Soul Identity (4 page)

“Sixty years ago most people on this island were farmers and crabbers. The bridge replaced the ferry, and the islanders became commuters. People live here and work in Baltimore or Washington. You can reach the beach from the cities after work in time for sunset.”

I thought about the traffic. “Not on Fridays you can’t. Where are you going with this?”

“The bridge united two different worlds,” he said. “When that first Soul Identity member came to my house, he showed me the bridge that connects me to my own future world.”

“Aren’t we all connected to our future?”

Berry
stopped walking. “Scott, my future was over in four to nine years. Soul Identity showed me how I could extend it forever, by building a bridge between my present life and my future lives.”

First past and now future lives. What was this organization up to, anyway? I resumed our walk, this time back toward our houses. “I thought that the common thread tying all the beliefs in past and future lives was that you could never really be sure where your soul had been, or where it was going next.”

“These guys at Soul Identity are different,” he said. “Don’t ask me how, but they can identify and track your soul. They read it, and after you die and come back in a new body, they find it again.”

Right. I stopped in the middle of the road. “You said that these guys can find you again in a future life? That’s tough to swallow.”

“They’re not looking for you,” he said. “They’re looking for your soul. It’s a big difference.”

That was interesting. We reached the front of
Berry
’s house. “But why would I want to keep track of my soul?” I asked.

“Think about it from my side,” he said. “I saved some money, and the school of hard knocks taught me some tricks on making it in this world. I have no kids to pass the money and tricks to. But what if I could give it all back to me? I could jumpstart my next life by using this bridge, Scott. That’s what is so exiting.”

I thought about it. The belief that people have a soul is common. But the idea that some group could track your soul, find it again in the future, and pass along the information and money you banked seemed pretty novel. And if they could really do that without cheating you in the process, it also sounded compelling. I could see why
Berry
was interested.

We went inside. I sat down at the dining room table this time. I moved the shotgun to the side and opened the folder.

Berry
’s questionnaire mostly dealt with geography and dates: where, when, and for how long he had lived or visited different places. “Why so many questions on location?” I asked.

“They said it has to do with their recovery formula.”

“It sounds pretty complicated. If you missed a place on your questionnaire, are they saying that your soul can’t be found?”

Berry
smiled. “No, but they did say it helps if they know where to look.”

Why wasn’t
Berry
seeing these guys as a pyramid scheme? Or a freaky cult? “Let’s say that I buy into Soul Identity’s bridges,” I said. “What’s in it for them? They can’t just be doing this because they love to help people.”

Berry
shrugged. “Maybe they charge a commission for delivering your money back to you.”

This organization promised to deliver to a future person only if he turned up and asked to be identified. They could operate with virtually no oversight, because their clients were mostly dead. Whoever cooked up this scheme was a genius. “Do you really trust these guys to turn over your lessons and your money, and not to keep it, or give it to their buddies?” I asked.

“Dammit, of course I do! Even more so, now that they won’t let me play.” He sighed. “It doesn’t really matter if I trust them or not, does it?”

Back to the little problem. “So why didn’t they let you in?” Maybe
Berry
didn’t have enough money to make it worth their while.

“Bob didn’t want to tell me. He just said that I wasn’t suitable.” He patted his shotgun. “But when I got a little persuasive, he coughed out the real reason.”

“Which was?”

“This.” He tapped his left eye. “It’s glass. Had it for eight years now. I lost the original in a freak accident. I wore a patch for a year or two, until I got tired of looking like a pirate.”

I looked closer. I had never seen a glass eye before. It looked real enough to me, except now that I knew, I saw that its pupil was smaller than the right eye. “They told you they needed to read both your eyes?” I asked. “They told me that too.”

Berry
nodded and started sniffling again.

I noticed that the glass eye cried just as much as the real eye.

Berry
wiped his eyes. “So now I’m screwed. How could I have been so stupid to get my hopes up?”

Berry
believed that Soul Identity was for real, more so now they wouldn’t let him in. They were the fish, or the girl, that got away.

I never took on clients that I felt stretched the law or exploited people. In fact, I regularly turned down working with groups I suspected had criminal or religious ties.

Soul Identity was creepy from the start, and
Berry
’s story only made it worse. My gut told me I should walk away. But these guys were still in my thoughts over a week later, and I was feeling guilty about being such a lousy neighbor for
Berry
.

I looked at him. “You really want in with these guys, don’t you?”

He sighed, then nodded. “I do.”

I took a deep breath and stood up. “
Berry
, I’ll take Soul Identity on as a client. And I’ll do my best to find a way to get you in.”

I put my feet
up on my desk. Jane’s unfinished report glared at me until I flipped it over.

I thought about
Berry
and what might have driven him to Soul Identity. He was lonely and looking for something to live for, but he could have joined any number of clubs and charities that would have been happy to fill up his time and give him a purpose in life. He could have used his Internet connection to enter the wild world of online dating. He even could have joined a church; most of them offered some sort of eternal life.

With all those options, why did he latch on to something so far out of the mainstream?

We all have a strong urge to obtain or achieve something special. Maybe we build the largest collection of coins or stamps or beanie babies. Maybe we become experts in trivia or geography or famous movie stars. Maybe we join a church which teaches that only the select few who learn God’s real secrets will be saved. Whatever path we take, we want to be seduced into thinking that we are special and different and maybe even better than everybody else.

Churches employ this seduction to attract and retain members. Successful love relationships thrive on it too: both partners feel they’re the luckiest people to have found each other. Until one of the partners finds somebody else who makes them feel even luckier. Like my ex-wife did.

Soul Identity seduced
Berry
by offering him immortality and a purpose for living. When it dashed
Berry
’s hopes, I seduced myself by thinking that only I could help him. I guess we weren’t that different after all.

I had made a promise to
Berry
. Jane’s report could wait. Time for me to make nice with Soul Identity.

Archibald Morgan, executive overseer. How could I reach him directly? Our cursory search had turned up neither phone numbers nor email addresses. I would ask Bob the delivery guy.

I called the number on the green pen, and the dispatcher put me through. “Bob, this is Scott Waverly,” I said. “You delivered me a package last Sunday.”

“Hello, Mr. Waverly.”

I wondered if Bob had recovered from his scare with
Berry
. “Didn’t I see you tearing out of my neighbor’s house this morning?”

Silence on the line for a minute. Then, “yes, sir, you did.”

“You know you knocked over my mailbox? I had junk mail flying all around the neighborhood.”

Another long pause. “I am sorry, sir. If you fill out a damage form, my company can reimburse you.”

Yeah, he had recovered. “I need a favor from you,” I said. “I’d like to speak with Archibald Morgan. Can you give me his number?”

“Sir, the only way you can reach Mr. Morgan is through me. I’ll be happy to deliver a letter for you.”

“Maybe I can email him?”

“Sir, it really is a very fast service I offer. When should I pick up your letter?”

“When can you get here?”

Bob said he’d come by in forty-five minutes, so I cranked out a letter to Archibald Morgan and asked him to call me on my cell phone. Then I walked next door and told
Berry
to put away his shotgun. He promised to stay inside until Bob was gone. I spent the next fifteen minutes racing through the airport report. I emailed Jane my analysis, my concerns, my suggestions, and my invoice.

Bob reached my house on the forty-fourth minute. He looked at his watch. “I need to get moving to deliver this today.”

“Today?”

Bob smiled. “This is what we do, sir. We’ve gotten pretty efficient over the years.” He took the envelope and handed me his clipboard.

Just like last time, I signed my left-handed John Doe signature on his form, kept his green pen, and watched as he drove away. But this time I followed.

I’m a bad follower. I am reminded of this each time my relatives come down to visit DC; we pile into our cars and head to the mall. I get frustrated when I can’t telegraph to the leader to pass the slow guy, switch lanes, or watch out for the cop ahead. So I end up trying to lead from behind, which doesn’t work if the guy in front still thinks he’s in charge. Leader-follower situations work best when I lead.

But I couldn’t tell Bob to let me lead. Fortunately he drove a big green van, which is not that common on the
Eastern Shore
. The cars out here are SUVs and Beamers for the coastal dwellers, and pickup trucks and Mustangs for everybody else.

I stayed a quarter mile or so behind the van. This wasn’t difficult, as the road north runs straight. I expected him to make a left onto Route Fifty and cross the
Bay
Bridge
toward
Annapolis
, but he surprised me and continued north. I sped up to keep him in sight.

Bob took the next right and drove parallel to the highway. This road had more turns, and for a few seconds I thought I had lost him. But then I saw his van parked on the right, next to the same palm reading outfit which
Berry
had mentioned earlier. There was a sign out front that read “Madame Flora’s.”

I doubted Bob was getting his palm read. And I hoped that the palm reading place wasn’t the headquarters of Soul Identity, because there would be no work for me, and I would have to break some bad news to
Berry
. Was this another pickup for Bob? I drove past him, parked on the left in front of a gas station, and kept an eye on his van.

Staking out a joint looks a lot more fun in the movies than it really is. I scanned the radio stations, fiddled with the AC controls, and played with the seat buttons. I wondered if I could take a chance and run into the gas station to buy some snacks. In about fifteen minutes, just as I was about to give up, Bob walked out of Madame Flora’s. I followed as he drove back toward my house.

My phone rang as we neared my neighborhood.

“Mr. Waverly, this is Archibald Morgan.”

“Hi.” I took a stab at being friendly. “Archie, where are you calling from?”

“Please call me Mr. Morgan.”

My stab missed; he wanted to be formal.

“I am calling from our
Massachusetts
headquarters,” he said.

Or maybe he was hanging out at Madame Flora’s place. I could at least check his area code if he’d give me his number. “I’m about to drive through a dead zone. Can I call you back?”

“I will call you again, Mr. Waverly. Would that suit you?”

No number for me. “Give me two minutes.” I hung up.

Bob’s van pulled into my driveway. I parked next to him and got out. “All delivered?” I asked.

“Yes sir. Mr. Morgan said he’d be calling you within the hour.”

I held up my phone. “He just called. Bob, where is he located?”

He looked uneasy.

“Is he in
Maryland
?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, sir. He’s rarely in
Maryland
.”

“Then how did you deliver my message?”

“Perhaps you can ask Mr. Morgan that question.”

“I did. He said he was in
Massachusetts
.”

Bob looked relieved. “Yes sir. That’s where he usually stays. At our headquarters.”

“I followed you when you left here. You only went to Madame Flora’s. No other stops. Are you sure Mr. Morgan isn’t at the palm reading place?”

“Sir, I delivered your message to Mr. Morgan by using equipment at Madame Flora’s.”

“What kind of equipment?” I waited for an answer, but then my phone rang, and Bob slipped away.

“Is this Scott Waverly?”

“Hi Archie.” I just couldn’t resist.

“Please call me Mr. Morgan.”

“Okay. Mr. Morgan, why does your delivery guy communicate to you from a palm reading joint?”

Silence on the line.

“You still there?” I asked.

“Yes, Mr. Waverly. Did Bob give you a reason to follow him?”

I didn’t want to get Bob in trouble. “No. It’s a sample of my work, free of charge.”

“Ah yes, charges. We need to discuss your rates.”

They were going to be high. Especially since these guys transformed my happy Santa neighbor into a shotgun-firing, crying old man. “Let’s talk about what you need me to do,” I said.

“We offer financial services to members wishing to eternally preserve and multiply their accumulated wealth. We also offer an escrow service, providing a place for members to deposit articles for future withdrawals.”

“You sound like a bank,” I said. “Where do I come in?”

“Our organization wants to offer these services over the Internet. However, there are some of us inside the organization who are apprehensive about the risks inherent in this untested medium. We wish to apply some risk management to the process.”

Archibald Morgan sounded like one of the apprehensive types. “So you want me to make sure your computer security doesn’t catch you with your pants down?”

“I would have chosen different words, but that is essentially correct. There will be other tasks, but making sure we are safe is my top priority.”

I thought about it for a minute. “Usually my reviews take a few weeks to perform and a few weeks to write up the report and recommendations. When do you need this done?”

“Right away.”

I gave him our standard rates.

Morgan answered without a pause. “Very good. When can we start?”

That surprised me; my rates are high, and most clients try to talk me down. Better make sure he was committed. “If you want me to start right away, you’ll have to pay a month’s retainer in advance.”

“Bob can deliver a certified check tomorrow morning. Can we start Wednesday?”

I stared at the phone. These guys must have a huge emergency on their hands. What wasn’t Morgan telling me?

“Mr. Waverly?” Morgan’s voice was faint.

I brought the phone back to my ear. “One more thing. I don’t like formality. I call you Archie, and you call me Scott.”

He laughed. “If that is what it takes to engage you, I can certainly call you Scott.” He paused. “Most of our operations are run from
Massachusetts
. I suggest that we start here and see where else you need to go.”

“Okay, send me your address and a recommended hotel and I’ll see you in time for your morning coffee.”

Archie cleared his throat. “I will send somebody to pick you up at your house in
Maryland
at six o’clock Wednesday morning. We will provide all transportation and accommodations.”

Now he was getting too weird. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that, Archie.”

“I assure you that you will be well taken care of. Soul Identity will pay for your services around the clock, starting Wednesday at six o’clock in the morning, and continuing until your work is completed.”

I almost dropped the phone. “Around the clock pay?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“This work is extremely important and critical to us. We would like your complete and undivided attention for the duration.”

It sounded good enough for me. “Archie, you have a deal. Send the round-the-clock month’s pay tomorrow so we’re ready.” I disconnected, and then stared at the phone. Mom was right; these guys were nut cases.

That night I dreamed I saw an osprey dive down and scoop a bluefish out of the bay, but then I realized it was me and not the bluefish wriggling in its claws. I broke free and started falling down to the water. Good, I thought, now I get to wake up, right before I hit. But the osprey caught me and carried me high up in the air. I was shivering from the cold as we broke through the clouds, only it was no longer an osprey, but an airplane that held me buckled into my seat. I looked into the cockpit and saw Bob was piloting.

The airplane transformed into Bob’s green delivery van. Bob swerved to avoid ramming a silver gray car, and he drove off a cliff. I woke up, right before we hit the ground, and sat straight up in bed.

These Soul Identity guys were getting inside my head. I wanted to see how the dream ended—not the cliff part, but where Bob was taking me. I lay back down and tried to rewind, but I couldn’t keep the dream alive.

I walked into the bathroom. An image had repeated in the dream. It was on the osprey’s breast, the back of the airline seat, and the side of Bob’s van. I closed my eyes to see it again, but the image swirled away from me like mist on the bay breaking up at sunrise.

I sat on the bed and tried to squeeze out the image, but I ended up falling asleep and tumbling to the floor. I grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and put them next to the bed, just in case.

In the morning I discovered that I had written the following: “Soul Identity =”, a triangle, “Is,” and a comma. Underneath this I had written “(that’s how).” Apparently I had woken up with a bright idea. I stared at it and tried to decipher it, but got nowhere.

I had the coffee ready by the time my parents arrived for work. I poured out three cups. “Starting tomorrow we have a new customer,” I said.