Loss (6 page)

When his mother left for work, she cast him a troubled look before heading out the door. Billy let it wash over him, then parked his grandfather by the television and retreated to his bedroom. He couldn’t do his homework because he didn’t have his backpack, and he wasn’t in the mood for music. Television was a waste. Reading? No. He was too messed up to talk to Marianne, so he wouldn’t text her. Therefore . . . time for video games. Animated violence with a killer soundtrack: maybe not a cure-all, but it sure worked as a temporary fix.

He got six rounds in before the doorbell rang.

As he ran to the door, Billy had a sudden, consuming hope that it was Marianne standing on his stoop, offering his backpack and a sympathetic smile. On the heels of that was the fervent wish that it
not
be Marianne at his door, not after the scene at Dawson’s. How could he ever face her again? His mouth twisted into something caught between a smile and a grimace. Steeling himself for the worst, he opened the door.

He didn’t see Marianne Bixby.

“Oh good, you’re home.” The guitarist that Billy had spoken with yesterday smiled warmly as he held out a slip of paper. “I was starting to think I’d have to make a formal appointment.”

Billy absently took the paper as he stared at the figure standing before him. Even though the street musician still wore a man’s form, Billy now saw through the easy smile and mischievous blue eyes, down to the skull beneath the flesh.

Death had come for Billy Ballard, wearing a ragged brown sweater and a mop of blond hair. Strangely, Billy wasn’t frightened. If he had to put a name to the emotion settling in his bones, it would have been resignation.

“You,” said Billy.

“Me,” Death agreed.

The Pale Rider, that’s the Pale Rider, he’s come to take me to see the Ice Cream Man.

He squashed that thought until it bled to nothingness, and he forced himself to consider the slip of paper in his hand. Anything to keep him from thinking about the Ice Cream Man. As before, the words on the message slip had faded to the point of illegibility—this time, even Billy’s name was nonexistent. As he looked at the vague impressions on the paper, he wondered why he hadn’t recognized Death yesterday.

“You were rather preoccupied,” Death said cheerfully. “All you cared about was finding your grandfather. To see me for what I am, you need an open mind. Among other things. Oh, here’s your backpack. Thought you’d want it back.”

Billy, nonplussed by the casual display of mind reading, took the knapsack and mumbled his thanks.

“May I come in?”

“Um. Sure.”

Death entered the house, whistling as he walked. Did he actually need an invitation, or was he merely being polite? Billy decided it didn’t really matter. He closed the door and shoved the slip of paper into his pocket, wondering if he was going to die.

“Of course you are,” said Death, glancing at the bookshelf poster on the back of the door. “Thou art flesh and blood. All such things die and decay and feed the worms. But not today, dude. Not for you.”

Well then, there was only one other reason why someone—no, some
thing
—like this would be paying a visit, wasn’t there? It couldn’t be just to return his bookbag. Billy thought of his grandfather, of the man his grandfather used to be, and he told himself that it was for the best. It was long past his grandfather’s time.

“Time is relative, of course,” Death said idly. “Great poster, by the way. ‘Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.’”

Billy struggled for a proper reply. “If you say so.”

“I didn’t. Groucho Marx did. And he added that ‘Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.’” Death chuckled. “Got to love the classics.”

Nothing like a death god with a sense of humor.
Billy glanced at Gramps, sequestered in the den but within easy eyeshot. The old man’s gaze was studiously fixed on the TV screen. Billy wondered if his grandfather was ignoring the guest in the house, or if he really was just that into the television show. Maybe Gramps knew exactly what was about to happen, and he was pretending to be lost in a game show more than two decades old.

Maybe Gramps was scared.

“For the record,” said Death, who was now ambling down the hallway, “I’m not a god. Those come and go. I’m more like a permanent fixture.”

“Oh.” Billy peeked at his grandfather again. Poor Gramps. Well, everyone had a time to go, and this was his grandfather’s. Billy was okay with that. Actually, Billy felt . . . relieved.

He had to be the worst grandson in the world. He clamped a hand over his stomach, but that did nothing to stop the sudden churning in his belly.

Death, now standing in front of where a large family photo used to hang, turned his head to gaze at Billy. The wall behind Death was empty, with only the ghosts of snapshots to lend any color, but those eyes, Death’s eyes, were even emptier.

Vacant
, Billy thought, feeling the first stirrings of fear as his heart slammed in his throat,
the word is vacant, unoccupied. Unoccu-eyed. He’s got no eyes in his eyes. How does he see?

“I see quite clearly,” said Death. “And I’m not here for your grandfather.”

Billy went cold. It didn’t come over him slowly, like blood draining from his face; this was a sudden frost, like he’d stepped into a meat locker and someone had shut the door behind him. Numb, he stammered, “Not my mom . . . ?”

A smile flickered across Death’s mouth. “I’m here for you, William.”

Now Billy wasn’t numb at all. Sheer terror—far colder than the meager fear he’d felt just a moment ago—yanked at his spine and contorted it into a frantic knot. He squeaked, “
Me?
But you said I wasn’t going to die today!”

“Who said anything about dying?”

Billy’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Get out!”

Billy spun to face his grandfather, who had pulled himself up and was shaking a fist in Death’s direction.

“Gramps,” Billy wheezed, “stop—”

“You got no business here,” the old man shouted. “Ride somewhere else!”

“But I
do
have business here,” said Death, not unkindly. “Just not with you, Martin Walker. This is between me and your grandson.”

“Malarkey! He’s just a boy! Can’t speak for himself. Can’t sign no deals.”

“I’m not one to barter for souls or wager on people’s natures.” Death’s voice was the subtle rot of fallen leaves, filled with both menace and promise. “And even if I were, it would not be for you to tell me otherwise. Leave us.”

Gramps lifted his chin. “Get lost.”

Billy wanted to run behind his grandfather and cower there until Death retreated. And Billy wanted to scoop his grandfather up and hurl him out of harm’s way, like he did yesterday afternoon. In the end, Billy did neither of those things. Frozen, he watched the old man confront Death, and he silently cheered for his grandfather,
his
Gramps, returned at long last.

For a long moment, the room was painfully still. Billy didn’t dare to breathe.

Finally, Death sighed. “Fine,” he said, “let’s do it the old-fashioned way.” He grabbed his chin and yanked up, revealing the skull beneath the bloody flesh. “Boo!”

Gramps shrieked and bolted for his bedroom, the telltale stench of urine wafting behind him. A door’s slam echoed through the house.

Billy—far too furious to remember to be afraid of Death—whirled around and jabbed a finger at Death’s chest. “You just terrified an old man!”

“Heh. Yeah.” The skull’s teeth gleamed. “Man, that was fun.”

“That’s my
grandfather!
You probably gave him a heart attack!”

“Not today,” said Death, rearranging his face. “Not on the agenda. Oh, he’ll probably have some bad dreams. But really, now, it’s the least he deserved. I’m a patient sort of entity, but even I have my limits.”

Enraged, overwhelmed, Billy shouted, “What do you
want
from me?”

Death paused. The humor winking in his eyes faded until they were empty once more. Finally, he met Billy’s gaze. “I want your help.”

Chapter 6

Billy Waited . . .

. . . for the rest of the joke. Because surely, Death had to be joking. No one wanted Billy’s help, unless it was for him to act as a living target. When Death didn’t elaborate, Billy said, “Help with what?”

“Moving a body.”

Billy’s eyes felt like they’d pop right out of his skull.
“What?”

Death grinned. “Kidding. Well, sort of. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Wait,” Billy said as Death headed toward the front door. “I can’t just go with you.”

“Oh?” Death glanced over his shoulder. “And why is that?”

A thousand reasons screamed inside Billy’s head, most of which boiled down to “Because you’re Death, duh.” But what he said was, “I can’t leave my grandfather alone.”

The man who was not a man looked at Billy, looked
through
Billy, before he replied, “Usually, it’s the adults who whine about not leaving the children alone.”

“He’s got Alzheimer’s,” Billy said.

“ ‘It’s got him’ would be more accurate, but who am I to quibble about the nature of disease? That’s not my forte.” Death flashed a grin. “No worries. He’ll still be in the throes of his particular ailment come morning.”

“I
know
that.” God, did he know that. “My point is, he can’t be left alone.”

“Can’t he? Here in this fine house, with all its locked windows and obfuscated doors and rounded corners? You’ve all but swaddled him in safety.” Death’s eyes shone darkly, hinting at amusement. “As I said, no worries. No harm will come to him tonight.”

“How do you know?”

That scored him an arched eyebrow. Translation:
Because I’m Death, duh.

Billy felt his cheeks heat. “My mom will kill me if she comes home and I’m not here.”

“She won’t even know you’ve been gone. Neither will your grandfather. Time works differently for Horsemen.”

A pause as Billy absorbed the words. He repeated, “Horsemen?”

“The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” Death’s voice deepened as he proclaimed, “‘They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine, and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.’ And all that jazz.” He winked. “You have to admit,” he said, his voice no longer booming, “it’s terrific PR, even if it’s overblown.”

Apocalypse. As in the end of everything.

The world tilted to the left. Billy squeezed his eyes shut and commanded himself not to pass out. He’d understood that this creature dressed like a man was Death, and that was bad enough. But now this was Death as part of the Apocalypse, and that was infinitely more frightening. Throat dry, he whispered, “Is the world going to end?”

“Of course it will,” Death said cheerfully. “But not today. Really, you people get so hung up on the smallest things.
Apocalypse
is just a word, William. If everything were coming to a crashing halt, you’d know. There’d be signs. Wars on an unprecedented scale. Natural disasters. Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together—mass hysteria. Okay, maybe not that last part.” He chuckled, and the sound was like wind blowing through withered leaves. “Love that movie. Bill Murray rocks.”

Death with a sense of humor . . . and who watched
Ghostbusters
. Somehow, Death loving one of Billy’s favorite movies made the situation both more surreal and less terrifying. Billy opened his eyes. “So it’s not the end of the world?”

“Nope.”

“But you’re a . . . Horseman.”

“Indeed. The Pale Rider,” he said with a showman’s flourish. “But you already knew that.”

Billy had. He’d known it since yesterday, just like he’d known that it was almost time to wear the Crown . . . whatever that meant.

No, he wasn’t going to think about that, wasn’t going to remember the dream about the Ice Cream Man or hastily made promises in the noonday sun. Feeling lightheaded, he asked, “So the Horsemen of the Apocalypse go riding even when it’s not the Apocalypse?” Before he could stop himself, he added, “Isn’t that false advertising?”

Death chuckled again. “Admittedly, ‘Horsemen of the Daily Grind’ doesn’t sound as awe-inspiring. But end of the world or not, the Horsemen have a job to do.”

“Which is?”

“Why, preventing the end of the world, of course. And that’s why I need your help.” Death motioned to the door. “Coming?”

Billy blew out a shaky breath, nodded, and walked stiffly to the front door. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to leave with Death but that he
had
to. Part of that was Billy was used to being bowled over, whether by fists or by words. Part of it was that Death wasn’t one to be easily denied; there was a presence around him, an aura of power that Billy couldn’t see but felt like pimples breaking the surface of his skin. Death wanted him to follow, and so he would follow.

But part of it—a small, hesitant part of it—was that Billy had to know why Death had chosen him. He was the one who no one picked, not for teams or friends—

(other than Marianne, amazing Marianne, who’d been there since pre-K and had stuck with him even when everyone else turned away)

—and adults either ignored him or dealt with him matter-of-factly, like he was a statistic instead of a person. Even his mom tended to treat him like a babysitter instead of a son. So why, out of all the billions of people in the world, had Death sought out Billy Ballard?

It’s a joke
, he told himself as he opened the door wide.
It’s a joke and I’m the punch line.

But it wasn’t. In his heart, he knew this. He’d been chosen. And that small, hesitant part of him was grateful.

He stepped aside, and Death sauntered out, hands in pockets, humming a tune that Billy couldn’t quite place. As the Pale Rider went by, Billy felt a chill on his face, like a breath of frost.

From the back of his mind, a man’s voice whispered:
It won’t last.

Restraining a shudder, Billy cast a glance at the living room—not nervously, exactly, and not anxiously. It was like he wanted to memorize exactly how every stitch of furniture was positioned, to remember the way each throw pillow was angled on the overstuffed sofa. As spooky and weird as it was for Death to come calling, Billy felt in his gut that once he walked out the front door, life as he’d known it would be forever over. That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. But it would be a
permanent
thing. That’s what was making his insides itch: the finality.