My Soul Immortal (4 page)

I lob a dirty look in his direction as I dig my wallet from my jeans pocket, then I hand my forged ID to the redhead. She scrutinizes and flips the plastic over several times before returning it with a shrug and a smile.

Having my age questioned at every bar, pub, and restaurant began to grate on my nerves after a few decades. I often wondered why my body stopped aging when I was so young. Why twenty? Why not thirty, fifty, or even fifteen? I found the closest thing to an answer years earlier, sitting in the Detroit Metro Airport, waiting for a flight. I grabbed a newspaper to kill some time and found myself intrigued by an article about the medical fountain of youth. According to the article, a human body matures until age twenty. After that, erosion sets in. No eroding, no aging, it was as simple as that, but there, the article’s help ended. The writer went on to discuss chromosomes, telomeres, and broken DNA, concluding that even if scientists discovered a genetic off-switch, living forever would still be impossible. Anybody who evaded old age would eventually succumb to cancer, disease, or illness.
If only I could be so lucky.

When the bartender returns, she sets a frosty mug in front of me. I sip the icy froth and try to relax, but the muscles in my neck and shoulders remain tense. I realize as ridiculous as my wish is, I wanted the blonde to be Green Eyes, not just to prove who she’s not, but to know who she is.
Fantastic. Nicknaming a delusion. Yeah, this is healthy.

Before this girl, I’d settled into the remnants of a life—the scraps that fate left me—which wasn’t easy by any means. But what else could I do? However, the leftovers don’t seem to be enough anymore. Why? Because I want to be happy? No, that word’s too strong. I want to not be broken anymore.
Bloody hell. What has seeing those eyes in the flesh done to me? I sound like such a pansy.
An irritated huff seeps between my lips. I swallow the last gulp of beer and then raise my glass to ask for another.

When the bartender returns, she glares at my neighbor and points at the prominent No Smoking sign hanging over her head. “Sir, you can’t smoke in here.”

The middle-aged man takes a long drag on his cigarette. He lets ribbons of smoke flow from his nostrils. An icy chill touches the base of my neck. Confused, I swat the sensation away.

“Those things will kill you anyway,” she hisses.

His humorless laugh rumbles as he stamps out the butt in the peanut bowl. “I wish.”

I half expect her to throw him out. Instead, she gives the man a disgusted look, removes the bowl, and walks away with a roll of her eyes. I notice a half-empty bottle of fifteen-year-old single-malt scotch in front of him. Definitely the reason for her understanding.

“Am I right, Jack?” A humorless smirk plays along his lips.

My gut twists, and despite the beer, my throat goes dry. Shifting my attention to the game on the beat-up TV behind the bar, I ignore him, but when he laughs again, my eyes meet his. He has a straight nose, a pointed chin, eyes the color of sapphires, and a jagged scar across his right cheekbone. Memories file through my mind, but I find nothing.

“I suppose you wouldn’t remember me. It was a long time ago,” he finally says.

I glower at the amber liquid in my mug, but my anxiety rises, and sweat moistens my palms and beads along my brow. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know you.”

“A hundred bucks says you do.”

“Look. I’m not in the mood for games. Why don’t you just tell me what you want, and we’ll be done with it?”

“It’s just nice to chat with a peer now and again.”

“Peer?”

His smile begins rather subdued, then his mouth expands into a toothy grin. He glances over his shoulder as he rolls an unlit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

“You know what I am?” I ask as an uncontrollable hope builds.

The man ignores my question. His sapphire eyes fix on something at the back of the room. Annoyed, I follow his gaze and spot a young couple dancing in red-hued lighting. As the woman’s fingers sweep through her companion’s hair, their bodies sway together as one. The scene is irritating, I agree, but not unusual to the setting. I peer back at the sapphire-eyed man, but his focus has not changed. His intense interest in the young couple is odd if not bizarre. I hope I haven’t stepped into some lovers’ tiff. A moment or two later, the sultry melody ends and becomes a rhythmic throbbing. The couple step from the dance floor. Arms entwined, they head for the exit. I grimace when the young chap doesn’t hold the door for his dance partner.
Maybe chivalry is dead
. My attention swings back to the man.

He stands, and after a quick bow of his head, he starts for the door. “Another time.”

“What? No!” A frenzied need bubbles to the surface, causing me to grab for the sleeve of his blazer, but the material slips through my fingers like mercury. His wiry form glides out of the bar like the wind, following the couple into the night.

I jump to my feet and hurry past the counter toward the exit, but I’m hauled backward before I get very far. A vise-like grip holds me fast. The wide hand locked around my forearm belongs to a mountain of a man. Thick, graying hair, long and straggly, billows around his weathered face. He scowls at me as whiffs of alcohol swirl from him. “I got him for ya, Rosie.”

“Leaving without paying? Not in my joint. You can pay for your rude friend, too,” Rosie says, motioning toward the door with her head.

I toss the contents of my wallet onto the bar and hope it’s enough.

“That’ll do.” Rosie nods to Mountain Man.

To my relief, he releases me.

“But don’t come back!” Rosie yells.

I burst out the door onto the deserted street. The only loiterers are a row of cast-iron streetlamps sending smudged golden beams across the canvas of night.
Where could he have disappeared to so fast?
My pulse accelerates, and I pick a direction, sprinting down the one-way street in the direction of the wharfs, shooting frantic glances down each side street and alley. Still nothing. With a fluid motion, I head in the opposite direction, but the man is gone, taking his answers with him.

Anger and pain press in, and I walk toward Rosie’s. I need a minute of peace, just a few moments to forget about Lydia, the girl, and my most recent failed attempt to discover what I am. And I know exactly how to achieve that level of release.

Mountain Man looks up from his bottle of Bud Light as I step in. Then he grins, showing off missing teeth. “Got a death wish, dumbass?”

I laugh. He has no idea.

“Didn’t you hear Rosie? She said don’t come back.” He slides from the stool and towers over my six feet.

“Don’t hurt him too bad, Tank,” Rosie says from behind the bar. The other patrons’ laughter follows in unison.

I snorted. “Tank? You’ve got to be kidding me. Who names their kid ‘Tank’? Your mum wasn’t a bright one, was she? Maybe she was in the tank when she had you, or is she built like a tank?” My goading is lame. Nevertheless, I need the fight to be a good one. No better way to secure that than to take a potshot at his mother.

Tank growls, and my smile widens.

“Not in here. Take it outside!” Rosie hisses.

I back out the door, and the mountain follows. “Come on,” I say. “Bigger they are…”

A fist slams into my jaw. My ass hits the pavement, making my ears ring.
Oh yeah, the harder they hit.

I stagger to my feet. I’m out of practice; that’s for damn sure. I raise my fists and tuck in my elbows.
Time to return the favor.
I land a quick right hook on Mountain Man’s chin, smearing his grin with his own blood.

Tank’s massive head swings, but to my surprise, his stance doesn’t budge. With a dirty shirtsleeve, he wipes blood from his split lip. I sense the ruse and pivot my shoulder just as his sucker punch flies toward my face. The blow grazes my forearm.

His other massive paw snags my collar. I would love to stagger away and create some space between us, but I can’t. Tank’s fist slams the lead slug still lodged in my back. Fiery ripples arc through me, and I twist in agony. Tank spins me free of his grip, and his uppercut thuds into my chin. Sparks fly across my vision. The world spins, then my palms and knees grate across cold asphalt.

Tank grabs my arm and drags me out of the road. Whiffs of vapor escape his muttering lips. He leans me against a lamppost and looks me straight in the eye. “Stay,” he says. Then he returns to the bar.

I shove myself up. Back burning, jaw aching, I limp home with a shattered ego and bruised hide. At the apartment, I hold a bag of frozen peas to my swollen jaw and scour my mind for a memory of the sapphire-eyed man who might hold the key to what I am. After sifting through numerous images, I find nothing. His scar taunts me. Despite all the battering I’ve put my body through, I’ve never acquired one. The remnant of a jagged gash across his cheek hints he knows how to incur damage. Or he’s a complete fraud. Nevertheless, the only lead I’ve had in decades slipped away. My grip tightens on the bag.
Pop!
Peas scatter all over the table and floor. I struggle out of the chair like a decrepit old man half my age. Muscles along my spine burn and cramp in objection to the smallest movement. I grit my teeth and work hard to disregard the flaring pain. I take in a long, deep breath, and the discomfort melts into tingling warmth. Miracle or curse, I’m healed again. Nothing of the fight remains; all the bruises faded into healthy skin. While sweeping up the peas, I curse the sapphire-eyed devil. Why do flashbacks flood in with such clarity, but helpful memories evade me? With my floor once again pea-free, I pitch the broom into the closet and slam the door.

Tired and drained, I slump onto the vinyl swivel chair of the lime-green dinette set. This encounter was the perfect reminder that I need to focus on things that will get me to Lydia, not on a green-eyed delusion that’s doing me no good. I know I can’t visit that street corner again.

CHAPTER THREE

With a snap of my wrist, the rolled-up newspaper smacks the coffee shop table, almost spilling my drink. The paper unfurls, and the front-page headline reads: DOUBLE HOMICIDE. SUSPECT UNKNOWN.

I sink into my chair. The couple from Rosie’s Bar stare up at me from the printed page. The story that follows sends a chill straight through me.

Paul Lamonte, 23, of Portland, and Cindy Mears, 22, of Falmouth, were discovered at the parking garage at 182 Fore Street on Friday night, shortly before midnight. Portland Police Chief Daniel Richards said the victims had been shot to death in the late evening hours.

Richards said drugs might have been involved, but there are no suspects.

Lamonte and Mears were last seen leaving Tommy’s Variety Store at 11:30 Friday evening. A man seen with the couple is wanted for questioning. He is described as 6’2” with short black hair and blue eyes. He was last seen wearing a black blazer, black shirt, and jeans. The only distinguishing feature is a scar across his right cheek. Anyone with information should call the Portland Police Department.

True, the sapphire-eyed man had been watching them, his expression focused like a predator zeroing in on the weakest member of the herd. Then he ran out after them. By themselves, these facts could lead to different conclusions, but the article suggested that he’d followed them. What bothers me even more is if the man was telling the truth, and we’re cut from the same cloth, killing Hake might not have been a horrid misstep but a part of my nature. I’ve only killed once, but the almost-euphoric thrill that followed frightened me. After Hake’s death, I vowed never to take another life again—except my own.

“And I let the bastard slip through my fingers.” I heave a sigh and hang my head, knowing I would sell my soul for an answer.
That is, if I had one to offer.

A wry smile tugs at my lips. I haven’t considered the possibility for a long time, not since Hake’s death. But now, with all the advances in technology at my fingertips, perhaps the time has come to revisit my old theory. Besides, diving into research might help with my new pursuit and keep me from chasing after the phantom girl.

The door flies open, interrupting my thoughts and stealing my gaze from the photos. The wind and the sound of drumming rain slip in behind a figure whose face and form are disguised by an oversized sunshine-yellow rain poncho. The color steals my breath and sends legions of tiny butterflies cascading into my stomach. Could this really be her? I hate to even hope.

My eyes follow the figure, who hustles behind the counter. I quash my anticipation.
Can’t be,
I tell myself repeatedly.

“Sorry I’m late, Rachel. My alarm clock picked this morning to die.” Her apologetic ramble holds a tint of annoyance.

Now not even doubt can persuade me. The late employee is Green Eyes. Unprepared for how to handle this situation, I return to the article. My heart rate accelerates. Sweat breaks out across my neck.
Okay, Sherlock, you wanted to find her. You got your wish. Now what?
Instead of stepping up to the counter and introducing myself like any normal gentleman, I eavesdrop on her conversation. I know it’s rude, but I need to know about her, and at least for the moment, I’ve lost my nerve.

The girls’ chitchat covers the inclement weather, then they babble on about Rachel’s boyfriend. Laughter chimes through the shop, and my mind warps the sound into Lydia’s bell-like laugh.
Delusions up to their old tricks again, no doubt.
Disapproval grows in my gut, but the craving to know more swells, regardless of my wishes.
Not Lydia
, I remind myself, but I can’t help listening more closely.

Their chatter halts at the singsong tone of a cell phone.

“Speak of the devil. I have to take this. Get the apple muffins when the buzzer rings. Hey, baby. What’s up?” Sticky-sweet and flirtatious, the words roll off Rachel’s tongue. Her voice fades out as she walks into the back room.

All falls quiet except for the splash of dishwater and the tapping of rain on the windows. I concentrate on my paper, the tab on my coffee lid, and pretty much anything that doesn’t remind me I’m losing my marbles—everything but Green Eyes and her distinctive laugh. The timer buzzes, drawing my attention toward a young woman taking the muffins out of the oven. Her wet hair is knotted into a tight bun. The dark-red apron tied around her waist emphasizes her slender figure.