidden around the house that he’d rather not encounter. “Sure,” he answered.

The man pulled out the longest, blackest cork Herman had ever seen and set it down on the pebble-shot desert floor. Lester took deeper breaths. His eyes bulged as the man tipped the bottle. Dark gray water poured from the bottle’s indifferent mouth and splashed all over Lester’s face. The dog lapped at the stream and choked raggedly.

“Hey!” Herman stepped forward.

Charleston ignored him and recorked the bottle. “Easy. We all have the fullness of life pouring out of us,” he whispered, “until there is little to nothing of us left.”

“What in the hell was that shit?”

Lester heaved and gagged and smacked his jaws together at what might have been a bad taste. The dark liquid from the bottle had not stained his black and white face. In fact, Herman couldn’t see any evidence that anything had spilled on the dog. The fluid had appeared to be the consistency of water, so it couldn’t have sloughed off; it had to have been absorbed.

Hornk.

A sudden blast of black vomit came from the dog’s mouth. When it reached the ground, however, it looked as though Lester had puked out an old coin.

Charleston brushed it off and took a moment to study it. The coin’s edges were worn and there were long cracks from its perimeter almost down to its center. The imprint in the center resembled a skull of a dog.

“I’ve been looking for this.”

Herman noticed his jaw was hanging open then. “Is… that yours? Didn’t he…? I mean…”

Charleston got to his feet and slipped the bottle in his front pouch and the coin in his black pants. The man’s face, skeletal and parched, turned away. “He feels no pain now. Take him from here now and never come back.”

“Did my dog cough that coin up? Or am I nuts?”

“You are upset.”

“Really? But that’s crazy… Can I see the coin?”

“It doesn’t concern you, friend. Like I said, take your hound.”

“I can’t take him—”

But when Herman looked down, Lester was looking up expectantly. Blood still ran from his neck, but he had that alert expression dogs get when they’re ready to go running.

“Hey Les,” he said, “did that stuff already make you feel better, boy?”

Lester gave a jubilant bark.

Herman bent down to pick the dog up. When he did, he saw the weeds swaying as Charleston escaped back through them, his walking stick held above him like a ceremonial staff in a religious procession.

You’re a weird one, but thank you. Lester might have been dying, but he couldn’t feel the terrible journey, and that was more than Herman could have asked for just half an hour ago.

Lester was incredibly light. Holding the dog in front of his chest, Herman could feel blood seeping out of his body and absorbing into his t-shirt, running down into his pants and underwear. Lester rested his snout on Herman’s shoulder and made no struggle to be put down. They walked on, together, friends to the last.

It was halfway back when the bleeding stopped and Lester’s breathing calmed.

And it was when they got back to the yard when Herman realized the dog’s wounds had closed, and healed.

2

Janet hugged Lester and kissed him all over his face. The dog responded in kind and licked her neck and wagged his tail like it was a brand new thing to do. Herman watched them both pensively. He couldn’t decide what to tell Janet. The bottle hadn’t contained liquid morphine, for that he was goddamn well assured, but had it been some kind of…magic? Was that Charleston guy some sort of wandering desert sorcerer? And what of the coin that Lester coughed up? Never mind Charleston’s forceful subterfuge; Herman knew he’d seen it come out of Lester’s mouth.

Bringing all of that stuff up right now would ruin the moment. Janet was authentically happy. It had been so long since he’d seen her this way that he’d started to believe she’d never been a happy person. But he was wrong. Herman remembered now. She’d been happy before Melody’s death. In fact, Janet had been more optimistic and bubbly than he could have ever hoped to be.

Perhaps he should just leave it alone for a while, not try to sort anything out just yet. He’d seen enough complications this past year.

“Ah!” she cried out ecstatically. “You got me in the mouth, Les!”

The dog spun around to play. Janet wiped her lips with a pleasant sigh and offered her hands for Herman to pull her up. From this angle he could see down her black terry cloth robe to that pleasant cleft between her luminescent breasts. Herman hadn’t looked at her this way for months and she picked up on it right away. To reveal more, Janet moved a train of long raven hair off her chest.

“Very nice,” he told her.

She latched onto him, working her hands around his ass, coming to the front to rub his crotch roughly through his jeans. “I told you I wanted you.”

He believed it this time. Even through the whiskey vapors rising with her words, he believed her. They both wanted each other, more than anything. To erase this day and all that came before it.

She kissed him with those spicy alcoholic lips and he consumed all she gave, thinking how strange tragedy’s symptoms were. Once she could only stomach an occasional wine cooler and never anything harder. Now there was no discrimination, no satiation for any poison, and he’d done nothing about it.

Janet pulled away from him, breathing fast, excited. “My hero.”

He really wanted to be.

She dropped down, unzipped him, pulled out his penis and sucked it. Hard. As though her life depended on keeping it hard.

Herman wasn’t a hero.

He couldn’t save Melody.

And he really hadn’t saved Lester either.

That stuff in the bottle.

That liquid.

His thoughts commingled into wonderful chaos as his wife pulled his pants all the way down and ripped her panties to the floor.

They moved to the sofa, him going inside her before they had the chance to lie down. She let her robe drop around her shoulders and her breasts bounced with his thrusts. Tears were in her eyes. The bouncing went faster. She snarled and laughed and more tears fell. Her breathing hitched. He got harder and wanted to release.

Lester trotted merrily past them. A few seconds later he was lapping at his water bowl in the kitchen.

Janet continued to move her hips, but put less power into them. She reached over and plucked the Jim Beam from between the sofa cushions. Her eyes rolled back. “Oh yes,” she cooed, all the while twisting off the cap.

Herman watched her drink from the bottle. That golden fluid, draining, draining, draining. He was still hard, still deep within her, but his interest suddenly faded. Whiskey still in hand, Janet glanced down at him quizzically.

“Do you want some?” she asked. Light was scarce in their living room, but her sunken cheeks still bloomed red.

Herman took the bottle and had a big sip. The charred taste wasn’t pleasant to him, never had been, but he soldiered through it. Janet watched him carefully and then accepted the whiskey back. She took another drink before starting to work her hips again. It only took a few minutes more for her body to throw itself into a frightening orgasm. He might have stopped then, but without finishing the aftermath would be awkward, her questions would be annoying and he didn’t want to go there right now.

They switched to a position Lester may have preferred, and Herman was soon ready to explode again. He withdrew to ejaculate on her back. Just as he did, Janet looked back at him. Her face startled him with its shallow eyes and alabaster skin. She’s dying, he thought. Killing herself, one day at a time.

Janet purred as the warm seed fell on her back. He couldn’t tell if she was pretending, but either way, it was disturbing to see a death’s head enjoying itself.

Well beyond disturbing.

Just off the 10 freeway in a convenience store, a pair of college-aged guys waited in line, one guy with a crew cut and desert camouflage fatigues, and the other well pierced and in full gothic-metal attire.

Either would do.

The Ferryman extended his hand, feeling strange to be on the other side of this transaction, but exhilarated by the notion of passing coin once more. “I think one of you dropped this?”

The gothic guy glanced over his shoulder at the coin and his penciled eyebrows curled at the ends like black flames. “That’s not ours.”

“I see.”

“What’s it made of?” The guy in fatigues scratched at a scab on his pit-bull thick neck. “Well damn. I must have a hole in my jeans. That’s my lucky coin all right.”

His painted friend folded his arms, countless bracelets clicking together in a disorder of steel. “Devon—”

“You sure it’s yours?” asked the Ferryman.

“Of course it’s mine. Shut up, Phil.”

The Ferryman handed the coin to Devon and turned down an aisle toward the exit.

“Is that a cow skull?”

“Naw that’s a demon,” said Devon. “Pretty freakin’ wicked.”

“Sorta looks like a dog too. A poodle skull.”

“Hey, don’t shit on my parade.”

The Ferryman took his oar from where he’d propped it against the freezer with the bags of ice. Electric chimes bidding him farewell, he walked outside, a serious horserace of giddiness in his stomach.

But his excitement immediately turned to dread.

The Fury waited for him outside.

The Ferryman couldn’t see the ancient creature, but the scent of the River was hanging in the air, a pleasant scent he thought he’d never smell again.

“How did you ascend?” it asked, its sickly tone an awful nostalgia to his ears.

“A h-h-hound,” stuttered the Ferryman. “It bled on the last place the River swelled. The cave opened and I was free.”

“And the bottle?”

He nodded.

“Filled once more?”

The Ferryman nodded again.

“And you used the waters on the animal. Why?”

“Quite by accident.”

“There is no Underworld anymore. There is no cost for spiritual passage. No cost, no destination. Have you forgotten this?”

“The waters will recede. The bottle will be empty again, sure enough.”

“Without a River what happens now if a soul passes with the coin of Nyx? That could create a spiritual evolution that might restore Her, as we have been.”

“You don’t miss Nyx?”

“You are insane to even ask that, Charon. We were nothing more than organs in the loathsome digestive system She devised to stand separate from the other Gods.”

“Forgive me. But are you so angry to have a use again?”

“We were promised peace.”

“But not silence,” the Ferryman mumbled. “Not eternal numbness.”

The two college guys walked out chuckling, large soft drinks in their hands. The one named Devon gave the Ferryman a nod of thanks. His nose flared and his face pinched a little as though a bee had stung him in the eye.

He could smell the Fury too. It was working.

When the two were out of sight, the Ferryman lowered his voice, “Enjoy your vengeance, my old friend.”

“This vengeance isn’t justified; the circumstance has turned me into a fiend that exacts justice for Stealing Death. That poor fool who accepted the coin has no knowledge of his crime.”

“Look at the company he keeps. The morally corrupt are more valuable.”

“There is NO RIVER!” The creature’s breath was hot on the Ferryman’s neck. “And even if there was, you were never chosen to judge.”

“It seems things have changed.”

“Don’t you ever think of doing this again!”

The Ferryman swallowed hard. “You have no power over me.”

The Ferryman stood there in the parking lot, just the whooshing sounds of the freeway filling the space of a moment. He expected something terrible to happen now, speaking out of turn as he had, but the truth was the truth. They were both different creatures now after that implosion of the old life, and every moment would be a new self discovery.

“Why did you really do this?” asked the Fury.

“I—don’t expect you to understand.”

“Tell me.”

The Ferryman idly ran his thumb over the rough wood grain of his oar. “I had to weigh the value of another soul passing. That was my life for so long…all I ever knew. I thought you would understand that this opportunity might take thousands of years to happen again.”

“My estimate says you have three days to enjoy this world, Charon. If you use the waters of the bottle again, I will find you before you give away another coin.”

The Ferryman smiled. “You better, because if I do, you will be as you are now, my servant.”

The atmosphere lightened. The smell retreated. The Fury was gone.

The Ferryman went on, past the overhead lights at the gas pumps, treading into darkness. He talked well enough but he didn’t plan on using the bottle again. It was indeed dangerous to invite Nyx back, but he enjoyed seeing the Fury squirm inside all of that wasted power.

Then again, he expected that overgrown fool with the dog to come back to steal the bottle. Unlike the Fury, mortals could scarcely see such power and leave it for waste. Let him try. Charon was not fully restored but he wasn’t feeble either. That big oaf would no doubt need healing after their clash. Of course he would oblige the man. All it would cost was one coin. That would be a pleasant way for the Ferryman to extend his stay another three days.

Life was cheap, after all.

He dreamed about what the Fury must be doing to that college student. He dreamed about the bottle. He dreamed about the coins it would give him. He dreamed about the salty embrace of his dead mother. A thrill went through him and the night air outside was delightful on his parchment skin.

FURY

Glad to be away from that smell outside the store, must have been a backed up sewer—backed up with what though? Rotting cherries, apples and cinnamon?

Say goodbye to Phil down the road from the AM PM and wonder if I’ll see him in Spanish class again since he’s missed the last five times—weird dude, probably won’t get all his undergraduate stuff completed, but probably wouldn’t get a job anyway with that goth shit of his—can’t believe some people keep that dress-up crap going past high school—

Walking back to the university apartments with my new lucky coin—flip it on my thumb like a gangster—pling, pling, pling— now I just have to pull off a decent nyah nyah Coppah—this damn obnoxious cold sore in my mouth will probably help with that—tongue it, do circles around it—Have I had one for three days before—? Can’t remember—Gotta get some of that gel stuff, forget if it’s only for cold sores on the outside of your lips, not inside like this one—Is there a difference between cold sores and canker sores—? Can never remember that, should go to the store and read the back of the box—Dumbass—You were just at the store, this sucks, what if it’s cancer from all the weed I smoke—I’m too young, right—? Wonder if it’ll get worse and I’ll lose my jaw and lymph nodes—

The campus trees along this stretch always freak me out—they huddle around you, look down your shoulders—can feel their leafy breath on my back— kind of poetic when I’m nervous, should use that if I ever decide to write anything besides my signature, yeah sure—

Something’s wrong—feels darker tonight, feels unbalanced, wickedly so—the world is wide open, am free, am liberated, am finally where I belong—these are not my thoughts—they don’t even feel human—these feelings are wild love for the open air and open world before me—sniff the air, smell everything, everything is wonderful—but miss my keeper, where is my keeper—? I don’t have a keeper—what, like a master—? Like I’m someone’s pet or something—?

Shake my head dizzily—stagger along the sidewalk—my keeper—?

Would that be my parents—?

Need to call about my mother’s 50th birthday—

Don’t know what dad has planned—

Don’t call either of the houses nearly enough—Love them so much—Wish they were here in the dark with me—

Drunken thoughts of freedom consume me again—the world grows cold, no longer wonderful and mysterious, want to go home, am going home, what the hell is the matter with me—?

Hope that Brian is in the apartment with Jamie—good people—like them—they work well as a couple and so few really do—maybe I’ll find that for myself someday too—maybe this coin will change my luck and I won’t have to play videogames until five in the morning and smoke myself silly—who knows—? I might end up in Calculus 1B and shock the professor—

Look at the coin, a dark puddle in my hand, somehow taste it in my mouth, like a swamp stew of leaves, rot, death and life, and beyond that my mouth is dry, tasteless, envious of that placenta and bone gruel that tightens there, drawing up the corners of the tongue, busting my cold sore into fragments—

Still, don’t feel bad for taking the coin from that bizarre hobo in the store—should I feel bad—?

Hear sounds—dogs yipping and yapping somewhere up ahead in the shadows of the dormitory I happily left last year— no lights are on—not normal—there’s always lights on, always people messing around with something or other—who do those dogs belong to—? Nobody was allowed to bring pets in the dorms—it could have been strays—I grip the coin harder in my sweat-gloved hand—gonna see if Brian has a magnifying glass so I can give it a better look when I get back—it’s a killer looking coin, like something out of a role playing game or something—

Without any kind of announcement, four-legged fiends leave their hiding places in the bushes lining the dorms—the group slides out on paws that make no sound—ears are pinned back, monstrous aerodynamics in place, ready for flight, for a fast charge—

Back away, turn, don’t make eye contact, keep hands close to body—this is how you deal with aggressive dogs, right—?

These aren’t dogs though—big foxes—no they’re coyotes, except bigger—they aren’t running after me yet, but their strides are quickening—don’t want to look them in the eyes but imagine they are sizing me up, choosing which place on my body is the sweetest to tear away meat from the bone—

Going faster—what the hell are those things—?

Glance behind me—have to—the coyote monsters have their mouths open, saliva running down in awful tributaries through several rows of fangs—and their eyes, what in God’s name is wrong with their eyes—

Like a precious metal harvested from Mars, they shine up at me, coins of red gold—

Coins…

Try to throw the coin at them, scare them away, give me a chance to run for the apartments, but the coin is a part of my hand—it isn’t going anywhere—then the coyotes fall on me—

The first coyote to go for my throat is thrown aside by a quicker, meaner alpha, who then lunges and takes hold of my neck in an instant, a grasp barbed in razor thorns that strangles mercilessly—the three others clamp onto my side, bringing me down to the ground—the pain is there, it is real, all of this, is very, very real, but shock has me in its watery grip—everything is water, the dark sky is the surface of a great night ocean, a surface I will never be able to swim to, not having the breath or the strength to even begin such a journey—the water is ever moving, like the water of my veins, freeing itself quickly forever, faster, a rush, a blast—

The coyotes scatter into the ebbing shadows—

My heart beats softly now, a feeble finger flicking the inside of my icy cage of bones—

A cruel form bends over me, head of a blood-crazed shark, body of a serpent and the arms of a powerful man—inside the hideous fish mouth, beyond the blood-stained triangle teeth, a pair of human lips move—“What were three are now one, and I am Fury—”

No chance to talk, my vocal cords torn from my throat—lie there and bleed, listen in terrified curiosity—

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury—the smooth voice sounds hopeful—“Do you know the song—? The song my heart wants so badly to hear—?”

Vocal cords somehow collect themselves to animate and project sound: “No, no I do not—”

Scaly hands pry open my mouth, draw out my tongue— with ease, the Fury takes the coin, still gripped in my hand, and places it on my tongue—

Then the world shatters into drops of pain that pour out into nothing, and a man, out there in the nether black, cries with aching delight.

3

Herman couldn’t eat, but he was doing his damnedest not to let Janet and their friends Evan and Faye know that. The problem with spaghetti in a bowl was that spreading it out did little for the illusion of eating. Actually, the sauce had just the right sweetness, a hint of Cabernet Sauvignon, that Herman enjoyed with his pasta. Faye had done a great job on that and the garlic cheese bread. The food was great; it just wasn’t intended for Herman in this mode.

Until late last night and as soon as he’d awakened today, he’d thought often about the bottle and the man from the cave. The whole thing could have been a miracle, although Herman wasn’t satisfied entertaining that possibility, not even at arm’s length. In his state of mind of this past year, though crazy to consider, mental illness seemed more likely than miracles. Just like the good Italian dinner with good friends, he unfortunately could not savor sitting here with Lester. The dog wagged his white tipped black tail, begging for table scraps like his life depended on it. His life had depended on something else though—that bottle.

Herman diverted his thoughts across the table to his wife. She’d had too much wine tonight, had actually puked her guts out right before Evan and Faye showed up at the door. Now she was pretending everything was fine. This was how she’d always been with their friends. In group situations Janet always acted as though she were the strong one, but then when the group dissolved and they were left alone, she just went to pieces and it was Herman who had to sweep her up into the dustpan.

She might be making me go crazy, he reflected solemnly. Can schizophrenia actually be acquired from emotional stress? The answer for all the magic he’d experienced in the desert could have been a colossal arrangement of hallucinations brought on by a crippled mind. Herman was trying to mend. He was trying to move on, but his wife would never let him.

Perhaps he’d found Lester out there, unharmed, if not frightened, and his mind created this wild scenario, which was one part nightmare and one part wish fulfillment. It didn’t help that he’d wanted so badly to share what had happened and all Janet had wanted to do was make them feel dirty. That’s all that was. It wasn’t about wanting or needing him. The sex provided another way to make her feel worthless.

Herman wanted no part of such self destruction. He’d just been so happy with the outcome with Lester that he buckled. It had been a mistake.

Now, staring at the hobbled woman in the pink blouse, black hair in messy ponytail, chipped nail tapping her teeth, he could think of no one he despised more. She was refusing not only to heal herself, but to let him get better, taking him down with this burning ship, perhaps causing him affliction.

“Food okay?” Evan’s voice was louder now as he repeated himself. Herman awkwardly shifted in his seat, wondering how many times his friend had asked.

“I had a big lunch,” he offered.

Evan half smiled and looked past his bifocals at the golden swirl of noodles on his fork. “Never thought I’d see you turn down food, He-Man.”

Janet picked up the bottle of Chianti to pour another glass.

“Can I have some more of that?” asked Faye.

Herman noticed Faye had cut her hair shorter, like Janet’s used to be, except the style made the diminutive woman look more of a pixie than ever.

Janet poured the rest of the wine into Faye’s glass. “I’ll get another bottle.”

“You still have half a glass,” Faye pointed out.

Janet’s eyes rested on the inch of red in her glass. She didn’t hide embarrassment well, so Herman often found himself always bailing her out.

Not anymore.

“It’s pretty good wine.” Janet took the daintiest sip of the evening.

Herman closed his eyes together tightly a moment; whether out of exhaustion or disgust, he couldn’t tell.

“Good everything,” said Evan, giving Faye a wink. “I can’t decide what I like best.”

Faye smiled lightly and went back to piling spaghetti onto her garlic bread and quickly transferring it to her mouth. Herman had never seen her eat so voraciously.

Evan chuckled. “You’ve all but given yourself away, honey.”

Faye stopped, garlic bread poised before her mouth. She snorted musically and shrugged.

“What?” Janet asked over her wine glass, looking faintly horrified.

“Well, I kinda missed my period.”

Herman’s throat went dry. “Kinda?”

“And the test was positive too.”

After a moment’s thought, Herman smiled and pushed himself out from the table. He went around to Faye and gave her a hug. Evan stood and they also embraced. “Congratulations man—you’re going to love it.”

“Thank you, buddy. Thanks.”

Janet bravely pulled herself up from her chair and gave Faye a limp hug, followed by a couple faint poundings of her wrist on Faye’s back. “I’m going to go get that bottle of wine now. To celebrate.”

Janet shuffled into the kitchen with a swiftness that betrayed her inebriation. Faye stood there, tableside, playing absently with a sauce stained cloth napkin.

“Do you want a cigar?” Evan asked Herman.

“Would love one.”

Evan took two plastic wrapped cigars from the leather jacket draped over the dining room chair they never used. Then he went to Faye and pecked her on the cheek. “We’ll be back in a bit, honey.”

Faye stood there like a castaway. “Take your time,” she said.

Many men, seasoned by marriage, would not take their time, but Herman knew that Evan could take all the time he wanted. Herman wasn’t envious or resentful about that. It was a different relationship. Janet actually didn’t grouse over Herman as much anymore because she had no drive for such things. Morbidly Herman missed their thunderous arguments of the past and considered again how insane he’d become in this last year without that passion, just as he stripped the plastic wrap off the Dominican cigar.

On the porch, in a trapezoid of light through the dining room window, the two men bit off the ends of their cigars. Evan had matches. It took a while to get both of the cigars properly lit, and once Herman took several puffs he decided the smoke just didn’t feel as relaxing as it once had. All he could think of was the ashtray mouth he would have tomorrow morning.

You’re a barrel of fun, aren’t you?

Lester scratched at the screen, his claws making zipping sounds. Herman turned and popped open the door. The Border Collie shot outside like a black and white bullet. He didn’t want to pee, just wanted to be outside with the guys. He circled around, grabbed his favorite toy rope in his jaws and threw it up in the air, lunged to catch it, then took off running to all sides of the yard.

The flavor of Herman’s cigar improved. His mouth hitched into a smile. It was a foreign feeling but not an unwelcome one.

“I’m so glad you found him,” said Evan, watching the dog in quiet admiration.

“Me too.”

“And with all the coyotes about now…”

Herman looked at his friend incredulously. How did he know?

Evan took a large draw on his cigar and the end went volcanic for a moment. When he blew out the smoke, he noticed Herman watching him. “What?”

“What about coyotes?”

“Oh you didn’t see the news?”

“We haven’t been watching it.” That was a lesson Herman imagined most grief-trapped parents had to learn the hard way. The local news was not something to fuck around with. It was in your best interest to stab at the channel-button as hard as you could if its grim reaper face ever filled your TV screen.

“Coyotes must be getting desperate for food. There was a pack that attacked and killed a college student last night.”

“No shit? Out in the foothills?”

“On campus,” Evan said through more smoke.

Herman paused. He so badly wanted to tell Evan his own coyote story. For a split second he contemplated laying it all out. Why not? If it was a hallucination, Evan would convince him and that would put his mind at ease.

Hell no. Nothing was putting Herman’s mind at ease. It was a stupid thing to even ask for at this point. Instead, he chickened out and commented, “Yeah, there are a lot of them out there.”

Evan nodded and they both stared out into the stretch of dark desert beyond the chain link fence, the body of a great unmoving and poisonous sea.

“Janet doesn’t look well there, He-Man. You don’t either. Maybe we should hit the gym this weekend, start moving those muscles again?”

“I’d like that,” Herman admitted, then examined the cigar in his hand. The head of it reminded him of an aerial photo of a vicious forest fire. “I don’t know… I’ve got both days on the grill and then work at the plant this weekend too.”

“Volunteer work,” Evan pointed out. “You should put your energy elsewhere.”

“I’ll get back to the gym.”

“That’s not all that I meant.”

Herman glared at him. He knew what his friend was getting at. Evan’s eyes were easily read behind his spectacles; the lenses did him a disservice, magnifying his intentions.

“Let’s enjoy your moment and leave the past where it belongs. If the cops gave up, then what chance do we have?”

“They didn’t give up,” Evan insisted. “It’s barely just a year now, hardly a cold case.”

Herman dismissed this. “That part of this whole thing was tearing us apart more than anything. It was a good choice to move on.”

“But you and Janet were focused then. You still need closure man. Really. Janet looks likes she’s dying in there and…”

“And what?”

Evan seemed caught between compassion and frustration. “And you’ve given up trying to save her.”

“Oh please.”

“Starting an independent investigation, hitting the streets to look for those guys, it might get Janet’s mind off the bottle.”

And mine as well? thought Herman.

“I don’t mean to upset you,” Evan explained, smoke rolling over his short cropped brown hair. “But those jerks are still free to go on robbing banks and maybe hurting more people. Melody is gone and they’re still on this planet. That just isn’t right.”

Herman smiled. Even in this discussion, he loved to hear his daughter’s name. It almost brought him to tears sometimes. Joyful tears. It was calming to know that other people hadn’t forgotten her. Melody wasn’t gone completely.

“Finding them wouldn’t bring her back,” he added.

Evan turned to him now, his baby face thoughtful. “What would you do, if you found them?”

Herman had thought on that a hundred million different ways. There was no right answer for it. “Show them what they took from me, make them feel the same way, I guess.”

“Yeah…” Evan twisted his cigar in his hands, lost for any new thoughts.

Herman tapped off the end of his cigar and gently put it out on the wall. “So enough with all that. Okay? I’m just really happy for you and Faye. Really.”

“You’re the godfather, you know.”

He took Evan by his neck and gripped softly. “That’s talk for another day. All right?”

“All right.”

They went back inside. Faye was cleaning up the kitchen, the house arrested by a mausoleum stillness only broken by the running water of the sink and the murmur of the television in the living room. Evan went over and grabbed a towel from the counter. He scooted in beside Faye and she giggled softly at his presence.

Good grief, thought Herman.

Janet had excused herself to the sofa with the bottle of wine and a jelly jar. She hadn’t poured any, though; both sat on her TV tray, awaiting use. An old game show got Herman’s attention for a moment. He stood, sofa-side, watching the big screen with his broken wife, uncertain whether to stay and watch forgotten 70s celebrities make sterile jokes about everything and nothing, or to go and help clean the garbage palace that had once been Janet’s kitchen.

“I had fun yesterday,” Janet told him. The game show trained her eyes, making the statement seem robotic. “We needed that, right?”

No, thought Herman. You needed that. Everybody knows you don’t celebrate by fucking when you find your dog.

Janet didn’t even know the half of it. You don’t celebrate when your husband has a psychological breakdown. No, fuck it all—you remember, you sad, single-minded woman, that just a little over a year ago, in this very room, you had a little one dancing to her favorite cartoons, her whole life ahead of her, a vast ballroom floor to cover in too many dances to count, and you respect that her memory means everything now; you don’t rut on the sofa where she drank her juice from her little sippy cups, where she may have dreamed about Disneyland, or if dad would take her to the library because she got a sticker at daycare.

That gold had to stay.

It must.

Putting filth over that memory, darkening that particular corridor of their life, devaluing that once priceless artifact, was something Herman couldn’t easily get over.

Janet had gone back to watching her show while he gawked at her. She had her answer now: yesterday had not been fun, it had been dishonorable and wrong. A silent treatment would ensue now. Herman would only break it with an apology or by not coming home for dinner in between shifts.

He went into the kitchen and tried to help with the remainder of the mess. Evan brought up the gym again and how people still commented on Herman’s photo on the “5000 Pound Club” wall. Herman told him he would probably start back on the weights after February. The club was too crowded with New Year’s resolutions right now.

Not long after, they said goodbye to their friends. Janet actually gave both Evan and Faye a big, thankful hug, which was uncharacteristic of her lately. Once the door was closed, Herman expected to be plunged back into the never-ending Dawn of the Dead reenactment, but Janet gave him one of those warm hugs too.

Instantly, everything flipped, and he reviled himself more than he did her. Yesterday had been his fault. He should have controlled the situation. He should have told her what he saw. And he still could.

As it went, there were no easy approaches to the subject.

Later that night, he lay in bed beside her, on his side, turned away from her, as the new norm required, and the words sieved through his mind. Different scenarios played out and none of them seemed desirable.

Then Lester jumped up on the bed and curled up next to his feet.

“Do you believe miracles can happen?” he asked Janet.

He expected her to be sleeping already but she made a smacking sound with her mouth, as though to try it out for talking.

“That’s a weird thing to ask.”

Herman could see that bottle behind his closed eyes. Cool, smoky black glass, fluted neck with that hammered mouth at the top…

“You know how sometimes you can splash water on your face and it feels like you’ve started over again?”

“Refreshed,” she commented dully.

“What if that water really healed you? You know, like it came in a magic bottle, like a potion.”

“Are you talking in your sleep?” Janet sat up. Her words were slurred but semi-concerned.

Herman caught himself. “Yeah, yeah I think I was.”

“Go to sleep,” she said. It may have just been the perplexing moment, but Herman detected a new sadness in her request. He thought about asking her what it was, but let it go, as he so often did now.

What if he went back to that cave? Would the man sell the bottle?

Or could I just take it from him?

New plans formed and died and Herman stayed up far too late thinking them over. The idea of going back was unsettling. He didn’t know much about miracles, but if they did exist, they probably shouldn’t be abused. Still, he would think more about it tomorrow during work.

He tried to get comfortable and couldn’t. For a breathless moment he mangled his pillow and folded it under his head. The pillowcase stunk with sweat. They really needed to do some laundry and start acting like real people again. Herman turned over and refocused on sleeping. Sheep jumping over a fence turned into coyotes and his eyes cracked open...

Janet was not beside him. He hadn’t even noticed when she left the bed. A thin bar of light came from under the bathroom door across the hall.

He shut his eyes.

Opened them again.

Got up.

The floor was cold.

Went to the bathroom door.

The fan was whirring inside.

Knocked.

Waited.

Knocked again.

“Janet, you okay in there?”

“I’m taking a shit,” she replied drowsily, “go away.”

Herman retreated back to the bed, plopped down and pulled the pillow over his head. In a few minutes, he could hear a rumble in his throat.

Snoring.

Then blissful black nothingness.

The clock read 3:02 AM. Herman’s eyes found the numbers and he loathed their burning bright reality. How did he always manage to wake up half an hour before his alarm went off? The next thirty minutes of sleep would feel like thirty seconds. He might as well get up…

He turned over and glanced across the empty side of the bed.

Janet still hadn’t come back.

The bathroom light was still on, the door still closed.

“Oh my god,” he breathed.

He rolled off the bed and went into the hallway, brain overloading with horrible endings to this short trip.

The bathroom wasn’t locked.

When he opened the door, the tableau spread before him might have fit any of the nightmare scenarios he’d created.

Facedown, arms propped to the sides as though taking flight, Janet lay naked in the bathtub. An empty bottle of vodka sat on the toilet seat and in the tub was a nearly full bottle of whiskey that rested on an uncannily round saucer of cherry colored vomit.

“Janet! Baby?”

Adrenaline flooded his body. Herman dove at the tub and pulled his wife up to a sitting position, on her knees. Her eyes were shut and she didn’t seem to be breathing. Her body was blue-tinged and icy. He rattled her gently at first, then harder, and then called out her name again. He could not hear his own voice over the hammering of his heart.

“Hold on honey, hold on.”

Leaving Janet propped over the side of the tub, he went for his cell phone. He called 911 for an ambulance, told them where he lived, who he was, who his wife was, everything, told them it was alcohol poisoning; they informed him they were sending someone and in the meantime Janet had to be turned on her side. The exchange seemed to last forever, but rushing from the room, he caught sight of the clock, and it was only 3:12 AM.

Back in the bathroom, back in the tub, Janet convulsed in violent seizures. The bottle of whiskey poured out around her, diffusing through the vomit, creating a disturbing brown river floating with organic debris. Herman wrangled his wife onto her side and embraced her.

He prayed for the sound of the medics arriving at the front door.

4

The Ferryman looked lovingly up at the stars as nighttime faded to dawn. He’d gazed on them for the entire evening and still hadn’t tired of their twinkling. Never a god, never a demigod, never a human being, he’d always had a fondness for constellations and the eldritch stories they told with a shine, wink and glow. In this current era of false lights and fuel clouds, the wide display above wasn’t as overwhelming as his memory told, even out in the middle of a desert, miles from the city. Still, he relished the time he could silently worship all these jewels of the night. With the coming of the largest jewel in that celestial cache, however, he could only think of what really mattered now.

Time was running out.

Already the waters of Styx in the bottle had dropped, when at once they had been plentiful enough to drown the universe. The cave to his back was made from erosion from the River. It was the same place he’d once anchored his boat and deposited coins for Nyx. When the Gods ceased to be and removed their work from all the galleries of Time, the cave narrowed to nothing because that erosion never happened.

This was a problem.

Without that erosion, the area of rock stripped away with the River’s caustic claws would close, effectively crushing the Ferryman where he lived. It didn’t matter if he tried to escape; no matter where he went in the entire world, he would always return where his essence had perished before, this unintended burial site where he bottled the River Styx and made the greatest mistake of missing one single drop.

That mistake had, however, formed an option for the River to emerge again. All it took was a bead of living blood to touch that drop and the River had a purpose again. The old system returned into being, as did the erstwhile sailor of the River and its constant patrolman.

Charon shook his head. And what of that patrolman?

Why did the Fury not want to live?

The creature could not possibly be happier being nothing. It should have conspired with him to lure more people to the bottle, to bring about a new spiritual currency. Then the Fury could feed all that vengeance burning incessantly in its furnace heart. There should have been a lust to be what you once were, and without that desire, what really was the point of going on? Weren’t their needs similar that way? Did the Fury not want to stare up at the stars with a bellyful of justice? It was insane to think otherwise.

They were the same creature with different jobs. The Ferryman had always thought so. He provided passage for the price of life and the Fury provided justice for the price of death. They were partners in a way. More coins were created from murder, wrongful deaths and stolen life, and those were all punishable offenses, which gave the Fury something to feast upon.

But that was in the time of Order.

Things had made sense then.

Regardless, the Fury had not made its intent unknown. It would rather dry to dust all over again, become purposeless and forgotten, than to exact justice on sinners as it had done so beautifully in the past. For shame and everlasting bloody woe, the creature had never been the same since he ate his two sisters for conspiring against him.

Well, it didn’t help to over-think the Fury’s motivations. That helped about as much as trying to locate the one blessed drop of Styx that needed fresh blood—no, there wasn’t time enough for that. More coins had to be spent and the Ferryman needed more days to do it. More days than he unfortunately had left.

That mortal had to be returning, or at least thinking it over by now. They always came back. They would show up to the shores of the River with a sick friend or a dying relative and request a transfer from the waters. In those times he never took any offers, not unless the Gods were at play. Why switch deaths? The coins had come in regularly then and it made no sense to make deals, even despite the excellent rhetorical ballets danced by the woeful people who approached him.

This time was different though. He scoffed at it then, but now he saw the rearrangement as steps to bring the old monetary system back into place once more.

The Ferryman traced his finger on the bottle that rested next to him on his straw bedroll. With all things great as titans and all things small as dust on dust, he did not want to leave the world again. To keep the River to himself, to stockpile the coins, to experience the endless passing of souls, maybe his would be the origin story of a new God.

One more coin paid would give him another three days to add to that story…

The Ferryman shuffled back down into the cave, which might soon be his tomb again. The walls looked closer together than he remembered and the rocks had a flexing aggregate surface, as though gradually building pebble by pebble, a hard death-making moss that would spread until it had no more space to fill.

He reminded himself that he mustn’t let this sight claim his optimism, not when that was all he had left now. It was best to think on the good and relish every moment here. So while Charon the Ferryman anxiously waited for the big man to return, he daydreamed about all the brilliant nights he would watch the stars from the bow of a new ferry.

Herman let it slip out in the ambulance. Janet came to, momentarily, and he wasn’t so certain she could hear or see him, for all her bewilderment behind the oxygen mask, but he told her, “I’ll heal you with the magic water like I did for Lester. Hold on baby. Hold on! Don’t die.”

She was unconscious a few blinks later. He thought perhaps the paramedic would be giving him sidelong looks, leaning over and whispering to the driver, oh man do we have a fruit loop in our vehicle, but the medic went about finishing a form without a change of expression or demeanor. Herman concluded these guys must hear crazy shit every day and what he’d said was probably not even the half of that.

Maybe he was nuts, but he had intended to go back out to the desert and find the man from the cave.

At first.

When they arrived at the hospital, however, and went through all the processes that came with such a trip, he began to feel a trip to the desert wasn’t necessary. Janet had opened her eyes once already and a mousy P.A., who reminded him of an older Faye, told him Janet had awakened several times, so they were feeding her activated charcoal, getting her to vomit more, and they wouldn’t start the stomach pump just then, just hold on Mr. Erikson, take a seat, it will be okay, there’s some coffee over there in the lounge, there’s a cafeteria downstairs if you get hungry, we need to get all of the alcohol out of her stomach, will she die from this?, we’re doing everything we can, sit tight, we’ll touch bases in an hour or so, and Herman then thought an hour means three or four in doctor speak, but they actually came out not forty minutes later and told him that Janet had slipped into unconsciousness again and they’re doing the stomach pump now, and this was not unusual for acute alcohol poisoning.

Herman sat there in the lobby and waited for more news. A criminal forensics show played on the TVs but the sound was too low to hear the dialogue and the closed captions were pitifully lagging behind. He buried his face in his hands. His heart went from cold hate to hot panic every few minutes. How could Janet do this to herself? They were supposed to be healing, not getting worse. They were both atheists—she didn’t believe she would see Melody “in a better place,” so why this? And especially the method…this was a painful, miserable way to exit life.

That made sense then, when he thought about it. Janet was atoning for being a bad mother, even when he believed they’d both been fine parents. It wasn’t their fault what happened that day. They’d sent Melody to good daycare in a decent neighborhood. Mrs. Horrace, who ran the home business, was classically educated and taught the children all sorts of practical things they’d never use in everyday life.

Herman’s laughter turned cold inside him. It wasn’t anyone’s fault except those idiot motherfuckers who used a residential street as their drag strip.

So why all this aftermath?

Why not do what Evan wanted and hunt them down?

You’re both convinced you’ll never find them, thought Herman, so you’ll never try.

If Janet lived through this, maybe they could put their fears aside and resume the search. She’d been the one to call everything off, but perhaps being hospitalized would change her outlook. He hoped so. He hoped this scared the fuck out of her.

A gaunt, redwood of a doctor strode out of an automatic door like a thing from Frankenstein’s table. He wore round lenses similar to Evan’s but had a weathered face and a black Van Dyke that was shot with white. Had the man had longer hair and a full beard, he might have played Jesus in a local pageant play.

Despite his messianic appearance, he was strikingly cold.

“She’s on life support now, still critical.”

“Can I see her?”

“We’ll let you know.”

“When?”

“We’ll let you know. Have a seat and hang tight.”

Completely under the man’s power, Herman did just that; he sat back down in the row of uncomfortable bench seats next to a young black man with an eight-ball afro.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” the young man commented, before picking up an old Sports Illustrated. The doctor turned his head slightly before swiping his card for the automated door again.

Herman agreed. After a moment, he put his head back and closed his eyes.

A scene played out, one part imagination, one part memory. He couldn’t tell where one crossed the other, but he didn’t care. This scene was part of an old story. It was the tale of a man who thought he could keep his wife and daughter safe. Foolishly, this man would work-out in the weight room two to three hours every day, getting bigger, stronger, becoming a barrier for his family to defend against all things dangerous.

His wife Janet didn’t mind his time away from the house; he’d given her the greatest gift of all, he’d put Melody into her life; she was a giving woman, without vices, someone who loved children but hadn’t been able to get pregnant from her first husband.

Herman, however, had done so in the first month they stopped using protection and what a miracle it was to see Janet evolve into a mother. There had never been mention of going back to school to become a teacher. She’d never seen herself much more than an instructional aide, but with Melody she grew confident, productive, energetic—her best friend Faye actually changed in the same way, at the very same time. Janet’s new compulsions were infectious, and she loved her big strong husband for giving her this new vehicle to drive her life. At least she’d always made that known.

She let him go to the gym, for one. She didn’t have a clue he was doing cycles of anabolic steroids at the time. And she still didn’t have a clue when he decided to stop because his mood swings around Melody were not worth extra beef on his bones. He stopped for her, for all of them. Without being a husband and father, he might well have given himself heart failure by the time he was thirty-five. But he made it, he got through the tough stuff. He realized he was enough for them and enough for himself.

On the weekends, he would take Melody on a dirt trail along a dried out ravine. Her little legs couldn’t take her far, but she had endless energy. Herman had wondered often in those times, watching her chug along, her little arms comically pumping and chest heaving in her little children’s running suit, where did all the energy come from? What was it about new life that made it such an explosion of all things chemical and spiritual?

Herman missed wondering those idle things. He missed walking around the mall with Janet and Melody on a Saturday afternoon, no plans, no direction, just plodding along with other consumers, content—so damned, utterly content—and yet he had no clue about it then. He hadn’t known when he watched Melody ride a cheap little grocery store ride that this inexpensive moment would be one to remember later; he’d been completely happy and one with the world.

So short, it had all been so short. Time. The time he’d had with her.

Now it seemed as though someday he would be thinking the same way about Janet. It all arrived to the same exact place: he was in a hospital with doctors telling him to shut up and wait for bad news. Last time, he had a hysterical Janet to contain. This time, he was alone but still just sitting here, being paralyzed.

He hadn’t done anything when Melody fought for her life. He just sat there, doing zilch. What if he’d been one of those fathers that said fuck-all and crashed through the operating room doors, just to glimpse his daughter as she opened her eyes for the last time? Could he have told her he loved her more than anything?

Herman glanced at the automated door. No crashing through that to get to Janet. But there was a steady flow of nurses and other staff coming in and out. She was only three rooms down. He saw the room they wheeled her into.

So go in there, armed with only his blubbering? What help could that do?

No, he was tired of being useless, tired of letting the people he cared about die. If this was the next part of the sickness he’d come to know as reality, he wanted to at very least utter the words, “I tried.”

His hands wrapped around the fabric arms of the chair, wanting to push him up to stand. What if Charleston and the bottle had been a hallucination? He might go out to the desert and not find anything but dirt, rock and weeds. Or worse, he might get lost trying to find the same spot. What if Janet didn’t make it? He would be out there instead of here…

But did he want to be here when it happened?

That was a better question.

Herman got to his feet. His head was airy, like his brain had been replaced with helium. One foot fell before the next, slowly, continually, faster, faster, until he was power walking through the Emergency Room lobby. The sliding glass door opened for him and a rush of crisp early morning air and gas fumes doused his face. A bank of taxi cabs waited just past a crowded bus stop. How strange it was that people were out and about this early—what were they doing?

What am I doing?

The right thing, he reassured himself. It felt right, anyway. It felt better than sitting and waiting for the next anvil to fall on his head.

He got in the first cab closest to him. “You take credit card?”

“Put card through slot,” said an Arabic man, who had been sitting with a Kindle at the level of his eyes.

“Now?” asked Herman, perplexed. He never trusted himself with electronic transactions but unfortunately he’d used all his cash the other day at lunch.

“Yes sir.”

“What about the tip?” Herman slid the card through the bullet proof glass. The man swiped it and casually handed it back. “You will tell me and I add total.”

“I get a receipt?”

“You get a receipt,” said the man. “Address?”

Herman told him and the man input it into his GPS.

“Please, hurry. As quick as you can… I’ll double the tip. Please.”

The engine revved in response. Soon, the world was whipping past. The driver flew through an intersection just as a yellow light went red and Herman bit his lip. He’d been in too many car accidents and driving fast always made him anxious. At least their house was not far.

Herman startled as his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Was it the hospital? Were they already tracking him down? Was Janet gone?

It was Evan.

“Hey.”

“What’s up He-Man?”

“It’s not a good time right now, Evan.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Janet’s in the hospital.”

“What? What happened?”

“She… tried to kill herself last night.”

“Oh my God. Herman, oh my God. Where are you now? Which part of the hospital?”

“I came in through the emergency room. She’s still in there, I think.”

“You think?”

“I stepped out for some fresh air.”

“We’re coming down there—”

“Hang back, they won’t let me see her yet.”

“So what. We’re still coming down.”

Herman pinched his sinus.

“We’ll be there in the next half hour,” said Evan. “Christ, will she be okay? Tell me, she’ll be okay, Herman.”

“I—”

“What?”

“I’m not at the hospital right now. I’ve gone for a little walk.”

“That’s okay, man. That’s okay. But you should head back, you know?”

“I don’t think they can save her, Ev.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Those damn people can’t save anybody.”

“Is Janet still alive, Herman?”

“As far as I know,” he whispered.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“As far as I know!” Herman yelled. The cabbie looked briefly over his shoulder, then returned his eyes to the road.

“Are you in the parking lot?”

“No.”

“What street are you on? We’ll pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Jesus Christ, Herman.”

“I’ll be back soon, with the bottle.”

“The what?”

Herman hadn’t realized he was thinking aloud. His insanity theory was gaining traction. “I’ve got to go,” he told Evan and powered off his cell phone.

After a few more narrowly missed red lights, the cab arrived at Rolling Hill Boulevard. Herman pointed to his street up ahead and the driver nodded, with a look to his GPS screen for further confirmation.

When they pulled up, Herman’s house looked surreal to him, watery, like a place for aquatic creatures to dwell. His mind was unhinging. No it wasn’t. Yes it was. He told the cabbie to give himself a twenty-five dollar tip, which was more than the ride itself cost.

He slammed the cab door and immediately raced up the driveway to the back of his truck. The steel handle of the tool box was freezing as he popped it open. Lester barked fiercely from the back yard, acknowledging his master coming home. The last thing Herman needed was to bring out their neighbor Sam Gerdes, who liked to talk all damn day long. Lester’s incessant barking always initiated a friendly visit.

“Lester!” he reprimanded. “Hush!”

Thankfully, his dog went quiet.

Herman took a deep breath and steeled himself. That bottle, if it really did contain magic, wasn’t an item Charleston would give away. He didn’t have time for negotiations or dealing with Charleston coming after him to get the bottle back.

From the tool box Herman picked up his hatchet and turned toward the desert.

5

For a long time his worst fears seemed to come true. The trip into the desert was nothing more than a wild goose chase that had spirited him to the very reaches of his own well-traumatized brain.

But those particular fears subsided when he found the row boat in the dirt washout. Suddenly, the hatchet in his hand became heavier and lethal, and his grip sweaty and weak. He descended into the basin of flowing white weeds and there it was, just as before.

The mouth of the cave quivered with sliding shadows and red-orange light from within. As he neared the entrance he saw a small fire in a ring of sand-crusted rocks. Dark smoke lifted from its heart, struck the slanted ceiling of the cave and puffed outside. Other than the slow flapping of the fire and a gentle hum from the wind through the foothills, no other noise made itself known.

He made his way around the fire and sidled against the wall of the cave. What he had once mistaken for a mine shaft was clearly nothing of the sort; like an uncanny example of nature imitating human handiwork, the cavern had a wide grand entrance that narrowed to a hallway and just past the firelight the passage ended in a rounded antechamber. Here the walls glistened with smooth, plated strokes, a repetitious pattern that looked decorative.

The campfire let out a loud snap and a swarm of livid gold sparks rode out on the pluming smoke. Herman’s heart thumped in his ears. Sweat soaked his shirt. The desert wind, however slight, made his skin freezing cold.

He thought of Melody. He thought of Janet. There was nothing left to do but to go inside and find what he came for.

The passage leading into the belly of the cave stretched longer than his eye had perceived from outside. A damp funk penetrated the air with a horrible strength: fermented manure submerged in old rainwater. Herman kept on, fighting the urge to come to his better senses and give this foolish quest up. What if the bottle doesn’t even save Janet? What if only Charleston can use it?

Why don’t you ask him? Asshole.

The head of the hatchet accidently scraped against the cavern wall.

Herman stopped.

He was in the middle of the narrowing passage. Nowhere to run. He waited for a response within the depths. His eyes squinted for more clarity, and then he directed his ear toward the descent, hoping this would help him detect any movement.

After a few seconds, he continued on. He reached the interior cavern and scanned for signs of life. Some light made it down here, but for the most part the area was blue-dark and ominous. Several hundred clay jars lay scattered in fragments across the floor and against the western wall. More jars had been stacked higher than the light could travel.

A clay shard pressed into the sole of Herman’s shoe and he lightly brought his foot off it before it broke. He avoided most of the remnants and found a clear path near the wall where he could move more silently.

A muttering sound came around the bend. He edged closer and pressed against the jagged outcropping. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he discovered another oblong cave just outside the larger rotunda.

He didn’t hear the sound anymore. His nape hair prickled. The reflection of his face in the hatchet’s head was a red-brown smear, a distortion of fluid that had no meaning. That the sharp edge already looked bloody brought such a panic in him he took a step back, once more feeling the fingers of the earth poke into his skin, forcing him to go on and finish this.

A light breeze ruffled his hair. Herman gripped the hatchet tighter. Several more clay pots stood at attention but largely the space was bare. On the other side of the connecting wall’s length, another path went back into the larger cavern. He was about to return from the other side—when the muttering whispers began again.

They came from inside the same room.

The River has no surface, has no bottom.

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.

The River is not deep, is not shallow,

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.

The monotone chant repeated. Without it, Herman might have missed the figure sitting there in a far corner, cross-legged on a straw mat, his dark clothing making his head seem suspended in the air, disembodied.

Circling the bottle’s neck, his spidery fingers flexed with every word.

Herman took four measured steps closer to Charleston. He wondered if he should say something before he let the hatchet fall, as though that would make killing the man fairer somehow. In high school Herman once helped a couple kids gang up on a bully with a rubberized baseball bat. Rubber or not, the punk had to wear a leg brace for the rest of the year… It wasn’t something Herman had been one hundred percent proud of, but at the time he’d felt it an honorable act. He was protecting all of the bully’s future victims.

This was no different, he told himself—he was going to protect Janet from the same cold-eyed thing that took their Melody from them.

But he still didn’t want to kill this man.

He’ll just come after you. An item this powerful, he’ll want it back.

Herman steadied. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten this close without getting the man’s attention. His wrist twitched as he test-swung the hatchet back and forth.

It came to him in a rush.

He wasn’t going to commit murder. That wasn’t something Herman could live with. If Charleston wanted to hunt him down for what was about to happen, he’d deal with that later. But not right now; it was too much for his mind to deal with.

His eyes locked on that spindly hand wrapped on the bottle’s throat. That’s where he was going to aim.

It was time.

Hold on Janet.

Herman held his breath, lifted the hatchet, focused on that pale wrist and imagined it severing at the bone.

The blade went aloft, and the chant stopped.

Charleston spun around. “You came—”

Seeing the hatchet for a split second, fear blanched the man’s eyes in the darkness. He twisted away just as the weapon dropped with a trace of silver through the emptiness. Herman felt the hatchet glance bone and a scream layered through the cave in an awful machine-like echo. The wound shot Charleston to his feet, stumbling sideways. Herman sliced again with no frame of reference. Charleston struck an invisible wall with a grunt and fled through the second passage.

Herman followed. He could hear himself breathing, a lathered bull. It was a hateful-hideous sound, and one he’d heard himself make before…alone in his bedroom the night Melody died. The only way to silence the sound was to end this once and for all.

The man slipped out of sight, bottle still held in his hemorrhaging hand. Herman charged wildly after him. Wiggling fluids fell from of a wound in Charleston’s forearm. It wasn’t blood. On the cavern floor, Herman saw them flopping about, dying…

Fish.

Bright vermillion scales. Bright vermillion eyes.

Tiny razor teeth rimmed their desperate mouths sucking for oxygen.

Charleston wasn’t a man at all.

A monster.

Something that needed killing.

Herman rushed out of the tunnel, hatchet raised again. The flat side of something wooden struck his face and sent glittering quicksilver supernovas across his vision. Splinters flew past and a lick of blood pelted out behind his left ear. Herman swept his foot out instinctively and caught Charleston behind his leg, dropping him. He flung back his hatchet arm and lunged forward blindly. He saw the blurry form of the monster man underneath him, face stricken with surprise and terror, and all at once Herman dropped down on the man, and with the momentum of that fall, something exploded Herman’s right eye and drove so deep inside his head he couldn’t vocalize alarm.

Fiery pain from his body eclipsed the cave. Forgotten memories surfaced, then drowned.

Shaking, his mind in turmoil, his spirit in ruins, the Ferryman slid the shattered end of the oar out of the big man’s eye socket. How had the oar broken? It was made of the River. That meant the waters had receded again, weakened—

His only chance for three days grace had left in a lightning second.

“No!” He threw the oar into the darkness. It made a lonely clatter as the big man’s body slumped over.

The Ferryman swept the bottle from the ground, uncorked it and knelt before this victim. In all his nether-life, he’d never been attacked. Everything had happened so fast that the event was dreamlike. He had only paused for a few minutes to calm his mind with the Chant of Nyx, and in that momentary lapse of time, breaking from all his pacing and swearing and teeth gnashing, the big man had come at the least fortunate moment, to actually catch the Ferryman unaware.

In the frantic moment, he didn’t even know the oar’s shattered end had become so lethal; the Ferryman had lifted it reflexively as the big man fell on him.

Please don’t be completely dead, he thought in a panic. Please.

He took a fistful of the big man’s thick black hair and pulled his head back. The red crater where the big man’s eye had once been gave the Ferryman another pang of regret.

The gray waters of the Styx poured from the bottle, so little left, yet still so vital…it filled the bloody puncture wound and flowed over the man’s face.

The Ferryman waited for the eyes to open, for the chest to rise and fall, for the coin to come up from the throat.

But a scarred voice broke through his feverish hope.

“You know it’s too late, Charon. He crossed over without pay. That is the way now. He is gone.”

The Fury stood in the darkness, its shark’s head hovering there, a scene from a maritime nightmare.

“You leave me alone, traitor!”

“Traitor?”

“To us, to yourself,” the Ferryman spat. “We could have had worth again.”

“Regardless, the man is dead. He cannot help your schemes any longer.”

“Bah!”

The Ferryman would not admit that, but it was now that he understood his own true intentions. The Fury had been correct. He wouldn’t have settled for another coin. He wanted more than that. The big man was going to be his conduit to the outside world.

Now time was just about out.

He looked at the man’s hulky frame. Not all his blood was dead yet. There was a chance he could take him outside to the same area the dog had bled—there was a hatchet. Some of the blood could be freed to hopefully find that last drop of Styx. Not a foolproof plan, but the only one available at this point.

Glancing into the darkness, he found that the Fury had vanished. Good. Didn’t need him around to distract.

He’d have to get the big man outside somehow.

The Ferryman took the man by his thick wrists and tested his weight. It wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t move the body. Besides a rope and an oar, the Ferryman had never lifted much of anything.

Something stung in his arm as he tried to pull the big man again. The gash from the hatchet had almost completely closed now but there was still the lingering brackish scent of river water and fish. The Ferryman had never been damaged in such a way, so it was somewhat fascinating to study the innards, which also bore a reminder that he was indeed alive in this world, for however long that would be. The outer cavern already appeared to have closed-in on itself, the wide fan of sunlight on the stone floor now pale and rod shaped.

He reevaluated the body again and snapped his rough fingers as it suddenly came to him. Hope renewed, he was happily off into the darkness to find his bedroll.

From a distant corner the Fury’s black orbed shark eyes watched his every move. The thing hadn’t vanished after all.

Don’t get distracted. You have to do this.

The Ferryman hurried. With less light from the entrance, the rear cave had become more devoid of detail. Luckily, he had only to trace along the walls to find his bedroll. He returned, kicking aside and shattering clay coffers underfoot, pausing for nothing. At the corpse, he spread the bedroll just beneath its back. With a hard shove, the body rolled off its side onto it.

He turned to laugh at the Fury, but it had vanished once more.

Good, good, fine.

The Ferryman took a deep breath. Gripping the straw-shot sides of the bedroll, he tugged. With a greater ease than he’d hoped for, the body slid across the smooth rock floor. He quickened his steps and pulled harder. An occasional stubborn pebble lodged underneath the bedroll kept the journey from being perfect, but really the Ferryman could have transported dead bodies all day in this fashion.

Outside the cave proved more difficult. The shifting sands, weeds, and desert debris did not provide a surface conducive for transport. In no time at all, he was unintentionally ripping handfuls of straw out of the bedroll.

The cave unexpectedly tugged at him. He’d left the bottle inside, but he could imagine the waters had thinned to less than an inch now. Once it was all evaporated, everything would cease again…

He took a heartier grip of the bedroll and heaved the body on. Fortunately, the makeshift sleigh bent over some tall weeds and this provided a bridge. He glanced over his shoulder to the spot he’d marked yesterday with a circle of pebbles. The dog had bled there, so the drop of Styx had to be close. Somewhere.

The one-eyed face stared up in quiet distress.

“Almost there,” he whispered.

In what was about ten feet, he managed to bring the body to the spot in little under half an hour. The sun ascended the sky, making for a bright and warm winter morning. He pulled out the bedroll and sighed gratefully for his minor victory.

The Ferryman turned back for the cave, stumbled over a rock and guided his disoriented course through the weeds. A few sticks crackled and he shot a look behind him.

Three coyotes surrounded the dead body.

He immediately flew at them, flailing his arms. “You get! You get!”

The coyotes broke apart in a nervous division of grays and browns. Their separation from the relatively fresh meal was tenuous though and they didn’t go much more than a few feet back. The Ferryman ran at them again and they did the same.

“Stay away, bastards,” he hollered.

The hungry need in their eyes reminded the Ferryman of his own need at the moment.

The hand axe.

He sprinted for the cave. There, he squirmed through the now narrow entrance, blinking through the darkness. He could hear a disruption of growls, snaps and gurgles coming from the coyotes.

“Damn it to the Gods!” The sound of desperation vaulted through the cave.

Where did the hand axe drop?

He tried to retrace his encounter. He stood over the place he wagered had been the spot the man had fallen. The axe had dropped to the ground at this point. It should have been right here…

The Ferryman got down on his knees and patted the invisible floor. More growls, squeals and fighting came from outside. He didn’t imagine he’d be lucky enough for the coyotes to bleed the body quick enough to soak the area. No, those blasted things would probably pull it somewhere else completely, if they didn’t just take choice pieces off to their dens.

Light was rapidly failing. He swept his hands across the floor and felt his fingers brush the handle. He took the hand axe, pushed up and staggered for the entrance.

The cavern had come together in a formation of stony fingers, some having merged together and others still inching outward. The space between those formations had narrowed less than a foot wide. He tried to go sideways through one opening but even his thin body couldn’t make it.

There was no getting outside now.

From the crevices he could see the coyotes’ wild feast, but had no say in the matter. The Ferryman struck the axe’s blade against the rock. Again and again. Sparks flew. Vibrations went through his arm down to his riverwood bones. This was the end for him.

The end, all over again.

The Fury swam up on its great serpent belly. It considered the last thrusts of sunlight coming into the cave. The creature couldn’t smile, but its voice hinted as much. “Did you enjoy the mortal world?”

The Ferryman screamed.

The bottle had gone empty and his fate was sealed. This cavern was a throat and it was slowly swallowing him now. Rocks would crush his body and send him back to the world of nothing-sleep.

With a sob, he tossed the useless axe into the dark and crossed the cave, arriving to where he’d left his bottle, his first and last treasure in this universe.

Emotionally: he was unhinged. Physically: he was agonizing. Mentally: he was grasping at all and nothing. Spiritually: he was not ready.

For hours the Ferryman had watched his rock prison become less and less. He’d squeezed into the last chamber left for him, just near the entrance. A ragged hole the size of a grapefruit was the only vista afforded to him now. He could see the hazy sky and the side of a nearby range of foothills. It wasn’t much, but it was what he had. That, and his beloved bottle.

The River is not deep, is not shallow,

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.

He moaned and rested his head on his outstretched arm. With all his hateful thoughts of the Fury, he wished the monster would return to keep him company, to give him, he supposed, some meaning to still be.

A scattering of rocks outside made him start and bump his head on the low ceiling. Next came the crackling of weeds and sticks. The Ferryman shifted his body as much as the cave would allow and poised the bottle before him.

“Please,” he yelled. “I need help! I’m stuck in here.”

He had to spill the waters on the person. Once that happened, they would renew, because another coin would be in existence…

He tried to uncork the bottle with one hand with little success. The other hand had been long pinned at his side. He took the malodorous cork in between his teeth and yanked it off. All it would take was one sprinkle—then it would start all over again. Surely the Fury would not accuse him of stealing a life, not from such an accident like this.

The sunlight fluxed outside.

“Here, here!” he cried, giddy, but focused.

The bottle possibly had only a drop left in it, but that was enough to exchange a death.

He waited.

“Hello?” he called.

The bottle grew heavier, began to fill. His nostrils twisted at the scent. These waters were different… it wasn’t from the Styx.

What’s happening?

The Ferryman gasped and looked around. The cave also wasn’t retreating. How could this be?

Nyx? Have you risen again? What is this new game you play, mother?

Outside the hole, darkness loomed. Someone stood out there.

“Help me, friend,” said the Ferryman, pushing the bottle out of the hole. He wagged it violently and the fresh waters sloshed inside.

Fangs drove down into his hand and ripped it from side to side. He dropped the bottle and reflexively brought his hand back inside.

One of those accursed coyotes…why should they want the bottle?

The walls edged in. He could feel the ceiling pressing down on his skull.

“Fury! Fury, please come back. Come back and say goodbye. Fury, I’m not mad anymore. This was great fun, wasn’t it?”

A great stress built in the Ferryman’s head, such that he imagined a dam about to burst apart. Threads of river water and mutilated fish blood squeezed out from his wounds, flooding into his mouth, choking him. He could hear the squishing and cracking and realized it was his body making these sounds. One of his eyes went oblong from the pressure. The quivering orb finally burst and jetted across his arm in a warm slime. It was the last thing the Ferryman felt before a searing hot curtain of dark fell on everything.

6

Janet had her head pressed into the leather headrest and felt forever stuck there. Two days in the hospital and this house was alien. Looking at the façade was like bearing witness to one of those human zoo exhibits in a Twilight Zone episode. Here is where they live, folks. They’re shy right now, but keep watching and perhaps they may come out to get the mail, or better, we can peer through a window and see them inside, eating, shitting, fucking, drinking themselves to death. Such a noble animal, the human beast is.

A strain of Lester’s rapid fire barking came from the backyard. Janet missed her dog. She needed to go be with him, cuddle up and go to sleep. Just sleep.

Faye was on the phone with Evan. They’d been talking for a few minutes now but Janet hadn’t processed any of the conversation. She guessed they were still concerned about Herman. As long as they’d known him, they still didn’t know her husband the way she did. He was a good guy. He tried to be a good guy, for all his faults. However, when things got difficult, he left her alone. He ran. Even before Melody died, Herman became ghostlike when a burden weighed on those big shoulders of his.

“The truck is still here, like you said. How much longer do we need to wait before we call the police?” Faye asked, the phone pressed hard to her dainty pink ear.

Janet had heard enough. She popped the door open and put her hand out for the house keys. Evan had them earlier when he came to check on house again. Now Faye had them but she wouldn’t hand them over. Instead, she got out of the car herself, still talking to Evan.

It’s my friggin’ house, thought Janet. She pushed the passenger door closed and its metal frame shocked her. “Ouch.”

Faye froze, eyes widening as they appraised her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, the door.”

Faye’s brow furrowed and she continued with Evan, “We’re going inside now…she’s okay. Sure, like we said, it all goes. I’m going to throw everything away, just like—yes, okay, when will you be here? Sure. Love you.” She put her phone into her sweatshirt pocket and gave three compulsive shakes of her key ring. “We’re going to get you cleaned up, get you back into fighting shape, babe.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Janet.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Addressing the crisis boldly, that was the new Faye. Janet supposed she was partly to blame. Faye had been sort of a lost soul through much of her young adult years and had taken direction from Janet ever since meeting her in college. Now she was looking at a copy of the woman Faye thought Janet used to be, when by all accounts Faye had more nervous energy than Janet ever had. Everything was a mission that had to be carefully tasked out and pragmatically resolved. It was a silent competition that none but Faye could ever possibly enjoy the fruits of victory, if she even did.

Despite loving and appreciating her friend dearly, Janet just wanted her gone. Faye was part of a world removed from the primary players in her life. Herman and Melody, even Evan all perched like protective gargoyles on the gothic skyscraper of her life. Little Faye, she was merely a pigeon that, while determined to keep busy and left its mark everywhere, could never have permanent residence with the other stone fixtures.

Janet felt like a bitch for thinking this way, but she just wanted to curl up and be left alone. Hopefully Herman would return and she could wake up and…

Thinking that mattered was a ruse. Janet didn’t know where to go from here. There had been a way out before but right now the thought of alcohol made her burp something up that tasted like the bottom of a barbecue pit. She would be lying to herself, after so many tries before, if she didn’t yearn for the sickness all over again.

She didn’t know the rewards back when she was younger. A good drink could send you to a hazy place, make you forget how cold it was by warming you down to your soul, and in the aftermath of a binge, the suffering made moral sense. It was payment, wasn’t it? You can’t have something so joyous for nothing. Janet even began to look forward to throwing up and breaking out in cold sweats and even the hammering headaches. It made her feel terrible, which was what she deserved to feel every day until her miserable body quit.

Here it was, a year after the murder, and she couldn’t resolve any of the guilt for insisting on taking Melody to that “award winning” daycare.

Guilt was easy though. The anecdote to the pain was fast at hand.

That is, until Faye started roaming around the kitchen with a trash bag, stuffing bottles of whiskey and vodka into its great black hole of a mouth.

Janet rubbed the raw feeling in her forehead. It hurt to talk after having tubes down her throat but this was worth it. “What are you doing, Faye?”

“Cold turkey, babe.” Faye stooped near an open cupboard. She pulled out a bottle of cooking sherry, looked at it for a moment, then stashed it. “You made it out of the hospital and you’re never going back. Evan and I, and Herman, we’re all going to help you get better. I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner. I wanted to give you time, you know,” a sampler of Jim Beam struck the other bottles inside the bag, making Janet flinch, “and I think that was a big mistake. I should have been a better friend.”

“It was an accident. I forgot how much I drank earlier that night. I thought I could handle it. I won’t drink like that ever again. I’m not a drunk. You know that.”

Faye stood and the bag made her sway from its weight. “Any hiding places?”

Janet rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and search this house if you like. I’m going to feed Lester and then I’m going to damn sleep.”

“Great idea.” Faye marched off on her mission, trash bag wagging on the carpet behind her.

“Fuck,” Janet breathed, heading for the laundry room. As if I even need hiding places with Herman always gone.

She grabbed a can of dog food from the cupboard over the washing machine. As she pulled off the lid, the metallic rasp, followed by the rich odor gave her a nauseating chill and another charcoal burp surfaced in the back of her throat. She smacked her dry lips together. Water would be a nice, but it could make her throw up again too.

Janet opened the back door and was surprised Lester didn’t nearly knock her down as usual. Across the yard, she saw the Border Collie in the threshold of his doghouse, but though his ears were at attention and his eyes were bright and keen, he didn’t move.

“Les, come and get it.” She shook out the gravy laden meat chunks into the crusty dish. It needed to be cleaned, like everything else in this house, but she didn’t have the energy, and Herman wasn’t home.

He still wasn’t.

His wife could be as cold as a popsicle in the morgue and he wouldn’t have even known. Then again, after all she’d put him through, could she really blame him?

“Lester.” She suddenly reconnected to the moment. “Lester, get your butt over here and eat!”

The dog didn’t move.

She wasn’t in the mood for this, and was about to go back inside, when something between the dog’s paws caught her attention. It wasn’t a stick. He’d found some sort of bottle out here. A jerk-off kid probably tossed it over the fence.

“There’s real food over here. Come on boy,” she said, patting her leg.

Lester started panting.

“What have you found there, you weirdo?”

Janet crossed the yard and stopped a few feet from the dog house. Lester moved his paws inward and growled, his gaze turned down in warning. She’d raised him since a puppy and had never heard him growl.

“Lester!” She stomped her foot. The Border Collie’s ears dropped in self admonishment and the bottle fell sideways against the doghouse. The unusual tempered glass was different than any she’d ever seen, like overlapping blades of shadow. She reached again for the bottle and jumped back as Lester let out a snappish bark. Lester retreated inside the doghouse, bringing it back with him.

Janet decided to leave things alone. Let him cool down. “But don’t think I won’t be back, mister.”

She returned for the house.

In the kitchen, Faye sat at the cluttered table. The bag of assorted alcohols had been neatly twist-tied and rested against the wall with three other trash bags taken from throughout the house. Janet planned to head straight for the bedroom, but then she noticed the tears peaking in Faye’s eyes.

Faye scrubbed the tears away as Janet approached. “So how’s Les doing?”

Janet folded her arms. “What did you find?”

Faye slid out something from under a stack of Herman’s various water pump manuals. “This.”

Janet knew the photo well. It had been taken at Melody’s one year-old birthday party at the park. Faye was spinning her around, background set to brilliant slopes of green grass and the distant, ghostly presence of weeping willows near a duck pond. That had been a really fun day. To think it had only been a few years ago too… Faye looked quite younger, and Melody, as with all photos of her now, was astonishingly beautiful and alive.

Faye got up from the table and hugged Janet tightly around the waist. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you…too…”

“I’m sorry.”

She pushed back and pecked Janet on the cheek. “Don’t be. I’m not being that helpful, am I? Blubbering idiot is what I am.”

“Now stop… Hey, I’m just gonna…”

“Yeah.”

“…lay down now.”

“Of course. Go.” Faye slid her overlarge purse off the table and began to rummage through it, probably for something she didn’t need right now.

Outside, a car horn blared.

Faye smiled crookedly. “I don’t know why he’s honking, the silly guy. Probably isn’t thinking, worried about He-Man and all. I told him he needs to stay here with you. I have other errands to run and I don’t want you alone.”

“No,” Janet’s voice squeaked. “He’ll be bored here.”

“He’ll be fine. He can watch ESPN.” Faye went through the front door. Her eyeliner was smudged from crying and the streaking made her look more exotic, rebellious, something Faye definitely wasn’t. “Be back in a little while, babe.”

Within minutes, Evan was walking resolutely through the door. He wore an orange sherbet colored polo shirt, khaki pants, and despite the relatively cooler Southern California weather, carried himself like an overheated car salesman after a summer blow-out sale. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and took off his glasses to examine them.

Janet dropped on the couch. There wasn’t a chance Evan would let her take a nap. She waited for him to say something and when he didn’t, she knew exactly what type of conversation this would be and her headache instantly grew new roots.

He put his glasses back on and stood there, wary of her, a Clark Kent with only one identity. “I don’t know where he is, Jan,” he finally said, “but you know what, I’m beginning not to care.”

“Herman’ll turn up. He just freaked out and went to hide. It’s his way. Did you call all his jobs?”

“Yes I did.”

“Even the machine shop?”

“All of them.”

“He’s driving then. Probably lost in L.A.”

“Wondering if you’re dead?”

“I regained consciousness right after we got to the hospital. He knew I’d make it.”

“No he didn’t. I talked to him, Janet. He sounded crazy.”

“I forgot you told me about that.”

“I didn’t tell you everything,” said Evan.

Janet rolled her neck and it cracked. “I don’t want to know.”

“Well, good.” Evan paused. “Because I don’t want to talk about him right now anyway.”

“I’m going to go sleep—”

“We haven’t had a chance to really talk about us, lately.”

“This isn’t the best time to bring this up, Evan. In fact, I thought we weren’t ever bringing this up.”

Evan moved quickly to her side and sat uncomfortably close. He wore the aftershave she’d once told him she loved. He took both her hands in his and kissed them. His face was so desperate and nerdily handsome, she thought fleetingly of kissing. With almost compulsive ease, she could transform into that other woman: Not-Janet, the woman who accepted and gave pleasure in exchange for the mental dam it built around her memories.

But Not-Janet had never gotten her far. Screwing Evan behind Herman’s back, drinking like a lush to all hours of the day and night, marinating in household filth like a slug, it didn’t do much else than conceal the emotionally deformed clone who screamed beneath. Realizing that, she decided it was time to stop talking about suicide and really check-out of this life. After all, if Not-Janet couldn’t bring her out of this hell, what could?

Evan had been working up to saying something again and at last it spilled out, “I didn’t think it would have that effect on you…finding out about Faye’s baby. I should have told you in private first.”

Janet cocked her head. “It’s both your baby, and that’s not why—”

“When I found out, that she was pregnant, I mean, I didn’t know what to feel.”

Why the hell does he have to be here right now? I’m just home from nearly dying. God damn him.

“Weren’t you happy?” she asked with a sigh.

“I love her, you know I do, but—”

“No, no, no. No buts. You don’t need me, Evan. We had a thing, but it was really stupid, and I was cruel and selfish and screwed up to let it happen.”

“Why are you blaming yourself? Herman abandoned you, remember? He’s still abandoning you!”

“I’m over it. Be over it too, please. Christ, I thought you were happy again. Why can’t you ever make up your mind, Evan? Why?”

He dropped her hands in astonishment. “You think I took advantage of you. That’s what this is about?”

She shook her head and shifted away from him.

“Then you’re saying you never felt anything for me?”

“I’m not saying that either,” she replied. “You’re one of my best friends, you dumb ass. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Faye.”

His wife’s name made Evan look physically ill for a second. “Like I said, I love her, but she’s so cold lately…”

“Evan, the woman’s nearly slobbering on you every second of every day.”

“It’s an act.”

“Oh please.”

“I thought she’d change with the pregnancy, but she’s become more of an automaton than ever.” Evan took a deep breath. “Faye will make a great mother, and a great wife to somebody else maybe, but she’s not ever going to be the love of my life. She’s not passionate like you. I need that.”

“You listen to me right now. That passion came from a drunken, wounded animal, Evan,” Janet said, leveling her gaze. “How dare you.”

He began to say something but his dull expression indicated he didn’t have any more cards up his sleeve.

Janet got up and he grabbed her arm, lightly. She didn’t pull away, just stood there, feeling breathless, suspended thirty thousand feet above the earth.

“I love you,” he said.

She snorted. He gently let go and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I recognize a recurring pattern of behavior here. Why can’t you? You’re going to be alone again. After this, Herman’s probably off to the gym again for ten hours a day, doing steroids and god knows what—”

“Steroids?”

“You didn’t know?” Evan’s eyes were cartoon wide behind his glasses. “I thought he would have at least told you by now. Why do you think he was gone so much? He really and truly doesn’t give a shit about you.”

She headed for the bedroom before he could go on. There was a lock on the bedroom door but it didn’t work and Herman had never had it replaced. Luckily, Evan did not come in and instead flipped on the television.

Janet didn’t really despise Evan, nor could she fault Herman for keeping a part of his life secret from her. They were confused, just like everybody else in the world. Fatal flaws she could completely understand, by now.

A new feeling settled in on her as she tried to get to sleep, and it was surprising, not only in its emergence, but also its intensity.

She needed her husband. She missed him.

Where was he?

Outside came the hissing of a garbage truck. It pulled in front of the house briefly and then chugged on. Nobody had put the cans out. That was Herman’s job. There would be twice the trash for this week. Yay.

Lester’s long accented bark from the back yard seemed to warn the noisy garbage truck it better get moving faster. The bark was the last sound Janet heard before falling asleep. Her last thought was about that strange bottle.

Janet woke up every few hours with a different arbitrary topic possessing her thoughts. These sheets and quilt are dirty and that stupid washing machine will mess them up. High efficiency my ass… Stuffy in here; a cold beer would hit the spot… How might Melody have looked as a teenager or an old woman? Like me? Like Herman? Maybe neither of us… Did Faye bake pineapple upside-down cake? The house smelled like the cake. Don’t love it like she thinks I do, but actually a piece would be nice right now… How am I going to ditch those detox meetings they want me to do…?

She was never awake long enough to ponder each topic in much detail, not until her eyes opened and night had fallen.

Not investing much hope, she slid her hand to the sunken side of the bed where Herman normally slept. It was cold and without.

Dread forced itself on her and horrible new scenarios inked into the channels of her mind. Her mouth went dry and all of a sudden she needed water badly. She climbed out of bed and went out into the living room. A form was curled up on the couch. Taking only a few steps closer, she realized it was Faye and felt some relief.

The kitchen spread out before Janet, twice the size she remembered it. Everything was immaculate and put away, and on the table, there was indeed a pineapple upside-down cake under cellophane. Janet opened the refrigerator and a meat loaf dinner, complete with mashed potatoes, green peas, and cornbread had all been compartmentalized in Tupperware. The food looked good enough to eat cold, but Janet grabbed for the water pitcher instead.

She poured a glass of water and drank it all. Then poured half a glass and steadily sipped on it. Her taste buds interpreted the texture of the water with a sour aversion at first. She anticipated the sharp sting of alcohol, but there wasn’t one.

She drank the rest of the glass and returned the pitcher.

As the fridge closed, the kitchen went black again and her eyes had to adjust. Through the window to the backyard, she saw something stand out starkly in the nightscape. She recognized the bottle’s long, delicate form and obscene black tint. Why hadn’t Lester batted it around like he did with his other toys? She would have bet good money she’d find the bottle somewhere against the fence the next day, a sticky film of doggy slobber all over it. But no, the bottle was still upright and at the mouth of the dog’s little den.

“I’ll get you the magic water like I did for Lester. Hold on baby. Hold on!”

The memory was Herman’s voice, but Janet didn’t trust it; the context of the recollection had been removed and sounded like a line from a movie she’d never seen. The most bizarre part was she recalled his words so clearly and yet there were no images tied to them. If she believed in a soul, she might have considered Herman speaking to her through his emotions; like he was in some far away place, yes, and he was feeling this communication to me.

Sleep beckoned. That was more important than stirring this strange soup in her mind any further. The bottle though, she resolved, had to be taken away from Lester. He could step on it, break it and really hurt himself. This should have been done already.

With awful thoughts of a dog tearing open a major artery while she selfishly slept, Janet knew it couldn’t wait for a more convenient moment. She’d be up all night if she didn’t get the bottle now.

She grabbed Faye’s small moss colored jacket draped over a chair. The jacket didn’t button up over Janet’s chest, but it would do for the short trip across the backyard. Soaking her slippers in wet grass was more on her mind, but she knew if she returned to her room she’d just talk herself out of going back.

The sliding glass door made no sound, which she was grateful for, but outside a rhythmic knocking came from the far side of the yard. The gate was banging against the fence—the wind must have forced it open again. Janet looked down on the porch. Lester’s food had been messily eaten and his water reduced by more than half. That made her feel somewhat better and she took to the yard.

The grass was moist but not terribly wet. Janet stepped carefully, afraid of squishing any canine landmines under her slippers. As she neared the dog house, Lester’s head sprung up. He was awake and as alert as ever.

“Hey Les,” she said, to remind him who approached.

The dog’s panting made her feel slightly more at ease. He wasn’t acting nuts like earlier today. Gradually, she pushed out her fist, letting him run his cold wet, sniffing nose over her knuckles. From there, she glided her hand over his face and petted his head, told him he was a good boy, then scratched him behind the ears, grabbed the bottle by its neck with her other hand, rubbed under his chin, patted him on the head, called him a nice doggy again.

Which she’d always believed he was.

Lester looked up in the darkness and whined. He lowered his head to his paws, but continued to stare at her and the bottle.

The bottle felt empty but fluid sloshed around inside.

Janet returned to the house, relieved to be done with her task. She went straight to bed and put the bottle on her nightstand. She didn’t want to throw her treasure away just yet, not after winning it as she had.

As soon as dawn broke, she planned to call the police. Seeing cops in her home again would not be easy, but Herman’s absence had gone beyond even her thin reasoning about him running off.

Something had happened to him.

If he never came back, what then? What next?

She needed a drink, she decided. Or maybe a strong rope.

After a moment her eyes drifted over to stare at the bottle’s shape: beautiful, painful, useful. Janet was so glad it was here.

7

Janet tapped her teeth to the point of irritating her gums. How long ago had Faye left to go check the gym for Herman? Five minutes? Ten? That still gave her enough time to throw on a coat and shoes, jump in the car and grab a couple Jim Beam travelers from the college liquor store. Just traveler size, nothing bigger. Whiskey didn’t sound very good at the moment but if any bad news came about Herman, she would need it.

She promised Faye she’d call the police if Herman didn’t turn up at the gym, but that possibility still terrified Janet. If the cops got involved, this thing became more real, more in-your-face.

But she couldn’t wait another day without doing something. Herman hadn’t taken anything from the house, not even his toothbrush, and he was damn picky about having the electric GE model he’d had to buy on the internet—yet, maybe this had finally been his clean break for his awful wife. It just didn’t sound like him; Herman liked to hide under a rock sometimes but he’d always come back out at some point to prove he was unhurt. If he did come walking back through that door, he would focus on how she’d driven him away.

That was fine. She deserved the blame. Bring it on. Just come back, Herman. Come back. I can’t die until I know you’re still alive.

She wrung her hands and paced the bedroom. The bottle, which she’d kept hidden from Faye in her master bathroom, poked its long fluted neck into her peripheral vision. Janet had been second-guessing herself all morning about uncorking it. Not like she’d had a chance until now. Earlier, she had to sit down with Faye for breakfast, a lecture, and an ultimatum.

“As soon as I come back, we’re on that phone, babe. He could be really hurt. Evan’s probably out of his mind by now.”

Evan was out of his mind, all right.

Now that Janet was alone and ready to throw herself headlong into liquor again, she marveled that the answer might be waiting in her bathroom. It was a long-shot the bottle’s contents turned out to be a beverage, but she had to at least check before sneaking to the store. Yes, sneaking, that’s what she’d been reduced to, but who the hell cared?

Janet walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. The darkness of the bottle had such a presence that the bar of bright vanity lights hardly eked out any luminosity. With some measure of caution, she picked up the bottle and grabbed the cork between her thumb and forefinger. It didn’t take much to pull the long, sodden cork free. There wasn’t a pop, not even a release of trapped air.

She sniffed carefully over the mouth of the bottle, hoping to get alcohol’s nice flaming bee-sting in the nostril, but the soft scent from inside somehow watered her eyes without the pungency desired, like a flower could. In spite of the sloshing around, she couldn’t see any liquid and with how very light it was, she wondered if this was a trick bottle. That would make sense, for all its magical, otherworldly appearance. Some kid might have bought it at a gimmick store and dropped it in the field behind their house.

She cupped her hand and tipped the bottle. At once her palm filled with a thin caramel broth. She didn’t have time to examine the gruel thoroughly—Janet grabbed the sink and an arrow of burning puke shot from her mouth.

She stared down in complete shock. A splash of bile had slapped the porcelain basin with flecks of the bottle’s brown fluid, and there, leaning against the sink’s plug, was a dark bronze coin with a human skull imprinted on its face.

Sometimes you meet a person and immediately don’t like them. Sometimes you go to a place and immediately feel uneasy. Sometimes you catch an old fragrance and it brings back a hated memory. Sometimes somebody touches you in a way an enemy has touched you in the past.

The coin did all of these things.

It was ugly. For all her disdain, Janet didn’t care to know what it was or how it came from her own throat; she just didn’t want the coin in her house. Not for a second longer. There was a deep sense of ownership with it, despite just laying eyes on it. This was her coin and it would always be her coin. She thought about throwing it in the waste basket or into the field outside, but what if it somehow showed up again? She didn’t want to fucking see it. Not ever! Seeing it again would be unbearable. A poison-tipped sword through each eye. Keeping the coin for even another moment was too much of a burden to bear.

A light knocking came at the door. Janet took the coin with a disgusted swipe that made of arch of putrescence in the sink. She hit the water to rinse off her hand and then hurried out to the front room.

Another knock.

Faye.

She never got the hint, did she? If you have a house key, it means you can come in whenever you like. Otherwise, they would have never given her one.

But the person through the peephole, Janet found, was not Faye.

She opened the door and blinked through the obnoxious sunlight. “Hi, Sam. How are you?”

The old widower stood on the porch with a sad, fatherly shine in his eyes. He handed over a bouquet of wildflowers.

“I… heard, this morning from your friend Evan. It’s good to see you up and at ‘em. That whole hospital thing was pretty scary sounding.”

Janet looked uncomfortably down at the flowers. “It was.”

“There’s all sorts of blossoms in there. I don’t know their names but I think every color of the rainbow has a representative.”

“Did you pick them?”

Sam snorted through his untamed gray mustache. “Hell no, bought them!”

She smiled. “You’re so sweet…”

“I would have come down to the hospital if I’d known sooner.”

“No, no that’s okay. Things have been tough. Tough year.”

“God you’re right, it’s been about a year now,” he said. He awkwardly turned his eyes out to the empty street. “It still makes me sick to my stomach, thinking about that day.”

“Yes.” Janet leaned into the door jamb.

“Saw someone come plowing down the street just the other day. The dumb jerk. Yelled my ass off at him.”

“Oh Sam.”

“Well it isn’t right. People just have no clue about safe driving. Really, they have no clue. Especially teenagers, which being a high school teacher, you know already.”

“I was just an aide.”

“You were close enough to smell their crap,” he said pointedly.

“That I was.”

“So you’re doing better now?”

“I’m fine now, just had one too many was all.”

“I don’t know how you even had one. You and me used to be the only dry people on this block!” Sam laughed a little too much and went silent.

“Yeah, my tastes changed.”

“It happens, I reckon.” He took a step off the porch with a lurch. “I hope your tastes go back, and you keep safe.”

“I’m trying.”

“I do understand.” Sam’s eyes glinted and he nodded then. “Well, say hi to Herman for me.”

“I will.”

He turned away—Janet swallowed something as dry as dead leaves, her voice scratched her throat— “Sam, um, do you still collect coins?”

The wind picked up at that moment, blowing Sam’s shoulder length gray hair and his retro Boston Red Sox t-shirt. He grinned faintly.

“Sure do,” he said.

FURY

Need to get to the store today to get some hand soap, can’t keep using dish soap, the stuff’s eating up my hands—too many stupid trips to the store for one item—how did Gabriele manage getting everything in one trip every Saturday—? Unbelievable—gets a little easier to bear each day but sure miss that gal—later, get the photo album out, if I’m up for it—

Glance out my window to the Erikson’s house—that poor woman needs help, both of them probably—none of my business—what the hell do I know—? Never had kids, never knew my parents, not much of an authority—I’m a sixty-seven year old retired self defense instructor who went from having a wife and a life, to watching bad science fiction movies every night, perched over processed TV dinner food— don’t know what life-lessons I could to offer to anybody, except several great chokeholds and “don’t eat the two Hungry Man dinners in the same day”—seeing Janet like that, damn, I need to get out there and start challenging myself—life ain’t over—life is still good—love my life—loved it better with Gabby, but there’s no changing that now—

Guess I have to get into some better clothes if I go out—damn it, shoulda got the soap when I was out buying the flowers—goofball, that’s what Gabby woulda called me—yes, I’m gonna have to get that album later—need to see her face and remember her— can’t understand how some other men just go right out and get another woman—well, keep it real—certainly wouldn’t turn down one to come by and keep me company again—not being unfaithful, or even feeling like I would be—but how do these other widowers start from scratch—? Seems like a really difficult place to begin a relationship from—ah well, she’d have to be special—nobody could be Gabby, but special they’d have to be—

Stomach feels wrong—go to the kitchen for some Pepto—well double shit, that’s gonna have to go on the list with the hand soap—where are my damn keys—? best get going before the stores get crammed with impatient cross-town traffic—they really ought to refrigerate Pepto in the store—hate it at room temperature, and by how warm this winter’s been, by the time I get home, gonna have to drink it lukewarm—guess I could drink it in the parking lot—can’t imagine how that would look—some old fart self medicating out in the open because he’s not too proud, oh no—but it really might have to be done just like that because my gut is feeling nasty right about now—

Fact is, everything feels nasty, it’s all of a sudden, and thinking of lying down a bit—things are blurry here in the kitchen, so I go to the bedroom, get on top of the unmade bed, dig out the comforter from under my back, just the movement makes me want to puke—outta nowhere, emotions are running high now, I’m thinking of Gabby not being here, feeling sorry for myself, tears in my eyes—feel so bloated, yet want to keep drinking until I black out—holy Christ is my gut bubbling—did I have any lemon lime soda left—? I should have checked—

Vomiting over the side of the bed, more liquid than I remember drinking, ever, and it tastes strange, like an astringent chemical—I’ve been poisoned—somehow, at some time, I’ve been poisoned—ate at the diner this morning and had pancakes and turkey bacon—nothing tasted weird—oh god, just thinking about that food and I’m puking more of the vile stuff—

Need to call for help—waves of dizziness overcome me, just when there’s another sickly tug at my stomach—fall off the bed and bang the back of my head—doesn’t hurt, my body’s numb—is this what dying feels like—?

Can’t remember where I put the cell phone—don’t look for it, just go you idiot, go outside, go to the neighbor’s house, the woman, Janet, you got her flowers, go and ask for help, she will help—

Crawling through the bedroom, feel something staring at me from the darkness in my bathroom—it’s a bad thing, a monster, the eyes, the eyes are cold and wicked and black and unreal and I have to be imagining its gray flesh and shark teeth—the smell from it, the putrefaction of a corpse washed up on the shore of a contaminated river, my stomach jumps up into my mouth again, and all the dizziness returns, images marry together and my soul rips in half and those pieces in half and then those in half—and then I’m remembering—

The coin Janet gave me—it’s still in my hand and all the pain in the world feels to be coming from its center—took it to be nice, don’t collect coins anymore at all, but this coin has brought that monster, which is leaning over me, Christ, a shark’s face that blends into the body of a dragon—can’t drop the coin—stuck to my hand—!

“You’ve taken payment for a death that doesn’t belong to you—”

Gagging on puke, feel it run down my face, feel it burning my eyes—crawling away again, palms stinging with pins and needles, blood pounding in my embattled heart and head—my house tilts sideways and whips around, the universe on a spin cycle—catch sight of my cell phone on the couch—so far away, and the monster’s behind me, but it hasn’t eaten me—don’t think it wants to eat me—maybe not yet—

Reach up and take my phone—stare at the many number keys—they collide together in a vertigo mess that makes me blink frantically for focus—none comes—a reptile hand picks the phone out of my hand and gently tosses it back on the couch—

A human mouth speaks from beyond the shark’s rows of pink stained teeth—“What were three, are now one, and I am Fury—”

Retch on something rancid and my vision darkens—it’s about to go out entirely—

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury with calm reassurance—“Do you know the song—? The song my heart so dearly needs to hear—?”

Want to sing him Gabby’s song, the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life”—Can’t remember which part—can’t talk, will never talk again—

Another surge comes from the depths of my stomach, but it halts in my throat—

“Who keeps the bottle now—?”

“The bottle—?” My thoughts are lost—

“How did you come by this coin—?”

Can’t answer—everything disintegrates and slides down, fluid pushes me over rough moving water—drowning, salt water forces into my lungs, balloons them, bursts them—keep moving on, nature’s plaything, rolling through the current, dragging across bone fragments that line the endless deep, only to fall past them, across underwater cliffs, and there is no real bottom to this, and can’t see the top, where the surface should be, or the sky, where’s the sky—? Nothing above, nothing below, everything inside, everything deep, deeper than the deepest, and cold, so freezing and unbearably icy frigid, alone, ultimate loneliness, worse than losing Gabby, how could that possibly be—? No, hell no, there is no such thing, until now, there is no sound, no love, no memories, not until I reach the other side, but what other side—? It’s long gone, forever gone, somebody sings—

The God doesn’t want any memories here—

They’ve died and will never come back.

8

Having a very large piece of yourself, a desperate desire, removed in total isn’t as cathartic as one would expect; sobriety is a dreary sensation that spreads from the toes, all the way into the brain, where it resides like a cold lump of lead; to be sure, it’s an experience that falls well short of bliss.

Janet had to sit down once it happened. At first she accepted this was the prolonged response of her body shutting down, that the bottle and the coin and maybe even Sam’s visit had been byproducts of a dying mind. Maybe she was still in the hospital right now, with Herman leaning over her, his big warm hands clasping her cold bloodless ones, telling her to hold on, to not leave him.

The strangeness occurred right after she’d given her coin away. She knew that something had been let go and she’d never have it back. More bizarre, letting go the coin had been this emotional journey that Sam inflicted upon her. His footsteps crossed from one side of her mind to the other and he went out an exit that always existed but until now hadn’t been discovered. It was a passing, a crossing, a final voyage that had been paid for in full.

And in the end of all of this, Janet didn’t want to make that trip to the liquor store. Not now, not ever. Her plans for another rendezvous with alcohol-induced death would never come to be. The thought of even one light beer repulsed her. The beloved acquired taste had returned to being vile, as it had before Melody went away.

Faye knocked on the front door, but unlocked it before Janet had the chance to rise from the couch. Her friend’s elfish face was sullen and defeated, and Janet knew the gym hadn’t turned up anything.

“You want me to call?” she asked, putting her purse down on the end table.

Janet felt dizzy. She should have felt relieved she could now do this without needing to be drunk (god that was strange), but it had been a long time since she faced reality in a sober vehicle. Fear was all around her.

“Yes please.”

Faye didn’t lose a moment and picked up her cell phone to dial the police department. While she waited she studied Janet closely. “Evan’s checking all the bars they used to go to.”

Janet nodded, but said nothing.

“Oh yes, I’d like to report a missing person. Will you send somebody to—” Faye’s expression changed to sudden confusion. “Oh.”

She held the phone away from her and said to Janet, “We can either go down there and file the report or do it over the phone. They don’t send anyone to your house.”

“Let’s just get it over with now,” said Janet, relieved no cops would be coming over.

“Wait, which way is more effective?” Faye questioned the dispatcher. She knitted her brow as an answer came. “Either way? You’re sure? We’ll just do it over the phone then. Yes. Okay, I’ll wait.” Faye looked over at Janet again and gave a weak smile.

Janet considered reasons why police didn’t come over to houses. Were there so many missing people now that the cops couldn’t keep up? That was a rather disturbing thought. People were vanishing at such a rate the police had to streamline the entire process, which meant their attention would not be only on her husband.

“Okay,” said Faye to the phone. “His name is Herman Erikson—hello? Are you there?” Faye rolled her eyes and shook her head. She leaned forward and whispered in Janet’s ear, “Scatterbrained.”

Janet nodded numbly.

“Yes, so as I was saying his name is Herman Erikson and he’s 6 foot 2, about—how much does he weigh?”

The question was for Janet. “Oh about two hundred and thirty pounds, I think.”

“Two-thirty, yeah, and brown hair and his eyes— pardon? What? Oh really?”

Janet sat up straight and grabbed her knees. What were they saying? Had they found him already? Tell me he’s alive. Please, tell me he’s alive. I won’t believe it, but I need to hear it.

“In twenty minutes?” Faye asked, her face long with surprise. “Sure, sure, same house. We’ll be here.” She pressed off her phone with a smirk. “Wow.”

Janet almost jumped to her feet. “What?”

“This cop knows you and Herman. Her shift’s almost done and she’s going to come over to take your report in person.”

“I don’t know any cop.”

“Well, she knows you. That’s good, right? Maybe they’ll put Herman on their priority list or something—well, I guess they can’t have those, but you know what I mean.”

Janet let her body slump back into the sofa. So the police would be here after all. Great.

After a moment, she got up and went to the bathroom. The bottle seemed to be in a different place on the sink than she remembered. Janet touched its glass, petted its cold surface. This morning she could only think about finishing what she started, drinking herself to sleep like her paternal grandfather had done, but she could finally see past that foolishness. Her heart wasn’t healed, but her body was, for now.

There was only one bottle she needed now.

1) Describe the last thing you saw the person wearing: white t-shirt, blue jeans, black cross trainers.

2) Any known medical conditions and any medications that the missing person relies upon: Herman had high blood pressure. He wasn’t good about taking his pills, though. It was for maintenance, so not having them with him wouldn’t be life-threatening.

3) Photographs of the missing: (a) a shot of Herman and Janet at their anniversary dinner in San Francisco, a month before Melody was born (b) a cell phone picture of Herman on his birthday from this year, sitting on the couch, holding up a new flannel shirt Faye and Evan had bought him (c) Herman and Lester playing catch together in the backyard with a tennis ball.

4) Account—in as much detail as possible—where the person was and what he was doing before he went missing: Herman had arrived with Janet at the hospital. Hospital staff indicated he had been in the waiting room for several hours before leaving. Then, at approximately six in the morning, Evan Ledbetter spoke on the phone with him. Herman indicated he was driving and some of the things he said were nonsensical.

“What kind of nonsensical things?” asked Officer Davis.

Faye shrugged and looked at Janet. “I guess we need Evan for that. He hasn’t really wanted to talk about it that much.”

“I understand.” Officer Becca Davis made a couple more notes on the form, her bronze face focused and calculating.

Janet did not remember the woman, but that was hardly surprising. She was a fellow parent at the Horrace home childcare where Melody had gone. They had seen each other in passing when picking the kids up, but her son Jacob had only been going to the childcare a couple weeks before the tragedy, and lucky for him, he’d been punished that day and was inside writing sentences rather than playing in the front yard.

In weeks following the hit and run, Janet vaguely recalled Davis reaching out to help coordinate with the police manhunt, but they’d never taken her up on any of her offers, because whether the criminals were caught didn’t matter at the time. For her, it hurt too much to concentrate on anything except drinking, and for Herman, he dragged himself off to that volunteer job at the plant and working nights at the machine shop. When sadness finally boiled into rage, they did get involved around six weeks after the death. By then, Officer Davis was just another useless cop who couldn’t bring back Melody.

Perhaps that was unkind, but a grieving heart doesn’t have a natural capacity for kindness. Janet supposed Becca Davis was a decent woman and regretted not being friendlier with her. However, this was another bad time that had brought them together and it was easier to resent her presence than embrace it. Another tragedy. Another cop asking pointless questions. Another road of pain.

To make matters worse, a house fly kept circling around them, unseen, yet thick with buzzing. Its annoyance went deeper than distraction—it reminded Janet that it didn’t matter if she was sober now, there would still be flies, still be shit, and life would go on this way because good things didn’t happen for any other reason except to make bad ones stick out more prominently. Such a cheery life I lead…

She took a swat at the fly and Officer Davis and Faye glanced over together.

“Pesky,” Officer Davis commented and filled out some other items on the back page of her form. She pursed her lips as she scribbled. Janet noticed she had a quite daring shade of red lipstick for an authority figure. It was almost inappropriate. In her quest to find a reason not to like the woman, Janet put a check on her own form, right by low self esteem. Yet, she probably shouldn’t cast stones on that matter.

And as though reading her mind, Becca Davis lifted her stunning brown eyes and stated with alarming tranquility, “Have you ever been unfaithful to your husband?”

Faye shook her head like she’d been BB gunned between the eyes. She quickly recovered and went on defense for her Janet. “Hey excuse me, what do—?”

“Or, do you suspect he’s been unfaithful to you?” Davis added, showing no detour around this line of questioning. “It will help, of course, if we know that there are any third parties involved. I’m sorry if this is painful.”

What a bitch. Of course she wasn’t sorry.

“You think Herman ran off with someone?”

“Is that impossible? After your daughter, things have been rough.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“And there’s nobody for you, either?”

Faye gave her a sidelong look.

“I love my husband,” said Janet.

“Okay but—”

“So no, the answer is no.”

“Sorry.” Davis scrawled something else down, which Janet could imagine said, Possibly not a jealous boyfriend. “I hate to ask that question, but for Herman’s sake, I can’t afford to tap dance around anything that will get us closer to finding him.”

“That’s fine,” said Janet.

“I think this should just about do it.” Davis shuffled all the paperwork and the photos into the manila folder she brought. “I’ll stop by and get this processed before I head home.”

“Thank you so much for coming in person,” said Faye.

Yeah, thanks a heap, thought Janet.

Davis sighed through her nose, troubled about something. The fly buzzed around and she absently waved it off. “There’s another reason why I came today, besides wanting to help.”

Janet swallowed. “What about?”

“I might have an idea where Herman went, only I hope I’m wrong.”

“And you’re telling us this now?”

“I thought you’d bring it up, since it’s been all over the local news since last Friday.”

“I haven’t been watching the news. Faye?”

Faye shrugged. “We’ve been so busy with the baby and then you at the hospital and now Herman gone—I don’t think I’ve watched a minute of TV.”

“A man named Josue Ramirez was found at the scene of a car wreck just about a mile away from a bank robbery in Riverside. It was in the militant style of the serial bank robberies that have gone on for years around the Inland Empire. The driver fled the car, maybe injured, maybe not. Josue went through the wind shield. It was touch and go with him for a while, but now he’s in stable condition at Loma Linda hospital. Reporters haven’t put him together with the incident involving Melody yet, but they soon might, so don’t be surprised if you find a pushy group on your doorstep.”

“You’re not saying that this Jose—”

“Josue.”

“Well fuck him and his name,” Janet said with such an evenness Davis leaned back.

Faye reached over and touched her shoulder. “Babe, let’s just—”

“Are you done here?” Janet asked Davis.

The police officer nodded silently.

“So get out of here,” Janet whispered, “because I’m not listening to this, not with Herman not here to… know. He should be here for this moment. Here, with me.”

“Mrs. Erikson, that’s what I’m saying. Maybe Herman learned about Ramirez and he went out to do something,” Davis played with the word, “hasty. Like you said earlier, he thought you were going to die and left the hospital in a panic. Think about it. He could have been watching the news in the hospital or read a newspaper. People do drastic things when they feel they have nothing to lose.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Janet snapped.

“But,” Faye said meekly, “wouldn’t he have shown up at Loma Linda by now?”

“Ramirez is under guard at the hospital, so it’s very unlikely Herman could get at him anyway. But the news coverage has been spending more time playing up the driver as the brains behind the robberies. He’s someone the department hasn’t IDed yet. Ramirez won’t name him and nobody will talk in the neighborhood. In the past couple days since Ramirez was hospitalized, some of his family and friends have gone missing. Herman works at a machine shop in the heart of that same neighborhood in Riverside.”

“You think Herman’s out there, tying people up and forcing them to talk?” Janet laughed. “Like a vigilante?”

“Or it could be Ramirez’s accomplice making sure nobody talks. We don’t know anything for certain yet, Mrs. Erikson. And I’m really not a part of the investigation. I just know that if I were you, I’d want to consider every angle before writing your husband off.”

“Why do you even care?”

Davis took the manila folder and absently tapped it on the coffee table. “I…remember Melody. She was a sweet little girl. What happened to her shouldn’t ever be allowed to go unpunished.”

There was an awful quiet that spread through the room, all except for the fly, which Janet suddenly clapped into silence, its body dropping on Herman’s recent copy of Men’s Health.

Lester began barking as a car pulled up.

“That’s Evan.” Faye turned to Janet, her eyes pained. “I told him we could go do the baby registry today…”

“I should get going too. I’ll get this processed.” Davis stood.

Janet remained seated. “Thank you, Officer. I’m sorry if I’m not in a good mood.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Davis stuck out a hand, which Janet quickly shook. It was more feminine of a grasp than Janet might have expected for a woman who worked with so many men.

Janet dragged herself to the door and bid the police woman farewell. Evan was along the sidewalk, the Jeep still running while he messed with his phone. He didn’t seem to notice Davis get into her car and drive away. The day had become overcast and it sucked the color out of the world.

Faye took hold of Janet in a ferocious hug like a woman clinging to the side of a cliff. “I told him this wasn’t a good day to do this. I don’t want to go shopping.”

“But he said it would be good for you, right?”

Faye’s eyes reluctantly flowed over to Evan. “With everything we know now, maybe we should stay put.”

“No. Go. Have some fun.”

“I shouldn’t leave you alone.”

“I’m fine. Take my car keys if you want.”

“Already done.” Faye patted her pocket and the tight metallic sound of contained keys jangled.

“Remember not to get only yellow. Herman and me?”

“Yes,” Faye laughed sadly, “I remember your nursery, babe… We’ll be back as soon as I can. We’ll put our heads together about everything.”

Faye kissed her on the cheek and made swiftly for the Jeep. Janet watched her go and wondered what would happen between them as couple once she was gone. Would Evan tell Faye what had happened?

Why am I asking this, as though I still plan on dying?

An electric realization sent a thrill through Janet. Despite previous associations, her addiction and final goal hadn’t been related. She had abandoned booze, but not her plans. She recalled the raw desire with some nostalgia, as though what was destined had only been delayed for a different location.

What about the bottle, though? She couldn’t just leave it behind for Faye or Evan with a P.S. on her suicide note.

Promptly, she went to the bathroom, retrieved the bottle and brought it to the coffee table. Janet marveled at the shape, the deep black glass, and wondered if she poured some it out on her skin again if she’d cough up another coin. Was it infinite? The waters had cured her of alcoholism the first time. What would it cure the second time?

As much as she wanted to know, she decided that wasn’t for today. She couldn’t imagine having to deal with getting rid of another coin right now. Doubt still pulled at her though. What if the second coin wasn’t as repulsive as the first?

A minute trilling came from the table. On top of the Men’s Health lay the half-dead housefly, twitching this way and that way, one wing lifting on a stubborn piston, while the rest of the deformed body remained inert. Janet tilted the bottle slowly. It was so light the container felt like an extension of her arm. The brown liquid saturated the insect and sucked into it. Inky refuse jettisoned from its body and landed over the face of the magazine’s bleachy smiled cover model. As Janet watched the ink solidify into a new coin, the fly took flight with renewed vigor, crashed into a nearby window, before buzzing off to parts unknown.

It healed the fly’s injuries.

Janet leaned over the coin. Though undeniably resembling some kind of ancient currency one might find in a museum, this coin had a different impression on its face than the other had; instead of a skull, there was a tiny dot.

She went to the junk drawer and grabbed Herman’s magnifying glass, a stabbing memory surfacing of Melody running around playing with it in the mirror, watching her mouth grow comically large.

Returning to the table, she positioned the glass over the coin. The impression in the metal blossomed in size and she beheld what looked like the exoskeleton outline of the head of an insect, probably the fly’s.

Repeated attempts to penetrate the window pane had made the fly punch drunk and its flight wild. It wanted to get away from its coin, she imagined, just as much as she had from hers. She opened the window and popped the screen. The fly escaped in a blink.

The air felt good outside, and cleared her head for a moment. She stared at the coin but couldn’t decide whether to touch it. After all, it wasn’t hers. Something about the intimacy of letting her bare fingertips touch its metal seemed tantamount to sinning.

Lester was whining outside. She needed to feed and water him. It wasn’t fair how much she’d neglected him for so long. Feeling badly, she got up, went outside and filled up his bowls. Lester ate the meal with what seemed like much appreciation. She petted him on his head and stared out to the dry desert stretching into infinity. Herman wasn’t coming back. Was he?

“Evan and Faye will take good care of you, boy,” she told Lester. “They’ve always loved you. Nothing to worry about.”

The dog turned its eyes up to her. They looked too unbearably sullen to take right now, so she returned into the house. Distracting herself with the bottle was better than entertaining other thoughts. It was a resurgence of Not-Janet, because Janet Erikson would probably instead be gathering up some rope from the garage right about now.

What did this bottle do? Outside of remedy addiction and heal critically wounded houseflies? If she had encountered something truly supernatural why the hell couldn’t she pull herself out of this mortal despair? Yes, Not-Janet reflected, if Lester dug up some magic potion that could mean a whole variety things are true. Heaven. Hell. God. The Devil.

Or maybe this bottle is true and those things are not…

Perhaps every myth is just a perversion of the truth.

Why can’t you just hope Melody still exists somewhere? Not-Janet asked Janet.

She should have expected this, coming from the version of herself that put hope into other gods. Magic carpets, witches, and dragons may well exist for all Janet knew, but that didn’t mean she’d ever see Melody again.

Oh really? asked Not-Janet. What if this bottle brings the dead back to life?

Good point, thought Janet. Morbid, but good, depending if she could get Melody’s remaining ashes from the mausoleum. The rest were one with Greenhill pond.

First things first though. She went to the master closet and got her grandmother’s empty coin purse from the jewelry chest. Back at the table, she tilted the magazine and allowed the coin to slide into the purse. There. It wasn’t hers to touch, so she wouldn’t.

That done, she took a limp looking white rose from the assorted bouquet Sam had brought. The flower was technically dead, and wasn’t much of a test subject, but what the hell? Fight crazy with crazy, right? She would have been astonished if the flower sprouted up, renewed and burst forth another coin, but it could be no less odd than everything she’d see so far.

Janet put the long stem down into the bottle and watched the flower intently.

For five minutes.

She pulled it out and set the unchanged flower on the coffee table. A new idea struck her and she grabbed the bottle and headed for the front yard. The sidewalk always had at least one or two snail fatalities, and this day was no different. Right near the first step to the porch a rather large snail had been smashed into a gushy, fibrous pile. It looked several days dead, if not an entire week.

Janet administered some of the bottle’s water on the corpse.

The fluid ebbed out around the snail, like searching fingers, then thinned to a transparent color that spread over the sidewalk until it vanished. She examined the dead snail for several minutes, wondering if the dead took longer to revive. Nothing was happening though. With a knowing sigh, she corked the bottle.

She retreated back indoors.

Not even magic changes death. See what I mean about the universe? she told Not-Janet.

But her other half didn’t answer, and Janet knew then she’d never hear from the likes of her again. Not-Janet was dead. And the dead stayed dead.

9

Unconsciously, she’d been preparing for this day. Janet imagined she’d lose her mind on her little girl’s birthday, but that day had come and gone. It wasn’t as painful when you were passed out drunk with no husband around to toll that ghastly bell. Janet had created a life and it was taken away. She accepted this with surprising ease; the birthday really didn’t mean anything anymore. You don’t recall the first moment of marveling at your sandcastle, you remember when the sea brings its turrets crashing down and all that was once beautiful is erased.

That’s the moment Janet clung to.

Not the birthday.

The deathday.

And the staleness of the house, the frozen stasis of the universe, reminded her like no calendar ever could.

Janet had gone to bed in her clothes but Faye had covertly changed her black sweat pants to a maroon pair. The busy bee had buzzed about the kitchen all morning, probably making something Janet would not want to eat.

Food wasn’t an option. Janet’s mind fixated on this day, a year ago now.

Herman had been upset with Melody’s constant fussing over getting up from bed and Janet herself was late for work. Nobody was happy that morning. Everything was tense and chaotic. The last time Janet saw Melody, she went to kiss her but the toddler resisted and turned her face away.

“Oh well fine,” she’d told the little girl with fake contempt. She’d really not had time to make a big show of it. She didn’t even give Herman her usual peck on the cheek—it was just out the door, quick, quick, quick, hurry off into the first day of oblivion.

A year later, she no longer had a daughter, had committed adultery with one of her good friends, almost died from alcohol poisoning, lost her husband somewhere, and discovered a magic bottle that, while extraordinary with healing physical trauma, did nothing to resolve the psychological.

And now another deep mental wound with an infection setting in…

The length of time without a word or sign of Herman had become out and out unreal. She’d woken in the middle of the night and had a long, tormented weeping episode about it. Something bad had happened. Even if Officer Davis’s laughable vigilante theory was true, why had Herman not called at least Evan yet?

The only thing keeping Janet breathing was the need to have one conversation she’d be putting off for a long time now. It had gone through her mind just as she was blacking out in the bathroom the night of the alcohol poisoning. It was a regret that stung even during her body’s extreme battle. Up until now, she’d never had the courage to ask for answers. Today, Melody’s deathday, made absolute sense to go get them.

Janet got dressed into some black jeans, UCLA sweatshirt and tennis shoes. There was no time for a shower, but she did run a comb quickly through her greasy black locks. She took her spare car keys from the dresser, pushed the coin purse into her pocket and collected her wallet. She also grabbed the bottle, for fear of Faye discovering it.

Faye’s clanging of pots and pans seemed to provide enough cover for escape, but the water running in the sink suddenly stopped as she sneaked to the front door.

Janet froze.

Silverware clashed together and the water started again.

The door whined open. Janet slipped outside and gently closed it. She hurried to the truck and hoped Faye didn’t come running out.

Janet checked the bottle was securely corked before stashing it in the glove compartment. Moving her wallet to the driver’s seat, she put the truck in neutral and rolled back into the street, where the truck coasted past Sam’s house. She noted he wasn’t out in his backyard doing work, which was atypical of him, but very good for her.

She turned the ignition and put the truck in drive. Her heart raced and her palms sweated. In less than ten minutes, for the first time in a year, she would be visiting Horrace’s childcare.

Janet couldn’t stop staring at the lawn. She considered every corner, every sprinkler pit and sundried yellow patch, and thought about where the impact of the car might have happened, where had Melody’s body come to rest? Over there, by those bushes? On the driveway, blood running down like an old oil stain—knock that shit off.

This older neighborhood had quite a narrow sidewalk, which undulated from root intrusion and all the minor earthquakes that had shifted it about over the years. It would be easy for a car to glide over the low curb. It was something she’d considered when choosing this place. If the curb had been as high as some she’d seen, Melody would most likely still be alive. She and Herman just hadn’t looked for the right things, hadn’t asked the right questions. Hell, they didn’t even know the children were allowed to play out front.

And that activity hadn’t changed since the murder. Even today five kids ran across the yard, involved in overlapping games of chase. A clear plastic toy box had been brought out, but other than a Frisbee, the rest of the bright neon items had been neglected. One of the childcare helpers stood on the sidewalk leading from the front door, dressed in floral patterned medical scrubs. Her shoulder was turned to the kids. She held an infant in her arms and rocked it. Judging by her cooing and ahhing over the baby, the helper enjoyed playing a surrogate mother.

A boy with a brown bowl-haircut, ten or eleven, winged the orange Frisbee and it sailed sideways through in the air, building speed as it raced down. The trajectory of the disc landed it upside-down in the middle of the street. The bowl-cut boy and a companion his age plunged into the street with one casual glance over their shoulder.

The helper tapped the baby’s nose and smiled goofily.

Janet slammed her car door. She brought her wallet and the coin purse but decided, unfortunately, the bottle should stay in the glove box. She couldn’t explain it, but she liked having the bottle around. It didn’t put her at ease, but it redirected her thoughts better than booze sure ever had.

The trip up the driveway was tedious and uphill. The sun blared down around a blotchy arrangement of gray clouds. It would be another Southern Californian winter day; you could already smell the sidewalk cooking and it wasn’t even noon yet. Janet was tired of it, like so many other things.

For a moment the helper was so oblivious she didn’t notice Janet walking up to the house.

She kissed the baby on top of the head before meeting eyes with Janet. “Hello, can I help you?”

Janet didn’t recognize her as a helper from Melody’s time here. “I’m looking for Mrs. Horrace.”

“Oh, go right in, she’s finishing up Shakespeare Circle.”

With a nod of thanks, Janet reached for the push-handle door knob. She’d forgotten about Shakespeare Circle, Pythagoras’s Practice and Play, and Mozart’s Music Mastery. Her daughter had spoken of them fondly. And often. The hallway was decorated in projects from Greek Philosophers up to illustrations of John Donne poems.

She was ready for all this… so sharp.

Janet tapped on her teeth as she came to the end of the hall. She could hear Mrs. Horrace finishing a section of some Elizabethan play.

“End of Act III. Okay, so does everybody know what they’re going to draw?” Mrs. Horrace asked through labored breaths.

A choir of mumbles answered her. “The King,” one boy said.

Janet came around the corner. Mrs. Horrace appeared to be squatting in the middle of a large throw rug decorated in Roman pillars and ivy, but her morbid obesity had obscured the rather tiny elementary school chair she sat on. Like the helper, Horrace was also dressed in scrubs, these patterned in blue stars upon a black field of night. Her eyes widened a little as she recognized Janet.

“Well, my Lord!” She put down one massive knee to push herself up to stand. “Children, go to it.”

The band of kids around her, all of whom stared intently at Janet, scrambled to their feet and walked crookedly to desks lined up against the mauve painted walls. Their eyes never left the interesting new adult.

Mrs. Horrace shuffled over, her paperback Macbeth held to her lower ring of belly fat. Beautiful coffee ringlets swayed around her rosy face. The woman had always heaved for air and moved with great pain clenched in her jaw, but the small walk across the rug seemed even more now. The last year had aged Mrs. Horrace.

“Jan-Jan.” She hugged Janet with one tremendous arm.

Janet had forgotten her ridiculous nickname and wasn’t so glad to hear it again. “How are you, Mrs. Horrace?”

“The same, we’re the same.” Mrs. Horrace glanced around. “What brings you by?” She lowered her voice and dipped her head closer to Janet. “This isn’t about you-know-who they’ve got up in that hospital.”

“No,” said Janet, shaking her head. “I didn’t come to talk about that. I came to talk to you. I realized that we never talked after…everything.”

Horrace gave a micro-nod that jiggled her double chin. “Come sit up at the counter. Would you like some lemonade?”

“Sure.”

Janet walked across the carpet, feeling all eyes prod her, and pulled out a bar stool.

“Do your illustrations, kids,” Mrs. Horrace instructed. She opened the refrigerator and took out a half full pitcher of lemonade. “How’s Herman doing?” She stretched breathlessly for a green plastic cup in the overhead cupboard.

“He’s… working a lot.”

Mrs. Horrace frowned and poured lemonade into the cup. Janet took it gratefully from her and had a taste. Plastic lemons and sugar.

They now sat across from each other. Janet was eye to eye with this woman that for so long she’d wanted to give a piece of her mind, but she was tongue-tied. She told her herself not to be a coward, not to bend or be intimidated, but she didn’t have a clue where to begin.

Which turned out to be a good thing, because Mrs. Horrace excused herself to the bathroom.

Janet sat there at the counter, listening to children giggle, looking around at the hideous conflicting décor while nursing her polyvinyl lemonade.

Fifteen minutes later, looking flush, Horrace returned. The scent of baby powder room fresher trailed after her.

“Are you finished with your sketches?” she asked the children. Different responses abounded and she added, “Just leave them on your desks. Go have your free play. Ten minutes.”

Horrace sat awkwardly on the stool next to Janet. The children piled out of the room, some shouting wildly in the pre-ecstasy of play.

“So Jan-Jan, I think of Melody so often. I still speak to her in my prayers. I can still hear her little voice. What a wonderful child, so bright. She was thriving here. Absolutely thriving. A point of brightness went out of the world for me on that day. It really did. I just try not to think about it too much anymore.”

“Yes, I see kids still play in the front yard.”

Horrace moved some errant hairs from her narrowing eyes. “And what would be your point, dear?”

“I’d think that’s very obvious.”

Horrace’s bald eyebrow lifted and a snort escaped her nose. “Sorry Jan-Jan, but here at the childcare, life goes on.”

“For the living, sure it does.”

“Wait—did you actually come to pick a fight with me? A year later?”

“Of course not.”

Horrace twisted her mouth in thought for a second. “Well then I apologize for asking, but what brings you here today?”

Closure, thought Janet.

“I just wanted to visit. To remember Melody.”

Tell her, let it out, let it all out…

The severity in Horrace’s face softened. “We provide the safest environment we can for the children. What happened to Melody was a freak mishap, and I incidentally fired the helper, Ms. Kramer, who had been assigned supervision duty that day. And it wasn’t entirely her fault either. The rules here are no feet on the pavement. Only grass. Melody wasn’t following instructions—”

Janet wanted to slap her across her lardy face. She thought of some choice words but held them in.

“You’re not… thinking of get litigious on me, are you Jan-Jan?”

“I told you I just wanted to visit,” Janet reminded her.

Horrace looked away, flustered.

“And to ask…”

How you sleep at night, you miserable bitch?

“… if you know anything about coins?”

Mrs. Horrace put a plump hand on the tile counter and swiveled herself to face Janet completely. “Why would you think I do?”

“Well,” said Janet, her mind screaming, asking what the hell she was doing, that this wasn’t what she’d come for, but nevertheless, she took out the coin purse and let the coin strike the counter with a clang of bronze. “It looks like something out of one of your fairy tales or myths. See, I found it with some heirlooms and wondered if you could tell me if you recognized it.”

The woman’s lips went thin and colorless. It was a purposefully aristocratic expression, something Janet imagined Horrace practiced in the mirror when trying to appear vastly more intelligent than the rest of the planet.

“Greek coinage is not my expertise, but it appears to be some sort of fake drachmae. The impressions don’t look to be of the Classical or Hellenistic. It’s probably archaic.” She leaned over the coin with giant, fascinated eyes.

“Sounds like you know quite a bit about coins.”

“I know a lot of things, but my expertise is only in the art of sharpening minds.” Mrs. Horrace clucked with consideration. “I wonder what this little dot is in the center? It almost looks like a tiny picture.”

Janet shrugged, not about to tell her about the fly. “The pawn shop couldn’t determine its origin… How much do you think a coin like this is worth?”

“Nothing dear. It’s not real,” Mrs. Horrace concluded. “So it’s probably worth just a little over the cost of the metal itself. Ten dollars maybe?”

“Not even worth trying to sell then I guess.”

“This design reminds me too… one of the boys here loves the Greek tale of the Ferryman who accepts coins for the passage of souls into the Underworld.”

“Maybe that’s what this is.”

Ms. Horrace snickered. “Yeah, may-be.”

“Sounds kind of a creepy story for kids though.”

“It’s included in Classic curriculum,” she said irritably. “It isn’t my fault that children find stories of ghosts the most entertaining.”

A gathering of children migrated into the room, trailed by the helper, who with great zeal still cradled the newborn.

“There he is,” said Horrace, pointing to an anemic looking boy with curly blond hair. “Jerry, you’re the one who enjoyed the Ferryman tale. You drew a picture last year, remember.”

Jerry’s head tilted a bit. “That’s with the boat and the guy in the robe with the skeleton face?”

“Yes, yes, the coins, remember?”

The boy nodded. “People used to put them on their tongue when they died.”

“I have an idea! You should give the coin to Jerry,” Mrs. Horrace said. “He’s our best behaved and I told him he would get a reward today. I think he would like that. Wouldn’t you Jerry?”

The boy’s face colored with joy. “You’re giving me money?”

“It’s not mine to give,” replied Janet, sitting up straighter. “I would have to talk to my family.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Horrace snorted petulantly. “Sorry about that, Jerry.”

“Well I guess it doesn’t matter. I mean, if it really isn’t worth much.”

“It’s not.”

“He can have it then, if he wants it.”

Though it needed doing, you didn’t come here to get rid of the coin, you came to give this woman an earful of shit. Does she even know what day it is? Fuck no, she doesn’t know. Say something you friggin’ idiot!

Jerry walked up to the counter and slid the coin off the side in his small hand. “Smells nasty in here,” he mumbled, before heading to a desk. A couple other children protested his gift, but the adults ignored their whines.

“Thanks for doing that,” said Mrs. Horrace to Janet, “you’ve always been so kind. I know Melody got her good nature from you. Always finished her projects and she never had to sit out of free play. Ever. She always got to go outside.”

“Yeah…”

“Do you want anymore lemonade?”

“I’m good.”

“Have any other trinkets for analysis?” she chortled obnoxiously. “I promise I won’t make you give it away!”

“No, no, that’s it.” Janet semi-laughed politely. “I’ll just be going. Nice to catch up with you.”

With great effort, Mrs. Horrace slid off the stool and staggered at her momentum. “Come back and visit whenever you like, and who knows, maybe you’ll bring another child to us someday.”

“Who knows?” Janet agreed.

She left for the front door, not waiting for Mrs. Horrace to walk her out.

Since Herman had gone missing, there was a particular memory that kept swimming to the surface of Janet’s mind. One morning, not long ago, she caught her daughter wandering into the bathroom while Herman showered. Melody’s eyes got wide and she shouted belligerently. “Daddy! What’s that?”

She remembered Herman had shampoo running down half of his face, so he could hardly see. “Melody, why aren’t you eating breakfast?”

“Daddy! What’s that?”

He laughed. “I use it to go pee-pee. Now get out, little girl.”

“Pee-pee?”

“Yep. Go on now, go out to your mother.”

What a funny thing to recall, thought Janet. She supposed it made sense though. Her heart had felt so warm watching them interact: the man who had just begun to take steps as a father, the baby who had just begun to take steps as a person. They were both so alive in the recollection. God, she just wanted to hold them both, feel their skin, smell their hair. She even longed to hold that person she used to be. The Janet back then, good god, she just had so many mountaintops still to climb. She had no idea the mountain was short and ended in a sheer cliff.

As a child Janet had once tried to hang herself in her closet with an old bungee cord. The cord stretched and the knot always came undone, and then there was the problem of her feet touching the ground. So that never took. Later that same afternoon, the perfume she drank was promptly all vomited up.

She couldn’t bring herself to go for it again.

A week after her secret attempt at taking her life, her father left the house, taking all of his rage and sorrow with him. There was no more need to “sleep forever,” as she liked to think about it, but Janet was pretty sure if she ever had to try it again, passing out from drugs or hanging yourself was the only way to go—you black out and your body remains whole. Guns and knives were more violence than she’d ever intended to do to herself.

Now her thoughts returned to what needed to happen. Taking pills might be a similar experience to her drinking episode, so that didn’t appeal anymore. A nice clean jump from the rafters in the garage with some braided nylon rope though—that would suit her. Maybe even put Herman’s ankle weights on, to get more velocity, more snap.

It would be disturbing for her friends to find her body hanging there, but did they really expect more from Janet Erikson at this point? This was cowardly and selfish, and she was at peace with that. Perhaps leaving Faye and Evan this mysterious bottle would readdress their sorrow? She would have to write a detailed note about what she’d discovered so far. It would have been nice to leave the coin for them too, but she’d failed to have a spine on that matter as well.

Enjoy your Ferryman coin, little boy.

She came to stop at a red light. Speaking of the bottle, she hadn’t checked on it since getting back into the car. She popped open the glove box and glanced inside.

Her throat tightened.

Scattered over the Dodge owner’s manual, brown and saturated and crumbling, were pieces of cork. It had rotted out.

The light turned green and she pulled through the intersection, glancing from the road to the glove box in disbelief. She felt inside for dampness. Nothing. Hand tight on the steering wheel, she leaned over and touched the floor. Nothing.

Thankfully, another red light came and she stopped the car. She took the bottle out. It felt empty, but then, it had always felt empty…

The light turned green and she absently stepped on the gas.

A big rig blasted its horn as it bulled through the intersection. Janet slammed on her brakes. Liquid sloshed over her hand. She gasped and dropped the bottle. At once a surge lifted in her chest and throat—a new coin sprung free, clipped her front teeth and sailed under the steering wheel to land black and messy over the speedometer.

Janet blinked in shock. Her red light hadn’t changed. The left green arrow had and cars were still turning, some of the drivers ogling the dumbass parked halfway into the intersection.

She picked up the bottle, which had fallen under her legs. Somehow, nothing had spilled on the floor. More bizarre was that the top of the brim quivered with brown fluid, threatening to spill over the sides. Janet stood the bottle on the passenger seat. The correct light now changed green and she proceeded cautiously.

The skull headed coin caught her eye as she drove on. She despised this one like she did the other that had come from her throat, but at least now there would be a coin to leave behind for Faye and Evan.

Except…

Janet’s plans had changed. There would be no hanging. She couldn’t even consider doing it, just like she couldn’t think about taking a single drink again.

There would be no suicide.

She was trapped here.

FURY

Jerry’s whining at me and just wish I could clout him one against his curly little head—such a self-serving, little faggot—

Must find that Ancient Greece and Rome Numismatic book after the last parents leave today, probably in the garage, with the rest of my forgotten college days, my Lord—what a poor, ignorant woman you are Jan-Jan, to just give something valuable up at a mere suggestion—it’s sad, but some people just let the world drive right over them and instead of blaming their lack of survival instincts, blame a complete bystander—

Jerry’s still at it, god how annoying—

“I told you already—Young people who don’t clean up their messes, don’t get to have rewards—”

“But I did clean up, Mrs. Horrace— I always clean up— She gave the coin to me—!”

“You always clean up—? Ha—! And are you yelling at me—?”

That drops it for him, then—see, it’s the same thing with pathetic kiss-ups like Jerry—he could press the issue, but he doesn’t—he lets me win, lets me walk all over him—it will be happening his entire life, Lordy—

Almost time for Mozart’s Musical Mastery—should get some different song books later when I go out to the garage, these songs are getting boring to play—don’t feel like bending over the piano today—stupid session anyway, none of these pricks even pays attention, all they care about is running around and blowing snot rockets—

Coin has a strange texture and that tiny dot—bet I could see what it was with the magnifying glass, if that douche-sack Sarah Hines hadn’t broken it—

Bowels are tricky again—have to go and try one more time at relieving myself—guts feel so packed—hate that bathroom—too damn small to do anything in—

Mean to set the coin down, but take it into the bathroom with me—oh well—can study it some more—no way is this thing a fake—who would be in the market for a replica drachmae anyway—? A film company—? A museum might want it for an example— so weird that All-Boobs and No-Brains got her hands on something like this—just a freak mistake—seems Janet’s whole life contains those—Lord, that’s so mean—

Sitting on the toilet feels better now that the hemorrhoids have calmed some—heart’s all aflutter though—sort of dizzy now—don’t want to clench so hard this time, all that damn nacho cheese sauce last night, that’s what this is about—

See something behind the shower curtain—it looks like a person in there—is there anything to protect myself with—? What is that—?

It’s not moving—could it be some towels that Rosie left piled up in there—? Looks so—

Stretch out my arm, muscles tingle and burn, and grasp the side of the plastic shower curtain—still, the tall thing standing in the tub behind doesn’t budge—glide the curtain over, at a bad angle to do this—the curtain rings catches on the rod, have to tug—

A surging wind crosses through the bathroom—my hair flails as it passes—a force of power, the anvil of a God, drops down—

The toilet bowl shatters with the driving downward energy, my hair and scalp are ripped away along with ribbons of my scrubs, my ribs crush my heart, my left hip bone explodes and my leg is compressed so flat it looks cartoonish on the bathroom tile—

An airplane has fallen on me—what else could it be— Christ Lord, my body has been smashed as flat as the floor—how do I still breathe—? Look up to the ceiling and my dangling jaw disconnects from the tendons holding it in place—no hole, no airplane fell—nothing has come down through the roof—try to scream but everything is broken inside me—

The shower curtain moves aside—a scaled, bloody hand—the form revealed is also scaled, a monster of reptile and shark with the limbs of a powerful man—the creature is injured though—black seeps from its jelly eyes, its scales are tearing away and raw with pus, the gums around the shark teeth are mottled with black and red decay, and inside the shark mouth a human mouth speaks with parched lips flecked in blood—

“What were three are now one, and I am Fury—” it coughs—

Moaning, whimpering, sounds emerge as words, I can speak—!

“I don’t want…to die—”

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury—the smooth voice sounds optimistic but weakened— “Do you know the song—? The song my heart wants so badly to hear—?”

The room darkens—have I fallen and hit my
head—? Can’t be dying for real, can I—?

“While Styx has gone dry, new waters run and the God has reinvented herself—I belong to the old waters and will perish soon enough—so tell me, who gave you this coin—? Where is he—?”

“Coin—?”

Brain heats inside my cracked skull—“Her name is Janet Erikson—” Look to the counter, my cell phone—“Her number is in there—”

“I will use this—” says the Fury, reaching for the phone—

“Will you help me—?”

“Can you sing my song—?” it asks—

“I know lots of songs—”

“Do you know mine—?” Blood dribbles from its fish eyes, the bathroom lights reflecting soft pale globes in their black center—

“What is… it—?”

“Your unnatural theft is punished now—” It reaches forth and slides a coin onto my tongue—

“But Janet gave me that coin—!”

Something inside me has held back until now, keeping me alive—this creature, this Fury monster, has been containing everything from flowing out: my organs, my fluids, my lectures, my music, my wish to learn all the great composers by heart, my dream of a man to love me for my body, plans to see Shakespeare in the park, to take a tour of Italy, to feel young again, everything, every little thing, all things Renee Horrace—but now the Fury lets them loose—feel them slide and slither out of my lacerated stomach—can hear pounding little fists on the bathroom door—two holes tear open in my heart and I hear blood spilling over the tile—feel the coin growing cold on my tongue—hear my faint breathing—hear the Fury fading from the room with its own scream of anguish—hear the high pitched voices of children outside the bathroom; imps rejoicing over my final moments—hear so many things for somebody who is dying—truly—can even hear the sound darkness makes when it finally holds you.

10

It happened much how it had with Sam Gerdes, just not as quickly for some reason. Janet pulled into her driveway and experienced the “passing” sensation again, but it wasn’t the young boy Jerry who traipsed through her mind. It was Mrs. Horrace.

The passing thrilled Janet’s every nerve and reminded her faintly of the joys of alcohol, but the sensation was a different monster, more striking than drink but not as enduring. Like so many other things she couldn’t explain right now, this scratched at the back of her mind. She resolved to visit Sam, maybe tomorrow morning, and see what had become of the coin since it had fallen into his possession.

Her body trembled. She tried to calm her breathing and think. The passing, however puzzling, was much welcomed after coming to grips with this new development.

She opened her eyes to the disorderly garage and could see it from here, coiled up above the washing machine. That rope had been her exit strategy. She’d almost been craving it earlier today, sitting in that daycare. Good dependable rope—that beautiful final door in a house of horrors and now she was too terrified to pull the handle.

The idea of her neck snapping was bad enough to consider, but strangulation? She didn’t want to imagine her lungs collapsing while her lips turned blue and body struggled through ensuing shadows. And here was the bottom line: if she couldn’t have booze, pills or asphyxiation, then she couldn’t have the death she required. All other methods were too awful to entertain and now those she’d once coveted as “tolerable ways to die” were just as horrendous.

She was trapped. She would have to live out the rest of her life.

Janet glanced at the repulsive coin, at the wondrous bottle. This was a dangerous attraction she’d developed. She decided to leave both items in the truck.

Time to straighten her head a little.

Faye had left the house, probably to go looking for her. Janet would take advantage of any spare alone time in her home while she could.

Or thought so.

Evan waited in the living room. He sat on the couch with his hands folded. A stack of papers sat on the coffee table before him. On seeing her, he sprung up. “Oh, it’s you Janet. I glad you’re home. You didn’t take your cell phone.”

“I needed to be alone.” Janet put her wallet down next to her vase of wilted flowers and pointed to the papers. “What’s this?”

Evan’s eyes darted behind his glasses. He couldn’t look her in the eyes and began to nervously scrub behind his neck. “I thought Faye and I—well, it was going to happen eventually. I was hoping you both would come back here together, so we could do this all at once.”

Janet read the document’s title. “These are divorce papers.”

“Yes.”

“Get rid of them. You’re not divorcing Faye.”

He crossed his arms. “Oh, I’m not?”

“I won’t let you do that to her.”

“I don’t love her.”

“Evan, why are we talking about this craziness?”

“Because,” he attempted to reach out and Janet moved back, “Faye’s a robot and Herman’s run off. We’re the only two decent people left in this equation.”

“No, we’re the assholes, and you are the bigger one.”

He snorted as she swept up the divorce papers and cleanly ripped them in half. Heading at once for the trash can, Evan was hot on her heels.

“It doesn’t matter if you tear that up or the next one after it. It doesn’t change how I feel. I’m still going to tell her. I’ve made my choice, with no regrets.”

Janet tossed the papers into the trash and covered them with an emptied Styrofoam meat tray containing a banana peel lying inside. She went to the sink and washed her hands. Evan regarded her with quiet resolve.

“I’m not trying to upset you. You need somebody now. Faye hasn’t ever needed me. I’m—I can make you happy, Janet.”

Janet hatefully dried her hands on a towel, before tossing it into the sink. “You’ll make me happy if you’re good to Faye and the baby. Seriously Evan, with Melody and Herman and the bottle…”

“Bottle?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean alcohol?”

“Yeah…”

Evan took the back of a chair and braced himself, his eyes far away. He cocked his head and his face tightened. “You just made me remember something Herman said, on the day he left. He was rambling, but he said he’d gone on a walk—which obviously wasn’t true, because his truck was left here—but he mentioned he’d be back with a bottle. What was he talking about? I thought he might mean medicine. Did he mean medicine? Hey, Janet, you okay?”

Janet walked over to the dinner table and sat opposite of Evan. She blew into her hands to warm them. “Is it cold in here?”

“Not really,” he replied. “Want me to get you a blanket?”

“I’m fine.”

“So what did he mean?”

“What?”

“Herman. What bottle? This doesn’t have anything to do with Josue Ramirez does it? Herman really didn’t go Death Wish on those people…did he?”

Janet took a deep breath. Her lungs rejoiced; it felt like the first air she’d ever breathed. Everything was so different now without the imaginary noose around her neck waiting to become real.

“I have time to figure this out now,” she whispered. “So, I’m going to find out. What happened to Melody. What happened to Herman.”

“I’ll help.”

“No, you won’t,” she promptly retorted. “Don’t worry about me anymore.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I don’t want your help Evan and I don’t want you. I’m not sorry for that either.”

He looked down at his hands and took a deep swallow. “I still have to tell her.”

Janet leaned forward and fixed on his weepy eyes. “No you don’t.”

A car pulled up in the driveway and they both turned their heads at the sound. Evan jumped at the sound of a door slamming. Lester barked at quickly approaching women’s flats on concrete.

Evan went into the living room. His voice was positively unconvincing to Janet, yet she knew Faye wouldn’t detect a single false note. “Honey, she’s here. She’s fine. Just wanted to take a drive.”

Faye came into the kitchen and clobbered Janet with a tremendous perfume-infused hug. “Don’t do that to me, babe. Please don’t do that.”

“Never again,” said Janet. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.” She hugged her back tightly.

From the threshold of the living room Evan evaluated them, his face blank.

The phone rang just a little after midnight. It was Mrs. Horrace’s number. Through groggy eyes, Janet examined the illuminated screen. She didn’t want to take it, but it might have been about Herman.

“Hello.”

She could hear animal breathing on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I am Fury.”

“What? Who is this?”

“You are Janet Erikson.”

“Okay…”

“You must stop using the bottle’s waters.”

She cleared her throat. “What bottle?”

“The same bottle your husband died trying to steal.”

The words smacked her but she retaliated. “Are you some kid from the Horrace daycare? Did you steal Mrs. Horrace’s phone?”

“Bury the bottle in desert.”

“Look, if you know where my husband is—”

“His body lies at the place where the waters once receded.”

“I’m going to hang up and call Mrs. Horrace’s home number now.”

“The longer you wait, the more people suffer and die. I don’t belong to these new waters and am dying slowly. I cannot help you much longer. You must bury that bottle deep in the desert.”

Janet took a calming breath. This person was too insistent to be a child. “Bury it? And I suppose you’ll choose where, so you can go dig it up later? Right?”

“I want nothing.”

“Well here, have some, jerk!”

She ended the call and slammed the phone down on the nightstand. With everything she possessed, Janet screamed into her pillow, seeing images of Herman falling through her mind. Her husband wasn’t coming back. This person on the phone knew as much and hadn’t played around with the fact.

But wait up… Herman had told Evan about the bottle, so he must have come back to the house for it while she was in the hospital—but what happened after that? How did the bottle end up with Lester? Did Herman go off somewhere else on foot? The voice on the phone said Herman’s body was on a riverbed somewhere, but what riverbed? Some place out in the badlands?

Janet searched the gloom in her empty bedroom and something occurred to her. The memory came back: Lester carrying a branch in his mouth all day long at the lake. Herman, Melody and Janet thought it hilarious he wouldn’t put it down. In fact, they laughed harder as the day went on and the dog wouldn’t relent. Herman started calling it the Staff of Lester. They’d seen the Border Collie carry things in his mouth, but not something as awkward as the thick tree branch and definitely not for so long.

Melody had eventually tried to pull the branch away from Lester and he actually pulled back on it so hard she fell down. Herman swatted the dog on the butt and he sheepishly released his prized possession.

Janet nodded. The gate had been open that day when she found Lester with the bottle. She got up, went to the window, and lifted a few blades of the Venetian blinds and peered out into absolute dark.

She whispered to the desert, “Lester went with you, didn’t he, He-Man? Were you hiding the bottle out there?” She let go of the blinds, uneasy with all the nothingness before her. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

That was a dumb question. She’d been so out of control at the time, she probably wouldn’t have shared anything like this with her either. Even in the present, Janet was keeping the bottle a secret from Faye and Evan, who, for all their faults, she could confide in. So, it made sense Herman hadn’t spoken to her about it.

He had tried though, hadn’t he?

I’ll get you the magic water like I did for Lester. Hold on baby. Hold on!

He must have buried the bottle in the desert and Lester, not knowing any better, dug it up and brought it back home.

Oh Herman…

She lost it again and returned to the bed, sobbing. After giving herself a tremendous headache and burning eyes, Janet got control and pulled herself into a tight ball. How did this Fury Person know about that bottle? For Christ’s sake—what was this all about?

For an hour she prayed for another phone call, but none came.

“Something’s going on at Sam’s house.”

Janet opened her eyes and saw Evan standing over her. He smelled richly of that cologne she should have never told him she loved. He had a different shirt on than last time she’d seen him, this one green with black stripes, almost Freddy Krugerish; the pattern struck her as very annoying at this time of morning.

It wasn’t really morning though. The clock read 11:52am.

She pushed up on her shaky arms. “Why are you in my bedroom, Evan?”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“What?”

He pushed his glasses up his nose. Despite his shirt, she had to admit he looked very handsome in the slats of light coming though the blinds.

“Your neighbor, Sam. There’s an ambulance and police outside his house.”

Janet threw the comforter off, slid out of bed and snatched her robe off the door hook. She thrust her feet into her slippers.

“Did they just get here?”

“Not too long ago,” said Evan, following behind her, “I thought you’d wake up with the sirens, but you were pretty out of it.”

She hurried out the front door into the sun drenched world outside. Her hands came to her mouth as she saw the paramedics pushing the stretcher down the driveway. She glanced at Evan in disbelief. His face was grim.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, turning back around. “Sam?”

She crossed the street and immediately a cop with a stringy red mustache moved to intercept her. “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Officer Myrtle.”

“Hi. Janet Erikson.”

“Did you know Mr. Gerdes?”

“Yes,” she breathed, “we were… friends.”

Janet looked over his shoulder. The young woman who took guitar lessons from Sam spoke to a short police officer with a piggish nose and sympathetic blue eyes. The scene was dreamlike.

“Do you know Ms. Derry?” Myrtle asked Janet.

“Only that she takes music lessons from Sam—what happened here?”

“We can’t share that right now, I’m sorry.”

Janet could hear the younger woman explain, “Yes, that’s when I saw through the window to the living room— the vomit everywhere— I thought maybe he’d just become very sick.”

Myrtle overheard this as well and winced. “Could you stand just over there, Janet, back a ways—”

“He was sick?” Janet asked.

The cop pressed his lips together forcefully, tweaking his mustache in the process. “Sam a heavy drinker?”

Janet huffed. “You wouldn’t find even a light beer in his house. He doesn’t touch booze. Straighter than straight edge.”

The cop frowned. He turned, making a hmmph sound. The other interview ended and Ms. Derry and his partner walked down the lawn.

The dumpy cop leaned into Myrtle. “Yeah, they blew this one. Should have left it open. There weren’t booze bottles or pills in there at all.”

“Could have come home from a bar?”

The pig-nosed cop arched his eyebrow and lowered his voice even more, though Janet could still pick up the words. “He backed his pickup into the driveway. No way you’re gonna be that fucked up and back in perfectly straight like that.”

“Why would you think he was drunk?” Janet interrupted. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Myrtle’s mustache smiled with him. “We’ll have to determine that at another time.” From his back pocket he gave Janet and the Derry woman business cards. “That’s not me. It’s a Detective James Ettings. He may contact with further questions. Please try to remember and write down all your recent interactions with the—”

“Sam,” his partner supplied, tucking his thumbs into his belt.

“We are so sorry about your friend,” added Myrtle.

Janet took the card and watched the cops climb into their squad car. Taking a long breath, Ms. Derry stepped closer to her, a smallish woman, just a few inches taller than Faye but carrying more weight and looking several degrees more severe.

“They think it’s alcohol poisoning,” said Derry. “I can tell by the questions they were asking.”

“He didn’t drink.”

“That’s what I told them.”

“Poor Sam.”

“Yeah,” said Derry. The woman silently moved away and headed for her powder blue Buick. An acoustic guitar leaned against its passenger door.

Janet wheeled around for the house. Evan had watched everything transpire from the sidewalk.

“What happened to Sam?” he asked as she walked by. “You gonna tell me?”

“He died,” she said, “just like everyone else.”

“Hey,” he snapped.

She went through the front door and noticed now that the living room had been tidied this morning. “Where the hell is Faye? She knew Sam too.”

“She’s out doing errands.”

“Next time go with.”

“Don’t worry, I will. She just didn’t want you to be left alone without a vehicle.”

“What?”

“She took your truck to get washed.”

Janet couldn’t believe her ears. “Why would she do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said Evan, “maybe because it hasn’t been washed or vacuumed in over a month? She’s on the job. Busy, busy. That’s what Faye does, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Holy shit. The coin and the bottle were still in the truck. She didn’t care if some car wash employee stole the coin; they could have the filthy thing. But the bottle…if she lost that, she lost a big piece to the puzzle of Herman’s disappearance, as well as an item of infinite curiosity.

“Does she have her cell phone?”

“Of course she does. What’s gotten into you?”

“Give me your phone.”

Evan shook his head and dipped into his pocket. He handed her his Blackberry. Janet pulled up Faye’s number and called.

“Hi honey,” said Faye on the second ring.

“Faye, it’s me.”

“Oh hi babe.”

Evan leaned into her ear with a cautious whisper, “Don’t freak her out about Sam. She drives nuts when she’s sad.”

“Faye, did you see a bottle on the front seat?”

“Bottle? Again with this bottle, what is it?” asked Evan.

Janet put her hand over his mouth and he stepped away, indignant.

“Sure did,” answered Faye. “I put it in the center console. There wasn’t anything in it. Pretty thing. Where’d you buy it? I want one.”

“Where are you now?”

“Waiting for them to finish up the interior. I also found this weird coin on the dashboard. What is it?”

“Nothing, a knickknack.”

“Oh okay, well I’ve got it,” Faye lowered her voice, “you know, so nobody would be tempted to steal it.”

“That’s fine. Just make sure the bottle’s there too.”

“Oh babe, don’t worry. I’ll kick these people’s asses if they try to take your stuff.”

Janet smiled. “Love you.”

“Love you too, bye.”

Janet handed Evan back the phone.

“So this bottle…” he started.

In the bedroom, Janet’s phone rang. The sound sent shards of ice into her stomach. Was it the Fury again?

She hurried into the bedroom. The phone’s display indicated she’d missed many calls from the same person this morning. Must have slept right through the ringing. She was strangely relieved the caller had been Officer Davis.

“Hello.”

“Oh great. Hi. Finally reached you. I just wanted to check in, Mrs. Erikson. They’re moving on Herman’s case.”

“Thanks, Officer Davis.”

“You can call me Becca.”

“Thanks Becca. I need to—”

“So terrible what happened, huh? I feel half insane with disbelief.”

Janet straightened. “Oh, you already heard about Sam? Did you know him?”

“Sam? I’m sorry?”

“My next door neighbor. He died this morning.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. No this isn’t about that… God. No, I thought you might have heard from one of the other parents at the Horrace daycare.”

“No…”

“Mrs. Horrace had some kind of fatal accident.”

“What?”

“Things are a bit confused over there right now and we’re not going to get any straight answers for a while. One of the parents I know, Jerry Barron’s mom, she said the last people to see Mrs. Horrace were some of the older kids. Jerry had just had an argument with her before she disappeared. He says she took his play money away and headed right for the bathroom, which, you know, from her injuries wouldn’t make sense.”

“What injuries?”

Davis hesitated. “You want to know? Really?”

“Yes, I do.”

“She was likely hit by a car, probably by somebody she knew. That person must have dragged her into the house. None of the kids saw this, but how else could it have happened? People don’t get half their bodies crushed in the powder room… Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so flip.”

Janet was numb. “No, that’s okay.”

“I mean, another hit and run, a year later…”

“Yes, uh, Becca, I need to go.”

“Sure. We’ll talk later about the search. Sorry to hear about your neighbor.”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

The call ended and Janet still had the phone pressed to her ear. Evan tapped his foot anxiously. “Someone else you know passed away?”

Dread claimed Janet, bodily. She blinked at black stars before her eyes, fighting the dizziness overcoming her. From the bottom of her gut, a scream lay in waiting. The coins from the bottle were behind this…

“We have to find Faye.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you explain—”

She throttled Evan by his striped shirt. “We have to go now!”

11

Evan stamped the gas as he turned onto the main boulevard. “You’re flipping me out, Jan. Can you please tell me now?”

Janet scanned the road, tapping her teeth in a frenzy. Glacial sweat beaded down her back. Her heart seemed to roll in place rather than beat. “Stop talking and watch for the truck. If Faye passes us, we need to U-turn.”

“I talk when I’m nervous.”

She tried Faye’s number again. It rang four times before going to voice mail. Hiya, this is Faye. Leeeeeeave me a message!

“There’s Lucky’s.”

Evan pulled into the busy car wash, worked his way around several idling Ford 350s and then coasted by a bank of vehicles being rubbed down with chammies. A few attendants had long accordion hosed vacuums stretched inside cars.

“Not here. You said there’s another place she goes?”

“United Star or something like that. It’s just a few blocks away.”

“Go,” said Janet.

Evan breathed out in frustration. “Yes, master.”

He made a sharp right turn and drove past an industrial laundry. Janet watched the blue uniformed workers hanging around their cars, talking, smoking cigarettes, unaware. Janet envied them.

Evan came to a stop at a red light.

“Bust it.”

“Janet, are you kidding? That’s illegal.”

“Goddamnit, bust the light!”

“Fine!” The Jeep lurched forward with an anti-climatic shutter. As they crossed the intersection Evan searched around in a panic. “Is that a cop?”

Janet glanced back. “It’s a mailman.”

“Oh.”

“You’re doing fine, Evan.”

“I don’t feel fine.”

The place was called Star Wash USA, not what Evan had named, but then he’d never much been one for details. Empty spaces abounded at this car wash, the other having been four or five times more crowded. Yet, from car to truck to SUV to mini-van and back, people were everywhere Janet looked: a large family waited at umbrella-topped tables, a man raised a towel over his head and honked the horn of a Suburban, two young blonde high-schoolers yapped loudly as they strolled along with Wienerschnitzel bags. All of this, but no Faye.

Evan ran his fingers through his dark, coarse hair. “Should we go inside and ask somebody if they saw her?”

Janet shook her head. “They won’t know. That’ll just waste time.”

“So what do we do?”

She drummed on her teeth some more. “Get back to my house as fast as we can. If she isn’t there, we’ll have to hope she shows soon.”

Evan sighed and put the Jeep in gear.

FURY

Shortcut through my orange groves—heaven—so many memories here—my secret place where I don’t need to please anybody—yes, Faye’s Wonderland— this place hasn’t lost its magic since the day I found it—that day; crying so hard about Melody and the Jeep went off road for a moment—saw that dirt path calling me—a simple whim: I wonder if I can bypass the freeway and just shoot through the groves instead—? It didn’t save as much time as I’d hoped for, but after all that had happened, the grove was the perfect place to transcend melancholy—

Drive, watching rows of silhouetted orange trees flicker with the sun’s intermittent drum beat—remember the times coming here to reflect about happier, less tragic things, to pick fruit, to meet with the immigrants and practice español, practice being alive—there was so much talk of death that I only had my orange grove kingdom to hide in—this place was another life, something beyond Evan—and at first, I was ashamed of keeping it all to myself, but as time passed I relished the secret—enjoy my visits here—among my mistakes, all of my trips out here have been a blessing—

Want to get out and find some avocados—only a few avocado trees grow out here—Juan and Antonio said their parents planted them for fun, but the trees choked off the irrigation, so some had to be culled back—the three trees still had abundant avocado growth—Juan said I was welcome to them whenever—miss him, miss Tony as well, miss them all, even their two sisters who hated me; haven’t seen any of them over the last couple months—different faces appear between the trees, strangers with questions in their eyes—my secret friends have moved on, but that doesn’t mean I have to—

Something big moves in the trees—almost animal-like, but now it’s gone—an illusion—

Stop the truck at the big avocado tree near the storage yard—the tree always looks like a wooden monster with a thousand arms held out—no workers hang around today—makes me nervy—

Guacamole dip would be nice—just need to stop by for some chips—and Janet loves my tacos—

Tears come to my eyes—you think tacos will sew up that hole in her heart, how stupid you are—a surge of futility—shake it away—my special place is supposed to combat these feelings—don’t want my private Neverland to ever lose its power—someday, would love to bring the baby here, see if he or she will also fall in love with the orange blossoms and warm shadows—

Everything will be okay—mantra, mantra time—close the truck’s door, realize I forgot a grocery bag for the avocados—doesn’t matter now—keep walking toward the tree—oddly compelled, but then that’s how this place works on me—shoes crunch old dead leaves—pass right through a spider web and don’t even bother to wipe it off—! My head conjures baffling ideas of loneliness and self hatred—forget the baby; it’s doomed too—what baby—? There is a sound behind me—someone is approaching—Juan—Antonio—will they try to stop me—? Stop me from doing what—? But I know—I can’t wait to slip that rope around my neck—this was a long time coming—finally understand you Janet, understand the black-black place you were in, understand why this can be a precious self-serving gift—can remain here in my wonderneverfantasyland forever more—Evan will not miss me—

Trees reveal another glimpse of the shifting thing—some fruit picking machine I’ve never seen before—? Wind blows strong, leaves dance above—eyes are playing tricks—nobody’s out there—am alone—which is perfect—which is right—which is how it should be for my ending—grabbing onto the tree trunk, hug it, shimmy up, haven’t climbed a tree since maybe I was a teenager, forget how long— difficult to climb with this coin still in my hand—

Weird—have been holding this coin the entire time—reach lowest set of branches, brain misfires and pick some avocados, let them fall—you aren’t here for avocados missy, and you know it—

Ground isn’t so far down—wouldn’t even break a leg jumping off—crawl out, branch bends, not enough room—wind picks up again, can smell the blossom fragrance, can remember all the beloved senses, can taste the oranges, smell the lingering rainstorms, feel the tear-damp shoulder of Juan Cabrillo as my heart pours about the little girl who might have been my god-daughter, and there was nothing I could do to change the outcome of her death, no controlling the situation at all, helpless to help my friends and their little girl—Juan held me and told me the world didn’t work that way, that it’s difficult but it is entirely possible to accept that some lives will be shortened—oh but it was so unbearable, and it was too late—there was no comforting them—! No fixing them, no telling a joke that would defibrillate them back to life—

A growling breath blows across my neck—

Slip off the branch, watch the ground rush at me, never reach it—head whips upright, spine jars—hang in the air, suspended, something clutches my throat powerfully—my legs beat back and forth, running in place—pressure builds in my face—black lasers shoot across my cherished grove, incinerating them from my view—

A rough, reptile-dry finger works under the invisible noose around my neck—air rushes into my lungs—

“What were three are now one, and I am Fury—”

Groan and fight, nothing doing, still not getting a lot of air— the gruesome face of a shark looms over me—the head reaches a body either dinosaur or dragon in formation, yet the combination seems anatomically correct, as though this beast belongs to the real world and not some fairy tale—a person’s mouth moves in the obscurity just beyond the razor sharp, triangle teeth—must be hallucinating, so close to the end, almost there—

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury—the silky voice sounds about to deliver a promise— “Do you know the song—? The song my heart wants so badly to hear—?”

Spit sliding out my mouth—notice my tongue hangs out like a panting dog—no words form in my throat—don’t know what they would be if they were able to form—look out to the trees, all the great swelling green dark angels with millions of sweet orange eyes—they weren’t sad, they were calm, welcoming—and so they would embrace me—

Something tugs at my hand—the flesh of my palm rips away—

Falling—striking the ground, my left arm takes the impact, shoulder almost popping from the socket, teeth gnashing together, blood in mouth from biting my tongue—

Janet is a few feet from me, on her knees—clenching her teeth, sweating, face contorting as though she’s dying or giving birth or both—she gasps— something in her hands—see that it’s the coin—suddenly she shoves it into her mouth and tries to swallow—the coin immediately comes back up in pieces, like congealed gravy melting to steam—it sizzles on the leaf strewn ground, disappears—

“Thought that would work—” Janet said, voice thick with nausea—

Just noticed Evan crouches beside me, saying things I haven’t heard or can even understand because I’m breathing so hard—body quivers, racing heart beats slower, not to a normal rhythm, but an acceptable one—glance around for the shark thing that called itself Fury—no trace of it, just trees and trees—

What happened—? Why did I try to hang myself—? And with what—? See no rope lying on the ground, but the wide band of bruising around my neck is several degrees more real than anything else at the moment—

Janet crawls up to me—register her and Evan more than before, see the Jeep parked out by the truck, which still had its door open—can’t find my breath to speak yet, words from Janet and Evan are making more sense—

“Can you stand—?” asks Janet—

Evan says something I can’t hear—

Feel his arms sliding under me, picking me up, he hasn’t picked me up in a long time, like it, have so missed it—

Look lazily out through the groves—across several rows, standing near a chain link fence, the Fury watches us—black, unblinking eyes see through me—scream—Evan and Janet turn—they see it too—Evan almost drops me—look back over to the spot it had been standing and the Fury has left—only swaying orange trees prove it had ever been there at all.

In all the years Janet had known Faye, she had never seen her so demanding. She refused to go to the hospital and insisted on returning to Janet’s house to collect some of her cleaning supplies and her good mop. After that, she planned to drive to her mother’s house in Oakland. Evan argued over this choice, she a pregnant woman freshly plucked from a death by hanging. He’d adjusted the rearview mirror to show her the red-blue-black strangulation marks on her throat. Though she would not suffer either of them a moment longer, she quietly agreed to go the ER after she got her things. There was a condition however. Janet had to explain what happened; she had to give up everything about the bottle.

It wasn’t an easy to story to retell in a believable way, especially since Janet didn’t have all the answers herself. The bottle’s power all boiled down to, in her theory anyway, a transference of death. There, in her living room, perched over a cup of jasmine tea, Janet told them about Lester, about the coin and Sam, about the fly and Mrs. Horrace, and about the strange phone call she received from someone called the Fury.

“That was it,” said Faye, her voice, sandpapered. She looked down at her still steaming cup of tea. “That was the monster we saw. It told me it was called the Fury.”

Janet let out a quivering breath. “It didn’t tell me about the coins…I didn’t know, Faye. I only figured it out when I heard about Mrs. Horrace. I would have told you if I thought it was dangerous.”

“You didn’t know either way.” Faye curled a finger around the handle of her cup, but didn’t lift it.

Janet glanced at Evan. He hadn’t said much during the story. He just kept his face pointed down, his spectacled eyes on the nervous playing of his fingers. He was usually the first to be judgmental, but this time he was at a loss to pick up any stones.

“I should have told you both about the bottle,” Janet went on, “I was going to write it down in a note—things just kept happening.”

Faye wanted to speak, but either from the rope burn or the thousand questions likely colliding through her mind, she remained stoic. Evan, on the other hand, at last burst to life. He stood and knuckled the small of his back, then went over to the fireplace to re-gather.

They really needed to get Faye to the hospital and have the baby checked out. Janet wanted to say as much but that was a losing battle still. She picked up her cup and went into the kitchen to pour another. Using the same tea bag, she took her grandmother’s old tea pot and observed the light brown fluid draining out. Her hand trembled as she did. After seeing that thing in the grove, and after what happened to Faye, they had to believe me, right?

Other perplexing thoughts fluxed in Janet’s mind. She still feared strangulation, but oddly her desire to slip a rope around her neck had resurfaced. It was as though she now possessed both the fear and the desire simultaneously. They canceled each other out and at the same time reaffirmed one another. She hadn’t known what to do with the coin when she first came upon her best friend hanging in the air like that. All Janet knew was that the awful coin was hers—that this particular death did not belong to Faye. Janet had tried to take it back, but only gained this befuddling psychosis in exchange.

“Janet,” Faye croaked from the other room, “can you come here?”

Janet took her cup and hurried back into the living room. “All ready for the hospital?”

Faye’s resonance had a chain-smoking soul singer’s quality to it. “How could you not tell me? You had me on the phone. You could have at least told me not to touch the coin—”

Janet set down her tea cup quickly. “Jesus, Faye, I told you I didn’t know.”

“That,” she paused to wet her voice, “in itself should have been enough.”

“I just didn’t know, okay?”

“After Sam, you should have.” Faye got surprisingly loud. “You aren’t a good friend.”

“Wait Faye, you’re worked up.” Evan placed a photo of Herman back up on the fireplace.

“Oh, it lives,” said Faye.

“Don’t pick on Janet. Come on, let’s go to the hospital. Want me to help you stand?”

“How did you know I was in the groves?” Faye asked.

Evan absorbed the question with all the grace of a punch in the nose. “I—huh—it was just a hunch. I think you mentioned it once. We were trying to get back here quickly in case you showed.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What’s she talking about?” asked Janet. When Evan didn’t answer, she said to Faye, “He told me you might have gone through the groves. That’s all he said.”

“Just drop it,” said Evan. “Faye, we have to get—”

“No, no, you tell me.”

Evan sighed. “We’ve used that short cut together before.”

“Bull. I never said a word about it and you’ve never taken it when you’re driving. So how did you know? Have you been following me? Stalking?”

“This is so dumb. There are more important matters right now.”

“Evan?”

“A few times.”

“A few?”

“Good god…”

Faye’s face glowed red. “And?”

Evan’s foundations were cracking and just about to break asunder. Faye and Janet watched him intently and he made several false starts before speaking.

“I know the baby’s probably from one of those illegal pieces of trash that live in the grove. Why do you insist on reminding me? It doesn’t matter. I want the baby. I want you. We need to make sure you’re okay. Can we please, just please, go to the ER.”

At the word baby, Faye had begun to weep. “How could you judge me like that?”

Evan smacked the wall behind him. “You went into their trailers, Faye. More than one time.”

Faye shook her head. “To talk. Nothing happened. You have the moral compass of a rat, Evan.”

“How has this become about me? Janet nearly got you killed!”

“This is about both of you.”

“I’m not the one screwing around,” Evan pointed out. “Looks like you got a fair punishment for poisoning our marriage.”

“You’re hideous!” Faye whirled around to Janet. “Both of you!”

“Holy shit, are you kidding me?” Evan said. “After the shit we’ve seen today, you’re still gonna deny what you did? You’ve ruined my life.”

Janet went to Faye and lightly touched her arm. “Hey, let’s just go. This is—”

Faye ripped her arm away from Janet and in the process fell sideways on the couch. She awkwardly fought to her feet. “Just stay away. I don’t ever want to see, or talk to you… again.”

Janet took a step back. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

Faye waddled to the front door with Evan following close behind. He pulled the door closed but it didn’t shut all the way.

Janet shoved the door closed with a resounding, “Fuck!”

She dropped her head against the door for a moment and closed her eyes. “Fuck,” she said again, in a whisper.

When she turned around, the Fury stood at the fireplace.

Janet’s entire body became ice. The creature took up most of the living room with its scaly dragon body. Its muscled arms flexed as it held its clawed hands clasped together, like in prayer. A sweet sewage odor permeated everything in the room.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The bleeding shark eyes studied her with intense hunger. “I am not death. I am justice.”

“How did you find me?”

“The bottle. It was close enough to speak to me, so I was able to follow. Though things have changed, I can still recognize the God Nyx.”

The creature looked more injured than it had in the grove. Some of its flesh had torn off in clumps and its left pair of gills festered with a pale gray fluid.

“What do you want from me?”

“I told you to stop using the bottle. You see what occurs. Regardless of these new waters flowing inside, you are not made of the River. You cannot dole out transactions.”

“You can have the bottle.”

“I am unable to touch the River in such a concentrated form; therefore I cannot accept the bottle. That would shatter this reality.”

“I don’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.”

“You don’t have to understand,” the monster replied. “Just stop this. The passing of souls feels exhilarating now, but it will eat you up. Look to me as an example. I am made of the Styx. This new reincarnation of the God has no use for my justice. It will happen the same way if you continue… Bury that bottle. I will fade, you will go on living. Find a new husband, make a new daughter. Life pours out faster toward the end and then drips until nothing. Take life while it remains full.”

Janet believed everything it said and understood it would not harm her… In a way, she had all the power now. This thing only took those unfortunates who accepted the death coins.

Sensing her reluctance, it said, “Things cannot go on in this way.”

“I know,” Janet replied. She calmly met its atrocious eyes. “This bottle hasn’t seen its full potential yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have unfinished business.”

“Wait!”

Janet pulled open the front door and ran for the side of the house. Lester barked merrily at her approach. She took the leash off the wall and hooked it to his collar.

She hustled out to the truck and loaded Lester into the back.

Beyond the pulled blinds, the Fury watched from the living room window. It made no move to follow.

Lester howled from the back seat.

Janet checked the center console for the bottle.

The bottle was still there.

She put the truck in reverse and backed out. In the rearview mirror her house went quickly out of sight.

Janet would never see her home again.

CHAPTER II

The Murderer

SoCal News Online

The body of a man that was found mutilated in the San Timoteo badlands Sunday has been identified.

34-year-old Moreno Valley resident Herman Jacob Erikson's body was found Sunday around 11 a.m., in a wash-out near the surrounding foothills, his body having been largely savaged by desert predators, according to Sheriff's Sgt. Ensio Lopez. Among the victim’s numerous wounds, an unexplained trauma to the right eye was discovered as atypical to animal wounds.

"Based on the preliminary investigation, Desert Station investigators as well as investigators from the Riverside County Sheriff's Department Central Homicide Unit were called to the scene and assumed the investigation," added Lopez.

Erikson’s spouse, who has chosen anonymity from the media, arrived late Sunday evening at the city coroner to identify the body. At present, Mrs. Erikson is not a person of interest in the investigation.

Janet read the article about ten times. The hotel room was quiet, the lights were out, she was in pajamas, and nothing else existed in the universe but the bottle, its shape illuminated by the screen of her old laptop. She would read the article and then turn her eyes to the bottle, feel guilty, repeat the cycle.

People had been blowing up her cell phone throughout the morning. Faye, Evan, Officer Davis and the one cousin who hadn’t disowned Janet growing up. She only spoke to Officer Davis though, because she wanted some sort of umbilicus to the police department. It was a curt conversation; as much as Davis wished to become a shoulder to lean on, Janet focused only on the Josue Ramirez case.

It was good to have something to take her attention off Herman, but that old sick desire still tugged at Janet, as well as the paralyzing fear that squashed it. She was getting better at not introducing those thoughts, yet the idea that one could win over the other at any minute, or not ever, made her want to claw all the moon and stars wallpaper off the walls.

The Fury had appeared a few times since she’d checked in. She would find it staring at her from down the maroon carpeted halls or stalking around the parking lot when she sneaked Lester out for a walk. The monster never approached her—it looked to be hurting more and more. She hoped it would just die and leave her and the bottle alone.

There were too many things left to worry about while she made plans. Financing this crusade had to be considered. The money Herman had banked from his various jobs kept their bank account nice and padded, but it would run out eventually. Janet had credit cards for when that time came and she would run them to their limits if she had to, but how long would it take to get to Melody’s murderer?

Her stomach growled. She ignored it.

Lester jumped up on one of the queen sized beds, circled restlessly and then dropped down with a huff. He put his head on his paws but kept his eyes on the bottle. He also watched it often, she noticed.

Janet sighed and changed from the local news website. Herman’s pale green face flashed through her mind with other graphic images from the coroner’s office. Her husband’s face had been bloated with days of death, yet still wore an expression of shock. His hair had looked thick and vibrant, as though it had just been washed and conditioned. That alone may have made her doubt him being gone, but other features helped to diminish any hope of that. One eyelid had been gnawed off and the other eye socket was nothing more than a scabby gray tunnel. The muscles and tendons of his right shoulder had been torn from the bone. Dirt and animal fur caked his mouth and ears. Herman had been picky about cleaning his ears. Two q-tips every morning…

The police had their own ideas about what had happened to him, but Janet didn’t need an explanation.

All the answers were in the bottle sitting next to her mouse pad.

It’ll never give me those answers though, will it?

She lost control abruptly and realized she was gasping, hyperventilating. Panic closed in. Lester glanced over, black and white head cocked with concern. This was what happened, she thought, when you run out of strength to grieve. Your body tries to kill itself. Maybe this is what it means to die of a broken heart?

When her attack settled, she put it behind her and went straight back into her hunt.

Loma Linda Hospital. Josue Ramirez. That had to be her focus.

When Janet had worked at the school, one of the teacher’s aides in the neighboring classroom left for an internship as a medical assistant on the children’s ward at Loma Linda. Her name was Stacy…Roberts. Yes, and they’d always gotten along well. Janet had met her for lunch once when she was thinking of changing careers. Stacy had shown her almost the entire hospital and introduced her to a few nurses and doctors, none of which Janet remembered.

But another refresher tour might help.

She looked up the number for Stacy’s ward.

It took a few hours before Janet got a hold of Stacy Roberts. Thankfully, she still worked at Loma Linda and remembered who Janet was. She didn’t know anything about the fates of Melody or Herman though, and that made the conversation easier. Stacy, as chipper and bubbly as Janet remembered, had no problem showing her around the hospital a second time, but tomorrow would be better. Janet explained she wasn’t interested in a new job, but she was back in school and studying medical malpractice. Taking a big chance, she mentioned her current paper involved the rights of a patient being held under police custody, and that she would love to learn more about how Loma Linda staff dealt with such patients. Stacy wasn’t sure if she could help her there, but said they could probably find out from someone there.

Good enough.

Janet took a long stroll down to the liquor store. She would pick up some snacks to silence her stomach and a bottle of water that would be preferable to the metallic tasting tap water in her room. Inside her overcoat, she clenched the bottle by its throat. Leaving it in the room with Lester wasn’t an option. It was too dangerous; the dog had shown too much interest. Besides which, this part of town was pretty raw. On her first trip to this liquor store, she’d seen a junkie lying in an alley so narrow it could scarcely be called one. Between the store and a laundry mat, he had wedged himself in, knees pressed to his chest, eyes shut, needle still inserted in his forearm for the entire world to see. The man’s clothing had that brown hue that only the homeless could cultivate. His beard, likewise, was a silver-white conflagration from upper lip down to his neckline, a hobo’s pelt by any standard.

The second trip he’d been missing from the alley. This time, he was back, with a new needle in his arm. His eyes weren’t shut though, just heavy with ecstasy-tears.

Janet had been thinking about something since first seeing that needle. Officer Davis noted yesterday that Josue Ramirez had taken a turn for the worse and (off the record) had acquired a horrible stomach infection that had spread and ulcerated. The pain was excruciating and the doctors had him on a morphine drip. Hopefully he wasn’t doped up when she stopped by for a visit.

Even getting there is assuming a whole hell of a lot.

Sober or not, if she could get past an armed guard and slip into Ramirez’s hospital room, how could she get him to talk? He hadn’t spoken to anybody else yet, not even when his loved ones started showing up dead. That meant he wasn’t protecting his accomplice out of loyalty; he was protecting him out of fear.

Faye had met the Fury and survived. It was possible just to take the coin away like before. If Janet monitored an interaction between the Fury and Ramirez, maybe the son of a bitch would see something more motivating than his criminal partner. And if he wouldn’t talk then, nothing would make him. He’d die then, and that would mean Janet would be leaving behind a dead man. How would she keep the police on duty busy before and after this went down?

How could she make it look like an accident? Janet mulled over morphine and heroine and drugs in general as she walked the sad little aisles of the liquor store in search of snacks and dog food.

That needle.

Heroine. Morphine.

Noting the bum’s gaunt appearance, he seemed to be eating more Horse these days than food. Was an overdose in his future? It sure as hell looked like it.

Janet stood there, eyes fixed on a can of wet dog food that cost six dollars and ninety-nine cents. Holy shit, better stop food shopping at liquor stores.

She grabbed some other items of varying degrees of sugariness and saltiness, then went to the counter and purchased them, all the while shuffling the bottle back and forth in her hands, sometimes setting it on the ground and clamping it between her calves. Twice the liquor store clerk glanced suspiciously at her actions but said nothing.

Outside rain clouds had gathered to the east and were pushing toward the city.

The homeless man babbled something about “ringing up those vinegary donkeys, ring ‘em up, ring ‘em up, ring ‘em up sour!” and then blew out a raspberry and took a big joyful sigh. Janet approached, feeling like an assassin, for after all, she was taking away something meaningful from the man, and damn if she didn’t know exactly how that felt. No way in hell did she feel she was saving him… but that was up to him to decide, not her.

The man didn’t sense her standing over him and hardly moved as she poured an ounce of fluid over his dirt-creased brow. He made a ragged sound, brought up phlegm, and coughed out a coin. It landed under his legs. Janet took out a tissue from her coat and went to grab it.

She yelped as the man caught her arm. “Whatcha going and doing?” His bleary eyes tried to focus.

“I dropped my money.”

“That’s my money.”

Janet tugged at her arm, seeing the hypodermic needle wagging back and forth, still lodged in his arm. She felt sickened by the sight of it. “Let go of me or I’ll scream.”

This got him. He released her and watched, strangely amused by her picking up the coin with a tissue. She was about to thank him when his eyes found the needle in his arm. He let out a wail, a big semi-toothed channel opening in his beard, and quickly yanked out the needle.

“Holy Grim. Holy Grim. Holy Grail. Never going over to Johnny’s house again!” he hollered and fought to his feet. “Never again, God Almighty save me from this!”

He tripped, ate the ground hard and regained himself. It was clear he was still sky-high but his revelation had jumpstarted him. Janet watched the man increase his pace down the street, impressed when he reached full speed. She took out her coin purse and dropped the coin inside, making a mental note to buy some gloves.

Rain came down first in a mist and then minutes later in a steady drizzle. She saw the Fury standing in the shadows of an abandoned building across the street. It leaned against the brick wall with a scaled hand smeared in bloody mucus. Even from the distance she could see its chest heaving and its black stone eyes imploring.

Janet headed back to her room.

It had been some time since she’d made herself up. Janet felt like she wasn’t just in different clothes, but in different skin. A low cut black dress, but not so low as to send other women sneering, or draw attention, just enough to pique curiosity and throw someone off balance. That was the hope anyway.

The half bald man in the LomaLindaHospital mail room did not have time to be impressed with breasts, however. He was working, and furiously. His eyes slid away from his computer monitor for just a moment. “Can I help you?”

Janet held up the sealed envelope. “Do I just find a mail-drop for letters to patients or give the letter to you?”

“Is the patient’s full name on there?”

It was.

She nodded.

“Room number?”

“I’m not sure what it is.”

Unceremoniously, he reached through the window and took the letter. He typed something on his computer and mumbled to himself, “Josue… Eduardo… Ramirez.”

He waited while something loaded, then snorted, double-checked the screen. Janet was about to ask if Josue was on a special floor, since he was under guard. She couldn’t find the right words though, not without appearing to be there to extract information.

And it turned out, no probing was required. The man swiveled around in his seat and tossed the letter in a slot marked FLOOR 4 – WARD C.

Janet found herself staring and quickly asked, “How long will it take to be delivered?”

The man turned his pale blue eyes on her, his expression bland. “Probably by lunch time.”

“Thanks, ‘preciate it.”

“No problem.”

Janet guessed that mail might be reviewed before Ramirez got to read it, but there were no hidden shivs or razor blades inside, just a flowery get-well card, signed in her best handwriting, See you soon—Jan.

Stacy Roberts had changed. Or maybe Janet had. Either way, the woman was not somebody Janet could tolerate in large doses. Throughout the tour of the various pavilions and Children’s hospital, Stacy did not shut up. She yammered on and on, about this and that, as though every word she uttered would earn her a dollar. Janet didn’t recall Stacy being so obnoxiously hyper, and she was really looking forward to the moment they parted ways. Stacy made Faye look like a sedated slug. The difference being that her energy and bubbly nature didn’t strike Janet as authentic. Faye was just built that way, but Stacy had purposely built herself that way, for whatever reason.

You’re sizing people up like Evan, and you need to knock that shit off.

This encounter made Janet appreciate not having Faye around. After everything had happened the way it had, it wasn’t how she wanted to leave things with her friend. Not Evan either, she supposed. Janet wished they could be working on this together, as a team. She wanted to call them back, but that would have to happen at a better time. Right now, they’d only want to talk about Herman, and Janet preferred to push him as far back into her frantic mind as possible.

Concentrate on now. The hospital. Josue Ramirez. His buddy, the Murderer.

So far everything in the hospital appeared to be sophisticated and secure. Most doors were electronically locked and you either needed an ID card or to pick up a phone for a receptionist to let you in.

Stacy was not shy about bothering receptionists. It wasn’t surprising many people on many floors knew Stacy by name alone. The corridors where her ID badge didn’t work, she had a little routine: she swung her black and purple beaded dreadlocks away from her ear, picked up a phone and said in a sing-songy voice, “Hey, this is Stace! Let me in puh-retty-please!”

Janet wanted to roll her eyes. Just because Stacy worked with children didn’t require her to act like one. Janet allowed that she’d probably become too sullen of a person to process someone like Stacy in a positive way, but that didn’t cure her annoyance. She’d come here hoping for the real dope and all she got was one dope, and it didn’t bode well for her campaign.

There you go again, appraising the poor woman…

Stacy had seemed to forget Janet’s initial query about patients under guard altogether.

“That’s the way to the cafeteria, OINK!” Stacy’s voice echoed through the long hallway.

“What about dangerous people? Criminals? Is it possible to go up to the floor where they’re being held?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” said Stacy. She lifted her badge on its lanyard and swept it across a gray plate on the wall. “Let me show you the lobby for radiology. It’s super fancy.”

“Sounds good,” Janet muttered. “Thanks for doing this.”

Stacy’s dark face broke in a tremendous smile. It was the first genuine thing she’d done today. “It’s my pleasure, Janet.”

They journeyed down an over-bright hallway and passed some restrooms and a water fountain. Much like Stacy’s mouth, the hospital just went on and on. Big hospitals rendered Janet helpless inside now. She recalled the harsh, dreamlike memories of Melody’s last fight before passing away, which had been an awful extension to previous recollections of her favorite aunt, Sarah, dying of lymphoma and her great-grandmother expiring during a voluntary hip surgery. The vastness of these institutions, with all their briskly walking, scrub wearing employees and thought-absorbed doctors, just felt alien; there was a largeness of utilitarian purpose in every sterile corner, but also the smallness of humanity perfuming the air. It should have been the other way around. It didn’t matter if you named a floor after Hope or Inspiration or Health—these things were not consciously accepted as truth, perhaps only a well meaning attempt to soothe. Then again, Janet reckoned you wouldn’t find pavilions named after Death, or Pain or Stress or Misery. Only the true pessimists would seek admission to such a hospital. She imagined it for a moment: black tiled floors, exposed piping in the ceiling, sprouts of steam issuing down in the darker reaches of the winding hallways, wooden stairs that creaked like painful sighs…

“Oh they have Lemonheads!” Stacy shouted and startled Janet. They’d taken a turn at a corner where a dimly lit vending machine squatted.

When Janet jumped the bottle sloshed around in her purse. She’d tested it back at the room with a new rubber cork; no fluid had spilled out when she rested the bottle on its side, but the splashing sound gave her pause. She didn’t want to blindly reach in to check though. Coughing up a coin in front of Stacy would not be opportune. Bringing her Mary Poppins purse, as Herman had liked to call it, closer to her person, she continued on, hoping for the best.

“I’m going to have to get a box of those on the way out. They’re good for blocked salivary glands. Did you know that?”

“Never heard that before,” replied Janet.

Stacy switched gears with little cause for transition. “Up ahead is the LearningCenter. It’s here temporarily at the Heart and Surgical hospital—because the other location at the Children’s hospital is being renovated. That’s how I know so many folks here.” Stacy laughed.

“Oh I see.”

“I’m thinking my mentor there can tell you about your legal questions. Was it about criminal hospitals or something?”

“Pretty much,” Janet said, resigning herself.

They walked by a door propped open with a florescent yellow mop bucket. A spilled soda lay on the floor inside a stairwell and two wet floor cones had been placed around the ice laden liquid. Stacy prattled on about her mentor’s love for Spanish soap operas and how she’d gotten her hooked on the closed captioned English translations. Janet read the words on the open door. EMPLOYEE ACCESS.

Stacy took a left turn and was in mid-sentence when Janet cut her off, “Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”

“Oh, there’s one down by the LearningCenter.”

“I’ll just go to that one we passed a bit ago.”

“You sure? It’s closer—”

“No worries.” Janet took off briskly, shoes clapping the tile.

“Oooookay, I’ll be here,” said Stacy, sounding bothered.

Janet’s heart thrummed in her throat and her skin became itchy with emerging sweat. She crossed the hallway and turned immediately into the stairwell. Stepping over the spilled soda, she heard echoes of a conversation on the floor directly below, accompanied with footsteps. Janet climbed the stairs toward a wall with a painted 3 on its face. She hurried up a flight and then took another. The bottle sloshed again with her swaying purse.

The door read FLOOR 4 – Ward B.

Close enough, she thought, and pulled the handle.

2

The bottled glugged and bubbled as she stepped down the corridor of patient rooms. Janet had passed the same nurse’s station twice and the two young nurses, both with their hair tied up in the back, took quiet notice of her each time. A door opposite the staff entrance, on the other side of the circular ward, had the inscription LOBBY and beneath it, TO WARD A and C. Janet was holding out for an adjoining hall that would avoid the lobby; she was on the inside now, with the patients, and she didn’t want to sacrifice her good fortune. There didn’t seem to be any alternate routes though, unless there was something behind the nurse’s station.

If it hadn’t happened already, she was bound to attract attention just hanging around with no real place to go. She had to get in motion and focus on the best direction, without any possible distraction or interruption. Thinking ahead, she texted Stacy, Stupid me, got lost. Just head to the LearningCenter w/o me. I’ll find my way there. Sorry.

Janet went back to the employee entrance, eager to discover some secret path between wards. She pulled the handle and the door thudded in place. It must have locked behind her when it closed and could only be opened with one of those ID cards.

“Shit…,” she whispered.

“Are you lost?”

A tired looking doctor of Middle Eastern descent stood behind her with a bag of Fritos in one hand and a can of Papaya juice in the other.

Janet took a breath. “Yes, I… am. I’m…”

“It’s no problem. What room is it?” he asked with a good natured smile that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I think,” she laughed, “I might be in the wrong ward. I’m supposed to go to C.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “They let you in? These girls.” He shook his head and pressed his lips together in disapproval. “They should have let you know. Too busy with their jobs.”

“Well it’s my fault for not reading signs,” Janet explained.

He took her gently under the arm. “This way, please. I just want to have a word with them. They are the reason you’re lost. Too often this happens.”

“No, that’s really okay. I don’t want to get them in trouble.”

“Brenna,” the doctor called as they approached the nursing station.

A woman with bulging eyes and strong receding hairline popped her head out the side of the nurse’s station. “Yes, Dr. Malik?”

“You buzzed her in and this isn’t even the correct ward she’s visiting.”

“I haven’t buzzed anybody in,” Brenna replied. Her head disappeared and she asked the other nurses.

Janet stiffened and a spike of dread went through her chest.

Brenna appeared again. “We haven’t buzzed anybody in for over an hour.”

The doctor looked at Janet and smirked. She opened her mouth to say something but came up short.

“No, no.” He led Janet passed the station. “They won’t take responsibility, and they never do.”

“Is there a quick way to Ward C?”

“Through the lobby, cross the hall to the Ward C lobby. Not far at all.” Dr. Malik took her to the lobby door and opened it. An electronic catching sound registered. “Sorry for the confusion.”

“Thanks for your help,” Janet replied.

Malik nodded graciously and closed the door behind her.

Janet stood there a moment, processing her defeat. An older man and woman sat together in a corner together, the woman thumbing an iPad, the man with a Time magazine less than a foot from his eyes. The thought was fleeting, but it caught at Janet. That could have been Herman and I. If our lives hadn’t become a nightmare within a nightmare…

She slowly headed down the hall and stopped at the boundary of the identical lobby for Ward C.

Square one…

This lobby’s similarities almost made her dizzy, as though she’d walked in a circle. In the far corner there was even another old couple here, except the man was exceptionally fat, fast asleep and snoring, and the woman cross-stitched what looked like an image of a Coors Light beer mug.

Janet leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Who was she fooling? She hadn’t expected to get into Ramirez today anyhow. This was reconnaissance. There was no telling what she’d be able to accomplish, even if she managed to get into the other ward. Her thoughts dissolved into retreating. She could go downstairs to the LearningCenter, thank Stacy for the tour and come back another day.

She edged off the wall. Froze.

But really, what did it matter if it was today, tomorrow or next week? She was here. She could do this today. If she returned to her hotel and sat there with Lester, only to wonder how this day could have been, it would drive her more insane than she already was.

The Ward C lobby became more crowded the farther she ventured inside. Just to the left of a windowed garden area, a short hall littered in health flyers led to the interior ward. Janet approached the door warily. Josue Ramirez was somewhere on the other side. Guarded too, she reminded herself. Can’t climb a wall until you see how high it is. Herman used to tell her that. He’d been relating it to weightlifting but it applied here as well.

Janet casually picked up the phone. The other end rang two times. “Good afternoon,” a voice said. “Can I help you?”

Janet hesitated with a grimace, then slowly leaned into the speaker. “Hey, this is Stace! Can you please—let me in pretty please?” Janet’s imitation was as loud and wild as she could muster. A few people in the lobby looked her way.

The other end of the line crackled with static. The white noise rippled between her and them. It might have been only seconds, but it lasted forever.

“Stacy Roberts,” Janet said more softly. She could hear muffled voices discussing something on the other end. Then she added, “From the Learning—”

“Hi, Stacy.”

The door buzzed. Janet caught the handle and went inside.

As with the other ward, a nurse’s station was the central hub of the room. The people behind the glass sat too low and were surrounded by too many computers to see her. A number of visitors walked around too, not to mention more hospital staff. A fine buffer for now.

Under no delusions she’d be mistaken for Stacy, Janet hightailed it to a visitor’s restroom. The room was angular and cold with white tile and gray grout floors. A textured blue paint slid sideways on the walls. It was supposed to be serene, but came off as a murderous avalanche caught in freeze frame.

She decided to wait in a stall for maybe twenty minutes or so, just to be certain nobody took her for an imposter.

She put her purse on the ground. The bottle guhlunked. She wiped off the toilet seat and with reservations, settled down on it. A text message came in suddenly and Janet dropped her phone between her legs. Stacy must have been responded finally.

Officer Davis’s number…

Pls keep on the DL. Headed to question Ramirez @ Loma Linda. My detective friend said I could go for study. Let you know everything ASAP. Take care of yourself.

Janet’s heart clenched with panic. Her numb fingers texted back, Thx.

She grabbed her purse.

There was no time to wait things out now.

A middle aged woman with baggy eyes and a sour looking face walked into the bathroom. She held the door open for Janet, who nodded thanks without making eye contact.

Outside, a nurse helped a younger man walk down the hall as he perilously grasped his IV stand. Was that him? Janet thought. The man could be considered Hispanic looking, but there were probably numerous Hispanic patients here. She kept walking, all the while fidgeting with her blouse, hoping that would justify her random glances into patient rooms.

Halfway around the loop, Janet found Josue Ramirez’s room.

A chair was positioned to the side of the door and a tall, built contract guard in a gray uniform stood just feet away. Contract or not, there was a shiny black gun on his hip. Rent-a-cops with a bite. The guard chatted with a nurse behind the counter. Her eyes busied themselves on a computer screen, but she nodded as he spoke. His voice was lowered, but it carried well enough in the hall.

Leaning against the chair’s back, a radio with a long antenna had been left behind. It pulsed with sound and random pieces of conversations.

The guard spluttered. “So then he says my explanation for missing the paperwork is just an excuse…I mean, that paperwork doesn’t even mean anything! It sits in a file drawer. Nobody reads it. It’s not a big deal. Really. Jeez, I can’t take this guy.”

“New job?” she asked.

“New boss,” he laughed. She gave a weak smile. “And you know what? The guy has to always talk-up his grandparents and their work ethic. They have a restaurant franchise in Utah,” the guard’s voice dipped even lower, “Mormons I think, or those, what are those people who come to your door?”

“Jehovah Witnesses…” The nurse vigorously typed something and twitched her nose in mundane thought.

“One of those two, or maybe they were those hard core Amish type Jews, so anyways, he’s got me good and cornered. He even got on me about tucking my shirt in better. Can you believe that? Like he’s the greatest of dressers or something with that beer gut. But I guess he doesn’t drink.”

Janet steeled herself and walked past. The guard glanced at her with polite interest. She continued on without hesitation and he turned back to his anecdote that seemed to be nearing its punch line.

Holding her breath, Janet took the radio’s antenna between her fingers and lifted it silently off the chair. She let the heavy device rest against her leg as she went, not breaking stride.

She made it to the bathroom again. The sour puss woman from earlier looked up from the sink and Janet acknowledged her. Even the reflection in the bathroom mirror showed a woman in control and confident of her every move. It was an ironic image because internally Janet was in turmoil: her guts twisted, her heart bounced like one of those boxing speed-bags, her blood stung as it traveled through its vessels.

Can’t mess this up. Can’t mess this up. Can’t.

In the stall she felt only marginally better. She turned the volume dial on the guard’s radio until it clicked and the green light on top blinked off. She unscrewed the long antenna and stashed the radio in the narrow place between the toilet and wall. She waited until the other woman left and then tossed the antenna in the trash.

Every little advantage helped.

She left the bathroom and just about walked straight into the guard. He was in a panic; that much was obvious. His eyes darted here and there and he patted his pants as though something would magically appear there. Janet pretended to go through her purse, looking for something.

He went back to Ramirez’s room and entered. A couple minutes later he came out, pale-faced. The nurse he’d spoken to earlier looked concerned for him.

“Not in there either,” he fumed and pointed at the chair. “I put it down right there. I know I did! It was brand new too. I accidentally ran over my last one.”

The pretty nurse laughed.

“That’s not funny.”

“Well wait,” said the nurse, “did you leave it in the cafeteria?”

His face didn’t show that as an option and he shrugged. “Maybe, got coffee earlier, but I went home for lunch…crap. God dang it. I brought the radio back—I know I did. I called Tony for a soda.” He stared up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. “The department’s on the way. Ramirez’s lawyer, too. Frickin’ great. My supervisor was going to call with a heads-up to prepare for an interview. That’s gonna be completely screwed—they have no way of getting in touch with me from downstairs. Tony will have to take them up.”

“They can just call our station.”

“Those dummies couldn’t figure that out.”

“No cell phones?”

The guard cocked his head. “We’re lucky LW3 still buys our uniforms for us.”

“They’re just coming to ask questions right?” The nurse noted something more important on her monitor and leaned in to type at whatever it was.

“I don’t know—that’s the thing. The department is already jonesing to get rid of our contract.”

The nurse snorted. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a radio. People lose things.”

The guard growled and ran his hands through his blonde-gray hair. He plopped down in his chair. Janet pulled out a compact and stared at her feral looking eyes, which desperately needed Visine.

The guard shook his head. “Stupid, so stupid, I’m always losing things. Now it’s going to be my job.”

“In that case, you better get Tony to cover for you and drive like hell to your house,” suggested the nurse. “Ramirez is in no shape right now to run anyway.”

“Tony can’t leave his post, and I can’t leave mine.”

“Because they’ll can you?”

The guard looked grim. “Yep.”

“And they’ll can you for losing your radio?”

“It’s pretty likely considering my last review.” After a moment’s thought, the guard sprung up. “Can you just watch the door for like fifteen minutes while I run down real quick and talk to Tony?”

“No—I have two alarms going off and I need to see my patients.”

“Gee thanks.”

“No problem,” she said with a mocking smile. “And best of luck.”

He patted his pocket. “Good, I haven’t lost my ID card at least…”

Janet put her compact away and made her way to the water fountain. The guard was only going downstairs, but this was still turning out better than she could have imagined. She might well have grinned, if not for what she faced next.

The guard left his post and spoke to a pair of other nurses as he hurried out. The pretty nurse got up and went to check on another patient adjacent to her station.

Not wiping the water from her chin, Janet took her chance, crossed the hall, drew the curtain slightly, pushed open a door and in the very next moment, she was standing in Josue Ramirez’s presence. From within her purse she retrieved her gloves and slipped them on. Then grabbed the homeless man’s coin from the side pouch.

Her face warped around the bottle’s glass, watching her every action.

She approached Ramirez’s bed. There were no other patients in the room.

Just the two of them.

FURY

So groggy—wake up with something in my hand—eyes can’t make it out—fuck my stomach hurts—fuckin’ Vincent, hope he burns in hell with all his whores—what the hell is that—?

Eyes crack open, lift my hand a bit, see something circular and dark brown, shiny, on my palm—a coin—this medicine must be getting me loopy—

“Josue Ramirez—” says a voice; it’s female, that one hot nurse—?

Lean up a bit, eyes so damn heavy, stomach’s twisting, gonna die in this place, fuckin’ assholes—

“Who’re you—?” I mumble—

The woman there has long black hair, her eyes are hard, like she’s seen a lot of shit—she’s kind of sexy in a thick kind of way, but she doesn’t look like someone you’d want to cross—she isn’t a doctor and no detective would be wearing that dress—

“How did you—?—”

“Tell me where your partner is—” she said—

Chuckle—it hurts—these people will try everything—they think cleavage is going to make me give up Vincent—? Shit—he’ll cut all their throats and stomp my skull into mush—like Pedro, like Jessica—I’m so sorry bro, so sorry Jessy—Christ, don’t think I wanna live without them—I hate everything—

It’s starting to piss me off, though—cops keep asking and asking without letting me get better—probably making up shit about my brother and cousin being in that drive-by—tryin’ to scare me—where the hell’s that dumbfuck lawyer—? If Vincent did do that shit, how many of my people do these cops want to see dead—? They need to damn well drop this because it’s egging that bastard on—

Wanna tell the bitch all this—tell her about the train Vincent would make me and the homies run on a hyna like her—can’t—head’s too fucked up—belly’s about the same—worse—

“Go away—” is what I get out—

That coin itches in my hand—I don’t want to drop it though—close my fingers around it—

“You were in the car when your partner hit a little girl—it was last year—do you remember—?”

“Yes—” I’m able to raise my voice—“Already told you pricks—leave me alone—” But had I told them that—? Shit, my mind is so fucked—I’m just keepin’ quiet—

“I’m glad you remember—now tell me the driver’s name and address—I promise I won’t let it kill you—”

About to ask her what she just said—see something huge step around the curtain—oh holy shit, what the name of God is that thing—? This medicine’s giving me images or something—flipping out, that’s what happening—these cops drugged me and now I’m losing it—but don’t feel high—feel sober, just tired, and that thing is real, how though, how is that thing, it looks like a damn dinosaur with Jaws’s head—its teeth, oh please mother of God, it’s getting so close to me now, leaning over the bed— the woman seems afraid of it too—it isn’t just my hallucination—no—

“What were three are now one, and I am Fury—”

The creature has a giant split through its gray head that goes everywhere like a cracking egg—blood leaks out, some of it down over the side of its face and colors its teeth red—the scaly hands look broken, like they were crushed with a hammer over and over again—

“The shit are you—?”

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury—its voice sounds eager, like it really would like to hear my answer— “Do you know the song? The song my heart wants so badly to hear—?”

“Tell me about the driver—” the woman demanded—“I’ll call the monster off—I promise—”

Nodding—shit if the police have made all this up, then damn, they got me—holy fucking shit—“Okay, okay—Vincent Baker—Meade Apartments on the corner of H and Elmwood in Riverside—don’t know if he’s still there, but he likes how cheap the rent is—”

The Fury leans over me—“Do you know the
song—?” it asks again, breath like rotting chicken guts—

“His apartment number—?”

“I don’t know—! Two hundred something—”

The woman lifted an eyebrow—

“Two-eleven—!”

Notice my voice is raised, but not by much, I’m whisper-shouting, room is getting dizzy, feel like I just chased the dragon or something, haven’t had Horse in so long, only did it twice, was lucky, scared of it, quit when Mamacita found out, so ashamed, so very sad she saw me like that, could never let her think I was dirt like my cousin Jessy—

The Fury gasps for air—see a mouth move deep in its throat—“Justice, served—”

The woman had been waiting, goddamn her, not lifting a fuckin’ finger to get rid of this thing like she said, but now she’s trying to open my fingers— she’s wearing gloves and the leather burns my skin, she’s never gettin’ my fingers open though, wouldn’t happen, not opening them, never, not losing the coin, my coin, its mine, belongs to me now—my strength is giving though, fingers are coming undone, Christ I feel so loose, so high—the coin dissolves in my hand and grows inside my mouth, can taste its metal on my tongue, I’m still frightened, hear something click in my mind, the memory of a sound, like the hammer of a gun cocking—something smacks into my head hard and I watch blackness clot on the ceiling and cover everything.

3

Janet stared at the wide flourish of blood across the back wall and across Ramirez’s IV stand. The back of his head had blown apart in big and small pieces alike, leaving an enormous crater of an exit wound, but there was no visible hole in the wall behind him. There hadn’t even been a sound. His head just snapped back, blood misted over his pillow and a penny-sized wound revealed itself over his left eye. It was as though the idea of a bullet had killed him, not an actual slug.

That homeless man hadn’t been in danger of overdosing after all…

Janet stripped off her gloves and put them in her purse, then hurried over to the door and moved the chair. She stepped out into the small vestibule and peeked around the blue curtain. The coast looked clear. Looked like, anyway.

She glanced back through the door into the room. The Fury had vanished.

A jolt went through Janet as she felt the passing. This one entered her body more violently and rambled through like a ghost clothed in hot needles. She could taste blood in her mouth and her muscles became sore and watery.

She processed it, sucking a breath of air between her teeth. So be it.

Entire body trembling, Janet took another peek out the curtain. The nurses didn’t have their attention this way. She was about to move out when the lobby door opened.

Officer Davis accompanied a tall bald man dressed in a shirt and tie and a lean, white haired man in a suit.

Janet looked helplessly back into the hospital room, now a gory aftermath. Instinct called for her to hide but her mind shouted at the stupidity of such a move.

Davis and the bald man spoke to a nurse at the far end of the station. She pointed to Ramirez’s room. All heads turned as she pointed. Janet fell back behind the curtain.

She tapped her teeth and peered out the other side of the curtain in hopes to catch another glimpse before they came in. Davis and the man walked around the bend of the nurse’s station. Janet could see them coming closer and the more they did, the less she knew what to do. Her bladder felt about to give. She was going to piss herself, right there, on the floor, in the hospital. Davis and the bald man spoke together casually, as though on the way to lunch. They didn’t know what waited for them in this room. Or who.

The lobby door opened swiftly and two contract guards rushed in. One was the young guard from earlier, another radio on his hip, and his companion was a larger, thick-necked man pushing fifty.

“Detectives,” hollered the older guard.

Davis and her companion turned around. The white haired man took his briefcase’s handle in both hands, looking anxious. All backs turned, he shielded her from view. Janet took the opportunity, slipping outside the curtain. She walked down the other side of the loop around the nurse’s station. They were so close she could hear their voices.

“There’s no post? What’re we paying you guys for?”

“I’m so sorry, but I got food poisoning—I’m better now.”

“So very glad to hear it. And why didn’t you radio for a man change?”

“Well, I went downstairs for that, sir.”

“Good grief, I don’t have time for this kind of stuff today.”

Janet kept walking, keeping a normal pace and holding her purse against her hip. The bottle hardly made a sound and that made her both grateful and suspicious. She reached the electronic door and pushed through it. The lobby, which she’d earlier dreaded, suddenly became a haven, each chair and gloomy face a welcomed sight. She kept going, face down, hopefully not being filmed by a hidden camera. She made it to the elevators and as much as she wanted to head right for the stairs, she decided it might prompt someone to remember the lady in the revealing black dress, especially when five others stood waiting.

Janet waited with the others, keeping an eye on the lobby. She expected Davis or that detective friend of hers to come barging through, gun drawn like in the movies. The elevator doors opened though and she got onto the elevator without any dramatic action scene playing out.

Goodbye Josue. Next stop, Vincent Baker.

There was no ground level option on this elevator, so she picked floor two. Everybody else got out on floor three, and Janet was alone again.

Floor Two was mostly abandoned, as it had been when she and Stacy walked through. Janet kept toward the main corridor. Three security guards rushed down a perpendicular hall, the sounds of their equipment thumping and jangling even at a great distance. It dawned on her that leaving right now, though enticing, might not be the smartest thing to do if there were security cameras outside.

Besides, there was already a place to hide out for a while.

“There you are!” cried Stacy, hair beads clicking as she moved. “What on earth happened to you?”

“I went down an employee hall or something. I tried to turn back but all the halls looked the same, and this floor is so dead! I couldn’t find anybody to help me. I think something’s up. There were security guards running all over the place.”

“Uh-oh,” said Stacy, looking somewhat unconcerned.

“Glad I made here.”

Janet tried to sound normally vexed, not I’m a murderer on the run vexed. Everything in her mind questioned her tone, her stance, her possible complexion. How had she been so lucky? I got into the ward.
The guard left his post. The cops turned their backs on me at just the right moment.

The bottle bubbled in response.

“Hungry?” Stacy raised her eyebrows.

Janet patted her stomach. “Indigestion.”

“There’s Rolaids in the vending machines.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Come on in, I’ll show you around. My mentor’s not here anymore. She had to go home for lunch.”

“Oh, darn it.”

“There’s a bunch of cute, cuddly kids though.”

“Good, they’re much better than mentors.”

“I think so,” Stacy said with a chipper grin.

The room was wall-to-wall toys and children’s books. It was a chaotic arrangement at best; the temporary nature of the LearningCenter’s location was all too apparent with the stacks of Dr. Seuss books against the walls and the plastic crates of toys throughout. Next to a dusty chalkboard, a group of five kids sat in a circle on a play carpet and studied the two women. Janet noted they were around three or four years old.

“Hi!”

“Say, ‘Hi Janet!’” Stacy instructed.

“Hi Janet,” the group said softly.

Stacy turned to her. “You want to read them a story?”

A lump twisted in Janet’s throat. “Yeah, sure. Yes, I… I would really enjoy that actually.”

“Great.” Stacy patted her on the shoulder. “Want to pick the book?”

“You go ahead.”

Janet made her way over to the children and said hello again.

“Are you going to read us the train story?” asked a little boy. His flesh was damp and pale, his hairline receded.

“I don’t know,” answered Janet truthfully. She pulled up the front of her blouse to cover her cleavage and then chose a little chair from one of the tables and sat it before them. She set her purse close to her feet. As she waited for Stacy to sort through a column of books at the other end of the room, Janet folded her hands in her lap and regarded each child. “What are your names?”

They all started talking and Janet cut them off. She pointed to the boy at the far right and went from there. Nathan. Gloria. Jennifer. Francine. Johnny.

“Nice to meet you, kids.”

The children looked at each other with perplexed smiles. They all had the pallor of the severely sick. She didn’t know if they had cancer or leukemia or what, and frankly, she really didn’t want to think about it.

Stacy approached with a Thomas the Train book. “They like this one.”

“The train book!” yelled Nathan.

Janet took the book, opened it and began to read, her voice immediately getting into story time mode, formed from her days as an instructional aide. The children were a wonderful audience, not speaking to each other or misbehaving. They appreciated the small bits of happiness afforded to them.

Just halfway through the book, Stacy tapped Janet on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Sorry, I just need to run to the restroom next door and then get the food cart. Want whatever snack they’re having?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Stacy went off to a door midway through the room that Janet hadn’t noticed before. A round faced lady sat at a nearby desk, writing something onto a notepad. She hadn’t made a comment to anybody since Janet’s arrival and she didn’t look to be coming out of her work-related trance any time soon.

As much as she hadn’t wanted to think about the five deadly ailments sitting before her, Janet could not tear her mind away from it for even a second. She set down the book and several of the children frowned.

“Do you like magic tricks kids? Have you seen the coin out of the ear trick? This is the coin out of the mouth trick!”

She reached into her Mary Poppins bag and put on her gloves. She glanced over her shoulder. The woman at the desk hadn’t lifted her rheumy eyes off her note-taking.

Janet brought out the bottle.

Brought out the coin purse.

“Wow!” said Gloria. Johnny and Jennifer clapped like organ grinder monkeys.

“Yes,” Janet answered with a smile. “Wow is right.”

4

Vincent Baker leaned back in his chair and inventoried the wireless access points for various gas stations. He’d gone in 80-20 with a knucklehead out of DakotaCity he’d met through an online role playing game. The guy’s handle was Noob666 and he turned out to be far better at breaking weak encryption codes than leading his virtual Ogre armies against Vincent. So far he’d taken down three hundred and seventy-two codes for many wireless points throughout Southern California. Only a handful had discovered the security breach so far.

This was less fun than bank-jacking, but this venture was also filling Vincent’s ghost accounts quite attractively. In his spreadsheet this morning, he totaled every account and it came to be something close to 2.1 million dollars. With that and the several million he had tied up in medical investments now, Vincent was several bright shades of happy.

Turned on, even.

He got up, nodding to his old poster of Donald Trump, so deserving in his smugness, and then to the opposite wall where a smiling Steve Forbes acknowledged him, face acne pitted and permanently blushed. Fine example of two ugly men doing beautiful things with their lives.

Vincent grabbed a condom from a pile on his CD tower. He ripped through the top, fished out the cold, greasy ring and tossed the wrapper in the waste can. He walked back to his bedroom, expertly unzipping his pants with one hand and retrieving his growing penis. The condom slipped on like a slow, glacial blowjob. He shivered and approached the bed where the whore awaited him.

Having been there a few days now, the whore no longer resisted against her restraints or tried to scream through her ball-gag. Instead, she put her head down on the pillow, closed her eyes and lifted her ass into the air, like some kind of sexual morning glory that bloomed every time he walked into the room. She did it often now and it cracked him up every time.

Without violence, Vincent entered her and pumped methodically, devaluing her with every internal stroke. After a few minutes he was ready to climax. He withdrew from the whore and hurried over to the other side of the bed where the whore’s john was tied up. The older man pressed his eyes closed and grimaced through his own ball gag. Vincent pulled off the condom and jerked off into his face.

As the last of his seed dripped out, Vincent blew through his teeth, making a whistling sound. “That was a pretty good one.” He poked the old rich man’s cheek with the head of his penis and rubbed circles over his right eyelid.

With a snort, Vincent put himself back in his pants and reached over to switch off his video camera. At his prodding, the device bowed on its tripod. Piece of crap, he thought. It did the trick though. He’d been taking home-movies of all his exploits and had taught some of his stupid little minions how to conceive a nice stationary shot as well. He uploaded his and their videos to StruggleCum.com. It’d been a great success. Vincent almost didn’t have to resort to stealing anymore. Porn paid out in healthy sums. The take-home from subscriptions was well worth his while, even considering taxes and security fees.

Everything was a commodity. That was what was great about being human.

“Ya know… you’re worth a lot compared to some,” he said to the old man. “And you’re worth nothing,” he said to the woman. “But you’re both afraid of dying and once you do, you’re both going to the same place. Isn’t that strange? It seems like a rich man deserves something better than a whore’s destination. I mean, don’t take me for a fool—I understand money isn’t everything. But there isn’t a doubt to me that people will cry over you, rich man. Nobody’s crying over you, dear. For a whore? Nah. No tears will fall.”

The two people on his bed blinked helplessly at him. The rich man and the skank.

“Regular Pretty Woman scenario we have here,” he told them, and then looked into the whore’s tired freckled face, “except you’re no Julia.”

Their pained glances made him feel somewhat cruel. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill either of you. I want our time together to last in your memories, to appreciate over the course of your lives. This is like a 401K.”

This wasn’t Vincent’s first time doing something like this and he knew it wouldn’t be his last. Too much fun to ever skip again. He’d even been generous enough to show some of his gang friends at a bachelor party how to squeeze the last bit of pride from an integrity-free human being. Those guys were idiots though. They thought it was about the body, about giving your cock an experience. He couldn’t teach the distinguishing difference to them, not without cultivating them more.

And how would that be? To create an army of wealth-finders such as himself? Draining banks and draining people—could Vincent go global with his philosophy? Enough money, surely he could become one of those motivational dickheads.

Vincent scratched at his goatee, appreciating the silent whimpers of the whore and the sad silence of the rich man. Raping the body was for amateurs; raping the soul was so much more of an investment. It was priceless really…the only thing money couldn’t buy. Because, great songs aside, love was easy to achieve with cash—for the truth of love was that it was no more than a warmer, fuzzier version of irrational exuberance. He had a string of ex-girlfriends that had all been the “one” at some time, until he realized that the “one” was “one of many” and when he figured out he could cut ties with his investments in these people, he moved on. As all should.

After everything that had gone wrong with the last bank bust, Vincent had begun to think about something new to make him happy and rich. The impulse was pure desperation and he’d since resolved not to completely quit banks; Vincent was a wreck after what happened to Josue and he needed reassurance that he could still play the game, even if it meant going another route.

So he shifted his investment, for the time being, to the wonderful new bedroom career he’d discovered. After reaching that decision, his radar starting beeping, and that’s how he came to find the rich man.

The man wore Gravati shoes and maybe if he’d bought John Lobbs or Berluti or some other brand, Vincent might have kept walking to his car and let the old fucker have his whore in peace. But this was too fascinating to pass up. Rather than attending a meeting of powerful minds, this man was just wearing Gravatis for a casual stroll down whore alley; that registered with Vincent as the kind of existence most mortals didn’t deserve.

Inside those shoes was a promise for the future and Vincent wouldn’t deny their inspiration. He didn’t fit into the loafers, nor would he have ever wasted his money on such extravagance, but they were in his closet and not a speck of dust would ever fall on them; he’d make sure of that.

He wasn’t shoe obsessed though. The old man had cash and credit cards and a bank account, all of which had already been plundered. The whore was just cheap fun at this point. Based on what she said she charged for sex, both vaginal and anal, Vincent had stolen about eleven grand from her, by his estimate. That wasn’t bad at all. To think, just some chloroform, a dishrag, and three busted knuckles and Vincent had made out great from this transaction. He’d also drilled the old man for investment advice, but hadn’t learned much he didn’t already know. That reconfirmed how most of these men of means didn’t deserve the silver spoons they grew up with. This motherfucker probably has people making decisions with his money he doesn’t even know about.

To an extent, Vincent respected the use of hired help. After all, he had several connections that would take care of the whore and rich man after he was finished, so he wasn’t sweating that too much. The North Jackals and Highland-8 had done a great job eliminating Josue Ramirez’s potential leakers and making it all seem gang related in the process. It did bug Vincent, however, how much he had to rely on the gangs lately. It made him slightly regret his latest hostage-taking event. He was too close now to screw everything up over an impulsive need to peek inside everybody’s moneymakers.

He left the two to their ball-gagged solitude and returned to his computer.

The next hour Vincent spent reading world news, checking his stocks, studying a few aerial shots of banks, and making several high value moves on Words with Friends. It was nice to be this calm. Sometimes it bothered him when he thought about the future. He couldn’t think of anything he’d really want to spend his money on except investments. He was supposed to have dreams too. Wasn’t he? The journey seemed the only important thing left for him. There was no destination as far as he was concerned.

Vincent thought about that for a second. What had he wanted as a child? Everything had been so out of reach in those days. Lesser adults had made it that way. So he would escape into fantasy books about gold grubbing dragons and myths about powerful gods who raped their followers, taking or giving power as they saw fit, creating immortal children. Vincent hadn’t ever wanted to be the underdog hero. He wanted the respect that the dragon warranted, that those gods demanded. Nothing had really changed in his desires since then, except his fantasies about becoming more had been fulfilled. Sometimes the urge to show all those adults who had once doubted him became overwhelming.

A triple knock at the door startled him from his thoughts.

Vincent went out and crossed his living room, looked through the peep hole. It was his associate Carlos Madras. He went back and shut his bedroom door.

Another triple knock.

“Coming,” he barked.

Vincent opened the door and Carlos shuffled in carrying a navy-blue duffel bag with a large zipper at the top and a golden bank emblem on the side. After closing the door and chaining it, Vincent helped Carlos with one side of the bag and they carried it over to the couch.

Carlos tried to catch his breath. His curly black hair was sweaty underneath his Los Angeles Clippers hat. “Heavy bitches to carry up the stairs.”

Vincent took out his plug and play ultrasound device and pushed it into the USB drive on his computer. “You opened it at all?”

“Nah. But Manny Riggs said that this bank branch has an ink bomb in every other bag. He knew a guy who used to do the armored transport there.”

Vincent yawned. He really wished he’d chosen someone else to work with. Josue never went off and did his own thing without first consulting him. Vincent thought since Carlos had grown up with Josue that they’d be similar people. Not so much.

The ultrasound program loaded up. Vincent applied the settings and hoped the thing didn’t crap out on him again. He took a tube of water-based gel and layered the transducer probe. Carlos sat on the couch, spread out his hairy legs to get comfortable and watched as Vincent set the probe against the bag. The whirring sound crackled loudly and he adjusted the computer’s speakers.

Despite the untimely intrusion, Vincent sort of enjoyed this kind of shit. He searched the gray, white, black images of stacked money. The dye packs were typically near the top and he’d noticed the banks hid many in the upper left corner. Many, not all. He wasn’t seeing anything here. Come on, where are you, little baby ink bomb?

“So you hear about your daycare instructor?” Carlos asked. “Crazy shit there.”

“What about?” Vincent pulled off the probe and lubed it again.

“Mrs. Horrace was killed at her house.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t read the whole article. Said she died in her bathroom of mysterious causes.”

Vincent froze. “No shit?”

“I’ll email you the article.”

With a shrug, Vincent reapplied the probe. “That’s suiting. Probably died taking a big shit. Good riddance.” He moved the probe in circles, thinking he might have spotted the trigger.

“I didn’t expect you to be all heart.”

“I’ll give Horrace this, she moves pretty fast when a car’s coming at her.”

“Ah, see— Josue told me that was an accident, the whole day care thing.”

“Josue’s a good guy.”

“He was covering for you then.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” said Vincent.

“That was a retarded move. You should have just let your thing with Horrace go.”

Vincent paused, not sure how to respond, whether to be angry or retrospective. He decided on neither. “I was going for bonus points.”

Carlos’s face went grim. “You would have totaled that car if you hit her.”

“And did that happen?” Vincent sneered at the stupid jackass before him. “No, a damn little girl was behind Horrace. I wasn’t trying to hit either of them. It happened. It sucked. I am a richer, wiser man for it.”

“Hey, I’m just bringing this up because I hope you worked out whatever shit you had to work out. Some over in Highland-8 think you’re a little blood thirsty. Arturo thinks you did the girl on purpose.”

“Art’s a fuckhead. I got no use for that guy and I’m gonna tell him soon.”

Carlos straightened, at once seeming to regret bringing any of this up.

The trigger mechanism for the bomb came into view. Upper middle stack. Vincent slid a switch blade from his back pocket. “I told you never to take a bag from a vault. You should have stuffed your own fucking bag.”

“It was tense that day.”

“You’re a pussy.” Vincent turned the bag on its side and ripped the blade through a line of stitches at the bottom. The bottom dropped out and several cash bundles fell to the floor. He flipped the bag upside down and methodically took the other bundles. “You’re lucky they didn’t trigger this thing remotely, or after a distance was reached.”

“I did my research,” mumbled Carlos.

Vincent looked over his shoulder to his book shelf. He pointed. “Bottom shelf. Give me those fakes.”

Carlos pushed up from the couch and went to grab the clear bag full of what looked like cash. After he handed them over, Vincent carefully loaded the bank bag with dummies, and then sealed the bottom with Gorilla glue.

“Nice and neat. Want to do the honors?”

Carlos shook his head.

Vincent unzipped the bag and stuck his switch blade under the bundle with the ink bomb beneath. A loud pop came from inside and a bright purple dye welled from underneath, saturating the fake bills.

Looking inside, “Beautiful,” Carlos remarked dryly.

Vincent nodded. “Drop that off in Adelanto. In a dumpster behind a convenience store or something. Borrow your girl’s car.”

“Adelanto’s way the fuck out in the desert.”

“It sure is.”

“That’s a lot of gas money to blow.”

“Every false door we open is another the cops have to close. This isn’t a flight of fancy. We’re serial bank robbers here. Don’t get all cocksure on me.”

“Me? Hey, I didn’t try to run down my old teacher just two blocks away from a job, and I sure as hell didn’t crash Josue into that utility pole. If anybody deserves to be—”

Vincent seized Carlos by the neck and slammed him down on the coffee table. Carlos gasped out hoarsely in alarm and stacks of real money parted and spilled off the sides of the table. Carlos grabbed Vincent’s arm and tried to break his grip. Still with a wet dollop of purple dye on its point, Vincent rested the switch blade at the corner of Carlos’s left eye. The man froze.

“Do you enjoy the money you make with me, Carl?”

“Yeah…”

“Then understand something now. You aren’t Josue. We aren’t friends. We aren’t partners. We aren’t on the level. You surely aren’t my equal. I’m better than you. Body and soul. So listen, because I’m only going to explain this one time: I’m not bloodthirsty. I’m not fond of the work that goes into disposing of human bodies. In fact, I kind of, sort of, fucking hate getting to that point. But if you don’t want to end up in the pork aisle in a local Mexican meat market, you better start acting like the lowly employee you are.”

Vincent twisted the knife a bit and a tendril of blood crept from Carlos’s eye, mixing with the purple dye, making an onyx tear. “I don’t get off on this, by the way.”

“Bunch of shit…”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’re full of shit—you ain’t doing nothin’ to me. Stop bullshitting.”

Slowly, Vincent relaxed his hold and removed the blade. “Very well,” he said. “That’s good. You can call a bluff. That’s something I need still.”

Carlos glared at him, his mouth hanging in disgust.

“You should know,” Vincent pointed out, “that seldom do people bluff twice in a row.”

Carlos rubbed the blood off his upper lip. “You need to get out of this apartment, Vincent. You’re cracking up in here.”

Vincent retracted the blade down and shrugged. “You could be right. Now take this bag and your cut and get the fuck out of my vision.”

Carlos did just that. Five minutes later, there was a nice stack of lovely green backs on Vincent’s coffee table and he could enjoy them in peaceful silence.

The whore groaned in the other room.

Relative peaceful silence.

Vincent went back to his computer to check the local news about Mrs. Horrace. As far as he was concerned, it was the end of an era. His eyes misted, despite his contradicting emotions. He rubbed them raw until they burned with pain, rather than regret.

Mrs. Horrace had taught him so much, even though he loathed her like a brilliant slave loathed its ignorant master. Vincent’s foster parents had insisted he go to the Horrace daycare all the way through sophomore year in high school, and why Vincent hadn’t tried to kill her back then, he’d never been able to sort out. Perhaps she defined his misery and he couldn’t live without it to drive him.

Expelled from school for stealing five kids’ lunch money in one day. Ah, Vince, it takes a certain type of stupid to reach for the heights you’re after. Lordy, what a dolt you are. What an absolute, thick-headed, dunce. You’re headed for McDonald’s aren’t you? Extra cheese please. Don’t burn your fingers on the hot oil. I like my fries crunchy. Oh and clean up the bathroom, Mr. Janitor. Someone pooped on the floor. Perhaps this is all too generous. Maybe I’ll flip a quarter into your tin can while you’re begging for money under the freeway. Go sit on the time-out wall, you sorry little loser.

No, Vincent could live without her taunting and tearing him down every day. He had really enjoyed her medieval mythology books and playing her piano, though. All his pleasant daydreaming had kept him alive in those times. It beat the hell out of hanging out in his foster parent’s cigarette cloud they called a home.

Vincent swept through rows of articles. He saw a name tagged on one of the articles: Josue Ramirez.

He clicked it. Miracles and Mysteries at Loma Linda.

“Five children with terminal illnesses have made a startling recovery…” he read. “Good for them.”

Vincent skimmed to find the part about Josue. “The same day, authorities are investigating the shooting death of a man accused of several bank heists throughout the Inland Empire. The department has found no trace of the bullet that killed Josue Eduardo Ramirez, thinking the round somehow shattered and volatized inside his cranium, an occurrence that would have to be a miracle of physics all on its own.”

Somebody shot Josue and took the bullet with them? Holy shit. This might have been payback from an insider who didn’t relish Josue being left alive to give up his associates, and that Vincent hadn’t been a part of this job made it clear he was on that same radar too.

“Son of a bitch,” he uttered and glanced up at Donald Trump. “I guess Carlos was right. It is about time I leave this apartment.”

In the other room the whore groaned again, as though agreeing.

5

Janet heard Faye and Evan coming up the stairs outside the hotel room. Evan’s booming voice gave them away. It was far sooner than Janet wanted to deal with them, the ordeal at the hospital still fresh on her nerves, but the box of ashes from the mortuary needed removal from her small hotel room; it was already too crowded here with her and a Border Collie to introduce Herman’s ghost to the mix.

Janet had picked up the ashes first thing after word from the mortuary. Compared to the exhilaration of the hospital, the trip had been like a grocery store run for pancake mix. The box, and its contents, were not her husband. It was far too light and far too square to even think about him as she drove, the box resting on the seat near the bottle and coin purse, a regular witch’s alchemy set.

Once Janet brought the ashes into the room it became immediately apparent what she needed to do, but she couldn’t do it alone. Seeing that gray dust and bone chips…that would be impossible right now, and yet she knew it had to be done soon, so she could move on to Vincent Baker.

That night she reconsidered her decision… Herman was here. Herman was with her. She held the box in bed, bent over it, weeping. I’m so horrible, Herman. Oh God I loved you so much. Don’t be gone… Come back. I’m so awful… It shouldn’t be you. It should be me. Please forgive me, Herman. Can you? Please… Please don’t be gone. Come back. Come back.

She got no sleep and started envisioning horrible scenarios of Vincent Baker disappearing before she ever found him.

That was it. She had to get through this. She had to scatter the ashes.

Not expecting much, she called Faye and was relieved her friend had softened her feelings about what happened. In fact, when it came to helping with Herman, she acted much like the old Faye that Janet knew and loved.

Faye had read the papers about Josue Ramirez and the miraculous curing of the children. “That was you, wasn’t it? And that bottle…it really does work the way you said?”

Janet explained again how she understood the bottle’s power, including the literal price to be paid as a result. Faye only listened, rapt with awe.

It was misty outside when she opened the hotel room door. Lester came over at once to greet the two people he recognized. Evan bent down and scratched him under the ears. Faye, wearing a smart black overcoat, glided past and wrapped her arms around Janet. Her hug was weak, but it didn’t seem from lack of trying. Faye’s face was stricken. She looked unwell.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Faye half smiled. “I have a doctor’s appointment today. There’s some cramping. Not much, but the OBGYN wants to be sure the baby’s okay.”

“When did this start happening?”

Faye now petted Lester. “After.”

She wore a turtleneck sweater, an article of clothing Janet had never seen her friend wear before. The marks from the Fury’s invisible rope must have cut deep.

Evan shook his keys inside the pockets of his black slacks. “Are we ready to head out?”

Janet collected her jacket and the box of ashes. She went outside, hugging it close to her chest. As she pulled the door closed, Lester watched her go, his head tilted, eyes wondrous and sad.

The drive to Greenhill Pond was a lengthy maze of alien streets and suspect roads. Janet recalled nothing from her past trips to the park and the ride seemed to drag on forever. Contrast to that, the déjà vu walk across the familiar soccer fields, past the small duck pond and out to the larger pond felt like a heartbeat. Suddenly they were standing before the lake and Evan had the box opened, the bag of ashes out. Janet didn’t want to look at it, but caught herself doing so every now and then. She told her friends to say their goodbyes before her and Evan had been talking into the ashes, but mostly Janet hadn’t tuned into what was being said until now.

“Mostly I feel like I let you down, buddy. That day you were gone… I looked everywhere. Lester got out of the gate and ran into the badlands. I was so worried about you I didn’t bother going after him. I should have followed…he must have known that’s where you’d gone.”

Big tears sat in Evan’s eyes and looked about to fall onto the lenses of his eyeglasses. Slowly he handed the box to Faye, who accepted its weight with a timid gesture.

“You always made me laugh, He-Man. I’ll remember the way you played with Melody, the way you sang to her, and I…” Faye choked up a little and Evan patted her shoulder. “And I…just thought you were an amazing father and husband, a good person. It isn’t fair what happened to you, but you’re together with Melody now, in Heaven, with God, where you certainly belong… Sorry, I’m not good at speeches.”

With trembling hands, Faye passed the box to Janet and then clutched her tightly around the arm. Janet peered into the pebbly mix, thinking of a beach with a shoreline similar to this blend. She glanced up and a mallard duck glided across the pond to become a phantom shape under the shade of a weeping willow tree.

This again. I’m standing here, saying goodbye to somebody. This can’t really be happening.

“You knew I loved you, Herman,” Janet began. “So I don’t want to go on about all that… We weren’t perfect. We both made mistakes. I forgive you for yours and I hope you forgave me for mine… I thought our lives would just keep going on as usual, that Melody would grow up and we’d grow old together... now there’s nothing left.”

Faye leaned her head against Janet’s shoulder.

“What’s done is done, Herman,” Janet went on. “I just want you to know that I’ve found the man who caused this, his name is Vincent Baker.”

Faye looked up at Janet. Evan stared at her intently.

“I know where Baker lives, and tonight, hopefully, if he’s still there… I’m going to give him an execution like no other murderer has ever received. I have five coins waiting for him and I’m going to see what happens. I hope he feels each one. I hope he dies and comes back just to die again.” She let out a soft, crazy sounding laugh. “He’s going to suffer, no matter what, and I’m going to enjoy it, for us both.”

“Babe—” Faye tried to handle her, but Janet politely ignored her attempt.

Janet lifted out the bag, took a knee in the grass and dumped the contents into the green water. Micro-bubbles fizzled around it and dust swirled over an errant current of wind. She watched the contents partially sink at first, in clumps that looked like small drowning continents, and then as individual pieces that colored over with the dingy water.

“You need to tell the police,” Evan advised her.

“Even if they give him the death sentence, that’s an entire lifetime of knowing Baker got away with it,” said Faye, her look distant.

“Faye?” Evan raised his eyebrow.

“What does it matter, Evan? Janet can use the bottle and the coins to do good things.”

“This isn’t what I’d call a good thing.”

“You can help her, Evan. Go with her tonight.”

“No, wait a minute!” He held up his hands. “I don’t want to be around that, that, that monster thing again. Holy Christ, Faye, are you serious?”

Janet watched a trio of ducks emerge from the weeping willow shadows.

“Don’t you love Janet?” Faye asked him.

Skin going from pale to bloodless, Evan’s eyes darted between the two women. The question had made a major impact on him and it was uncomfortable to see how long he toiled with it. “Well I—she’s a good friend and if I—that is—”

Faye’s back straightened. “If we all want to start over, this is the way. Everything points back to this man. He ruined all of our lives. He’s the one who flicked the first domino.”

“So Janet murders him? That’s your answer.”

“She’s just giving him a handful of coins. It’s not the same at all.”

“I agree,” said Janet, feeling warm inside for the first time in a long time. She took Faye’s hand.

“If you care about our lives Evan, you’ll do this,” Faye told him.

Evan’s lips pressed together in an unattractive, pale line. He stood there, under their scrutiny and made no move. His mouth opened a few times before he could get his lips around the words.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be part of this.”

“Fine then,” Faye sighed.

“I mean us, Faye… I don’t want to be married to you anymore.”

“What?” she said, wagging her head. “Where in the hell did this come from?”

“I didn’t know if I could say it, but being here… saying goodbye to Herman and then you asking about Janet. I just can’t do this anymore. I’m done.”

Janet tugged on Faye. “Let’s just go call a cab. Let him get through whatever stupid shit he’s going through—”

Faye didn’t consider this option and still focused on her husband. “You said you believed me about the grove! You said—”

“I do believe you,” he answered, his head lowering, “I do, it’s just…it turns out that yes, I do love Janet. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone before.”

Jane closed her eyes. Son of a fucking bitch…

Faye’s shock passed over her, turning her to stone. Her mouth dropped but it took a minute before words formed. “Are you crazy?”

Evan let out a breath of relief and his eyes flicked to Janet pleadingly. “I love her, but she won’t take me back.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Janet spat.

Silence marinated between them, then slowly rotted.

Evan’s voice cut through the calm. “Go on then, go get yourself arrested or killed, both of you.” He stormed off into the bright green glow of grass and sunshine. “To hell with you!” he added, turning around momentarily.

Janet swallowed something nasty and tried to interpret Faye’s face from the side. It was an unreadable tableau.

“Faye, I’ve hated myself for a long time now. What else is there left to say? What do you want me to say? None of it will make you feel any better. I just don’t want to be in this alone. Please, just let him go. Come with me. Let’s just forget the past. It only hurts us, right?”

Faye pulled her hand out of Janet’s and walked away.

Vincent Baker dribbled the last bit of lighter fluid over the whore’s stomach, making it pool in her belly button. Her eyes were fierce and wild, mouth clenching her ball-gag in assumed curses, body sending vibrations through the wrought iron head board. The rich man, beside her, free of his bindings and gag, lay unconscious from the heavy sedative and soda Vincent had given him earlier.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he explained to the softly snoring man. “My intention was to find a way to let you escape, but plans have changed and I’ve got to get moving. Don’t take it personal. Just business is all.”

The fumes made Vincent burp uneasily into his fist. The whole apartment had been doused in the stuff and it was overpowering. Hopefully it all caught, but if it didn’t, whatever… Carlos had already taken all the equipment down to the truck. Everything else in the apartment, including the lease, had been purchased with a credit card for an Atlanta man six years dead, so they weren’t Vincent’s material items to really lose.

Vincent glanced around. He sort of liked that gargantuan mahogany entertainment center in the bedroom. It was easy to get behind to check wires and make adjustments. Have to look for something similar in a furniture store…

Carlos honked the horn outside.

“Impatient prick,” muttered Vincent as he took out his wallet. It was difficult to pull out the two forged credit cards while wearing latex gloves. He picked up the rich man’s much nicer Armani wallet, pushed the cards inside and shut the wallet up in a cookie tin on the night stand. This wasn’t as clean as engaging Highland-8 or another group for hire, but it was quick.

The whore made a growling sound, which surprised Vincent for all its depth behind the red rubber ball filling her mouth.

Well, quick for me, not for you honey.

He took out his lighter and put a flame to a puddle that had accumulated between her ankles. The fire caught at once and engulfed her feet, traveled in yellow-orange procession up her legs, over her pubis, where it fanned out and caught the rich man’s body as well. The sound of crackling fat, the gags of the whore, along with the fumes made a shot of vomit rise into Vincent’s mouth. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them into the fire, which already lapped the wall with hungry red-gold dragon tongues.

“See ya,” he said, hand over face.

He made sure to dead bolt the door and then silently went down the concrete stairs to the front of the apartment complex. Black beanie pulled down almost past his eyes, Carlos waited there in his F250, the engine idling noisily. Vincent climbed in. “Get a move on.”

Carlos shifted and wheeled the truck around. Night had fallen since they started this sudden move. It had been a long time coming and Carlos seemed happy for it. He’d hounded Vincent to leave ever since the crash with Josue. Vincent didn’t run away though, he relocated, and that only happened when he decided. Fear wouldn’t drive him.

They got on the 215 freeway and Vincent settled back in the plush seat and closed his eyes. “Did you take that bank bag out to the desert?” he asked,

“My girl did. Don’t worry, your name wasn’t involved.”

“I’m not worried. So then, what’s up with that? You never talk about her.”

“Who?”

“Your girl.” Vincent drew out the word in an idiotic way.

“Well, her name won’t be involved either.”

“Smartest thing you ever said.”

“You just haven’t known me long.”

“Thank God.” Vincent stretched his arms. “What’s your long term plan here? You get some nice heavy pockets, what then?”

Carlos wet his lips and pulled up his beanie a little to see the road better. “There are family members I’d like to bring up here. Maybe I can start a gardening business and they can work for me. I don’t know.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“Why change what works? I’ll just go on plundering.”

“Just doing what we’re doing until you’re old.”

“Until I’m dead, whichever comes first,” said Vincent thoughtfully. “I hope my life will be worth something when that happens.”

“You could be an organ donor.”

“I want to be a man of means.”

“Yeah? Big mansion and all that?”

“Not really. Probably not. I don’t like real estate. It seems…fishy to me,” said Vincent. “I just want the funds that it takes to be a better person.”

“Weird outlook.”

Vincent shrugged. “And what’s your net worth?”

“Hell if I know.”

“That’s right, because it doesn’t matter. You don’t matter.”

“Says you.” Carlos played with his radio, searching from commercial to commercial.

So much to do, thought Vincent as he got comfortable again. Find a hotel. Call his police contacts. Read the news. Make sure his assets were protected. He needed to sort through his spreadsheets and find a suitable corpse to finance his next location. Some leg work had to be done to get that working with grease, and then there were the bank accounts that needed reconciliation.

Oh no…

“Oh fuck, I can’t be that stupid. I can’t be…” Vincent grabbed his face and patted his forehead as though to draw out his thoughts faster.

Carlos changed into the slow lane. “What’s up?”

“Did you see me bring some fancy leather shoes?”

Carlos scowled. “What the hell are you talking about man?”

“Loafers, asshole, did you see me bring anything like that in the box of shoes I brought down?”

“Maybe, shit, I don’t remember.”

Vincent groaned. “No, no, I didn’t.”

“Who gives a shit about your shoes?”

“It’s not the shoes, stupid ass. My flash drive with all my accounts. That’s where I keep it, in one of those Gravati shoes. Fuck! I wasn’t thinking about it. Probably all that damn honking you were doing.”

“Don’t blame me! You don’t have a listing of the accounts on your computer, why?”

“Because, dick, I’m not betting my freedom on my desktop computer’s firewall, that’s why. Now turn around!”

“Oh that’s funny. Yes, please, officer—do sign me up for arson. No thanks.”

“Pull over, Carlos. Pull over and get out. I worked too hard for those listings to lose them now.”

“There’s a fire Vincent.”

“I’ll put out the goddamn fire.”

“No, this is your mistake. You have to live with this shit. Serves you right for acting all high and mighty—”

Vincent rammed his switchblade into Carlos’s neck and blood warmed his fingers. His partner stared at him with a goofy look of shock and pawed at the knife futilely. Vincent grabbed the wheel in his free hand and guided the truck into the breakdown lane. He brought his leg around the stick shift and tried to step on the brake. The truck gunned forward and slid back into the fast lane. The rear of a yellow van came flying closer.

Vincent released. “Holy shit!”

He tried the brake again. The truck’s engine churned and sped faster toward the van. Someone honked outside. He brought the truck back into the breakdown lane again. Vincent rocked forward, a muscle in his abdomen spasming, and then stepped hard on the brake. In a hurry he put the truck in neutral.

The truck halted. Carlos attempted to lift his hand but had bled too much already and his command over his body was gone. His bronze skin had lost its hue and his eyes searched through his distress for an answer. Vincent popped open the driver door. Carlos stared at him with a sick red grimace and tried to say something.

If he got anything out, Vincent didn’t hear.

Carlos’s body slammed to the dark ground and rolled down a storm culvert into a collection of obscure sage bushes. The headlights from cars flickered inside the truck, each time making Vincent grimace with vulnerability. He scooted over to the steering wheel. Aside for the sticky red glove on his right hand, he was quite amazed how little visible blood was left behind in the truck.

Which means dick if you’re caught, he reminded himself.

He peeled off, weaving through traffic, looking for

the next available exit, praying the fire had not spread to his closet, to the shoes.

6

Traffic on the 215 had been monstrous. When Janet finally arrived at Vincent Baker’s apartment, she discovered it locked and shrouded in cavernous looking shadows. She attempted unsuccessfully to slide a credit card through the jam. Since arriving the bottle was making all sorts of noises, and presently was engaged in another fit. Bubbling, gurgling and squealing at times. It was nerve-wracking, despite the isolation of this particular apartment, because she knew other people lived not ten feet below.

She wiggled the card once more and didn’t feel it catch. In middle school Janet and her friends had used their school IDs to open locked classrooms and maintenance rooms. So her method and practice should have been sound. Either the school doors had been cheap or she was too rusty at lock-picking, but it didn’t really matter one way or another; she wasn’t getting in like this.

She’d knocked on Baker’s door several times. The lights were on but signs of life were nil. The smell of barbeque hung faintly in the air. Someone must have been grilling nearby but she couldn’t find where.

Headlights blared downstairs as a vehicle pulled alongside the street. Janet swallowed her thudding heartbeats and put the credit card back in her pocket. All she had to do was talk Baker into taking the coins. She’d gone over it in her head a thousand times. He was a man. Straight or gay, he’d give a strange woman some time. He’d listen. She’d smile. Pardon me. Are these yours? I found them here. Then she would spill those death tokens into his hand and watch for the Fury.

And Baker would die. Five times. Suffer those poor children’s previous fates.

Janet smiled in spite of her shiver. It was getting colder out. She had no idea how Vincent Baker looked, but something told her she’d know him when she saw him.

A car door slammed hollowly in the night and footsteps echoed. In the shadows she waited for the new arrival to climb the stairs. She arched her neck and listened for how close they were. Another set of footsteps unexpectedly accompanied the first. The slapping, clicking of high heels.

Oh shit, she thought, he has someone with him.

Joyful conversation rose and fell as a couple turned down the sidewalk leading to the other building. Janet shook her head in self-disgust.

To her right was a window with a screen. The glass looked strange, a little concave almost. She wrapped her gloved fingers around the frame and easily popped the screen off. Even through her cotton gloves the screen had been warm to touch in the relatively cool winter night. She set the screen against the iron railing behind her. With a glance left to double check, she put her hands against the glass and pulled them away from the surprising heat there. The molding around the window, she could see, had become gummy and loose. Near a heater maybe?

Janet pushed her shoulder into the window and the pane gave away with a sludgy, smacking sound. The glass fell into the apartment, flinging the cloth drapes away in a brief bellow, and then struck something inside with a deep, glassy cluung!

She stood back in disbelief. That barbecue smell inundated her now, like she’d opened a smokehouse room with beef jerky and sausages hanging from the ceiling. There was also a strange, astringent smell that lurked in the general sooty ambience.

With care, Janet moved the drapes aside. The apartment within assaulted the senses. Scorched paths raced from floor to ceiling, crosswise on the carpet, over the walls. A tube TV had thrown a dramatic spread of glittering glass over the blackened areas, looking like diamonds in a coal mine. In the far corner, particulates fought with each other in a generous cone of light cast from a single stand lamp, which had suffered some burn wounds of its own. Janet made out the sturdy, upright red shape of a fire extinguisher sitting on an art deco coffee table. Foam trailed from its hose.

What had gone on here? Burning of evidence? An accident?

Janet brought her leg through the window, her jeans flexing tightly at the motion. She pulled through the opening and let the drapes draw away as she stepped into Vincent Baker’s apartment. The bottle made a gur-gur-gur-greeeee sound as she went. She had thought about leaving it behind but since that last violent passing she’d experienced, Janet couldn’t go anywhere without the bottle by her side.

She crossed a hall to a rather large bedroom for such a low-rent apartment. Most of the walls had sustained major burn damage. A charred closet door was thrown open and several jackknifed pairs of shoes lay chaotic across the floor. Janet hadn’t studied the room completely when something twitched in her peripheral vision.

The bed had been, for all intents and purposes, an ash heap, a concentrated source of the now-defeated fire. Janet had first mistaken the blackened husks on the bed as the shapes of bedding, maybe a large comforter destroyed with the rest, but as she came closer to the edge, she saw the two human beings there, nearly burnt to the bone.

The larger of the two bodies flashed its teeth, which were bright white in contrast to the blackened flesh surrounding it. A slow wheeze, followed by a fizzy sound, emerged from the burn victim’s mouth. The deathly ill sound reminded her of something the bottle would utter.

“Hold on,” she said.

Janet tilted the bottle over the dying person. Almost seeming eager, the brownish red fluid poured free and baptized the charcoal creature that had once been human.

In only a second’s time, pieces of flesh crawled over the body and twisted together, to fold and glow with the paint of new life. Janet stood back and watched the carbon run together with red and pink and white, building and rebuilding in a symphony of restoration. Great white shoots of hair erupted from the individual’s head. Three lumps grew from the crotch, inflating and heating at their core, bringing back male genitals. Threads of red swirled and stiffened over the man’s chest, creating nipples. The Caucasian skin brightened and stretched, though it did not go taut, much of it sagging and wrinkling with age. Liver spots appeared, seeming to strike the body in random places like falling rain.

A coin erupted from the old man’s mouth and his thin gray eyebrows rose in wonder. Janet stooped down with the coin purse. She opened its clasp and nudged the coin inside with her tennis shoe, not trusting her cotton gloves.

The man’s mouth was moving. He was trying to form words. Janet closed the purse and leaned closer to hear him.

“What… how…” he kept repeating.

“I can’t explain it now,” she whispered into his newly formed ear, “but I need you to tell me now if you are Vincent Baker.”

The man digested the name for a moment. “Vincent?” he asked.

She nodded.

Slowly the man moved his eyes to something in the room. Janet followed his line of sight to a tall, largely unburned entertainment center in the corner of the room.

Janet turned all the way around and looked more closely. The bottle wobbled spastically and thrashed out of her hand. She had no time to wonder what that was all about, however, for a bald man with a long goatee stepped from behind the entertainment center, switchblade in his hand.

Evan waited in the Jeep, listening to a Social Distortion song explain how high school was such a bore, while he maniacally drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He could tell nobody had been home at Baker’s apartment and Janet was trying her hand at breaking and entering. Evan had only followed to make sure she wasn’t going to get hurt. If she got arrested, that was on her.

He’d tried to call Faye after the appointment with her OBGYN had finished, but she wasn’t answering his calls. She would have called if the baby was in trouble. He deserved being shunned, he guessed, for being honest now when he should have just been honest in the beginning. Lately whenever he saw Faye, he was just going to see her up against a shed in that orange grove, some strong Mexican guy gleefully drilling her from behind, while she luxuriated in every thrust. That never happened, but it was so easy to envision, it might as well have been true.

He didn’t know what to think. He just knew she was guilty. And that didn’t matter. He had fallen out of love with her. That was that. Janet would have been perfect if she just discovered the robot underneath Faye’s skin.

What am I doing here? Screw both of them. They’re both selfish people.

No, he loved Janet.

But on the other hand, Evan had to admit Faye did make him feel needed.

But that wasn’t enough. Right?

Right?

He’d wanted to put the fling past him but he couldn’t. He wasn’t built that way. And he’d wanted to hurt Faye for how she’d hurt him, but had held off a long time. That was beyond difficult, and yet he’d done it for both women. Did they care? Fuck no.

Then, just when he figured Faye had broken all ties to Janet, there she was at the duck pond, ready to become best friends again. That couldn’t happen. It may have been a horrible time to do it, but now there was a clean wedge between the two women. Any future dealings with them would be more pleasant for everybody, especially if Faye’s kid did turn out to be his.

Evan noticed Janet had disappeared from outside the apartment stairwell. Drapes blew outward from a window upstairs. He shook his head. If Baker had ended up being there, Evan intended on going up, maybe.

But now she was inside an apartment of a wanted criminal. What if the guy came back? Evan was no hero. He certainly couldn’t beat some thug with his bare hands.

He waited for five minutes, watching the landing, hoping to see Janet come back out. There was a baseball bat in the back of the Jeep. Yeah, and if the guy had a gun?

Evan decided it was silly to worry until someone actually showed up. He would calmly wait and see how things turned out.

Vincent Baker crashed into Janet’s sternum before she could react. It happened like a force of nature. He was on top of her, pinning her right arm under his knee, heavy peppermint breath in her face. She saw his knife-hand dive clumsily for her neck—she twisted away—the blade split through the brown carpeting. She caught a glimpse of the bottle on its side. Its waters rushed out, crawling over the floor like billons of kneading onyx fingers. The gurgling screech that came from within the bottle startled her attacker.

“—the shit is that?”

The naked old man sat up in the bed and this frightened Vincent more; this time he nearly jumped in the air. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Let that woman go, you piece of trash,” said the man, huffing for breath.

Beads of sweat dappled the tanned peak of Vincent’s bald head. He shook his head, reached down and snatched the coin purse. He pointed the knife at Janet. “I’m gonna find out who you are and what your deal is and soon you’ll be less than nothing, bitch.”

The frothing black waters stretched out and Vincent hopped back from it and stumbled for the front room. “Crazy fucking shit!”

Like someone half his age, the old man leapt from the bed. The water receded from his feet and gave him a clear path out of the blackened bedroom.

Janet got to her feet, legs quivering, knots already forming in her lower back. She limped forward and watched the surreal sight of the old man throwing himself headlong into Vincent’s legs. Just at the apartment’s threshold, the coin purse flew out of Vincent’s hand and the impact opened the clasp.

Janet’s stomach dropped at the metallic sound of coins spilling. Interior light from the apartment glanced off some of their bronze surfaces as they fell over the edge. The coin purse lay against the railing in the darkness.

Vincent whirled and stabbed the old man through the shoulder. He wiggled the knife around inside the wound, gritting his large square teeth together, nostrils dilated like midnight chasms. The damage to the man’s shoulder didn’t illicit the response Vincent had been looking for—the old man’s hatred had him numb. He grasped Vincent’s hand and held the knife in place. Making a fist with his other hand, the old man slammed his knuckles into the twisted face below him, over and over again. Blood blossomed in Vincent’s face and ran into his brown-gold goatee. He let go of the knife, leaving it in the old man’s shoulder and yelled out as the bottle’s waters surged from the bedroom.

Janet came forward to help him and caught Vincent’s foot to her stomach. Air blew from her lungs, she fell back and landed on her ass, the bottle’s waters hissing around her in avoidance.

She looked up through a haze of cramping pain to see Vincent lurch onto the balcony and once again swipe up the coin purse. She caught her breath and rolled over to stand up. The old man must have finally taken notice of the strange water because he sprung to his feet and went barreling outside.

Holding her ribs, Janet followed. Vincent crossed the sidewalk below with all the confidence of someone who had fled many brutal engagements. He was even looking inside the coin purse as he went, pretending like it was his or something.

Janet glanced down to the planter area below. How many coins had spilled out? A couple? One? All of them? The bushes, flowers and hedge row would make it difficult to find them. It might take a good long while. There was certainly no time for that.

The old man descended the stairs in his bare feet. Janet was about to go down behind him when she saw Vincent abruptly stop walking and stare into his hand.

A trembling laugh consumed Janet then.

FURY

The fuck was this all about—? Try to make out the currency, looks foreign—why in the hell would someone bring this to my place—? Then again, there was living water upstairs so anything strange gets a pass today—weird though, get this feeling like the coin doesn’t belong to me, but I’ve taken it—never experienced ill feelings over theft before, which is beyond funny, especially with how foreign this feels—it really doesn’t belong to me, shouldn’t make it my own, but I have—seems more than a sin, like I’m breaking a law of nature—

Just realized, stopped walking to the truck, need to get a move on, crazy rich man’s going to come and tackle me again—can’t move, want to, can’t—am nauseous, burning up, insides boiling, bones brittle as I stand here—what’s happening to me—? Feel like I just caught cancer in its final stage, or what I’d imagine it would feel like to have your body turn against you—holy shit, this isn’t going to stop, is it—?

Coin throbs and bubbles in my palm—it could just melt into water at any moment—it doesn’t seem to be made of a metal at all—the woman brought this dark magic to my place, hear her coming down the stairs—now, getting my legs to work, moving so slow though—worthless to move on—scrub at the drying blood on my chin, a bunch of hairs in my chin beard come away—

A blood soaked monster lunges around the corner, dragging a dragon’s tail behind it—slithering red trail on the sidewalk leads from the shadows to where it stands—the thing has an evil fucking face, like a great white shark with armored scales, but there’s only one eye in its head, the other seems to have rotted out long ago—it staggers forward with a snarl and a voice comes from behind the rows of serrated teeth—

Too much—fall to my knees, head whirling, blood feels poisoned, can’t hardly breathe—think the magic woman from my apartment is standing behind me, watching, will the monster come after her too, after it’s done with me—? Hope so—

“What were three are now one, and I am Fury—”

The desire to curse at the monster passes over me, but save my energy—

“You have a chance to stay my vengeance,” says the Fury—the voice pleads— “Do you know the song—? The song my heart wants so badly to hear—?”

Remember a song from one of Mrs. Horrace’s old mythology books—it was about the Three Furies—or maybe my mind is withering with the rest of my body—

Fuck it—give it a shot— that thing wants to chew me up with those teeth—

“The River has no surface, has no bottom.

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.

The River is not deep, is not shallow,

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.”

The coin bursts into gray steam and my palm burns with invisible fire—shake my hand and press it protectively to my body—my energy returns suddenly, my blood fires up, my muscles fill out, my heart beats with a new, wonderful rhythm—

The Fury is sobbing—it steps up to me—it reaches into its mouth, pries back the shark mouth—an affluence of red blood flows from the terrible perforation—and there is a human head, covering in aquatic gore, it’s smiling, it looks thankful—the entire creature flickers like a dying image from a dissolving film reel—the smell of the sea and the smell of bronze fills the air—

“I am Fury—” it says— “what was one is now… none—”

The monster’s body collapses into nothing—

Not waiting around any longer—this whole place is cursed—don’t know if I’m being punished for how I lived my life but I’m not going to hang around to find out—hell, no—

Check my pants pocket for the flash drive—good, still there—my legs feel great building up speed—just was dying, not but five minutes ago—dying, really, like I got instant AIDS, what a bitch—shit, always will remember that song, teach it to my kids if I ever find the time for some—that tub of lard Horrace turned out to be good for something after all—crying, I’m actually crying, so fucking happy to be alive—deep, deep breaths—where’s Carlos’s fucking truck—?

Janet knew her life had really changed when seeing a monster was more believable than what happened in the street.

Vincent Baker had escaped somehow. The Fury had come for him and Vincent had become a shadow of himself, quickly losing a battle with whatever ailment he’d acquired from the coin, and then, only moments after, he recovered. The Fury, on the other hand, did something akin to self decapitation and then just winked out of existence.

This would have left most people agape, but it wasn’t until Vincent Baker went running out to the street, perhaps to find his car, that something truly shocking occurred.

A dark green truck crashed into Vincent, sending him twirling in the air like a human pinwheel. His body banged down on the concrete with brisk impact. Out of adrenaline maybe, Vincent lifted his upper body and looked around in confusion, just as the truck continued forward. The front tire forced his head to the ground, his jaw separated and moved sideways, and then a colossal grenade-burst of white and red skull shrapnel fanned over the street. The back tire rolled over Vincent Baker’s body casually like a speed bump, but a broken spine didn’t matter at this point: the deed had already been accomplished.

What the Fury hadn’t accomplished, a rubber tire had.

The man who killed Melody was dead.

Janet ran to the curbside. Her right set of ribs still stung from where Vincent had kicked her and it burned while she breathed. As she approached the grisly scene, a pang of disappointment took her. She’d never get to ask Vincent about Melody, about that day. Any chance to tell him what he’d done to her life was long gone…

Blood pooled around his crushed body, soaking into his blue t-shirt and khaki pants, flooding a pair of loafers that hugged his ankles tightly.

Janet looked into the cab of the truck. The old man from the apartment sat in the front seat, his head against the steering wheel and his body hitching with sobs. He turned his shot eyes to her and she nodded at him. He nodded back.

Thank you, she thought, though she imagined he hadn’t done it for her.

After a few moments, the man put the truck in drive and took off. Janet wondered where he’d go now, much like she wondered where she would.

The Fury was dead. What did that mean for the bottle? Would the coins still work the same way? If there was no enforcement now, maybe the bottle could just help people. She could save the coins or throw them into the damn ocean for all it mattered. The bottle could give people new chances at life. She could make frequent visits to children’s hospitals, in fact. And without the Fury enforcing death, there would be no more painful passings. This could be the start of something really good for a change.

That was, of course, if the bottle cooperated.

Janet looked up to the light crossing over the balcony above. She wasn’t leaving without the bottle. Abandoning it wasn’t a thought she could or would stomach.

She took the stairs with purposeful speed. She didn’t hear anybody out in the street yet, but vehicular manslaughter had just been committed, so it wouldn’t be long before the cops and ambulances and all the surrounding snoops were out and about.

The flooded apartment made not one ripple, the water’s surface inky and its smell like decomposing vegetation. A small area on the carpet near the door remained bare and this led to a wider opening in the kitchen where a tall woman stood, waiting.

She was nude with a dark gray complexion, glassy river rocks pebbling each shoulder, agate eyes and leafy green-black algae for hair. She took a step toward Janet and hisses came from her bouncing breasts, the nipples flickering with serpent tongues.

“Are you another Fury?”

“I am Nyx,” she said, raising one water logged twig of an eyebrow. Her eyes had long been crying and there was madness in their sorrow.

Janet thought of running but instead fixated on the being. “You are from the bottle?”

The bottle glided out of the bedroom, leaning on the waters as it went, coming to rest near the carpeted shore near Nyx’s gray toes. “The bottle is from me, little one, not the other way around. Now tell me, where is the man I’ve helped you find?”

“You helped me?”

“In the hospital, here tonight—I’ve tracked this man since I first smelled him on your hound in the desert.”

“What does that mean?”

“He left his mark on your pet, on your husband, on you. The smell goes bone-deep. I risked much to conjure new waters for him to ride. Now that the Fury is gone, I must take my chances and begin again. Where is Vincent Baker?”

“Dead.”

A flare of anger went through Nyx’s inhuman face. “He knew the Fury’s song. I heard it singing in his mind. That song can be recalled by few living mortals in this time. I again ask you where he is. Lying to me will bring you much pain, little one.”

“Vincent Baker is dead. I saw it happen just minutes ago.”

Nyx’s bottom lip quivered, as though she was on the verge of bawling. “The Fury could not take him!”

Janet laughed. “Well, it turns out Ford could.”

Tears flooded Nyx’s angry eyes. “You are telling the truth, it seems.”

“Happily so.”

Nyx’s nipples trilled with their snake tongues, equally disturbed. “Things have changed, little one. Vincent was perfect. With no time or effort he would have been the new Broker of Souls, the man to sail my waters… he understood value.

“Now I am left with you, Janet Erikson. You showed cunning in the hospital, but you narrowly understand value. A dead child and its father, that’s all you can grasp. That is a single dimension inside a billion prisms of life.

“I’ve waited this long and I have no choice but to retain my patience. You will have to learn, little one, and grow. Even if you survive my waters, it may take thousands of years of anguish, it may take until the dawning of a new intelligence in the world of mortals, but one day I can hope for you to retain the song, to hear my lessons, to become the solitary sailor of my new river, Hythia. You will navigate the ferry and relish the passing of all souls.”

“All of them? So if I do this…is it possible I will see Herman and Melody?”

Nyx shook her head. “I could lie and tell you this is so, but that is no way to begin. Those mortals, your husband, your daughter, they are lost to this universe, part of the last scheme. Now only paying souls can wander the lands of the dead. It is a restored era.”

Janet stood up straighter. “You’re telling me they died at the wrong time?”

“You mock me.”

“No,” Janet said carefully, “I’m just turning down your job.”

“You’re turning down immortality.”

Janet turned to run.

“It wasn’t an offer,” said Nyx.

A hand grabbed Janet’s ankle and she hit the floor hard. She kicked and pulled to free herself but the arm stretching from the black surface brought her into the water, down to her hip. She clutched the carpet, thrashing her legs. In the murky regions below, Nyx’s face creased with bladed teeth, unfathomable heartbreak around the pits of her eyes. Another tug on her leg and Janet’s entire body went below the waterline, and there she lost her grip on this world.

Evan crept up the stairs, baseball bat quivering in his hand. Nobody was inside the apartment. From the looks of things, a fire had been started earlier and ultimately squelched. He’d wondered if he took too long making up his mind. The opportunity had presented itself. He’d seen a bald man crashing out the front door, saw Janet’s purse of death coins spill over the balcony, but Evan could only hunker alongside the building and watch. When the Fury came out, he just couldn’t hang any longer and ran for his car.

But he was here now. Only, everybody had left. The apartment was empty.

He spotted the bottle sitting on the floor nearby. Evan picked it up, surprised at how full it felt.

Voices played in the street on the other side of the complex. Something was amiss over there. Maybe the police were on their way. Quickly, he hightailed it out of the apartment, bottle in one hand, bat in the other.

He got back to the Jeep and felt queasy. Janet’s truck was still where she parked it earlier. It was crazy. He’d seen her go back up to the room and he’d only returned to get his bat. That hadn’t taken long. So what had happened?

Where had Janet gone?

CHAPTER III

The Baby

Janet never enjoyed being under water. As a child she could remember being the only kid at the pool party who didn’t fight over the snorkel. She couldn’t bear it. She had to wear earplugs, pinch her nose shut and never stayed under for long. The whole experience rang as unnatural to her.

In the place Nyx had taken her, Janet learned that her fears only began there and extended far beyond.

After blacking out, she slowly regained consciousness, sensing motion but not seeing much of anything to suggest that was the case. Water pressed into her sinus, filled her lungs to the point of bursting. There was no need for breathing in this place, however. Janet understood that the River was not life or death; it was movement between the two, not purgatory, but a realm of evolution, constant transmogrification and transformation and mutation, as it were, a birth canal with life at one side and death at the other. And, she realized, she was pointed towards neither.

Murky images of rocks and hanging seaweed gradually filled her vision. Bubbles of all size and wobbling shapes traveled around her—they filtered through the rocks below and escaped to the ceiling a couple feet above. This place was a tomb of some sort. A moving tomb. She still had that sense of traveling, quickly, to some place or to no place.

A long wooden stick was wedged in the opposite rock wall where millions of angry vermillion things swirled around in an endless fit. They looked fishlike, but had no stable structure; even when her eyes locked onto one that moved slower than the rest, it was a stop-frame capture picture of a fish in spinning motion.

She attempted to lay still but the rock beneath her had heated to blistering. Her clothing was gone and her naked body had not handled the trip well; folds of torn skin hung from her body and tiny clouds of blood plumed from the lacerations as she moved. Trying to escape the heat below her, she reached for the rocky canopy overhead.

At once, the rocks closed around her fingers. At first she considered this a strike of good luck—she would be held in place while the rocks below had time to cool down, or if not, she at least wouldn’t be boiled. But the once helpful rocks above continued to clamp down. Janet tried to pull free but with every effort they constricted harder around her hand. She let out a wail, but no bubbles came from her throat. The silence of it all alarmed her more than the creaking and shattering of finger bones.

Blood emitted from the rocks in gentle puffs. Her fingers dislodged as they became a formless pulp. She felt her body dropping down to the hotter water beneath. She beat her palms against the rocks and attempted to swim forward. Her fingers were slowly recapturing some semblance of form, but every stroke through the water, she soon learned, was a wasted effort.

She couldn’t move.

Janet was powerless, subject to the outside world like a dead branch drifting on a stream that bumps into an occasional obstacle and changes direction but is wholly without mastery of its course.

Branch…

She looked at the stick jutting from the wall. Maybe she could grab hold of that and kick her feet to lift her body between these walls. That seemed unlikely, but no alternative offered itself otherwise.

Janet stretched out her arm. Her warped middle finger tapped the end of the stick. A red streak of shadow dove into her finger and locked on. One of the fish-things gnawed at her finger with spiny teeth, tearing at the throbbing nerves. She yanked her hand back and thrashed it all around her. The fish would not unlock its jaw and she felt a slimy sensation spreading through her veins.

Clabbery chunks of skin sloughed off her forearm. Janet’s body went into a type of stasis. Her mind perceived that if the fish’s venom travelled through her entire body, she would become, not dead, but finally as inanimate as these rocks around her. She continued to thrash, though her strength faded. The fish-thing squirmed gleefully on her mutilated finger.

Janet’s body fell towards the volcanic heat below and the approaching warmth awakened a new thought. She dropped her hand beneath her back and pressed the fish into the heat. The fish released her finger at once. She let go another silent scream as red-gold scales drifted up around her.

With new determination, Janet reached for the stick. Countless more fish darted around the area for chunks of flesh floating in space. At the movement of her hand, they all turned their energy on her. In the next second, she was covered from head to toe with the little bastards. Venom surged through her. She stopped thrashing and let her entire body touch down on the red-hot rocks below.

A turbulent rush of bubbles and scales littered through the water. She couldn’t see through them, and her body was shutting down from the assault and the burning it had just received, but she reached forward anyway, reached out to find that stick so she could pull herself out of this riverbed hell.

And she got hold of it. As soon as her fingers closed around the stick, she brought over her other hand and caught it. The stick came loose and all the surrounding rocks rolled back into the aquatic darkness and vanished. The effects of the venom seemed to go with them.

Janet treaded in the depths alone. She moved her arms, which moved the stick.

Not a stick.

An oar.

It felt like any other wooden oar, she imagined, but the biggest difference was that this oar had given back her freedom. She started pushing through the water’s density with ease, her body generating astonishing velocity forward.

Darkness was above, and below, but she kept going.

The teeth she mistook for mountains at first.

Janet continued striking the oar through the water, which had turned from pitch black to dark gray. She took that as a sign of progress but then began to wonder if the water had always been gray and her mind had played tricks on her.

Then the teeth gradually rose in the distance and she accepted that her eyes could distinguish more in the new brackish environment.

Below her, as always, darkness reigned forever, and above her the gray field lightened.

She made for the underwater mountains and discerned the white speckled gum line the teeth extruded from, thinking it was sand. Then the teeth, still miles from her, came more into focus and she perceived they had her surrounded from every side. She wasn’t inside the mouth of a giant sea creature, but that would soon change as the mouth snapped closed.

Desperately, she stabbed the water with her oar. Large boulders floated in space above. They were covered in toxic looking purple barnacles and hanging with venous, olive colored algae. Janet grappled the sides of these boulders and propelled up faster.

The teeth were well above her now, but she didn’t stop. She had to keep going. If she could make it topside, what would happen? Was it possible? Would she break through the surface of the water in Vincent Baker’s apartment? Or was this all futile?

Her strength waned. She grasped onto a boulder for a moment, then used her oar to push off and kicked her legs fiercely up. An awful theory settled on her mind. While she may be moving upward, for all she knew, she was going downward…

She didn’t want those teeth to close over her, she didn’t want to live in this place for thousands of years like Nyx had said, and she didn’t want to do this alone, without Herman, without Faye or Evan. Having them here might have been worth more than this oar.

For you, said a voice in her consciousness. These are the fallacies of mortal life. Like a good bottle of mead, it holds such promise when its seal is first broken and cork pulled free, but as the mead runs out, everything good quickly goes and the entire contents of the bottle mean less and less, quicker and quicker, and soon the mead is only a memory to be forgotten. The real story has been told and drips slowly to a terminus.

Mortals value life out of fear, not love. Take that fear away and death is the only valuable thing in the universe.

Janet’s mouth moved without words to say, “Go fuck yourself.”

She beat the oar madly.

The teeth soared above, great demonic icebergs crashing together at the top of the universe. They met in a perfect overlapping union and any light through the gray collapsed into penetrating blackness. Still, Janet fought on, thoughts of escaping through the teeth, somehow, some way, in the back of her mind. She may not have Herman or Melody, but she’d always have their memories and one day, yes, she too would die and rest all of this anger and sadness, once and for all. She would not be everlasting. She would fight for death. Not life after death. Just death. Peace.

The end of her oar smacked one of the floating boulders. Her shoulder buckled at the impact and her sore hands reacted fruitlessly. Her fingers unfurled and she let the oar go. She tried to swim back for it, but without the oar her body froze again. It was stuck in the space, just like the boulders.

Janet closed her eyes and felt the words of a song powerfully drill into her soul.

The River has no surface, has no bottom.

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.

The River is not deep, is not shallow,

An Abyss is never bound,

Not by up and down.

She sang the song for an eternity. She could sense her organs rearrange, tiny fishes seep into her veins in place of blood, and above, in the lands of the living, she started to appreciate how full Nyx’s coffers would get, how roaring this grim economy would come to be. This thrilled her, but one idea didn’t sit as well. Perhaps in time it would, but right now, it still riled the remainder of human emotion she possessed. It was the idea that her baby, her Melody, had been a voided check, that her husband, Herman, was the same. They were worthless…of all the souls waiting on the shore with coins in their hand, Melody and Herman would not be among them.

But millions of strangers already were, and Vincent Baker was among them.

His soul had value.

And without prejudice she would board him and the others, to give them passage to the Underworld.

Tears wanted to form in Janet’s eyes, but even if they had, this place would not let them exit the husk that used to be her body.

You’ve learned much quickly.

Janet trembled. Then, with tenderness, slippery cold arms slid under her legs and behind her head.

Cradled her.

2

“You wanted to go on…I would have never suspected you wanted to live so badly.”

Janet heard what Nyx whispered in her ear, but it hardly made sense. She would have debated the God had she not been drunk on ambrosia.

Nyx suspected her disagreement and added, “I was prepared to have a long arduous search—because in the past you have embraced death, unlike most mortals who shun it. I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve ended up like the rest…tired of pain, but wanting to breathe all the same. You should have come by your torment honestly, but you’re a fake, Janet Erikson.”

Janet grinded her teeth into the nipple. It was thick and tasted like seaweed and saltwater, and at times, blood, but not by any of the damage she was doing. Another draught of clean ambrosia spilled in her mouth, casting its golden path down her esophagus and into her stomach. Her body had been unbelievably unnourished on the mere dribbles before that, as though she’d grown different muscle groups and couldn’t operate them without more food.

Nyx roughly pushed on her breast to let down more milk.

More ambrosia did come and Janet eagerly sucked at it. Nyx had to readjust her breast for a moment, the nipple came free of Janet’s mouth, and the agony of the mere separation drew Janet into a sorrowful rage of wailing and thrashing. Her face filled with hot blood and tears came out of the sides of her eyes in bubbles. She was lost, so small, a disaster of creation, hideous, absolutely hideous without her sustenance. The violence of her fit made her regurgitate some of the golden fluid and it spread throughout the dark waters in thinly brilliant threads and snakes.

Such a loss! How much had that vomit been worth? All of this milk had made her stronger and her mind clearer…to waste it because of a weak stomach was catastrophic and unforgivable. How much had it been? A teaspoon? Tablespoon? Cup? If someone could sell a cup of this beautiful drink, how much would it go for? A million dollars to start, and maybe a few hundred slaves to add? No, more. It must be more.

Since being drawn down into the God’s seaweed palace, Janet’s mind had been preoccupied on the value of everything great and small. She couldn’t help it; Nyx was teaching silent lessons without saying much of anything, but those lessons were heard and appreciated. Most of Janet’s past life had been shoved to the farthest point of her selfish mind, much in the way her need for alcohol or suicide had been. She could still access them and recall what they meant at one time, but it was all so…worthless now. All of that stuff was elemental, transient, and should just vanish by way of the ever-flowing waters around her.

“Gently,” Nyx warned, as Janet tore excitedly at the nipple. The God would say these things more for a display of humanness and less for a reaction to any pain, if such a thing existed for the being.

Janet’s new eyes could see underwater with more clarity, though there wasn’t much to see except swaying seaweed and swirling currents carrying particulates and pebbles in dynamic helixes. It was a lonely place, the River, but Janet was beginning to understand its purpose; this was the only stepping stone into the Underworld, a place where a soul would retain its consciousness even after the death of its host body. As a mortal, such a place would mean offering a payment for safe passage. The coin became part of the River itself and made Nyx vital.

The ultimate joke played on the mortals was never truly appreciated, for it was a secret only Nyx and now Janet could know.

All of a mortal’s life memories were extinguished upon reaching the Underworld. Their love, their pain, their beginning, their middle, their ending. Gone from them and cast into the brew that was the River. The consciousness of a mortal did continue on though, as promised, but in the form of a dull-witted ghost that wandered through a godless, lifeless place, which Nyx gladly thought of as a waste dump.

There is no Hades? No Lord of the Underworld? Janet thought while feeding.

“Once, there were five Gods of the Underworld. This Hades was not one of them, nor was he a real entity, but even if he had been, he would have gone extinct with the rest. Mortals were given too many privileges in life and in death, and it all came to a head.”

How did you survive?

“I was wise enough to employ someone like you who valued the River and couldn’t bear to see it dry up forever.”

What is the River really made of?

“Tragedy.” Nyx’s black smile opened in the waters above. “It is the only potent memory mortals leave behind in their lives. It has the greatest worth. Every other memory is laid to waste.”

But not everybody has tragedies.

“You are greatly wrong. There is no other common memory shared among mortal kind. It is inevitable mortals find something dark to dwell upon in their last moments. Death is not a process for them like with animals. It is an abomination they have no use for… even older mortals, full of pain and rot, may wish for release, but no longer desire death when it comes.”

What about the fly? I used the River’s waters on a fly. It yielded a coin.

“All life, even plants—even microbes, experience tragedy in their way. It isn’t human tragedy of course and it is never as nourishing, but I welcome it all.”

How can that be?

“That fly experienced something you couldn’t appreciate and it has nothing to do with grieving over its death or the death of the eggs it would never have a chance to lay. That fly had one note of discord ringing through its heart as its systems shut down: How will I ever be a fly now? That is a common premise with lower life forms. Humans are the only who feel sorry for themselves and think nothing about their value as living things. They place value on things outside themselves and generate more pain and tragedy in one soul than a whole world of flies could.”

I was like that. I feared I’d live down in these waters, suffering all this pain and misery, and being alone the whole time. I wanted to live again so I could find somebody to spend time with. That is why you found me, wasn’t it?

“Yes, if you had embraced misery, I would not have found you. That need to live brought you to me. Now that you’ve shed those deplorable traits, you can help bring me back. Soon, you’ll ascend to the living world and finish this.”

No! I want to drink more.

“Then do so, but remember that I’m not whole yet. This can’t go on for much longer. My milk will not last another feeding.”

Janet wanted to bawl her eyes out for the news, but she knew that doing so would detach her from the ambrosia supply and that was something that positively could not be suffered.

Faye sat at the table, staring at the full glass of water. She wasn’t thirsty, but had poured the glass and wanted to finish what she started. Evan pensively studied her, waiting for her to respond to his heart-pouring-out. She didn’t want him back in the house. It had taken her a while but she had come to grips with the woman from the orange groves. That wasn’t an alternate self, it was who Faye really was, and the doppelganger had been the woman once called Evan Ledbetter’s wife.

He could never process this, but Faye had a feeling Janet could. Faye didn’t hate herself for walking out on Janet that day at the pond, but she didn’t much care for how long it had taken her to finally forgive her friend.

Now Janet was missing when Faye could really use her help, especially after the doctor’s bad news.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Evan prodded. “I’m telling you I was wrong. I’m saying I made a mistake and I want you and our child back. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

Faye picked a couple errant bread crumbs off the table cloth and flicked them on the floor. The act was a little unnerving and it didn’t suit her. She supposed her new-self and her old-self still would be walking every crumb over to the trash can, but they shared in that happiness.

“Faye?”

“I heard you.”

“Which part?”

“Everything,” she said with a sigh. “But there is something you don’t know and I’m not sure how you’re going to take this.”

“After all we’ve been through, it’s safe to say I can handle whatever it is.”

Faye straightened her shoulders. “Okay, I’ll tell you then. I lied about the doctor’s appointment. It didn’t go well. It isn’t good Evan… it…”

He looked about ready to spring out of his skin. “What the hell, Faye? Tell me.”

She swallowed and let the words roll forth. “The baby, if it even survives to term and then delivery, will not survive more than a day or so. A miracle would be a week or so, on life support, but the heartbeat is already faint.”

Evan rounded the table. His horrified face was sincere and it almost made her cry. He put a quaking hand on her stomach bump. She let him keep it there and stare down, as though he had x-ray vision and could see what mayhem oxygen-deprivation could inflict on a fetus.

Evan’s voice shook. “No…”

His eyes filled and he bowed his head. “Faye,” he said sadly. “What do we do?”

“It’s not your problem.”

His face snapped up. He wasn’t used to her not kissing his ass and it took him off guard. “Are you going to… what are you going to do then? Without me? What will you do?”

“I can figure it out without you.”

Evan flushed with humiliation and resentment. He stood over her, muscles going taut in his neck. He appeared to her like a man about to throw down, but she knew he wouldn’t hit her. He would take a drive to clear his mind and then he would return to plead his case again.

“I’m going to take Lester for a walk.”

Or that.

He grabbed the leash off the water cooler and plowed through the back door.

Faye waited there, feeling cold and alone in her little unhappy home. She glanced up from her glass of water to the water cooler. The fluid glub-glub-glubbed and still sloshed around from Evan’s hand bumping it.

That water, so sparkling and crystalline, curative…

Faye got up from the table and went the guest room, where she knew Evan had hidden the bottle.

Evan tugged fiercely at Lester’s choke chain and came to the end of the sidewalk. He could go east or west or north. Too many damned decisions. He couldn’t be certain which to take. Supposing he walked too far and hit the main boulevard, he could always come back and try down this other street.

He had no damned sense of direction.

He started going north. Lester kept fighting him.

“Hey, you’re lucky I came back for you, pal. You’d be dead in a hotel room without me.”

Lester whined and continued on reluctantly.

“Fuck this, I don’t feel like walking.” Evan turned around and headed back for the house. He’d just wait in the guest room and let Faye get through this phase. She was probably trying to scare him off because of how hurt she was. The baby would be okay.

“Excuse me sir?”

A car pulled up along the curb. An attractive Hispanic female police officer leaned over a polite looking little boy in the passenger seat.

Evan had to tug at Lester to approach the car. “Yes, is there a problem?”

“Oh no, well, I’m looking for Faye Ledbetter’s house?”

“I’m her husband, Evan Ledbetter.”

But we’re probably getting a divorce, so can I maybe get your number?

“Oh hi, my name is Rebecca Davis. I got this address from Janet Erikson. I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. After what happened recently with her husband and then the hospital…everything.”

Evan nodded.

“I just wanted to check how she was doing and let her know that we’re still trying to make some connections for her daughter’s case. We were hoping to get something from the tapes at the hospital the day Ramirez was killed, but they seem to have been hacked somehow.”

“Hacked? Really?”

“All video feeds from that day were somehow copied over with footage of something that looks like oil…”

“Really?” Evan asked again, sounding dumb.

Davis made a flowing motion with her hand. “Running across the screen, on and on. It’s very weird.”

“Some kind of brilliant person to pull something like that off.”

“Yeah, well, if my son weren’t here right now, I’d tell you exactly how I feel about that person.”

Evan gave her a fake laugh.

“So has Janet been by?”

He didn’t want to sound too much like a dick, but he really wasn’t in the mood for talking about Janet. “I think, you know what, I haven’t seen Janet in a couple days, but I think she isn’t really talking to anybody right now. After Herman and all.”

“I completely understand, but would you mind giving her my contact info if she ever does?”

“Sure, I’ll tell her to call the department for you.”

“I meant my home info. Melody and my son here went to the same daycare. It’s kind of close to home for me, you know?” The woman gave him a slow smile. It was a disarming smile and Evan took it as genuine.

“Next time I see her, I’ll give it to her.”

“Great. Let me just…honey, can I use your book?”

The little boy nodded and picked up a Sesame Street hardback picture book from the door slot and put it over his lap. Davis took out an old faded receipt from her center console, along with a ballpoint pen. She carefully wrote a cell phone number and her address on the paper.

Evan took the paper from her and smiled at the little boy, who looked down at his book, embarrassed.

“Thanks so much,” said Rebecca.

“No worries,” replied Evan.

“That’s a beautiful dog.”

Evan glanced down at Lester, who sat on the sidewalk calmly. “He’s not too shabby.”

They laughed and said goodbye as the car pulled away.

Feeling in a somewhat better mood, Evan put the paper in his pocket and walked to the house with Lester. Talk to one pretty lady and the world became brighter. He’d almost forgotten the awful thing Faye had told him not ten minutes ago.

He stopped.

In fact, he would have that walk after all.

“Come on, beautiful dog,” he told Lester and they headed south.

Faye braced herself on the edge of the bed. She’d never been more scared. How could she enjoy her new life if she was alone? How could a mother not do everything in her power to protect her young one? Was her baby not worth saving?

She lifted the bottle to her lips and drank until there was nothing left.

3

Janet was torn from the breast and shoved into soupy mud and detritus. She knew this time had been coming. Nyx had forced the oar in her hand countless times before, always showing patience when Janet would throw a fit. The God explained that the journey back into the world would be harsh. It would resemble life in reverse, first quick, then slow.

She used the oar to dig through the muck. As she unearthed a large chunk, a battalion of those fish things bustled around her. They would not injure her now. She was of the River and the things once taken for fish revealed themselves as time-frozen wails of agony. There was so much! Thousands, millions, billions of the scarlet creatures flooding around her. All these people had paid for their passage and crossed at some time recently!

“No,” said Nyx into Janet’s mind. “These are all from your and the Fury’s work. Imagine what it will be like to open the River to the souls already awaiting passage?”

Just from the coins she’d given away? Not even ten souls!

Janet answered her excitement with renewed swipes of her oar. Her progress was incredible; she could feel the atmospheric pressure lessen and her eardrums nearly shattered in response—everything about the water felt thinner, freer, more real, like how she remembered the mortal world. It went on this way until she hit a collection of rocks. She scraped them away and continued on. A few coins fluttered down in the gloom with red laces of blood.

The next series of rocks became denser. Even though the oar had sufficient structure to beat them away from their muddy foundations, Janet had to work harder and the passage up was indeed slower. She unearthed a fairly large rock and a cascade of heavy coins dropped through the water, pelting her in the forehead, bruising her shoulders and the back of her neck. Again she spooned out another small boulder. Mud fell around her and blood tickled her nostrils like the tips of iron snake tongues.

Coins continued to fall and the onslaught pressed down. Valiantly she fought at the torrent, swiping her way up with the oar and making little progress in the terrible bronze wave. She started screaming. This was the first time she’d heard her voice since being pulled into the waters. It was shrill and deafening and foreign sounding to her. She wasn’t the same woman. Its unfamiliar tone startled her. She was leaving everything she’d become down in the muck, down with the patient God of Tragedy, not a River God, it turned out, not at all…

Forced open, her mouth widened as coins flooded in. She swallowed them down in an attempt to relieve the pressure on her jaw. Still she swung the oar, fighting. Blood had turned to gore and it painted the bronze avalanche in vermillion. Janet’s mind raced. Has this all just been a game then? Am I meant to die, after all the time I spent with Nyx? Why wasn’t the God aiding her?

The heaviness in her throat and stomach threatened to slow her efforts even more. She’d vomited several large wads of coinage, only to have the bile covered coins returned into her mouth. Janet twisted away and the coins pushed like the thumb of a sadistic giant. She rammed with her feet and had the surprising sensation of breaking through. The coins still fell, but the number was fewer now. She made another attempt and oared harder through the impossible mass.

It was warm and greasy farther up and Janet still heard screaming. Maybe this was out of joy or maybe her mind had become permanently locked in an endless scream. She ignored it and went on, stronger, harder, pushing. Soon there were no more coins, just more gore, more blood, one metallic scent replaced by another. Janet ripped through it with the oar and then with her free hand. The pathway had become so narrow, but she jammed her head up and felt air blow down on her moist scalp. Something separated in the wall, like a beam breaking, and then something similar happened on the other side, another beam breaking.

Screams. So many screams.

Janet jutted her shoulder out, writhed her body upward with the oar’s help, and then her other shoulder popped out of the opening.

Gravity took her quickly—and she fell to the floor covered in gore and snotty strands of dead seaweed.

She tried to catch her breath, but retched instead. Her skull felt near to collapse from all the pressure it’d endured. Putting fingers to her temples sent twisting knives into the fiery center of her brain, so she let her head be for the moment and concentrated on focusing her vision.

The screams had faded in her ears to a labored breathing that slowly thinned to nothing. Janet saw the bloody confusion surrounding her. All this time, she realized, the screams had never belonged to her.

Evan unlocked the door and set his keys on the couch. Lester padded inside, wagging his tail, invigorated by the brisk walk around the neighborhood. The Border Collie made for the kitchen and before Evan could even stretch, the dog was hungrily lapping at his water bowl. Faye made no sounds in the kitchen. He assumed she’d either gone to the laundry room to fold clothes and sulk, or into the backyard to pull weeds and sulk. He thought about approaching her again, but that’s exactly what she expected him to do. He needed to let her simmer again.

He noticed the guestroom’s door cracked open. As he was anal about closing all doors, this got him hurrying across the living room. A voice inside Evan chided him for not taking the bottle along for the walk. He’d found it after all. Faye had no right to it, especially if she was serious about leaving him.

Evan pushed open the door and his heart gripped to a fist. The macabre scene before him could not be processed at once. Faye, or part of Faye anyhow, had been on the bed. Her face was stationary in anguish and horror, a torture like no other, and flecks of blood and black fluid showered her skin. The blue jeans she’d been wearing had split at the seams as her legs had folded backward. Two vivid white hip bones flared out of the grim red channels opened there. The place between her legs was a catastrophe of biology and it had Evan gasping for breath to look on it.

Something hard slammed into Evan’s shoulder.

The door jam.

He hadn’t fainted properly, but the jarring of the door frame made him snap to.

A naked woman dressed in his wife’s bodily fluids struggled on the floor, a long wooden paddle in her hand. The woman looked out of it, drunk almost, coughing and gagging, trying to right herself with the oar.

Her head turned. Evan wanted to move out of the room before she could lay eyes on him, but his legs went watery underneath him.

The woman’s face had a clear patch where she’d dragged some blood away.

Janet.

The room spun around and his vision darkened. He was going to pass out again.

“She’ll be okay, Evan,” said Janet. Her eyes were the same shape and color, but so different in the intensity to which they held light. She wasn’t human anymore; she couldn’t be. “I’ll take Faye across myself. She’ll be at peace once she reaches the other side. She’ll live forever…”

Her eyes went to the bottle sitting on the nightstand. Janet grasped onto the bed and used the oar as a crutch. “I need to take that with me,” she told him.

Evan seized the bottle. It was full to the brim and made a sucking sound inside like a bong. “The hell you are.”

Janet gingerly stepped over a lump of shredded intestines. “That isn’t yours. Hand it over.”

As he backed away, he pulled his eyes from the gore and found Faye’s dead stare. His eyes flooded, his body tautened. “Why did you do that to Faye?”

Janet’s bloody breasts swayed as she crutched along. “This wasn’t my doing.”

“You’ve ripped her into fucking pieces!”

Evan grabbed Janet by the throat and slammed her down on the bed. Faye’s corpse rocked behind her. Janet lifted the oar but he locked his thigh against it, pinning it. Her eyes bulged in surprise as he tightened his hold. Instinct wanted him to drop the bottle and go at her with both hands, but he wouldn’t let the bottle go for a second. He leaned in and put all his weight on her throat.

Janet wasn’t breathing and yet that didn’t seem to matter. Under all that crushing weight, she smiled. Evan caught his breath in disbelief.

“You want inside me, don’t you?” said Janet. “Come on then. Put it inside me. I want it. Put the bottle down and give it to me good.”

Evan wanted to rip her apart like she’d ripped Faye apart. “What are you?”

Janet frowned.

Evan let go of her throat and drifted back. His voice caught in his throat as he looked again to the savagery on the bed. “I’m so sorry, Faye. Baby—so sorry. God!”

Janet picked up the oar, swung it—Evan slammed the bedroom door and the paddle sounded a hollow note against the wood.

Lester barked wildly as he fled into the front room. Leash?

Fuck it.

Evan picked up the large dog under one arm.

He fought to push the button on the front door’s handle, Lester writhing in his grip like a caught tuna.

Without any sound, Janet ran for him across the living room, oar lifted overhead. He ducked, just as the front door popped open; the oar struck the wall and flung paint chips across the threshold. Janet clawed for the bottle. Evan dropped Lester. The dog hit the ground running and Evan barreled down the sidewalk.

Shit! The keys!

Evan turned. Janet’s momentum caught her unaware and he clotheslined her. She dropped solidly on the sidewalk, the sound of her head making a sickening smack.

Evan raced inside, swept the keys of the couch and ran back around Janet, who had begun to regain herself. He got to the Accord and Lester waited there, turning circles and barking. He clicked open the doors and let the dog inside.

Janet limped around the corner. Sunlight made the blood on her body glitter like gems. “Wait!” she cried. “Stop!”

Evan got in, put the bottle safely on the passenger’s side floor, and started the car. He reversed into the street just as Janet stumbled into the driveway.

“You’ll pay for this,” he yelled at her. “I’ll find a way, you goddamned bitch!”

Janet stood there with fixed eyes, a statute to be hated and admired. Evan hit the gas and Lester quickly curled up on the back seat, looking anxious.

Fresh tears formed up. Evan took off his glasses and knuckled them hard until it hurt and blurred his vision.

My Faye…my little Faye.

It had been several hours since Evan had seen the atrocity in his guestroom but the memory stabbed into his mind every ten minutes or so. He was driving aimlessly through Riverside, getting upset at the stoplights and the constant Southern California traffic. Why do you care? You have no place to go.

He’d thought about calling that lady cop he’d met today, or calling any cop for that matter. That path made sense in the real world, but not in this new one he’d stepped into with Janet and her bottle.

He checked the floor and sighed in relief when he found the bottle still there. He could do great things with such power. He could heal the sick. He could be a messiah.

Can’t heal Faye.

(Shut up).

That’s right. He could be the world’s new healer, and he didn’t even have to use those coins and have that Fury thing turn up. He could buy a bank vault. Shit, he could buy a thousand bank vaults and fill them with all those death coins.

Or he could even sell the coins to different governments or unsavory types—     (Faye’s stomach had been pushed up against the wall with her liver and the dull green bulb of her gall bladder).

Evan shook his head frantically to end the reenactment.

“Fuck you, Janet,” he whispered.

(Janet smiled; white teeth cutting through the red face.)

And she’d thought he would be fucked up enough to screw her with the obliterated remains of his wife right there on the bed—

(“Put it in me.”)

That showed how much she thought of Evan’s devotion to little Faye…

He was weeping again.

Lester whined from the back seat.

“It’s okay, buddy. Do you have to pee? I’ll find a place once we get out of this gridlock.”

Lester whined again and glanced out the window uneasily.

“Want a little air?”

Evan rolled down the window so Lester could put his snout outside. He thought it a good idea for himself as well, so he rolled down his own window and let the cool air blow through his hair and over his skin.

A Starbucks coffee sat in his drink holder. It was still hot, despite buying it forty minutes ago. He’d gone there just to feel like a human again, but there was no way in hell his twisted stomach could take solid black coffee. He never drank it black anyway; he just ordered it and said no to any other questions the barista asked.

He considered taking a sip and decided it was disrespectful to Faye.

Evan realized he’d driven the route he last took while driving through Riverside, when he followed Janet to that Vincent Baker guy’s apartment. Where she disappeared. Where that man got run over in the street.

Where those death coins dropped…

He didn’t ponder the notion for long. With a u-turn and a few street changes, he was already nearing Baker’s apartment.

Evan pulled up and killed the engine. Lester understood that the ride was over and began racing around in the backseat with caged insanity.

“Okay, boy,” he said and unlocked all the doors.

He grabbed the bottle, got out and rounded the car. Lester bounded outside, ran across the lawn in front of the apartment complex and promptly lifted his leg on large red water backflow device.

Evan tried to think of a plan if he found the coins. Certainly the police had come here and probably searched around the apartment. Evan hadn’t seen any eyewitnesses but there always seemed to be some person who came forward. The apartment was on the secluded end of the building, so it was possible the entire struggle went unchecked. Evan had made sure to close the door with the hem of his sleeve, just out of straight paranoia the cops still had his fingerprints from a field trip in middle school.

But there was no crime scene tape anywhere. Not even on the door to Vincent Baker’s apartment.

Thrumming with bass, a low rider with glitter shot purple paint drove through the back parking lot.

Then again, maybe shit like that happened often in this part of town.

Bottle still firmly in hand, (constantly gripping it, always, always), Evan stepped into the planter and walked across the crushed bark. Lester trotted up and immediately began sniffing through the various bushes and groupings of lilies and other assorted flowers. Evan tried to recall that night. He’d heard Janet drop her coin purse and in the pale illumination of the porch light, he’d also seen some fall. One struck the sidewalk and bounced into the planter. The others must have just fallen straight down.

He inspected the bark covered ground with keen eyes. The first one I find will be for you, Janet.

A shrill sound came from the bushes behind him. Evan cautiously stepped over a dying, sun-yellowed fern, just as Lester forged past him, sniffing at everything great, small, and in-between. Evan got closer to the sound, which had become more desperate and panicked.

He recoiled at the sight of a lizard writhing around in the soupy black mud. It seemed the reptile must have had some sort of fatal encounter with a cat or something, because the twisting flesh hanging from its white underbelly signaled a bad prognosis.

Evan sighed in abhorrence.

Lester rushed past.

“No don’t. Leave it. Here!” Evan lunged for Lester’s choke chain but his feet stopped cold under his legs. “What the—?”

His shoes had seeped into the soupy mud and the abrupt stop caused him to lose balance and fall. The muck was thinner than he’d expected and in moments it was all over his arms and face.

The stuff stung like madness.

Deep down.

Made him dizzy.

He dropped the bottle and gasped.

Evan fought through his disorientation and focused on his first objective. He grabbed hold of Lester by his hips and pulled him backwards. The dog had the lizard in his mouth and was also covered in the black juices seeping around the planter.

A terrifying communion throttled Evan. He knew the canine’s body, every one of its nerve-endings, from claw to fang, and then he knew the lizard’s body in the exact same way, the small, abused thing rolling in torment.

The effect slammed into his waking mind and Evan fell to his knees and then onto his face, and there he sensed nothing except the bark roughing up his skin. Faye…my Faye…little Faye. I’m not perfect Faye. But I do love you. I do. I just never know where to turn, which way to go. I don’t know what I have to be, even after you’ve shown me time and time again. I want to be more than I am, more than I, unfortunately, ever was to you.

God, I want you back, Faye.

I want justice.

Just before Evan blacked out, he felt the tiny claws of a rat streak over his exposed stomach. The rodent collapsed and came to lie just on the outside of his navel. The stinging black stuff boiled underneath it.

CHAPTER IV

The New Fury

“Hey dude. Hey, wake up.”

Evan squinted. Everything in his vision was shot-through with amethyst light. It made him sick to look at one thing too long, so his eyes darted around. The colors were intense. He and Herman smoked some strong pot once and he sat on a couch for a good three hours, looking around in the same way, only he wanted to study everything he came across and find meaning where it hadn’t been before. This was the opposite. The color his eyes perceived seemed purple, but it had a transformative quality, constantly turning and speaking, relating a different story.

A voice rang out from a remote room down a mile long corridor. “Fucker’s messed up, yeah. Shit. You think he was looking for something out here? Maybe something Vince dropped?”

The voice had its own color, its own story. This was Jeremy Phillips, part of the Highland-8 gang and by his own estimations, its most intelligent member. In reality he was second, and on a bad day, third to his companion Arturo Javier, who was the founder of the group, the man whose voice rang louder than Jeremy’s: “Shit if I know. Get his ass up and watch out for syringes, huh.”

Arturo laughed and his colors told their own story; it was fun to knock Jeremy down a notch when he got the chance—the stuck up guero thought way too high of himself.

Jeremy laughed too, but it was a fake gesture; he hated coming along on these caveman macho bullshit trips when he was better peddling meth to his favorite group of sketch cookies down on University Avenue.

Evan knew every immediate thought from both men, just from hearing their voices, but when Jeremy hauled him to his feet, he saw well beyond the Oakland Raiders attire. Evan saw how little they both understood about humanity—they couldn’t be saved; they were broken people; they needed judgment.

Jeremy had sex with his sister Francine when she was in college and him in high school. They were both drunk on cinnamon schnapps and malt liquor at the time. It happened after a party cleared out at their Uncle Barry’s house, in their cousin Harold’s old bedroom. It wasn’t one slip up. They went after each other all night long.

The next day and all that followed since, they never dared talk about it. Jeremy still woke up with wet dreams, reliving it nightly. The whole thing had disgusted him at first, but recently he’d been holding out for Francine to approach him again. He wanted to hold her again, feel her naked body on his. He needed to know if she still thought about him the same way. Animals fuck, right?
They don’t care about genetics. Jeremy had been on the street with whores. He saw what men did, where their morals stood. They did what they had to, they—

Evan didn’t even want to look at the hard boiled egg face under the shadow of the Raider’s hat. It made him sick that a human being could be such a loathsome creature. He turned to the leader Arturo and saw something different, but not altogether better.

Arturo was a self-realized thug and enjoyed the lifestyle his friends had shown him. Live and die like a motherfucker. That was it. That was all. There hadn’t been an inherently cruel bone in Arturo’s body. He’d actually been raised by two good parents who worked terrible hours at the industrial laundry in Colton. He saw their bad backs, the miserable look in their faces every night at dinner, and their disappointment for everything including him. They were stupid. They’d gone about things the stupid way and paid the price. When he was wealthy, he wouldn’t repay them the favor of his sorry-ass upbringing. He’d been cultivating his reputation lately. He’d personally tracked Vincent Baker down on his own, just so he could associate with somebody more notorious than the sad sacks of shit he had been lately. His effort paid off right away in enough porn to put the internet out of business. It had been going great until that asshole bailed and took the video equipment he promised them.

“Shit man, you smell like wet perro,” said Arturo, waving his hand before his gnomish face.

Jeremy balanced Evan, who hardly kept eye contact with the strident colors sending more hideous information his way. “Is that right? You takin’ late night baths with dogs, sketchpad?”

“Where is my dog?” Evan glanced around and almost vomited.

“There’s no dog, pendejo. Now why are you at Vince’s apartment? You know him? Eh? Talk to us, we ain’t gonna bite.”

Evan didn’t answer and bowed his head.

Jeremy slapped him upside the face. Evan felt nothing. “Hey dick, I didn’t pull you off the ground so you could go to sleep.”

“You’re real fuckin’ ugly,” Arturo remarked in wonder. “Those buck teeth. You a beaver? Or a rat?”

“Check his hands, fool,” said Jeremy.

Arturo, not caring for the fool remark, leaned over. “Holy shit. You got chapped hands. Aye. That’s bad. You’re a sorry piece o’ shit. Hey, listen to what we’re saying!”

Evan nodded. “Hear you,” he muttered.

“What’s that there? Your bong? Your water pipe?” Arturo joked. “That’s pretty tight looking. Think I’m gonna grab that sonuvabitch.”

Evan didn’t care about the bottle anymore. It was like caring about a match’s flame while sitting on the surface of the sun.

Arturo focused now, his thick eyebrows going level. The expression made him look vastly more ignorant. “You know Vincent Baker?”

“No.”

“Okay, you know a Vincent Brubeck? That’s the name on his mailbox.”

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck with us,” Arturo said, his voice edging around seriousness.

“Maybe he was the one who got hit,” Evan suggested.

“What?”

“By the car,” Evan explained.

“I told your ass,” said Jeremy to Arturo. “That dude in the paper was probably Vincent. Cops probably bought into the ID he had on him, at least for now. The article said it was a white male, in his late twenties—”

“I read the goddamn article, a’right? Start to finish, cocksucker. I don’t believe one second, not one, that Vince would get rundown in the road. That’s a pretty fucking dumbass way to die for someone like him.”

“Maybe, but Art, dude, it was right over there—”

“Shut up J-P.”

“Whatever.”

A brief silence passed between them. Arturo, after thinking about it, brought the subject back up. “That old guy they found didn’t say nothin’ about knowing Vincent.”

“Remember, I read the article too.”

“Fuck, will you shut up!” Arturo whirled around and started patting Evan’s pants down. “You got needles on you?”

“No,” Evan replied. His eyes crossed momentarily and he shook the colors from his mind and soul.

Jeremy sighed. “Carlos died that night too, eh. Somethin’ went down, Art. Vincent’s not here. This is worthless.”

“I’m going to beat the fuck out of you, if you say one more word to me right now.” Arturo continued to search Evan. He’d left his wallet back at home, so they wouldn’t find any cash.

Back home, thought Evan, with Faye.

There was no Faye anymore.

Janet took her from me.

Evan looked on these men with new detestation. They would take her from me too. They are part of the world’s malevolence. I could kill them for their crimes. It would be just.

Dizziness set in and Evan almost collapsed. Not yet. I need time to grow stronger. How do I buy time with these two filthy things?

Arturo held up the slip of paper with Rebecca Davis’s address. “You scored some digits, eh, crackie?”

Evan studied the receipt with the cop’s number on it.

“Okay,” he said slowly, his mind wrapping around a plan. “I’ll tell you, just don’t hurt me or anything… See, she’s hiding Vincent there.” He felt his face twitch with the lie and neither man appeared to buy it. Evan added then, “She helped get rid of Josue Ramirez. You know, at the hospital…that’s what I heard. He died, didn’t he?”

An easy smile creased Arturo’s squashed face. Jeremy pushed back the bill of his Raider’s cap, still dubious, but his attention had been won.

“She’ll only answer the door for me,” Evan pointed out. “She’s not stupid.”

The two men looked at one another for a second, thinking it out.

“If you’re wasting our time,” Jeremy said suddenly, “you’re wasting our money, and that means you’re not going home today. If you have a home.”

Arturo’s expression confirmed this.

“Let’s go then,” said Evan. Under his shirt, he could feel tufts of fur growing from new follicles across his back. “I’ll show you the truth.”

“Don’t forget to take that bong,” Arturo ordered Jeremy. “Gonna get high tonight and video some putas!”

“Yes master,” Jeremy sneered as he swept the bottle up by its neck.

A few minutes later, Evan was in the back of their purple low rider.

2

Rebecca Davis lived in what might have once been called a “starter home.” The yard was kept up. A yellow pinwheel tilted in a bed of stumpy blue flowers. Every sprinkler had been neatly edged around. Oil stains on the driveway were scrubbed. The graying house needed new paint, but it wasn’t an eyesore. This was a house of someone trying to ignore the surrounding neighborhood of gated yards and glowering pit-bulls beyond chain link fences, an environment that Evan’s two new companions probably felt most comfortable in.

“In the ghetto,” Jeremy sang deeply and Arturo snickered.

“I knew a dude from around here once. Back in middle school. Long time ago.”

Arturo killed the engine. Jeremy opened the glove box and took out a handgun, which he stuffed into the back of his pants.

“Sure don’t look like no place Vincent would come,” said Arturo.

“He’s hiding out.” Jeremy’s mouth opened wide with a lazy yawn. “Probably donkey-punching this chick as we speak.”

“Or worse, that fucker.” Arturo turned around in his seat. His ample brown forearm was hairless with a thin luminescent scar that circuited the flesh. He studied Evan for a moment. “You gonna be sick, huh? Nervous? What’re you leading us into, pendejo?”

Evan just shook his head, thinking of Faye, nothing but Faye, over and again, and again and over, her face, her smile, even her embracing that Mexican man with those nauseatingly kind eyes, because Faye had been real then, been alive, and now she wasn’t.

Why had he brought these two here? This innocent woman shouldn’t have to be subjected to Art and J.P. It’d been stupid impulsive thinking and they were dumb enough to go along with it. If there’s any woman in the world that deserved to meet these two—

“Tell me you ain’t trippin’ back there? You better not chuck in my car, shitass.”

“This place doesn’t look familiar. I don’t think Vincent’s here,” said Evan, voice trembling. “I know a better place. There’s another woman. Janet is her name.”

“Nice try, fugly.” Arturo swayed with a gesture to get out. “You show the way.”

Evan reached for the well polished handle and swung open the long door. Its end scraped against the sidewalk.

“Watch my door, bitch! It’s worth more than you,” Arturo growled. He threw the bottle up and snatched it enthusiastically out of the air. No sloshing sounds came from inside it.

“You’re taking that in?” asked Jeremy.

Arturo’s eyebrow bent. “You know someone will jack it out here.”

“That’s what a trunk’s for.”

“You bitch like my girl. I got plans for this bong, fuck you very much.”

Careful to shut the door, Evan tried to straighten his posture. No such doing. His lower back muscles had reconfigured him into a perpetual stooping position.

The two gang members followed close behind. Evan could smell their heartbeats racing.

“Remember what I said, hunchback. If this is some bullshit, you’re over,” Jeremy warned.

They reached the door and Evan knocked (knuckles wider, black and white hairs poking through the follicles).

Arturo and Jeremy waited just left of the door, out of sight. Under a bush, the bottle sat against the wall, a stray shadow winding over it.

After a moment the door opened on the chain. Rebecca’s eyes lighted as she recognized Evan. “Oh, Mr. Ledbetter,” she said and unchained the door.

She was in a pair of gray gym shorts and a blue and white stripped work out t-shirt. Not being sweaty, out of breath or flushed, Evan assumed she’d probably just dressed into the skimpy clothing, unfortunately for her.

“I… came to talk,” said Evan.

“About Janet?”

“No…uh, this is about someone else.”

Evan sensed Arturo and Jeremy exchange knowing glances.

“Well he…”

“Is this about Josue Ramirez?” she asked.

Arturo lunged through the doorway. “We’ve got a bingo, bitch!”

Rebecca swung left, grabbed Arturo around the throat and put him into a headlock. “Oh holy shit!” he cried out in surprise.

Jeremy bustled past Evan, gun trained on Rebecca. “Hands off.”

Rebecca glanced at Evan and then to the gun. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re here for the guy you’re hiding. He might not call himself Vincent, but he was Josue’s partner.”

“I’m not hiding anybody.”

Jeremy pulled back the gun’s slide. “You still haven’t let my friend go.”

“Yeah,” Arturo said, “let me go.”

Reluctantly she pushed Arturo away. The man bounced right back at her like a wind-up toy. “Fuck is that shit, bitch? I oughta cut your fuckin’ throat right here, laying hands on me, the only thing you’re gonna touch is my dick, you fuckin’ little ho!”

She stood there, looking at him eye to eye, fearless. Arturo huffed. Jeremy watched the two with an amused grin. Evan tried not to notice the reptilian tail extending from his tail bone and slithering down his pant leg.

Arturo looked to a bureau against the wall with assorted pictures of a young boy. He slapped one of them facedown. “Who’s that? Your kid? Where is he?”

“Not here,” she said with a smile.

Evan knew everything about Rebecca by now. Her son was doing a visitation with his father. This was their weekend together. She’d just been trying to take advantage of some time alone and squeeze in a work-out, since she’d missed so many lately and had noticed some of her clothes getting snugger. Countless nights she’d stayed up, thinking about Melody Erikson, about Janet and Herman. What if that had been her? She probably would have died from the outfall of it…

Thoughts divided in his mind and it overwhelmed him. Evan lost balance and crashed to the floor.

Jeremy looked over his shoulder. The man’s pasty face was wide and blunt on every surface, the acne pocks on his cheeks making his eggy head resemble some sad, hideous planet. “Get up, sketchpad. I’ve got some shit to sell you when this is all through.”

“Are you okay, Evan?” asked Rebecca. “Is Janet okay?”

Arturo clutched her arm. “Who’s this Janet woman everybody’s talking about?” Rebecca glared at him as a response and Arturo sighed. “Hey J.P.”

“Yeah,” said Jeremy, who had just bent over to help Evan up.

“Forget that asshole. He ain’t goin’ nowhere. Check the house. If you find a cell phone, bring it to me. Let’s give Ms. Janet a call.”

“Have the bitch get it. Who said I was your slave?”

“Really? You’re doin’ this shit now, J.P.? I’m the man with the fuckin’ golden mind. You better not forget that shit.”

“Do you want money?” asked Rebecca. “I have a safe. We could work something out here.”

“Go check everything out,” Arturo reinforced. He took his own gun out of his pants and tucked its barrel under Rebecca’s left breast, then brought his body closer to hers.

Jeremy watched them in sick wonder for a second before taking off into the house. Arturo slammed the front door with his foot and dead-bolted it. He motioned for Rebecca to move to the gold-flowered couch in a sunken den area. He kicked Evan’s thigh. “You too, Ratty McCrackhead.”

Evan pushed up on the tile. His claws scraped it subtly.

“You have some nice titties, woman,” Arturo praised Rebecca. “Little, but sweet.”

Evan sat on the edge of the couch and looked away.

“Take off your shirt,” Arturo instructed. He rubbed his gun-hand on his thigh as though he had an itch there.

Rebecca went into a business mode. “What about that safe? I’ve got my kid’s college savings up there. Let’s talk about that.”

“That’s all good. After the titties. Show me them.”

Rebecca sighed, as though bored. “You’ve never seen tits before?”

Arturo frowned. “Don’t get stupid on me. Take off your shirt before I rip that shit off you.”

“I don’t think Vincent is here,” called Jeremy from upstairs.

“Keep looking cabron,” Arturo yelled back. He ducked closer to Rebecca, joyful to a point of his wide black eyebrows rising comically high.

“Found her phone,” called Jeremy.

Arturo’s joy faded at the interruption. “Good, good, good, shit!”

He unzipped his pants and pulled out a short, yet fat brown penis. He began nodding and grinning like a lunatic. “Huh? Huh? You want this shit, right bitch?”

“I’ve seen better.”

“The hell you have.”

“Without that gun, I’d so fuck you up right now,” she said.

Arturo put himself away and sniffed. Rebecca shook her head sadly.

Jeremy came walking down the stairs with an inquisitive expression. “What have you been up to?”

“Slapped her with my dick, eh!” Arturo laughed. The two met on the tile entryway in a mock version of an important business transaction.

Jeremy grinned past Arturo at Rebecca. “That’s all? I’d have done way more.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve seen me in action. Did you already forget about that party in Upland, with those gothic chicks and the beer bottles? Huh? Vincent could make the dirtiest chick feel cheap. It’s a gift, dude.”

“You’re so homo for that guy, really. Vincent ain’t shit. Pulling a train on whores is unclean. Now shut up. Where’s that phone?”

Jeremy handed over a flip phone. Arturo navigated the device for a couple minutes. “Use to have one of these,” he remarked, “piece of shit phone…ah, here, only Janet in here.”

He dialed and tossed it into Rebecca’s lap. “Tell her to meet us here, but don’t tell her we’re looking for Vincent. Don’t pull any shit.”

They waited, watching Rebecca closely as she held the phone to her ear.

Muscles rippled through Evan’s back. He leaned away and bit his fist. They’d been right about his front teeth. Longer, wider and closer together than before… and his lower teeth had thinned and grown pointed. His lips itched. Something was growing there, something hard and hair-like—whiskers? He tried to dismiss the sensation but others plagued him. Legs hard and cold with scales; lower and upper torso growing with long fur; face reconstructing by each passing moment, becoming more rodent.

“Voicemail,” said Rebecca. “Janet hasn’t been answering lately.”

Jeremy glanced expectantly at his leader. “Art? Your move.”

Arturo tried to look contemplative. “Tell her we got her man here.”

“I don’t—”

“Tell her, eh.” Arturo forced the gun forward.

Rebecca straightened. “Hi, Janet, this is…Becca Davis. I need your help. Evan’s here with me at 4467 Rasner Lane in Moreno Valley. Call me, please.” She hung up and glanced over to Evan. “Will she call back?”

“No,” Evan replied through a grunt. “She’ll just come over.”

Rebecca’s face sank. “She will?”

He nodded.

“Another chick. Sounds fucking like the bomb to me. So we wait.” Arturo rubbed his hands together and licked his lips, his eyes feasting on Rebecca. “Hey, where’s that premature chronic?”

“You gonna smoke, now?” Jeremy’s voice suggested impatience, as though dealing with a younger brother.

“Got me a new bong, son! This golden mind’s gotta eat too!”

Jeremy reached into his pocket and produced a micro-sized baggie with a green divot inside. Arturo put his gun in the crack of his ass again and accepted the baggie. He went merrily to the front door, unlocked the bolt and crept outside. He brought the bottle into the house and locked the door again.

“Where’s the bathroom, sweetie pie?” he asked Rebecca.

Jeremy giggled.

“Behind you, dickhead.”

Arturo made an I’m-so-hurt face and turned into the small bathroom. He put the bottle on the sink and spun it around a few times. “Hey, where’s the carb on this thing?”

“It’s not a bong,” Evan told him.

“Bullshit,” said Jeremy.

“Nah, he’s right,” Arturo confirmed in disappointment. “Some shitty vase or something. Ah well, fuck it. You got papers?”

“Nope.”

“Aye, cabron. Oh well, then. Never mind I guess. Have to find some foil or something. Hey, you got them two covered out there?”

“Why?”

“I’m gonna take a shit.”

“What a surprise.”

“Fuck you man.” The bathroom door shut. The light came on and the fan began whirring inside.

Evan’s forehead hammered into the arm of the couch. He was too disoriented to look up. Everything rushed inside him to an unknown origin. He couldn’t stop it. He just had to take the ride until the end.

Jeremy glanced at the ceiling. “See you in half an hour, Art,” he grumbled.

Something lit in his eyes then and he turned to Rebecca. He watched her longingly. “You look a lot like my sister, if she were Mexican.”

He got up and dropped next to her. She tried to inch away but he moved even closer. “Yeah, you’re a lot like her.”

3

Evan loomed over Jeremy; the pervert never saw him move through time and space. Jeremy had wrestled Rebecca on the couch, pulled her gym shorts down, and stuck the gun to the back of her head. The woman, bravely, did not say a word. Evan knew she already had a plan. She was going to let Jeremy get going. A few thrusts in, just when he was getting into a good rhythm, she was going pivot on her knee and take him down, her leg behind his head. It would have to be done quickly to get hold of his gun hand. It would have to be done just right.

But Rebecca didn’t know that her plan would never been seen through.

Jeremy rubbed savagely between her legs, huffing, “Get wet, get wet you bitch…”

Evan bowed over him and the man’s blue eyes boggled up at him.

“I am Fury,” whispered Evan.

“What the shit?”

Jeremy struggled to stand—Evan caught him under the arms and hurled him into the fireplace.

When Jeremy came to rest, hunched over and blood pouring from ears and mouth, he blinked in slow intervals; shock poured over him.

Arturo fumbled in the bathroom, alert to the commotion.

Evan approached Jeremy, who slumped lower against the brick fireplace, more bones broken inside of him than he could count at the moment.

“Do you know the song?” asked Evan. “I long to hear it. Sing it and I will spare you.”

A thin, syrupy stream of fresh blood ran from Jeremy’s mouth.

“Then I seek justice for your crimes.”

“Evan,” shouted Rebecca. “Watch out!”

Three bullets tore through Evan’s back and exited his chest. He saw them strike the fireplace, creating a stir of red dust. He turned and watched as Arturo shot him three more times, almost at point blank range. The force drove Evan back.

But he felt nothing.

Arturo moved away. Evan thought about being behind him at that moment.

And then—Evan was behind the man.

Arturo bumped into Evan’s chest of untamed fur. A hoarse scream escaped him. “Please no!”

“Do you know the song?”

“No!”

Evan sunk his claws into the back of the man’s head, penetrating the skull, and with a forward tug, pulled the skull cap off, exposing the fatty tissue of the brain.

“It’s not golden,” Evan remarked.

Arturo shrieked and bit into his tongue, cutting the sound short. Evan pushed him to the tile floor. The brain struck it and unfurled in a gleaming pink and white presentation.

Rebecca was screaming. She would have run outside if Evan hadn’t been blocking the pathway to the hall. Evan’s mind stirred again and weakness set in. He’d not fully come into his own yet and the forces he’d played with had stifled his progression.

He glanced at Jeremy. The man was dead. Being tossed against a fireplace wasn’t as dramatic a death as his friend had received, but it was just as well; the same end product.

“Don’t hurt me,” Rebecca sobbed.

Evan staggered toward her. “Listen closely. There is a bottle in that bathroom. I can’t touch it, but you can… something has happened to me…”

“No shit,” Rebecca uttered.

“Get the bottle now, please. Hurry.”

He hoped Rebecca wouldn’t run out the front door. If that happened, there was no telling what would occur when Janet arrived.

Rebecca, luckily for him, did as requested, but she did not come very far out of the bathroom. Her distrust of him was apparent.

“Find a place far away and bury that bottle,” he told her. “You can’t let Janet get it. She’ll try to get it from you. You can’t let her have it.”

“Why not?”

Evan was about to explain but a different voice cut him off.

“Yes, why not?”

Without a sound she’d come in through the door in the kitchen. Janet wore black robes and held her oar like a queen with a scepter. Her drawn face had gone deeply skeletal.

Rebecca looked about to scream. “What is this? What is all this? Somebody tell me! Janet is that you?”

Janet swung the oar. Rebecca rolled from the attack and ran for the stairs and Janet hurried after her, robes flowing like liquid night.

A sensation flowed through Evan at that moment. His energy was not restored—the human need for it had vanished. He was everything now, and the small man that he had once been before, gone completely except for his rage.

Janet took to the stairs, only ascending three before he snatched her by the neck.

FURY

He’s gotten control of himself—Nyx did not warn me of this—a newly born Fury wasn’t unanticipated, nor was the speed with which it could reinvent itself, but this was still alarming—believed him to be an instrument for our cause, not against it—only now, having been tossed down the stairs with little care, find myself fighting him with my oar—Evan’s a monster now, a clumsy, unknowing monster, surely a dangerous combination—can stop this with the simple song Nyx taught me in the River—what is it—? Recalling the song doesn’t come naturally for me, not as it would have for Vincent Baker—don’t wish Nyx to mourn the loss of her first choice—can serve her just as well as he might have—just can’t remember the song in this frenzied moment—

Holding the oar out, hoping it doesn’t shatter with his falling fists—

No time for this—that bottle must be in my hands—!

“Evan, stop—!” I cry—

He lets out a hideous squeal and gnashes his buck teeth together—his eyes are dead—the price of blood in exchange for justice is all he sees—just as I have my focus on filling Nyx’s coffers, she has changed us—for the better—but this cannot be—not right now—Evan will not be able to kill me, only slow me down—that might let the mortal get away with the bottle—

He has me pressed against the bottom of the stairs—

Cupboards and drawers are slamming above—that mortal is up to something—

“What crime have I committed—?” I yell through Evan’s attacks—

His scaled fist hangs in the air—clear globules bend in his eyes, swelling to break— it was obvious; he didn’t remember the mortal for whom he sought revenge—his wife—Janet Erikson’s friend (what was her name?)—didn’t matter—she was gone to Evan now—he’d just been holding on to his hate—but for no crime, there could be no punishment—

“What should I do now—?” His voice was hostile and desperate—

“You are Fury—Choose—You have the entire world to judge—It is for you to decide who should go to the River early—Let me go—”

“But who—? And what crimes—? How do I choose—?”

“By your own estimation—now, if you please—”

He grips my robe in his claws—the black and white Border Collie hair shakes on his forearms—it reminds me of something, a warm and distant memory that might have made me smile once—it is a type of dream memory—

“I don’t know how to do that—I just know you should die—!”

“You will undo yourself—”

“I don’t care—I would rather be nothing, than this—!”

“The bottle—” I whisper in dread—that mortal could have climbed out a window by this time—! “You must let me go, for both of us—you can’t change what we are now—there is no winning this—”

The rat clarifies in his features—but the eyes remain human—the Fury slowly pulls his claws from my throat—takes his bent spectacles off the ridge of his lengthening snout—tosses them to the floor—

“How long does this job last—?”

“As long as life survives—”

“But I don’t know who to pick—! Please, help me—”

I don’t answer him—I get to my feet, take my oar and bound up the stairs—so there would be no more interference, I would have to beat in the woman’s head—not a pleasant task, but serving Nyx was not a job that went without suffering—

No sooner had the Ferrywoman taken a step inside the bedroom, when two bullets cut through her chest. Inky black blood painted a whitewashed armoire in speckles and whips. She glanced down and a marshy stench vented from the wounds.

In her turquoise underwear, the mortal hunkered on the floor, using the bed to brace her arms as she held the service revolver. Smoke rolled from the gun’s mouth. A small case lay on the bed next to her, several boxes of ammunition inside.

Feeling no pain, the Ferrywoman moved ahead. Briny blood continued to drip out and several petite vermillion-scaled fishes slipped from the wounds and splashed onto the carpet, losing form.

Another round discharged and the Ferrywoman’s head bucked back. A red eel pushed free, fell, hit the bridge of her nose and made a dark auburn crescent next to the other carpet stains.

“Don’t any of you fucking die?” The mortal grabbed the bottle off the bed and held it above her head.

“Hand it over and I will leave you alone.”

“Really?” The mortal gave an uncertain look to the window.

“Let’s just end this.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Give me the bottle. NOW.”

The mortal straightened. “You know what, fuck this. Catch, you bitch!”

There was no way to stop it. The bottle flew past the Ferrywoman and struck the wall, breaking into onyx fragments. From the source of impact, dark water shot across the room, punching through the opposite wall. The mortal ducked under the torrent and escaped the bedroom.

Water springing and spouting everywhere, the Ferrywoman stood in the midst of it all, dumbfounded. She brushed a glassy bit of bottle floating on the water’s surface, now at her waist. What does this mean? Am I undone?

“No,” said Nyx.

The God stood near the bed, now almost completely submerged.

“The bottle held no value for that mortal and the waters have been freed sooner than I planned, but we will work with the outcome. Even with a middling Fury, we have no choice but to move forward.”

“I’m sorry, mother.”

“You’ve done better than expected.” Dark tears spilled from Nyx’s eyes, and at the same time a hungry look filled her face, like she intended to eat Janet to the bone right where she stood.

“What do I do now, mother?”

“Your new job,” answered Nyx.

Suddenly the bedroom floor buckled and split. The Ferrywoman dropped through the opening and nearly lost her oar on the way down. She clenched it tight to her chest and recalled Nyx’s past reprimand about losing the oar. It would mean finding it again and that could be an ordeal. The River spread far and wide, filling everything in sight, above and below.

A large piece of the house ripped away with a wave—the Ferrywoman clutched the side in one skeletal hand and managed to pull herself on top. The portion of wooden framing floated on the water. With the siding still attached, it made for an ideal raft. For a while the Ferrywoman thought of the craft as nothing more than a way to reach the distant shore, but then it became clear that what she’d discovered would be the dais of her new trade, as Nyx called it.

Behind her, the world dropped away to a barren gray land of burned trees and monotonous boulders. It went as far as the eye could see or the mind could imagine. On the other side of the River Hythia, waiting before her, on a shore that might have once been the middle of a California desert, was the mass gathering of spirits that would pay everything they possessed for a single ill promise. The Ferrywoman stuck the oar in the waters and went to them, her lips peeled back in a primeval grin.

CHAPTER V

The Ferry

All manners of souls flooded the shoreline, mostly those who’d shed their bodies, but occasionally those who still held fast to their fleshy firmaments. It didn’t matter to Nyx, or to the Ferrywoman for that matter—the River was fed either way.

The job was a difficult, but rewarding one. Day and night did not exist aboard the Ferry, and the journey back and forth ceased only when the weight of coinage became too much for the Ferrywoman’s mind. She would then have to deposit all the coins in a special vault on the Underworld shore.

Nyx would watch the deposits carefully, her face on the River’s every wave, dark rimmed eye sockets with cold jet eyes, crying, always crying, gray pallor of skin, pointed teeth that parted as though ready to bite. It didn’t matter how small or large the deposit, peals of sad laughter would always erupt from the God and the Ferrywoman would experience the euphoria of the passings. That made it difficult to leave the shores of the Underworld, step back onto the ferry and resume the laborious job.

From the ferry, the Living World was a blurry drive-in movie seen from a great distance off. Across a brace of recently abandoned track homes, the Ferrywoman could see a freeway still bustling with trucks, cars, motorcycles and the like. Except for the adventurous sort who did not view the passage across the River as suicide, but rather an opportunity for an encounter with the sublime, the freeway was the closest humanity got to the River—other places in the world had evacuated all areas around the River, far and wide, for miles and miles. Southern California, the River’s birth place, was a global exception.

There was, however, a brief time when reporters came to the shore to investigate the mysterious new River that had divided continents and the even ocean itself—the reporting teams thinned substantially after many reporters stepped into the Hythia’s waters and inadvertently paid for passage to the Underworld.

People began to go spirit watching at night and in recent months, a Catholic church at the base of some nearby foothills had been torn down and a temple to Nyx erected in its place. Several other larger super-church sized temples followed.

Sporadic victims of the Fury would appear in the crowd of spirits. The rat-headed monster would shuffle along at their side and hand the Ferrywoman the coin it had extracted from them. Nyx was not completely content with the random nature of the Fury’s choices, or its slowness at resolving tastes for punishment and sin. Overall, it brought less spirits to her shores than any of its predecessors, but Nyx allowed for its modest beginnings, since its primary function was to keep the Ferrywoman from ever escaping the River if such a thing should ever come to pass.

The Ferrywoman would often lose herself in studying the ghosts who clamored to get aboard. She could fit close to eighty thousand souls on the ferry and yet would become completely consumed by how one particular spirit changed its form from young to old to fat to skinny and back.

“Why do they do that?” she once asked Nyx.

“They project their appearance in this place. This is why most of these souls appear youthful, when in fact they died at an advanced age.”

“But what about those who go through several forms, over and over.”

“Other souls also can project their impression upon a spiritual form. A wife who thinks of her older husband as younger, can change his appearance here. Of course, this ends in the Underworld.”

“As it should,” the Ferrywoman agreed, knowing that the River’s essence depended on reaping the fattiest bits of a mortal’s history.

How wonderful that the Ferrywoman could view these last drippings of a person’s life! She could see them fight through the other ghosts, finally making their way to the shoreline, where they would wet their ethereal toes and watch as a gorgeous skull-headed coin grew in their hands. Or the mortals, as said earlier, who would walk to the shoreline, not seeing anyone else around and go about the more visceral process of coughing the coin up from their throats.

They all paid, either way.

Some had things to say to her, but most were silent, in awe of the River before them.

One man, bald and bearing a goatee, seeing himself dressed in an executive’s suit with a diamond studded tie tack and brilliantly polished loafers, approached the Ferry one day. For a moment, he stood there, looking dapper, and then for a blink he lost the clothes, wore a t-shirt and shorts, and in the next his head was crushed, the neck ending in a gory imprint of a tire track.

He questioned why he should hand over the coin. Although he admitted the dancing silver spirits on the other side of the river were beautiful, he didn’t know if becoming one was worth spending his coin.

The Ferrywoman ignored him and accepted others in his place. After a few days of pondering the choice, the man finally made payment and crossed with the others.

“Vincent Baker,” Nyx said with a hint of disappointment in her watery voice. “He was… so perfect.”

A pang of jealousy struck the Ferrywoman’s jellyfish heart. Had she not devoted herself entirely to building the River? How more perfect in this job could someone be? The red fishes of Hythia’s waters had become so abundant in recent months the water was harder to navigate. This was success! What did perfect even look like?

It bothered her, but she made no reproaches of the God.

She thought it possible to just let her feelings go past her, like the churning of the River’s current, but her initial frustration and self consciousness kept with her, and although the passings of souls continued to be exhilarating, the experience began to seem manufactured somehow, placation for the despicable job of leading wayward spirits to a void of permanent amnesia and aimless, brainless wandering.

Such a pointless line of thinking. So very mortal.

The Ferrywoman ordered herself to be content.

But content, she was not.

2

The Ferry would not move without the oar’s help, so every stroke counted. There were so many souls to attend and stopping even for a moment could delay the daily deposit of coins. Some souls got impatient and tried to wade out into the water, only to find they couldn’t move through the River. The Ferrywoman relished her uniqueness in the universe; no creature, not even Nyx herself, could convey souls across her waters.

The Ferrywoman hadn’t always known this. In her recent self denigration, she wondered if anybody could use the oar as she did, since several mortals had used the bottle’s properties without a problem.

Then her question was answered: a particularly relentless mortal attempted to steal the ferry one day as she collected coins. Tongue hanging from his mouth like a hound, laughing and heaving for breath, he vigorously paddled in place, going nowhere. Shortly afterward, the Fury was summoned at Nyx’s behest, and the man was punished.

The difference, Nyx explained, between the bottle and oar was their composition. One had been made from the materials bordering the Underworld (the oar) and one had been constructed from materials bordering the Living World (the bottle). Since the Underworld populated itself with catatonic spirits, there wasn’t any chance some ghost would confiscate the oar to escape. So the Living couldn’t use the oar, the dim-brained dead wouldn’t conceive using it, and that left only the Ferrywoman, who was now of neither world.

She was special after all.

But that was the only consolation some days, for the barrage of souls was endless and sometimes maddening in its scope. The Ferrywoman toiled away and watched what little flesh she had melt from her bones, leaving her a bare, bleached skeleton inhabiting robes. The passings were still delicious but she became more and more jaded about the experience.

Life on the River Hythia was, in a word, lonely. The nameless spirits jolly to cross over gave the Ferrywoman no joy and Nyx’s face constantly watching from the water made her uneasy, fearful of a scolding the longer she withheld a coin deposit.

From time to time, watching the Fury work would fascinate the Ferrywoman, just to see something new happen. The monster would waddle on its reptile legs toward its prey, canine midsection hunched over with humanoid hands that stretched forth with dreadful black claws, rat’s face always parted in a buck-toothed gape that promised the return of the plague. The Ferrywoman always sought its eyes. There was something comforting and real in them. Several times she thought laughingly of that rat wearing glasses and had no idea what the image meant.

A year later and Nyx had not warmed to the Fury, although she must have been stuck with the monster, just as someone might be stuck with a particular storm to provide necessary rainwater. The Fury changed its punishable crimes every day and the number of souls it brought was unpredictable. Nyx had communed with some of the local temples and the mortals were in disarray over the Fury aspect of their new religion. Nobody could build a dogma around its random choice of sin and punishment. There was no pattern to its punishment and the indecisive nature of its pursuits added a level of chaos to a system that Nyx had recalled as quite structured at one time.

As the Fury concerned them, temple leaders tried to instill acceptance in their followers, because the monster inevitably sent a soul to the River sooner. Mortals would nod and smile and agree with the temple brethren, but in actuality, at home and not in the presence of their congregation, they would hide in fear, waiting for some dark day when the Fury came unexpectedly for whatever sin, small or large, they’d committed.

During what was a painful afternoon of collecting, loading, oaring, oaring, oaring, the Ferrywoman had an encounter with a mortal who came down to the shores, stopping just short of touching the water. Some people had learned this would keep them alive. Some hadn’t.

This policewoman had.

She tried to elicit a conversation with the Ferrywoman and called her by the name of Janet, several times… The name meant nothing, and this woman meant nothing…yet, the encounter was disturbing. Later, after Nyx became incensed and the woman escaped, the Ferrywoman had time to think about why the woman so disturbed her. Something about the woman’s face reminded her of the Fury’s eyes. The more she dwelled on it, the more the name of Janet felt different to her. She didn’t recollect the name, but now it seemed like a piece of a large puzzle she’d thrown away long ago. With no other pieces to connect, she would never understand its value.

The Ferrywoman hoped the woman would return.

She stopped hoping the day she saw the Fury disemboweling the policewoman over a series of rocks near the shoreline. Its clawed hand held up a coin pulled from the woman’s intestines, its dumb rat grin looking justified in triumph.

The woman’s spirit came aboard that afternoon.

The Ferrywoman waited patiently for the woman to address her again; will she call me Janet now? But the woman had become lost in her own internal strife, and developed the mute quality most of the dead possessed. She watched as the woman stepped off the ferry into the Underworld. Her shape collapsed into silver cursive light and fled at once into the nothing-land, interspersing with other dancing nebulas.

“Janet,” the Ferrywoman whispered quietly in wonder.

CHAPTER VI

The Dancers

They were as beautiful as they were mysterious to onlookers. Only the Ferrywoman and Nyx realized they were empty energy, bouncing here and there, with about as many profound thoughts as a bursting firework in the night sky. Those poor ghosts, colliding into each other with no memories and no possible way to lead any meaningful existence now, they had reached a place of eternal life, as spiritual vegetables.

It was a worse fate, the Ferrywoman supposed, than the terminus death in the interim between the God’s destruction and Nyx’s resurrection. At least those parting spirits might have had one final look at their existence before thinning out into the ether. The end result would have been cessation from the terrible agony of trying to derive who you are out of nothing, a soul cheapened to dust.

The denizens of the Underworld were valueless.

And the Ferrywoman understood their plight all too well. How had she gotten here? When did Nyx give her life? Why didn’t Nyx have any other children? Was there an end to this job? Would the River always crave new tragedies from these pathetic things that walked the planet? Would Nyx’s appetite ever become satiated on these delicacies? How could the River stay the same length and yet feel so much deeper with every passing soul?

More questions came with every boatload of passengers, although the Ferrywoman never asked the God for answers. She knew enough about Nyx to know that she would be asking in vain. It was impossible to ask for guidance from a being that spent its time submerged under the River, laughing and orgasming at all the anguish surging around her. No, the Ferrywoman knew better than to approach Nyx with these startlingly mortal-like emotions.

She began to wonder then, even how unlikely, if she had once been mortal. It was another question never to find an answer, but an important one, so she decided to let it be the only question she addressed to Nyx in this vein.

“The mortals have the same bone structure as I do—I wondered if I’d been born of mortal parents?”

“Nonsense, little one.” Nyx wiped fresh tears from her reddened eyes and a hearty laugh burst from her cavernous mouth. “You are above these creatures. I shaped you in their image so that they would approach the Ferry with less reluctance. Make no mistake, you are born of the River and nowhere else.”

At one point that answer might have satisfied the Ferrywoman, but it simply made her wallow in more unspoken questions. The only comfort came in the daily deposits of coin. But such a shallow comfort that was... She would have had to be an extremely fanatical miser to revel in the coins for very long.

Still, she had nowhere else to go but on and on. This was her existence. It wasn’t about being content or malcontent. It was only about being.

CHAPTER VII

The Dark Shore

It was a day like all others, and the Ferrywoman had gone about it, laboring ever on, as she always had. She wouldn’t have suspected how different everything could become in one single moment.

She rowed steadily toward the dark shore where the shifting masses waited for passage. The Ferry bumped against the shoreline as it always did. She dropped the ropes, as she always did. The first spirit reached out, coin in hand, as always…

The woman standing there held a little girl by her pale, flickering hand. She proffered two coins for passage. The Ferrywoman normally would have taken them swiftly and moved the rest aboard.

But Janet could only stare at Faye and tremble at her presence.

Faye pressed her hand farther out with the two coins.

Janet looked at the little girl…it was a smaller version of Faye, only she wore glasses. This was how Faye saw the daughter who never came to be. But they were together now. Hand in hand. But not forever; they were focused on crossing the river to complete nullification, where neither would conceive of each other again.

Why have you stopped, child?

“You know, don’t you mother?” the Ferrywoman asked.

Nyx’s voice grew suddenly harsher than she’d ever heard it before. You are delaying the deposit. Take the coins.

As though on cue, Faye forced her hand forward, her eyes steady on the silvery sliding promises across the River.

“Babe?” said Janet.

Faye still had her eyes on the Underworld. The conception of her daughter hunkered closer to her.

“I can’t let you do this,” Janet told her. “I love you.”

Faye numbly turned her head, no recognition in her eyes.

Janet placed the oar in the water and pushed off.

What are you doing, you foul thing? Return. Return, I say!

The spirits rioted as the ferry drifted farther away from the shore. Over the swaying masses, Janet could no longer see Faye and her daughter, but she imagined them there, still together, holding hands.

Nyx called out for the Fury, which had become lost in a big city yet again.

When Janet reached the center of the River Hythia, she hurled the oar out as far as she could. It absorbed into water rather than splashing, gone in a blink.

Of course it would, thought Janet. It’s of the River, just as I am now.

You will retrieve that at once! Nyx thundered.

“I won’t,” Janet replied softly, “I’m not coming back here.”

You will listen to me!

The Fury appeared on the ferry and ungainly scrambled for Janet, opening its large black and white arms flaring with fur. As it rushed forward, a buck-toothed grin caught in its rat face.

Janet stepped off the ferry and dropped into the River.

CHAPTER VIII

The God

Nyx scoured the River for thousands of years. The God had no idea why she couldn’t find the woman—she could sense Janet, like somebody senses a loathsome skin tag on her body, but when Nyx groped there, she found nothing. From the River’s abuse, the suffering alone should have had Janet frantic to return to the surface. She was only down there with her grief. All her past pain would be exposed to her, like so much flayed open muscle and nerve, infected with her tears and mumbling madness of asking the question, “Why?” “Why has this been done?” “Why has this been done to me?” And clawing at her best intentions and intellect in a cruel world, she would arrive at the unfairness of it all and question the lack of balance. She was good person. Herman was good person. Melody wasn’t only good, but also pure and new. How could this be taken away? Why couldn’t it finally be rectified?

Janet’s mortal anguish should have been torturing her to unbelievable depths. Losing everything. Wanting the pain to end.

It never would.

And still Nyx hunted for this woman, Janet Erikson, the greatest single mistake of the God’s resurrected life.

Oh how she searched, starving and desperate for an answer…

CHAPTER IX

The Bottle

The shards of bottle glass would occasionally drift by and cut Janet’s thin presence in the River. The ache might have triggered a scream at one time, but Janet knew that alarming Nyx would undo her and awaken her newly forged immortal mind.

She didn’t want that.

She had her awful memories back again and couldn’t lose them.

She had Melody, she had Herman, she had Faye and Evan. It was often blood-soaked, haunted and disturbed, but the memories were all there for her, an incurable sickness with benefits.

Now that the richness of life was gone, the good parts were only drips from a once full bottle, but in between the madness and despair, they tasted divine.

CHAPTER X

The End

As the River could no longer be fed, the souls crowded the shore and overpopulated the world. It was surprising the waters never receded completely. Without mortal tragedy to fill it, how could the River still thrive? The idea that it would dry up sooner or later faded with those who lived in this place of mass haunting. In time, it was assumed the River would always be there. Just as the miserable dead would forever stare across the waters to the shores of the Underworld, marveling at the exhibition of dancing lies, waiting and hoping for something they’d never truly come to have.

About the Author

Benjamin Kane Ethridge is the Bram Stoker Award winning author of the novel Black & Orange (Bad Moon Books, 2010). For his master's thesis he wrote, “Causes of Unease: The Rhetoric of Horror Fiction and Film.” Available in an ivory tower near you. Benjamin lives in Southern California with his wife and two creatures who possess stunning resemblances to human children. When he isn't writing, reading, videogaming, Benjamin is defending California's waterways and sewers from pollution.

Visit Benjamin Kane Ethridge online at www.bkethridge.com

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