[It's something. Writing still isn't as fluid as I'd like it to be, but it's fun again. Problem is, there are so many pieces to this story, it's hard to keep them all together. Hint at this here, show a bit of that there, and--doh! I left something out!
[Ah, well. You get what you pay for.]
Vera Mason woke up with dry lips. In fact, her whole body felt dry, and her chest was stuffed with quilt batting. She opened her eyes and the room was black. Then she realized her eyes were still closed. That was strange. She was sure she’d opened them. She tried again. Still dark. She blinked, and the room came into focus. It wasn’t dark, just dim. Something clear was hanging above her head, like a floating blister. Ah, an IV bag, or whatever it was called. Who was it hooked up to?
The pieces fell into place: the Thai restaurant, the panicked feeling as breathing became harder and harder, and then impossible. That toothpick of a waiter, hadn’t she told him about peanuts? She was sure she had, and his face had been quick, intelligent. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Maybe she’d misjudged him?
She blinked again and tried to swallow. It ached, like her throat was bruised from the inside. What did they do to treat anaphylactic shock? Whatever they’d done, it had worked, apparently. So why didn’t she feel better? She should be feeling better. She’d inherited the power of a god.
Where was it?
“Are you awake, Senora Mason?”
Vera rolled her head sideways. They were there together, the Spanish husband and wife, like they usually were. Jose was standing behind the chair, his posture gently erect under his white hair, and Maria Teresa sat, her knees together, her hands folded on her lap. It was as if the elderly couple were posing for a portrait that would be hung at one of the several universities they’d sponsored over the years. The small table next to them was covered in a surprisingly large yet somehow tasteful floral arrangement.
Vera licked her lips again. “What time is it?” she whispered.
“Slightly after six in the morning,” said Jose.
“Then how?” Vera had to stop to swallow.
“How what, Senora?”
“How did you get flowers?”
Jose’s eyebrows came down--he found Vera’s sense of humor perplexing--but Maria Teresa smiled. “Money is good for very few things,” she said. “Flowers at six in the morning is one of those few. But I suspect that what you’re truly wondering is how we found you at the hospital.”
Vera had been wondering exactly that, and she had come up with only one possible answer. “Followed,” she croaked, and realized that her heart rate was up. She took a breath and tried to slow her breathing.
“Yes, treasure, we had you followed.” Maria Teresa’s voice was soothing, or at least it was intended to be. Vera wasn’t sure yet whether she’d let it be calming or not. The elderly woman went on. “We always said we would let you do this, but we would never leave you without support. We had you followed, but he stayed well away. We wouldn’t do anything to confuse the link between yourself and that unfortunate Mr. Baernson. The transfer of power to you was as complete as possible.”
Vera felt herself deflate. “Not complete,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”
Jose sniffed. Vera knew him well enough by now to know that counted as an expression of deep concern--the man was practically shouting--but she didn’t have any better news to offer them. She didn’t know how it had happened, but the power that had poured into her, slowly at first, then in a rush as she waited for her food--all that was gone. She couldn’t feel that flood anymore. Absent. Empty. Nothing.
“Are you certain?” asked Maria Teresa, her voice quiet. “I think it’s possible that the power might not have departed you entirely.”
Vera took a quick assessment of her situation. Chest, aching like a small child was jumping on her. Head, aching like the first child had an older brother. Throat, dry; legs, stiff: nose, slightly clogged. She felt like an overused cloth handkerchief.
“Pretty sure it’s gone,” she whispered, or tried to. Gone was the only word that came out clearly.
“Perhaps not,” said Maria Teresa. “Consider for a moment what you’ve been through. According to your very pleasant nurse, who seemed to know his business, you were dead for nearly ten minutes. That means more than five minutes without oxygen reaching your brain, a condition that almost inevitably results in brain damage, comas, and other unpleasant things.” The elderly woman smiled. “And yet, here you are, awake and questioning not only our choice to have you followed, but our decisions on floral arrangements. These are not the normal reactions of a person who should be in a coma. So I ask you again, Vera, are you certain the power is gone?”
Dead, thought Vera. She had been dead. Her mind had heard the rest of what Maria Teresa had said, but what caught in her mind was that one word: dead. So close. So close to being with Steven again--but they had brought her back. She took a deep breath--as deep as she could--and let it go. Not yet, she supposed. Still something to do, something to take care of.
Vera forced herself to consider the rest of what Maria Teresa had said. Ten minutes without oxygen to her brain should have caused brain damage. How would a person tell if she were brain damaged? Not having any way to judge, Vera supposed that she’d have to go based on how she felt, and aside from feeling terrible, she felt fine. She knew who she was, where she was, and why she was there. And, practically speaking, if she were brain damaged, would it make any difference? She’d just have to go on with what she had and make do.
But if she should be comatose, and she wasn’t--which she wasn’t--then it was a distinct possibility that Maria Teresa was right: the power wasn’t gone. But if she still had it, why was it so weak? With the power Forgotten Zed had stored up, she should be ready to run a marathon, lift a car, or both at the same time.
Vera breathed in sharply and started coughing. She could see the elderly couple watching her, leaning forward in concern, but she had enough energy to wave them back with the hand not attached to an IV. I’m okay, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t. For the first time she was facing the possibility that she may have done everything right, but would still fail. What if this was all the power that Forgotten Zed had? What if he had squandered it, his violent inheritance from his father, daughters, sons, wife? She could imagine the old man, cut off from his faithful, from anyone to be faithful to, saving only enough power to keep himself past any use or usefulness. And then, in a final betrayal that the ancient god couldn’t even know he was committing, he would die and leave Vera with just enough power to fail, so close to her goal.
She blinked at tears. She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t, because this was her only chance. The Three might not show themselves again for another ten, twenty, fifty years, and the odds that Jose and Maria Teresa could guess the next target accurately were impossibly slim. Maria Teresa had explained one night over a cup of tea, calmly discussing the millions they had spent, the years they had dedicated to finding these god-killers, finding who they were, what they wanted, what their weaknesses might be.
Finally they had hit on two critical pieces of information: the leader of the Three hated Forgotten Zed, and, for the first time in centuries, Forgotten Zed was in the news again. It was a chance, and perhaps the only chance in any of their lifetimes. They would go to Northern Lights, Wisconsin, and they would do what they had to. The Three wouldn’t hurt any more innocents.
So there was no stopping now. Vera left the tears to dry on her cheeks and turned back to the Spanish couple. “Water,” she said, and Jose stepped forward to give her a drink from the bottle waiting on her table. He leaned over her as she drank, helping her take a sip, then two, then gently pulled the bottle away. He was looking down at her, and Vera met his gaze. Jose grunted and smiled, turning back to Maria Teresa and saying something in Spanish. He pressed the bottle back into Vera’s hand and stepped back behind his wife.
“What did he say?” asked Vera.
“He said that you’re back.”
Vera smiled. Jose was right. She was back, and it was time to get moving.
“Do we know who got the rest of the power?” she asked.
“We assume it was the waiter or the chef,” said Maria Teresa. “We’re having them both followed. When you’re ready, you can go have a talk with them.”
When she was ready. That wasn’t soon enough for Vera, but it would have to be. Patience. With the power of a god in her--even just a fraction of that power--she should be mobile again quickly. And if the Three were as clever as she knew they were, going against them at less than one-hundred percent was suicide. Vera didn’t believe in suicide.
She believed in revenge.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Our story so far.
At the request of Liz, here's a google doc of the entire story so far. I hope you enjoy it, and I can promise there's more on the way soon.
Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc
Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 12
[This wasn't the hardest thing I've ever written. (No, that's always the next section.) But it was hard figuring out that it had to be written. I was trying to bring over a scene from my first attempt at this novel, and it wasn't working. I finally figured out why: the scene no longer had a purpose in the story.
[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.
[Yay.]
Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
“Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
“You’re in my house,” said Will.
“We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
“What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
“Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
“Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
There was silence again.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
“No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
“Sure. The man and the woman.”
“We heard there was a third.”
Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
Will blinked. “What?”
“He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
“That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
“Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
“Find out who killed the extra man.”
The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
“But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
“The only ones,” said the man.
“Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
“There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
“Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.
[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.
[Yay.]
Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
“Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
“You’re in my house,” said Will.
“We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
“What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
“Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
“Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
There was silence again.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
“No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
“Sure. The man and the woman.”
“We heard there was a third.”
Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
Will blinked. “What?”
“He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
“That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
“Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
“Find out who killed the extra man.”
The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
“But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
“The only ones,” said the man.
“Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
“There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
“Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 11
[I ground every word of this section out of a chunk of solid granite, using nothing more than my fingernails and a grim determination.
[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]
When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.
Bradley showered.
Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
And almost ran into Olivia.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
"Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
"Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
"Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
"Yes?"
"Did something happen?"
How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
"Does that matter?"
"I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
"Owls?"
"Owls."
Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
"There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
"Fascinating," said Olivia.
"I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
"I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
"Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
"I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.
[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]
When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.
Bradley showered.
Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
And almost ran into Olivia.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
"Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
"Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
"Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
"Yes?"
"Did something happen?"
How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
"Does that matter?"
"I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
"Owls?"
"Owls."
Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
"There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
"Fascinating," said Olivia.
"I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
"I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
"Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
"I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 10
[End of day one. Tomorrow we get to visit the bagel shop, have a phone call with Proust, stop off in a hospital, and go on a lunch date. But that's for another day.]
Alone in his apartment on the third floor, in an unremarkable building near the corner of Washington and Third Avenue--not Third Street, which was one block over--Bradley brushed his teeth. As he brushed, he thought about the woman in the oversized coat, lying on the floor of the restaurant. He thought about how still she’d been.
Then he walked down the hall, climbed under his covers, and fell asleep.
“I wish we could schedule all crime between the hours of ten and seven,” said Paul, starting the car and pulling out onto the mostly empty road. “This is ridiculously late for me to be working.”
“When was the last time you went to bed before midnight?” asked Tuck.
“I didn’t say it was too late to be awake. Just too late for me to be working. Also, it’s getting cold. You have a bearing on the violence residue from here?”
Tuck looked around the city. Traffic was thinning out, with just the occasional cab, a few late-night shoppers, and the flashing lights of police cars three blocks down.
“Hello,” he said. “What’s that?”
“That the right direction?” asked Paul.
“It is, mostly. Not exactly right, but...I think we should check it out.”
“Already on it,” said Paul, speeding up.
Less than a minute more and they were parked and walking up to the police tape, identification in hand.
“Uh-oh,” said the uniformed officer waiting by the tape, his unusually heavy eyebrows pulled down over his eyes.
“Something the matter?” asked Paul.
“Other than the dead guy in the alley? Yeah, Theological Crimes Division just showed up, and that means the sergeant is going to be pissed.”
Tuck and Paul glanced at each other. “We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes,” said Paul. “We’re just following a lead on another case, and it lead us this direction. Might not have anything to do with your guy.”
“You two working the Forgotten Zed murder?” asked the officer.
Tuck sighed. It would have been nice to keep a lid on the whole thing a little longer, but if someone had already tipped off the media--and they had--then there was no way the news wasn’t everywhere in Northern Lights.
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“Then I’m afraid you may have found your man.”
“The killer?”
“Yeah. I might as well tell you, since the sergeant is going to go all jurisdictional on your behinds and give you a big fight before he gives you anything useful: the guy down there is a hit man. Local, suspected in a lot of things, but nothing ever pinned on him.”
Tuck looked down the alley toward the flash of cameras as the CSI unit documented the scene. “The local guy have a name?”
“Sure does. Bjorn Baernson.”
“Bjorn’s dead?” asked Paul, clearly shocked.
“You know him?” asked Tuck.
“Sure do. The guy’s something like a quarter demon, so he showed up on my radar a couple years back. Big man. Very big.”
The officer nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
Paul was shaking his head. “But he couldn’t have done that shot. He wasn’t a finesse man. Up close stuff, not the kind of long-range accuracy that did it for Zed.”
Tuck covered his mouth with his hand and tugged at his lips.
“Uh-oh,” said Paul.
“What’s up?” asked the officer. “What’s he doing?”
“That’s his thinking face. He’s onto something.”
Tuck nodded. “I am. Maybe. It seems like I’ve heard about something like this before.”
“With another murder? Do we have a serial killer?”
“Not just any murder. The death of another god. We need to make a phone call, but first I think I need a couple minutes with the body.”
The officer’s radio crackled and they paused while he listened. Tuck couldn’t make out what was said--not for certain, at least--but he had his suspicions.
“Another body?” he asked.
“Two,” said the officer. “Two different dumpsters.”
“Aha,” said Tuck. “Time for bed, Paul.”
“What? Are you serious?”
Tuck turned and started walking to their car. Paul thanked the officer and hurried to catch up.
“That’s it? I thought you said you needed time with the body.”
Tuck shook his head. “No point. So many deaths, almost certainly all connected, I won’t get anything useful. By the time I figure out which killer leads where, the only one left alive will be halfway across the world. No, it’s time for some sleep.”
“What if the deaths are unconnected?”
Tuck pressed his lips together. “I don’t think they are.”
“Because of that thing you remembered--the other death of a god that you were talking about?”
“Exactly. I need to call Proust, and nothing is waking him up at this hour short of a fog horn on his bedside table. So we get some sleep and hit this in the morning fresh.”
Paul shrugged. “Fine by me. Did Proust catch the killer on his case?”
“Yes.”
“There’s hope, then.”
“Not exactly. The killer was dead.”
Paul blinked. “What about the person who killed the killer?”
“Also dead.”
“How long did that go on for?”
“I can’t remember, which is why we make a phone call, but I can tell you this: they never did figure out where the god’s power went. The case is still open.”
Paul laughed. “It’s like opening up one of those Russian dolls, and there’s another doll inside, and another, and another.”
“Yep,” agreed Tuck. “And then one of those little dolls becomes a crazy god and destroys your city.”
“I never did like those dolls,” said Paul.
Alone in his apartment on the third floor, in an unremarkable building near the corner of Washington and Third Avenue--not Third Street, which was one block over--Bradley brushed his teeth. As he brushed, he thought about the woman in the oversized coat, lying on the floor of the restaurant. He thought about how still she’d been.
Then he walked down the hall, climbed under his covers, and fell asleep.
“I wish we could schedule all crime between the hours of ten and seven,” said Paul, starting the car and pulling out onto the mostly empty road. “This is ridiculously late for me to be working.”
“When was the last time you went to bed before midnight?” asked Tuck.
“I didn’t say it was too late to be awake. Just too late for me to be working. Also, it’s getting cold. You have a bearing on the violence residue from here?”
Tuck looked around the city. Traffic was thinning out, with just the occasional cab, a few late-night shoppers, and the flashing lights of police cars three blocks down.
“Hello,” he said. “What’s that?”
“That the right direction?” asked Paul.
“It is, mostly. Not exactly right, but...I think we should check it out.”
“Already on it,” said Paul, speeding up.
Less than a minute more and they were parked and walking up to the police tape, identification in hand.
“Uh-oh,” said the uniformed officer waiting by the tape, his unusually heavy eyebrows pulled down over his eyes.
“Something the matter?” asked Paul.
“Other than the dead guy in the alley? Yeah, Theological Crimes Division just showed up, and that means the sergeant is going to be pissed.”
Tuck and Paul glanced at each other. “We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes,” said Paul. “We’re just following a lead on another case, and it lead us this direction. Might not have anything to do with your guy.”
“You two working the Forgotten Zed murder?” asked the officer.
Tuck sighed. It would have been nice to keep a lid on the whole thing a little longer, but if someone had already tipped off the media--and they had--then there was no way the news wasn’t everywhere in Northern Lights.
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“Then I’m afraid you may have found your man.”
“The killer?”
“Yeah. I might as well tell you, since the sergeant is going to go all jurisdictional on your behinds and give you a big fight before he gives you anything useful: the guy down there is a hit man. Local, suspected in a lot of things, but nothing ever pinned on him.”
Tuck looked down the alley toward the flash of cameras as the CSI unit documented the scene. “The local guy have a name?”
“Sure does. Bjorn Baernson.”
“Bjorn’s dead?” asked Paul, clearly shocked.
“You know him?” asked Tuck.
“Sure do. The guy’s something like a quarter demon, so he showed up on my radar a couple years back. Big man. Very big.”
The officer nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
Paul was shaking his head. “But he couldn’t have done that shot. He wasn’t a finesse man. Up close stuff, not the kind of long-range accuracy that did it for Zed.”
Tuck covered his mouth with his hand and tugged at his lips.
“Uh-oh,” said Paul.
“What’s up?” asked the officer. “What’s he doing?”
“That’s his thinking face. He’s onto something.”
Tuck nodded. “I am. Maybe. It seems like I’ve heard about something like this before.”
“With another murder? Do we have a serial killer?”
“Not just any murder. The death of another god. We need to make a phone call, but first I think I need a couple minutes with the body.”
The officer’s radio crackled and they paused while he listened. Tuck couldn’t make out what was said--not for certain, at least--but he had his suspicions.
“Another body?” he asked.
“Two,” said the officer. “Two different dumpsters.”
“Aha,” said Tuck. “Time for bed, Paul.”
“What? Are you serious?”
Tuck turned and started walking to their car. Paul thanked the officer and hurried to catch up.
“That’s it? I thought you said you needed time with the body.”
Tuck shook his head. “No point. So many deaths, almost certainly all connected, I won’t get anything useful. By the time I figure out which killer leads where, the only one left alive will be halfway across the world. No, it’s time for some sleep.”
“What if the deaths are unconnected?”
Tuck pressed his lips together. “I don’t think they are.”
“Because of that thing you remembered--the other death of a god that you were talking about?”
“Exactly. I need to call Proust, and nothing is waking him up at this hour short of a fog horn on his bedside table. So we get some sleep and hit this in the morning fresh.”
Paul shrugged. “Fine by me. Did Proust catch the killer on his case?”
“Yes.”
“There’s hope, then.”
“Not exactly. The killer was dead.”
Paul blinked. “What about the person who killed the killer?”
“Also dead.”
“How long did that go on for?”
“I can’t remember, which is why we make a phone call, but I can tell you this: they never did figure out where the god’s power went. The case is still open.”
Paul laughed. “It’s like opening up one of those Russian dolls, and there’s another doll inside, and another, and another.”
“Yep,” agreed Tuck. “And then one of those little dolls becomes a crazy god and destroys your city.”
“I never did like those dolls,” said Paul.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 09
[We're almost to the end of day one. We'll be coming back to Bradley in the next section, I think. Also, in response to Ammie's comment on the last section, I'm afraid that I don't know what pancakes have to do with murder.]
“Home, sweet you-know-the-rest,” said Atty, pushing into his apartment with his back and carrying the groceries into the kitchen. Luther wasn’t sure why he was there, but sometime in the walk back to his own apartment it had changed into a walk to Atty’s apartment, and now he was there.
“I do have my own you-know-the-rest,” he said, closing the front door behind him.
“Been over this,” called Atty over the sound of the opening fridge. “Your place is a pit.”
“But it’s my pit.”
“Never admit that in public, buddy. Besides,” something glass clanked in the kitchen, “the way you were looking in the store, no way I was letting you go home alone. I may have the observational skills of Hellen Keller, but even I could tell you’re not in a good place.”
Luther walked into the kitchen and stared.
“What?” asked Atty.
“Did you actually just make that joke?”
“Which?”
“You don’t know which one?”
“The one about Hellen Keller? There, I just proved my own point. I have the sensitivity of a--hang on, can’t use that one...or that one. Fine. I have the sensitivity of a very insensitive person, but I could still tell that you’re feeling terrible, so I stand by my decision. You’re sleeping on my couch tonight.”
Luther sighed and walked down the short hall into Atty’s living room. It was...angelic. Lived in but clean, orderly but not intimidating. Even magazines on the coffee table. Martha Stewart? What bachelor read Martha Stewart? He sighed again and sat on the couch, laying his head back.
“I’m making you soup,” Atty shouted.
“Don’t want soup.”
“Yes you do.”
It wasn’t worth fighting. That was the way things went so often with Atty: they went Atty’s way. Not that Luther wouldn’t stand firm for what mattered. It was just that he wasn’t so sure what those things were anymore. Turned out that soup wasn’t one of them.
“Fine,” he called. “Just microwave whatever.”
“Are you kidding?” said Atty, showing up in the doorway. “That’s no way to prepare soup. Stove top or nothing. Well, crock pot is an option, as is Dutch oven.”
“What’s a Dutch oven?”
“Never mind. Oh, also pressure cooker. But the point is, no microwave.”
“It is from a can, though, right? Doesn’t that make a microwave mandatory?”
“Irrelevant. Soup goes on the stove, whether it was made by machine or by Tibetan monks. Warm milk?”
“Just water, thank you.”
Atty nodded and disappeared, leaving Luther with time to think. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He looked forward at his day tomorrow, and it was distressingly empty. A morning of nothing filled with nothing in particular for lunch, and all of that chased down by a nice evening of nothing else. He knew he needed to fill his life with more than that, but even making the decision to do it didn’t mean that he understood how it was accomplished. He had stopped, and he didn’t know how to get started again.
“So who are you going to call?” asked Atty, standing in the doorway again. He was leaned against the doorframe with a casual charisma that movie stars attempt but usually only accomplish with a great deal of makeup, lighting, and carefully selected music.
“About what?”
“About your life. You said you’d call someone.”
“Right.” Maybe that was how to get started again. “I’ll call Rae.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Just a start?”
“Yes, just a start. You should try hanging out with people who aren’t angels and demons every once-in-a-while.”
“I hang out with humans all the time.”
“No, you serve humans all the time. Dispensing miracles for a god and hanging out are two very different things.”
“Do you hang out with humans?”
“All the time. Once a week, at least.”
“Where?”
“Little cafe called 26 Letters. Great place. You should come.”
“Is it artsy and pretentious and run by a small man named Maurice?”
“Yes. He speaks with a French accent, wears a pathetic goatee, and his entire wardrobe is turtle-necked black jumpsuits.”
“Really?”
“No. Owned by a big guy named Bruce. Come on, Luther. You’d enjoy it. Very low stress.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“Maybe.”
“So when are you calling Rae.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not right now?”
“Don’t you have soup on the stove?”
“Low heat. It’s fine. Why not right now?”
“Because she’s probably asleep.”
“It’s not even midnight,” said Atty, checking his watch.
“Don’t people usually sleep at this hour?”
“Only you. And old people. And small children. But not Rae. She’s usually up reading.”
“How do you know this?”
“We talk.”
“About what?”
“Only about you, Luther. About our concern for you, our never ending obsession with you, about how to make you into the grand angel that God intends you to be. And about her bedtime.”
“You’re mocking me,” said Luther.
“Yes, I am. I told you I was insensitive.”
“Will you stop if I call Rae?”
Atty sniffed the air. “I think I should go stir the soup.”
“You do that.”
Atty stepped away, then poked his head back in. “If you don’t have your cell with you, my phone is on the table to your left.”
“Thank you, Atty. I can see it there.”
“You remember how to use a telephone? Because you haven’t been returning my calls recently. I had to go to your place to get you out, so I figured you’d just forgotten how to--”
“Thank you, Atty. I remember.”
“You could also hop on my computer. Pretty sure she’s got Skype.”
“If I started dialing, would you leave me alone?”
“Probably.”
Luther pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts to the letter ‘R,’ and pushed the call button. It didn’t take very long to scroll through most of the alphabet, and Rae was the only ‘R’ in there. He chose to not think about what that said about his life.
“It’s ringing,” he said.
“Then I’m stirring,” said Atty, walking away.
The ringing stopped. “Luther?” It was Rae’s voice.
“Hi, Rae. You’re not asleep?”
“Just about to go to bed. Why aren’t YOU asleep? Aren’t you usually a nine-to-five guy?”
“No. Not anymore. Got fired, if you remember.”
Silence for a second. “I knew that, Luther. I meant your sleep habits. Bed at nine, up at five.”
Of course that was what she’d meant. “Atty took me out tonight. We had some fun.” Why had he said that? Was fun what they’d actually had? What if she asked him about it?
“Really,” said Rae, her voice amused. “What did you do? Hit the library?”
“The library is fun,” he said.
“Is it what you did?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Are you going to let this go?”
“No.”
“Grocery store.”
She laughed, low soprano and rich. Rae didn’t have a pretty face--nice enough looking, much more average than astonishing--but she made up for it with her voice. “Good job, Atty. Get anything good?”
“Sports drinks. Cannelloni. Something made from corn.”
“You let Atty tell you what to buy.”
“It seemed...inevitable at the time.”
“Soon, Luther, you and I are going to sit down and plan out a menu. We’ll figure out what you like to eat, what you’ll actually cook, and what it takes to make it. Then we’ll go shopping, and we’ll do it without Atty. Deal?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Luther. He swallowed. “What about tomorrow?”
Silence again.
“Is tomorrow a problem? We don’t have to.” He shut his mouth and shut up.
Rae cleared her throat. “Tomorrow’s fine. I was just thinking how glad I am.”
“About what?”
“That you asked. You’re starting to wake up again.”
“Yeah.” Luther looked up at the ceiling. “I guess it’s been a rough couple of months.”
“No,” said Rae. “It’s been a rough decade. What time? Lunch? Let’s do lunch, then go shopping. It’s not a good idea to go shopping on an empty stomach. You end up buying all junk food.”
“Okay then. Lunch. Where?”
“You have someplace you like?”
Luther blinked, thinking. “Not really.”
“Thai food, then. There’s a little place I know close to your apartment. You like Thai?”
“Not sure. I’ve mostly lived in the West.”
“This will be an adventure for you, then. I’ll meet you at your place at eleven thirty?”
“My place is fine.”
“No it’s not,” said Atty, walking in with a bowl of something steaming. “You’re staying here.”
“But I have to go home to clean up.”
Atty considered. “That’s fine, then.”
“Is that Atty?” asked Rae.
“Yes.”
“Hand me to him for a second?”
Luther held the phone out. Atty set down the bowl of soup on a magazine with a picture of a bowl of soup and took the phone.
“Hey, Rae.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause, pause, and a smile. “You know it. Here’s Luther again. ‘Night, Rae.”
“What was that about?” whispered Luther, taking the phone.
Atty shrugged and walked out, and Luther put the phone to his ear.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“It was about you, Luther. That’s all we talk about is you.”
“Ha-ha. Atty made the same joke.”
“Then it must be funny. See you tomorrow, Luther. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem. I mean, thank you.”
Rae laughed and hung up. Luther dropped his phone on the couch and looked at the soup. It had noodles in it.
“Home, sweet you-know-the-rest,” said Atty, pushing into his apartment with his back and carrying the groceries into the kitchen. Luther wasn’t sure why he was there, but sometime in the walk back to his own apartment it had changed into a walk to Atty’s apartment, and now he was there.
“I do have my own you-know-the-rest,” he said, closing the front door behind him.
“Been over this,” called Atty over the sound of the opening fridge. “Your place is a pit.”
“But it’s my pit.”
“Never admit that in public, buddy. Besides,” something glass clanked in the kitchen, “the way you were looking in the store, no way I was letting you go home alone. I may have the observational skills of Hellen Keller, but even I could tell you’re not in a good place.”
Luther walked into the kitchen and stared.
“What?” asked Atty.
“Did you actually just make that joke?”
“Which?”
“You don’t know which one?”
“The one about Hellen Keller? There, I just proved my own point. I have the sensitivity of a--hang on, can’t use that one...or that one. Fine. I have the sensitivity of a very insensitive person, but I could still tell that you’re feeling terrible, so I stand by my decision. You’re sleeping on my couch tonight.”
Luther sighed and walked down the short hall into Atty’s living room. It was...angelic. Lived in but clean, orderly but not intimidating. Even magazines on the coffee table. Martha Stewart? What bachelor read Martha Stewart? He sighed again and sat on the couch, laying his head back.
“I’m making you soup,” Atty shouted.
“Don’t want soup.”
“Yes you do.”
It wasn’t worth fighting. That was the way things went so often with Atty: they went Atty’s way. Not that Luther wouldn’t stand firm for what mattered. It was just that he wasn’t so sure what those things were anymore. Turned out that soup wasn’t one of them.
“Fine,” he called. “Just microwave whatever.”
“Are you kidding?” said Atty, showing up in the doorway. “That’s no way to prepare soup. Stove top or nothing. Well, crock pot is an option, as is Dutch oven.”
“What’s a Dutch oven?”
“Never mind. Oh, also pressure cooker. But the point is, no microwave.”
“It is from a can, though, right? Doesn’t that make a microwave mandatory?”
“Irrelevant. Soup goes on the stove, whether it was made by machine or by Tibetan monks. Warm milk?”
“Just water, thank you.”
Atty nodded and disappeared, leaving Luther with time to think. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He looked forward at his day tomorrow, and it was distressingly empty. A morning of nothing filled with nothing in particular for lunch, and all of that chased down by a nice evening of nothing else. He knew he needed to fill his life with more than that, but even making the decision to do it didn’t mean that he understood how it was accomplished. He had stopped, and he didn’t know how to get started again.
“So who are you going to call?” asked Atty, standing in the doorway again. He was leaned against the doorframe with a casual charisma that movie stars attempt but usually only accomplish with a great deal of makeup, lighting, and carefully selected music.
“About what?”
“About your life. You said you’d call someone.”
“Right.” Maybe that was how to get started again. “I’ll call Rae.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Just a start?”
“Yes, just a start. You should try hanging out with people who aren’t angels and demons every once-in-a-while.”
“I hang out with humans all the time.”
“No, you serve humans all the time. Dispensing miracles for a god and hanging out are two very different things.”
“Do you hang out with humans?”
“All the time. Once a week, at least.”
“Where?”
“Little cafe called 26 Letters. Great place. You should come.”
“Is it artsy and pretentious and run by a small man named Maurice?”
“Yes. He speaks with a French accent, wears a pathetic goatee, and his entire wardrobe is turtle-necked black jumpsuits.”
“Really?”
“No. Owned by a big guy named Bruce. Come on, Luther. You’d enjoy it. Very low stress.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“Maybe.”
“So when are you calling Rae.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not right now?”
“Don’t you have soup on the stove?”
“Low heat. It’s fine. Why not right now?”
“Because she’s probably asleep.”
“It’s not even midnight,” said Atty, checking his watch.
“Don’t people usually sleep at this hour?”
“Only you. And old people. And small children. But not Rae. She’s usually up reading.”
“How do you know this?”
“We talk.”
“About what?”
“Only about you, Luther. About our concern for you, our never ending obsession with you, about how to make you into the grand angel that God intends you to be. And about her bedtime.”
“You’re mocking me,” said Luther.
“Yes, I am. I told you I was insensitive.”
“Will you stop if I call Rae?”
Atty sniffed the air. “I think I should go stir the soup.”
“You do that.”
Atty stepped away, then poked his head back in. “If you don’t have your cell with you, my phone is on the table to your left.”
“Thank you, Atty. I can see it there.”
“You remember how to use a telephone? Because you haven’t been returning my calls recently. I had to go to your place to get you out, so I figured you’d just forgotten how to--”
“Thank you, Atty. I remember.”
“You could also hop on my computer. Pretty sure she’s got Skype.”
“If I started dialing, would you leave me alone?”
“Probably.”
Luther pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts to the letter ‘R,’ and pushed the call button. It didn’t take very long to scroll through most of the alphabet, and Rae was the only ‘R’ in there. He chose to not think about what that said about his life.
“It’s ringing,” he said.
“Then I’m stirring,” said Atty, walking away.
The ringing stopped. “Luther?” It was Rae’s voice.
“Hi, Rae. You’re not asleep?”
“Just about to go to bed. Why aren’t YOU asleep? Aren’t you usually a nine-to-five guy?”
“No. Not anymore. Got fired, if you remember.”
Silence for a second. “I knew that, Luther. I meant your sleep habits. Bed at nine, up at five.”
Of course that was what she’d meant. “Atty took me out tonight. We had some fun.” Why had he said that? Was fun what they’d actually had? What if she asked him about it?
“Really,” said Rae, her voice amused. “What did you do? Hit the library?”
“The library is fun,” he said.
“Is it what you did?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Are you going to let this go?”
“No.”
“Grocery store.”
She laughed, low soprano and rich. Rae didn’t have a pretty face--nice enough looking, much more average than astonishing--but she made up for it with her voice. “Good job, Atty. Get anything good?”
“Sports drinks. Cannelloni. Something made from corn.”
“You let Atty tell you what to buy.”
“It seemed...inevitable at the time.”
“Soon, Luther, you and I are going to sit down and plan out a menu. We’ll figure out what you like to eat, what you’ll actually cook, and what it takes to make it. Then we’ll go shopping, and we’ll do it without Atty. Deal?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Luther. He swallowed. “What about tomorrow?”
Silence again.
“Is tomorrow a problem? We don’t have to.” He shut his mouth and shut up.
Rae cleared her throat. “Tomorrow’s fine. I was just thinking how glad I am.”
“About what?”
“That you asked. You’re starting to wake up again.”
“Yeah.” Luther looked up at the ceiling. “I guess it’s been a rough couple of months.”
“No,” said Rae. “It’s been a rough decade. What time? Lunch? Let’s do lunch, then go shopping. It’s not a good idea to go shopping on an empty stomach. You end up buying all junk food.”
“Okay then. Lunch. Where?”
“You have someplace you like?”
Luther blinked, thinking. “Not really.”
“Thai food, then. There’s a little place I know close to your apartment. You like Thai?”
“Not sure. I’ve mostly lived in the West.”
“This will be an adventure for you, then. I’ll meet you at your place at eleven thirty?”
“My place is fine.”
“No it’s not,” said Atty, walking in with a bowl of something steaming. “You’re staying here.”
“But I have to go home to clean up.”
Atty considered. “That’s fine, then.”
“Is that Atty?” asked Rae.
“Yes.”
“Hand me to him for a second?”
Luther held the phone out. Atty set down the bowl of soup on a magazine with a picture of a bowl of soup and took the phone.
“Hey, Rae.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause, pause, and a smile. “You know it. Here’s Luther again. ‘Night, Rae.”
“What was that about?” whispered Luther, taking the phone.
Atty shrugged and walked out, and Luther put the phone to his ear.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“It was about you, Luther. That’s all we talk about is you.”
“Ha-ha. Atty made the same joke.”
“Then it must be funny. See you tomorrow, Luther. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem. I mean, thank you.”
Rae laughed and hung up. Luther dropped his phone on the couch and looked at the soup. It had noodles in it.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 08
[We're making progress again.]
"What a mess," said Paul, looking around the room.
Tuck knew exactly what he meant. Hardly any furniture--just a table and a couple chairs, rug on the floor--with a kettle on the stove and a few dishes that had wandered away from their families. Other than that, the room was perfectly clean. Empty.
"You sure this is the place?" asked his partner. "They haven't left us anything to work with. At least nothing obvious."
Tuck nodded. The residue of violence was strong, like the taste of liver in his nose. He'd only tried liver once, but the meat hadn't left a favorable impression. Meat? Was liver even meat? Tuck wished he could spit out the feeling of violence as easily as he had the liver.
"This is the place, but it's...strange, somehow. It's stronger than it seems like it should be."
"The residue?"
"Exactly."
Paul looked around at the immaculate room. "Maybe a dead god leaves a stronger residue. You ever seen a dead god before?"
"Of course I haven't. No one has."
"That's not true," said Paul.
"No, you're right. But how many have, really? A dozen?"
Paul blinked, scrunching up his eyes. "Didn't Proust work some of the god deaths from the Olympics in eighty? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did. Should we call him up?"
Tuck walked across the room toward the window and stopped, standing on the rug. It had a floral pattern with leaves in some odd magenta color. Why make realistic looking flowers with magenta leaves? Maybe they were from a plant he'd never heard of. He pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on why he was there, as distasteful as it was.
"No," he said. "This is different. The residue of destruction definitely clings to the perpetrator, but not the way it does to the actual location. There was more death here."
"Seriously?" said Paul. "Someone killed our killer?"
"Or the killer killed twice. Whatever happened, the people here didn't get along so well."
There was a knock on the open door and Jaimie Lawrence, the crime scene investigator, poked her head in. "Hey, guys."
Tuck smiled. "Hi, Jamie." She was nice in the way that very few people are. Tuck wasn't sure how she could approach scenes of violence and horror with the cheerful innocence of a bouncy-ball, but she managed.
"You almost ready for me?"
"I wish," said Paul. "We've got nothing."
"You sure this is the place?"
"He's sure."
Tuck nodded. "I'm sure."
"You want us to take a look around? Just a once over? Maybe we can find something that will give your guts some direction to follow."
"Is that standard procedure?" asked Tuck.
"No, but I'm assuming time is important here, and we're not especially concerned about proving anything in court."
"Time is very important," said Paul, "and court is the last thing on my list of worries at the moment."
"No, it's not," said Tuck.
"Yes, it is."
"Court matters."
"Saving lives matters."
"That, too, but--"
"Get in here, Jamie," said Paul.
"Great. Come on, boys!" Jamie stepped in, followed by the members of her team. With a few gestures and quite a few words, she divided up the small apartment into regions and the CSI crew started working across the room in rows, wall to wall.
"So, Forgotten Zed, huh?" Jamie talked as she looked at the rug, wall, ceiling, and rug again, inch by inch.
"Yeah," said Tuck. "Um, where should we stand? Do you need us to move?"
"You're fine. Who would have thought? I mean, the guy WAS forgotten. Not much going on around him. Most gods you hear something about. Who he's dating, where he's living, what she's wearing. Why don't you hear about gods getting drunk? Can they get drunk? I assume there are gods out there who drink. It'd be a waste to live for thousands of years without a martini now and then. You guys want to go out for drinks after this is all over?"
"Tuck doesn't drink," said Paul.
"I don't drink."
"Why not?"
"I don't like feeling out of control."
"He won't even take gas at the dentist. He'd rather just suffer."
Tuck gave a tight lipped smile as Jamie looked up at him.
"No drinks, then," she said. "Chinese food?"
Paul laughed. "After a murder scene? Tuck won't be eating for a week."
"Two to three hours," said his partner.
"I get it," said Jamie, looking at the floor. "But you two WILL hang out with me sometime. My boyfriend is out of town for a month, I'm bored, and you two are more fun than Buffy reruns."
Tuck looked at Paul, lost.
"You know," said Paul, grinning. "The demon slayer show?"
"Oh, yeah. That fake docudrama. I hate that show."
"You and all the other demons."
"Nobody thinks it's actually real," said Jamie, looking at the window closely, "just like that show about angels spending all their time helping people."
Paul snorted. "Like we have the time for that. Ruled by the mortgage. Not all of us have been making money for the last thousand years. You find anything?"
"Yeah. The smudges on the dirt here suggest that they took the screen out for the shot and put it back. That mean anything?"
"That they were careful," said Tuck, "but we already knew that."
"Somebody had tea," called one of the crew from the kitchen. "Anyone want some?"
"What kind?"
"Peach-a-Palooza."
Paul wrinkled his nose. "We'll pass," he called back, then turned to Tuck. "Why do people drink fruit tea? Tea is supposed to be from leaves. No fruit. No hips. You with me on this?"
Tuck shrugged. "Partially. I prefer Peach 'Plosion to Peach-a-Palooza."
"Seriously? You DRINK that stuff?"
"Not Peach-a-Palooza."
"Holes on the table," called another of the crew. "Little ones, like they had something screwed in here."
"Makes sense," said Paul. "They'd need some kind of mount for two shots that close together at this distance."
Tuck glanced out the window toward where he thought Forgotten Zed's apartment must be. "I can't even see it," he muttered.
"What was that?" asked Jamie.
"The building. Zed's apartment. I can't tell where it is from here."
"No kidding. That's an amazing shot."
"Two amazing shots," said Paul, "which probably means they braced the table as well. Everybody off."
Tuck stepped back awkwardly off the rug as Paul rolled it up, shoving it against the wall.
"We are trampling the rules of evidence under foot like the Romans in Carthage," he protested.
"The Romans had rules about evidence?"
"Just one: don't destroy it."
"Pish," said Paul, crouching down close to the floor. "See? Holes. They attached the table to the floor."
"And what's this," said Jamie, on her knees and pulling out a flashlight. "Looks like blood here."
"Finally," said Paul with a smile. "They left a little bit of a mess. Something you can get a lead from, Tuck?"
"If it's leftover from a fight, then I'd think so." Tuck took a deep breath. It meant another hour or two of feeling terrible, but that was to be expected. "Part of the job, right?"
"Exactly," said Paul. "And when it's done, we take Jamie out for Chinese."
"I thought we were doing Denny's?"
"Only if it's three in the morning. Otherwise I override you and say it's Chinese."
"I know an all night Chinese place," chipped in Jamie.
"In that case," said Paul, "it's definitely Chinese."
Tuck crouched down over the blood stain. "But I like pancakes," he muttered.
"What a mess," said Paul, looking around the room.
Tuck knew exactly what he meant. Hardly any furniture--just a table and a couple chairs, rug on the floor--with a kettle on the stove and a few dishes that had wandered away from their families. Other than that, the room was perfectly clean. Empty.
"You sure this is the place?" asked his partner. "They haven't left us anything to work with. At least nothing obvious."
Tuck nodded. The residue of violence was strong, like the taste of liver in his nose. He'd only tried liver once, but the meat hadn't left a favorable impression. Meat? Was liver even meat? Tuck wished he could spit out the feeling of violence as easily as he had the liver.
"This is the place, but it's...strange, somehow. It's stronger than it seems like it should be."
"The residue?"
"Exactly."
Paul looked around at the immaculate room. "Maybe a dead god leaves a stronger residue. You ever seen a dead god before?"
"Of course I haven't. No one has."
"That's not true," said Paul.
"No, you're right. But how many have, really? A dozen?"
Paul blinked, scrunching up his eyes. "Didn't Proust work some of the god deaths from the Olympics in eighty? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did. Should we call him up?"
Tuck walked across the room toward the window and stopped, standing on the rug. It had a floral pattern with leaves in some odd magenta color. Why make realistic looking flowers with magenta leaves? Maybe they were from a plant he'd never heard of. He pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on why he was there, as distasteful as it was.
"No," he said. "This is different. The residue of destruction definitely clings to the perpetrator, but not the way it does to the actual location. There was more death here."
"Seriously?" said Paul. "Someone killed our killer?"
"Or the killer killed twice. Whatever happened, the people here didn't get along so well."
There was a knock on the open door and Jaimie Lawrence, the crime scene investigator, poked her head in. "Hey, guys."
Tuck smiled. "Hi, Jamie." She was nice in the way that very few people are. Tuck wasn't sure how she could approach scenes of violence and horror with the cheerful innocence of a bouncy-ball, but she managed.
"You almost ready for me?"
"I wish," said Paul. "We've got nothing."
"You sure this is the place?"
"He's sure."
Tuck nodded. "I'm sure."
"You want us to take a look around? Just a once over? Maybe we can find something that will give your guts some direction to follow."
"Is that standard procedure?" asked Tuck.
"No, but I'm assuming time is important here, and we're not especially concerned about proving anything in court."
"Time is very important," said Paul, "and court is the last thing on my list of worries at the moment."
"No, it's not," said Tuck.
"Yes, it is."
"Court matters."
"Saving lives matters."
"That, too, but--"
"Get in here, Jamie," said Paul.
"Great. Come on, boys!" Jamie stepped in, followed by the members of her team. With a few gestures and quite a few words, she divided up the small apartment into regions and the CSI crew started working across the room in rows, wall to wall.
"So, Forgotten Zed, huh?" Jamie talked as she looked at the rug, wall, ceiling, and rug again, inch by inch.
"Yeah," said Tuck. "Um, where should we stand? Do you need us to move?"
"You're fine. Who would have thought? I mean, the guy WAS forgotten. Not much going on around him. Most gods you hear something about. Who he's dating, where he's living, what she's wearing. Why don't you hear about gods getting drunk? Can they get drunk? I assume there are gods out there who drink. It'd be a waste to live for thousands of years without a martini now and then. You guys want to go out for drinks after this is all over?"
"Tuck doesn't drink," said Paul.
"I don't drink."
"Why not?"
"I don't like feeling out of control."
"He won't even take gas at the dentist. He'd rather just suffer."
Tuck gave a tight lipped smile as Jamie looked up at him.
"No drinks, then," she said. "Chinese food?"
Paul laughed. "After a murder scene? Tuck won't be eating for a week."
"Two to three hours," said his partner.
"I get it," said Jamie, looking at the floor. "But you two WILL hang out with me sometime. My boyfriend is out of town for a month, I'm bored, and you two are more fun than Buffy reruns."
Tuck looked at Paul, lost.
"You know," said Paul, grinning. "The demon slayer show?"
"Oh, yeah. That fake docudrama. I hate that show."
"You and all the other demons."
"Nobody thinks it's actually real," said Jamie, looking at the window closely, "just like that show about angels spending all their time helping people."
Paul snorted. "Like we have the time for that. Ruled by the mortgage. Not all of us have been making money for the last thousand years. You find anything?"
"Yeah. The smudges on the dirt here suggest that they took the screen out for the shot and put it back. That mean anything?"
"That they were careful," said Tuck, "but we already knew that."
"Somebody had tea," called one of the crew from the kitchen. "Anyone want some?"
"What kind?"
"Peach-a-Palooza."
Paul wrinkled his nose. "We'll pass," he called back, then turned to Tuck. "Why do people drink fruit tea? Tea is supposed to be from leaves. No fruit. No hips. You with me on this?"
Tuck shrugged. "Partially. I prefer Peach 'Plosion to Peach-a-Palooza."
"Seriously? You DRINK that stuff?"
"Not Peach-a-Palooza."
"Holes on the table," called another of the crew. "Little ones, like they had something screwed in here."
"Makes sense," said Paul. "They'd need some kind of mount for two shots that close together at this distance."
Tuck glanced out the window toward where he thought Forgotten Zed's apartment must be. "I can't even see it," he muttered.
"What was that?" asked Jamie.
"The building. Zed's apartment. I can't tell where it is from here."
"No kidding. That's an amazing shot."
"Two amazing shots," said Paul, "which probably means they braced the table as well. Everybody off."
Tuck stepped back awkwardly off the rug as Paul rolled it up, shoving it against the wall.
"We are trampling the rules of evidence under foot like the Romans in Carthage," he protested.
"The Romans had rules about evidence?"
"Just one: don't destroy it."
"Pish," said Paul, crouching down close to the floor. "See? Holes. They attached the table to the floor."
"And what's this," said Jamie, on her knees and pulling out a flashlight. "Looks like blood here."
"Finally," said Paul with a smile. "They left a little bit of a mess. Something you can get a lead from, Tuck?"
"If it's leftover from a fight, then I'd think so." Tuck took a deep breath. It meant another hour or two of feeling terrible, but that was to be expected. "Part of the job, right?"
"Exactly," said Paul. "And when it's done, we take Jamie out for Chinese."
"I thought we were doing Denny's?"
"Only if it's three in the morning. Otherwise I override you and say it's Chinese."
"I know an all night Chinese place," chipped in Jamie.
"In that case," said Paul, "it's definitely Chinese."
Tuck crouched down over the blood stain. "But I like pancakes," he muttered.
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