The Wrong Goodbye

As I climbed the stairs, the strains of music I’d heard below grew louder. Through the scratch and hiss of the weary old vinyl, I heard Patsy’s lament. … I’m crazy for trying, and crazy for crying… and I’m crazy for loving you…

Sounded like her week was going about as well as mine.

The entrance to the second floor was barred by a cave-in just inside the stairwell door; through the starburst pattern in the inlaid safety glass, I saw a pile of rubble four feet high. With luck, I thought, the third floor won’t be similarly afflicted.

It wasn’t. The third floor, like the second, still had a door —a heavy wooden affair inlaid with safety glass — but its top hinge had separated from the doorframe, which left it hanging at a nauseating angle that prevented it from latching. Slowly, carefully, I pushed it open, listening for any indication the movement had been noticed. Apart from a redoubling of the record’s volume, I heard nothing, so I slipped through the doorway, and eased it shut behind me.

The stairwell door opened into a broad room, from which a hallway like the one on the first floor extended. A pile of splintered timber along one wall looked like it had once been some kind of desk, suggesting this had maybe been a nurses’ station. There were candles everywhere —on the floor, atop the rubble of the desk, in the nooks created by the crumbling of the failing walls. An old Victrola cabinet sat in the center of the room, the Cline record spinning beneath its propped lid. Deep gouges furrowed its mahogany frame in sets of four parallel lines each, as though some demon had taken a swipe or two at it in a fit of pique. Apparently skim-trips weren’t all wine-androses after all.

I heard a low, huffing breath to my left, like a city bus laboring up a hill. Close —too close for my tastes.

I spun around. Behind me, hidden from view around the corner as I’d entered the room, was a demon. A massive demon, sitting beneath a jagged hole in the ceiling, through which poured a torrent of desert rain. Given the size of this monster, I couldn’t help but think that hole must be how it had gotten in.

The demon was maybe ten feet across, and standing no doubt would’ve been twice that high. Its skin was the sickly, glistening white of a creature raised belowground; its body was segmented and striated, like that of a grub. Thick horns of yellow-white protruded from its head on either side, stretching for several feet before curving slightly downward and terminating in two nasty-looking points that scratched the rainsoaked walls. Two rows of six eyes each, milky white in the absence of that trademark demon fire, were wet from rain and tears both. The creature sat with its legs hugged to its chest, rocking back and forth like a child. Its ropy neck flickered like the man-demon’s arm had flickered, indicating skim. In one hand it held a wildflower, brilliant purple in the candlelight.

As it turned its gaze toward me, its awful face broke into a smile.

It extended an arm toward me —an arm that nearly spanned the length of the room —and offered me the flower.

And with a voice as terrible as damnation itself, it said, “Daddy?”

Something in my meat-suit snapped then, and I tore out of the room at a sprint, leaving a puzzled child- demon in my wake. Animal panic coursed through my veins, obliterating reason. I ran like I had the devil at my heels, and as far as this hunk of meat was concerned, I guess I did. I ran past countless rooms like the ones I’d peeked inside downstairs. I ran past demons large and small, their utterances an awful chorus, egging me on. I ran until I reached the far end of the hall, and then my sock-clad foot came down on something sharp, and I stumbled, sprawling into a room brighter and warmer than those I’d seen so far. It was the mirror image of the one that I’d just fled, but this room was not in ruins. Its ceiling was intact, its walls unmarred, and, improbably, a fire crackled in an earthen fireplace along one wall.

I looked around in puzzlement at my surroundings, my heart still thudding in my chest. Beside me, atop an expensive-looking woven rug, sat a highbacked leather chair and a small side-table in the Mission style. A stained- glass lamp on the side-table cast colored shapes around the room, despite its cord dangling frayed and incomplete a foot from its base. Beneath the lamp was a snifter half-full of amber liquid, around which was wrapped a fat, bejeweled hand. The hand, in turn, led to a cuffed wrist, which led to a suit-jacket of bland gray. The jacket was wrapped tightly around a rotund, sweaty man, whose eyes danced with black fire, and whose mouth was curved into a predatory grin.

“Hiya, Sammy,” said Dumas. “It’s about time you showed up.”

23.

“You —you knew that I was coming?”

Dumas snorted, and took a sip of his drink. “You think an operation like this, one that pisses off the Big Guy and the Adversary both, and we wouldn’t have any goddamn countermeasures? Please —we’ve been monitoring your progress since before you even reached the canyon. Sweet ride, by the way.”

“If you knew I was coming, why didn’t you kill me hours ago? Why let me get this far?”

“I considered it, of course —but honestly, what would it have accomplished? You would’ve just wound up in another body and come back to pester us all over again, like the little gadfly you are. Besides, I’ve always had a soft spot for the souls I’ve corrupted —you little tykes are so adorable with your eternal suffering and why-me whining and your sad little puppy-dog eyes. So call me sentimental, but I decided this time I’d give you a pass.”

“A pass? You call my tangle with that thing in the basement a pass?”

“What, Abby? Abby’s harmless. Well, to you, at least —her tastes run more toward the living, the younger and fresher the better. Besides, if I hadn’t made things a little challenging, you wouldn’t feel like you’d accomplished anything getting up here, and just imagine what that’d do to your self-esteem! I’m about building up, Sammy, not tearing down.”

“Big of you,” I said.

“Isn’t it, though?” He made to take a pull of his drink, and then stopped short. “Oh, hell —where are my manners? Care for a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Probably for the best. Stuff’s made from the blood of the Chosen —it’d likely eat that monkey-suit’s insides right out of you. Still, it is delicious —and damn hard to come by these days. One of my clients had a case lying around since the last Great War. Traded it for a slice of nun who’d had a genuine religious experience before she died. Course, the way things have been going of late, this stuff won’t be rare much longer, so I figure I may as well drink up! Now, Sammy, you want to tell me what brought you all this way? Some unresolved daddy issues, perhaps?”

“Don’t play coy with me —you know damn well why I’m here. I came for Varela.”

“And Varela is…?”

“Play dumb all you like,” I said, “but I’m not biting. I underestimated you once before; it’s not a mistake I’m likely to repeat.”

“Really? Because I was of the impression you’re not a man who learns from his mistakes —you’re always far too certain you’re in the right. But let’s say for the sake of argument that I do know who this Varela is. What makes you think I’d hand him over to you? I mean, I allow you into my place of business out of the kindness of my heart, and this is how you repay me? By issuing orders and expecting me to snap to? It seems you’ve forgotten your station in this world, Collector —you’re in no position to make demands of me. You’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you for your impudence.”

“By all means, go ahead. As you said, I’ll simply be reseeded elsewhere —and when I am, I’ll be sure to tell my handler where she can find the missing Varela soul.”

At that Dumas sat upright and set his drink down on the table. “Wait,” he said, leaning forward in sudden interest, “you’re here about a missing soul?”

“As if you didn’t know.”