The Wrong Goodbye (31 page)

  "Uh huh," I said, smiling ruefully. "In case I made it back."

  "OK, so sue me – I didn't actually expect you'd walk out of that skim-joint alive. But I figured if I could keep an eye on where Danny was, I could stay a step ahead of him, keep him from collecting me a second time." 

  "Not a half-bad plan," I admitted.

  "Thanks. So anyways, I remembered what you told me 'bout
his
bugs being crows, and that gave me an idea. An idea that led me to
this
."

  The laptop was slow and ancient, the YouTube video grainy. A well-quaffed bottle blonde behind a desk emblazoned with the call-letters KABC. She sat frozen mid-blink as the laptop struggled to load the video, a graphic of a common crow hovering to the left above her. 

  Finally, the video began.

  "For over thirty years," she said, her words rendered tinny by the tiny laptop speakers, "the corner of Cesar Chavez and Mednik Avenues in East Los Angeles has been home to one of the largest Dia de los Muertos processions in the nation, attracting observers and participants from all around. This year, however, it seems a whole
new
crowd is interested in joining the celebration. And what could be a more appropriate addition to the Day of the Dead festivities than a murder of crows?"

  The image shifted. Now the screen displayed a busy intersection, two four-lane roads crossing beneath the diamond-bright midday sun. The camera was angled from one corner of the intersection to the other, its focus trained on a vibrant mural of the Virgin of Guadalupe, her hands as ever in prayer, the whole of her surrounded by radiant light. 

  Of course, she was hard to see past all the crows. 

  They perched along every inch of the stone wall on which the mural had been painted. They sat atop the streetlights and the power lines. They hopped along the sidewalk, heads cocked, as though looking for a tasty morsel dropped by the passersby. As though looking for the soul Danny owed them. 

  The piece cut again, this time to a chain-linked parking lot, flush with cars. The fence was packed with crows – silent, unmoving, and sitting damn near wing to wing.

  Another cut. Now we were looking at a city park, a baseball diamond worn to dust by countless pairs of running feet. Crows pecked lazily at the infield dirt, and speckled black the outfield. The fence behind home plate looked to be made of them – dark feathers gleaming in the sunlight, that shine amplifying their movements and creating the impression that the clamshell canopy itself was squirming, twitching, alive.

  The anchorwoman had been talking the whole time, but of course I hadn't heard a word. When I tuned back in, I heard her say, "…officials are baffled as to the cause of the recent infestation, which stretches from McDonnell to Vancouver Avenues west to east, and has been reported as far north as Dozier Street and as far south as the Pomona Freeway. Local business owners have expressed concerns about the animals' impact on foot traffic, but Animal Control insists they pose no threat – and organizers of the upcoming Dia de los Muertos celebration assured KABC tomorrow's festivities will proceed as scheduled."

  Dia de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. A holiday that dates back to an ancient Aztec practice – to a time when humankind was young, and magic commonplace. A holiday on which it's said dead souls return to walk amongst the living, and the living attempt to draw back the veil of death, inviting communion with those they've lost.

  If that wasn't
where worlds draw thin
, I didn't know what was.

  I shut the laptop lid, clapped Gio on the shoulder. "Nice work. Now let's go get that son of a bitch and end this."

  "But, Sam…" he said, his jowly face tinged with worry. "Those things… they're waiting for me. Is it wise for me to just go waltzing in there?" 

  "They're not waiting for
you
, they're waiting for your
soul
. Your soul, as delivered by Danny. They won't take it any other way – they can't." 

  "You sure about that?" asked Theresa. The question had some steel behind it.

  "If they could take his soul, he'd be gone for good already. I interred his soul once before, thinking it was the Varela soul Danny swapped it for. It didn't take."

  "When the time comes," she said, "you best not be thinking you can trade my Gio to get this Varela back."
  "I wouldn't dream of it," I said.

  "You try, you won't be dreaming ever again, you hear me? I'll find a way to end your ass for good." 

  "Ter!" Gio admonished.

  "No," I said, "it's fine. Theresa, you have my word I won't hand Gio over to Danny." As for ending my ass for good, Theresa'd have to get in line. 

  "How do I know your word is worth a damn?" 

  "You don't. But my word is all I've got."

  "The hell it is," Gio said. "You got us. Now let's roll." 

  We grabbed the shotgun. We grabbed the chips. We grabbed some cash from Theresa's register, and as many Red Bulls from the fridge as we could carry. 

  We were in such a goddamn hurry to get the hell out of Las Vegas, we blew a stop light at the corner of Twain and Dean Martin. Then we hauled ass onto I-15 south toward Los Angeles, oblivious to the traffic camera that snapped picture after picture of our departure.

  
  
  

We were a mile north of Chino on 60 when I spotted the tail.
The
60, I supposed they'd say out here on the left coast, but I was born back east, so no
the
for me. Just one black-and-white, a Statie I suppose, pulling out of one of those spots they don't like you swinging U-turns through and sliding into traffic two cars and maybe fifty yards behind us.

  "Dude," said Gio, who was riding shotgun, "we've got company."

  "Be cool," I replied. "He'll leave us be." And at the time, I actually believed it. I'd been speeding pretty seriously until I spotted him, but when I did, I'd eased off the gas, and coasted by at barely seventy. I figured if his lights weren't on yet, he'd just hang behind us a while by way of warning, and then leave us alone. I didn't realize at the time the traffic cam in Vegas slapped a big, fat arrow at the end of the dotted line of mayhem half a country long that indicated where we were heading – one that resulted in the Feds putting out a BOLO for us that stretched from Sacramento to the Rio Grande.

  Five minutes after we picked up our first Statie, two more slid in behind him, all quiet-like, so as to not spook us. It spooked us.

  "Uh, Sam? Our company's got company."

  "Yeah, I see 'em, Gio – I'm not
blind
," I snapped. 

  "Hey!" This from Theresa, in the back.

  "Sorry," I said through gritted teeth, my hands at ten and two on the wheel.

  Three minutes later, we picked up a few more – two sliding into traffic from the Nogales Street entrance in Rowland Heights, and a third swinging through a turnaround at damn near sixty miles an hour. 

  I kept the needle right at sixty-five, and my eyes on the road before me, trying my damnedest to come up with some kind of workable plan. I was running out of time, and not just with the cops. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the sky ran the spectrum from goldenrod above to the deepest crimson as it met the western horizon. I'd heard tales of the smog in LA being responsible for some beautiful sunsets. I had no idea if it was the cause of this one. What I do know is it was the most gorgeous one I'd ever seen – which seemed fitting, since I had a little under four hours to get the Varela soul back and stop Danny from unleashing an apocalyptic flood; chances were, it was the last I'd ever see. For all its beauty, that sunset proved unsettling, if only because the amber hues above reflected dully off the white side-panels of the cop cars behind me, and the ensuing gold-and-black put me in mind of a swarm of angry bees. These past three days, I'd had enough run-ins with angry insects to last a lifetime. 

  As I drove, I watched the cop cars in my rearview multiply. They were still hanging back a bit, and they'd yet to fire up their lights – but they were creeping up behind us. If I had to guess, I'd say they were hoping to take us by surprise, end this chase before it started. 

  Funny; I kinda hoped to do the same.

  I ran through the angles in my head. The way I figured it, they couldn't use a spike mat to pop the Caddy's tires, because there were other motorists aplenty on the road. Not as many as I'd expected though, this close to LA, which meant they'd likely closed the onramps once they spotted us. They were biding their time… but to what end? Not to get an unimpeded crack at us; they didn't seem to be shunting any of the traffic already on the freeway aside. So why?

  A low
whump-whump-whump
from somewhere in the distance gave me my answer.
  A helicopter.
  I fucking
hated
helicopters.

  No, really: I hijacked one once – long story – and it was nothing but a grade-A ass-pain, up to and including when I had to ditch it in the middle of Central Park. But at least I now knew what was holding the boys in blue at bay: they were waiting for their air coverage. Waiting to have eyes on us. Once that hap pened, there was little we'd be able to do to shake them. Which meant the time to move was now. 

  I put the pedal to the metal – or, in this case, to Roscoe's custom shag floor mat – and the Caddy's engine sprang to life. Seventy-five. Eighty. The cop cars dropped back a ways, caught by surprise after ten plus miles of traffic law observance. Eighty-five. Ninety. By the time the lot of them found their accelerator pedals, I'd put a hundred yards between us – and at least a half a dozen cars.

  Suburb after suburb blurred by, nothing but green foliage and rooftops half seen over the highway's noise barriers. Places with names like Hillgrove, La Puente, Hacienda Heights. Exits on a highway, nothing more. The skyline of Los Angeles glinted in the distance like some dark gemstone against the bloodred velvet of the sky. 

  One hundred miles an hour. One-ten.

  Cops behind us. Danny, with luck, ahead. And night falling fast. Three days whittled down to three hours.

  One way or another, our exit was coming up.
  "Gio?"
  "Yeah?"
  "You're a car guy, right?"
  "Sure – why?"

  I took a long look in my rearview. "Behind us, we got a mid-nineties Ford pickup; a minivan – Dodge, I think; a Corolla; a Hummer; an Impala. Which one's got the best side airbags?"

  "How the fuck should I know?"

  Not the most helpful answer ever, so I took a different tack. "If it were you, and you had to roll one, which would you rather be in?"
  "I dunno – the Hummer?"

  Good enough for me. Only douches drive Hummers anyways.

  "Cool. Grab the wheel. On my signal, be prepared to put your foot on the gas. And no matter what, don't slow down, you hear me?"

  Gio wrapped one sausage-fingered hand around the wheel. "I hear you," he said. "What's the signal?" 

  "Me dying," I said. His eyes widened. "Don't worry, though – I'm coming back."

  I twisted in my seat, locked eyes with the Bluetoothed asshat in the Hummer. He was wearing a powder-blue polo shirt with a popped collar and a pair of oversized aviators, and he was chattering away at whoever was on the other end of that phone call like his life depended on it. I focused on him with every ounce of attention I could muster. And then I hurled my consciousness at him with all the strength I had, like he was the nerdy kid in a game of dodgeball. 

  For a moment, all went black, and the cacophony of the freeway melted away. In that moment, my world was just a sickly nothing, a morbid amusebouche to whet my appetite for what Charon had in store for me if this idiot plan of mine didn't pan out. And then all the sudden,
BAM
, I'm puking all over Asshat's center console – the reflex action of any newly possessed meat-suit – while some jaded phone-sex worker asks me through my Bluetooth headset if I've been a bad boy. 

  Not yet, I thought – but I'm about to be.

  I tugged Asshat's seatbelt. On and locked. Rolled down the driver's side window, and chucked his aviators and the piping hot macchiato in the center console out of it. I eased off the accelerator, and watched the cops expand in my rearview until they were a car-length or two behind. Up ahead, the Caddy swerved wildly as Gio tried to drive it riding shotgun, while the lifeless Jonathan Gray meat-suit lolled to one side in the driver's seat.

  One shot, Sam, I told myself. You only get one shot at this. You'd better make it count.

  Right before I made my move, Asshat got wise to what I had in mind for him and his precious Hummer, and from whatever dark recess of his mind I'd stuffed him into, he started screaming at me to stop. I didn't listen. Instead, I jerked the wheel as far right as it'd go. The Hummer's tires squealed as the vehicle swung perpendicular to the roadway.

  Then rubber once more gripped pavement, and the Hummer flipped.

  That first roll was the longest second of my life. The Hummer was so tall, and the speed it had been traveling so fast, that it got three-quarters of a rotation around before it ever touched the ground. I went from right-side-up to upside-down to sideways as smooth and silent as if I were underwater – and then my world exploded in shattered glass, spent airbags, and rending metal as the passenger side slammed into the roadway.

  I didn't have much time. I tried my damndest to ignore Asshat's myriad cuts and scrapes, the shuddering of the Hummer as it skidded along the freeway, and the shriek of steel on pavement. Instead, I visualized the meat-suit I'd left back in the Caddy. The way it moved. The way it smelled. The way my thoughts rattled round its brain. See, every meat-suit's different. Every one I've ever inhabited has left an imprint on my soul, and in every one of them I've ever abandoned, I've left a little of what makes me
me
behind. It's one of the bitches about being a Collector – eventually, subjugating vessel after vessel chips away at you until there's nothing left but a ghost, a shadow, a feral creature that knows nothing but this cursed existence. But today, I was counting on that fact to save my ass.