Bob's Greatest Mistake_Part Two of The Journals of Bob Drifter

  Bob’s

  Greatest Mistake

  Part Two of The Journals of Bob Drifter

  M.L.S. Weech

  Copyright © 2018 M.L.S. Weech

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATION

  1 | Acceptance

  2 | A New Class

  3 | Drisc

  4 | Council

  5 | Tracking Drifter

  6 | An Encounter

  7 | The Grimm

  8 | When the Dying Live

  9 | An Apology

  10 | What Headaches Mean

  11 | Waiting for an Opportunity

  12 | A Date

  13 | A Grimm Execution

  14 | Interrogation

  15 | A Really Bad Headache

  16 | Tracking Grimm

  17 | Tragedy

  18 | Shame and Shameful

  19 | A Meaningless Gesture

  20 | Difficulties in Gathering Information

  21 | Finding Sparks

  22 | Tracking a Monster

  23 | Worse Than Tragedy

  24 | Confessions

  25 | Unwelcome Company

  26 | The Depth of Souls

  27 | The Best-Laid Traps

  28 | Time Bomb

  29 | A Dark Sense

  30 | Pursuit

  31 | In Memoriam

  32 | Reunion

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE FROM BOB DRIFTER

  A REQUEST

  ALSO BY M.L.S. WEECH

  DEDICATION

  For Ralph and Drew, who showed me that some friendships are truly special.

  I hope this helps you see that some friendships never die.

  A Note from the Author

  I was very proud when The Journals of Bob Drifter was first published in 2015. I love this story and the characters in it. However, I was a brand new indie author who simply didn’t have any idea what he was doing on the publishing side of things.

  This second edition was necessary for a few reasons. First, I was aware of some grammar and punctuation issues. I was also aware of some typos that I just got tired of seeing as I looked at the edition I had. A lot of those were addressed in the audio version of this book, but I wanted the print and digital versions of the book to get a polish. The second reason was that I wanted a bit more say on pricing. I wanted to reduce the cover cost and make each individual segment of the book to be available for those who just wanted to try it before committing to a story that’s more than 130,000 words.

  It’s been more than two years since Bob first landed in the hands of readers, and I felt he deserved a second edition that had a bit more editorial love than the first edition had. I didn’t change the story at all, and won’t. Good or bad, this is the story I imagined as I imagined it.

  I’m happy to have been at this for two years, and I sure mean to keep at it until my own Journeyman comes to call on me. It was working on this second edition that I realized their importance. It allows us to make small tweaks and polish our work so it has new life.

  I hope you’ve all enjoyed this journey as much as I have.

  — M.L.S. Weech

  See how the journey began.

  Read Part One of The Journals of Bob Drifter.

  1

  Acceptance

  The sound of the basement door opening was the only sign that told former Sergeant Richard Hertly how late it was. The light from the stairway cut into the darkness of his basement, and it took him a moment to adjust his eyes. He heard the door close and listened to Linda’s tiny footsteps whisper down another set of stairs.

  Hertly had buried himself in this work for about a year. He tried working with the department again, only lasting nine months. Each time the lieutenant caught him working on Drifter’s location, it became an argument. The last argument ended when Richard threw his badge at his lieutenant. He had no legal right to follow Drifter, but he did it anyway. His partner, and best friend, had helped him and died for the effort.

  Now Drifter was Richard’s only focus. He sat at his brown desk in his dark basement with only a small desk lamp to light the area. It was enough to see the files on his desk. The washing machine and dryer were quiet in their corner of the room. The rest of the floor had room for the boxes. The public records went as far back as the printer could push out before the ink went dry. Richard was determined to connect every death he could to Drifter. Then he’d kill him.

  Linda stood quietly at the foot of the stairs and watched him work for a few moments. She didn’t say much when he was in the basement. Then again, he didn’t say anything to her.

  Occasionally, he had tried to move on. He knew he should, but he’d share a meal with her and remember the meal he had the night Kyle died all because Richard wouldn’t let Robert Drifter go free. After that, it was too late. So he pulled away from his wife. The pain of hurting her would swell to a point where he tried again to move on but couldn’t. It took all he had to work odd jobs to pay the bills, jobs that let him pursue his real work while making whatever money he could to provide for Linda. He’d make sure she was taken care of, but he couldn’t make her happy. Kyle’s death had stolen every happy moment he’d had. Guilt made it far too heavy a burden for Richard to carry. As a result, he spent most of his days and nights in the basement.

  “Are you coming to bed?” she asked. The light from Richard’s desk lamp didn’t quite reach her, but he had her memorized. She was so beautiful, so patient, but he couldn’t think about her. She used to occupy every thought he had, but every time he tried to focus on his life, he remembered his partner and Drifter, who was responsible for everything.

  Richard placed the folder in his hand in the “Drifter” pile and moved to the next obituary. He heard Linda approach before he saw her step into the light. She looked like an angel, but what right did he have to look at angels when he was responsible for the death of his best friend?

  “Richard, you have to sleep,” she said calmly. He knew that tone. She used it to calm him down when he was angry.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” he said.

  “You said that at breakfast and then dinner,” she said. He noticed her catch her breath. Why is she trying not to cry?

  “I have a lot of work to do, hon,” he said. He couldn’t understand the edge in his voice. Everything will be fine once I finish this.

  “You have to let go, sweetheart,” she said. “Even if you’re right about this person, it won’t bring—”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Hertly shouted as he slammed his palm onto the desk, startling her. He’d never acted that way toward her before, but he couldn’t control his anger. It was as if he were speeding down a highway in a car with no brakes. “I have to make this right.”

  “At what cost?” she whimpered, her lip trembling. She was an inch away from breaking into tears. That used to be enough to stop him in his tracks, but those words were too close to what Drifter had once told him.

  “Any cost!” he shouted in answer. “Kyle died for me!”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said with weak resolve.

  “I have to prove whose fault it was,” Richard said, sliding his chair back and standing up. She hesitated a moment before approaching him. Why is she afraid of me? I’d never hurt her.

  She laid a hand on his chest. “You lost a very dear friend,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose my husband.”

  He pushed her away. It happened before he knew he even did it. The look of shock on her face broke his heart, bu
t he couldn’t swallow his rage. His love for her wouldn’t quiet his guilt. “So I lose someone, and that’s OK?” he asked.

  “No,” she said through a shudder. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “You hated him.”

  “I didn’t hate him.”

  “You’ve always hated him,” he screamed. “You don’t understand anything.” It was like another person had invaded his body. He’d never hurt Linda. He’d never treat her that way. It was all Drifter’s fault. He had taken so much from Richard, and now there was also a rift between him and Linda.

  “Please,” she begged, losing her composure. The tears flowed freely, and the part of Richard that died every time she cried was only a shadow compared to the image of Drifter in that ambulance the night everything went wrong. He couldn’t focus. “You have to let go.”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he growled. “You’d love it if I just moved on and forgot everything.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” she cried. She rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him.

  This is what matters. It’s all I really need, a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered. Her embrace felt so right, and that was exactly what was so wrong with it. He always had it all. He had the perfect wife, job, and everything that went with it. All Kyle had was the job and a partner who should have watched out for him.

  If he hadn’t gone out with Linda that night and had taken the shift, it would have been him. He couldn’t stomach the questions. Why did Kyle have to make all the sacrifices? What right do I have to be happy?

  He made sure he was gentle when he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away from him. “I can’t explain it to you,” he whispered. “I can’t do this now.”

  A part of him panicked as he kissed her forehead. What am I thinking?

  “Richard, what are you doing?” she asked when she noticed the bag packed next to his desk. It wouldn’t have mattered. He almost let an exasperated chuckle escape his lips. He could never lie to Linda. She knew he was planning to do something she wouldn’t like.

  “I can’t be happy when it cost that much,” he said. He was surprised to notice he had tears running down his cheek. The tears didn’t stop him from walking over to the bag, picking it up, and moving for the stairs.

  “Richard, no,” she begged as she rushed up the stairs behind him. That was his girl. Linda knew he was leaving. Even though he didn’t want to, he had to. It killed him, but letting go of his rage was impossible.

  “I have to do this,” Richard said.

  “Richard, please!” she yelped as she grabbed his hand.

  He pulled his hand away. It was the hardest thing he ever did, harder than unzipping that body bag Kyle was in. It was harder than hearing Linda cry as he left the basement. It was harder than walking up the stairs and out of the front door. But he had to do it. He couldn’t live happily when someone else had to die for it.

  If he could prove his partner didn’t die for nothing, he could go back. If he could just catch the bastard, everything would be all right. That meant doing what he did best: following the evidence.

  2

  A New Class

  November 5, 2007

  My travels have brought me to New York. Not the skyscrapers and industry that are so common in the movies, but the green scenery and brisk temperatures of New York State. I’m in Central New York, to be more precise.

  I’ve found an apartment to rent near the school I’m teaching at in the village of Liverpool. I find myself enjoying the environment of this quiet little place. I’m just far enough away from the nearest city, Syracuse, to avoid the traffic and bad parts of town. I’ve taken advantage of several walks and have come to the conclusion that, were it not for the amount of snow and freezing temperatures, I wouldn’t mind living here.

  As for my purpose in visiting the area, it seems I’m to Transport a soul. I received a call from Onondaga Elementary, and they offered me a permanent position.

  Honestly, I’ve never been offered a permanent job up front before. Whoever it is that pulls the strings of my employment is usually kind enough to give me a few weeks or less, if the event is accidental or unnatural.

  I imagine I shouldn’t complain at all. I’ve become a bit of an estranged phenomenon among the Journeymen. I’m fairly certain the only reason I’m not ignored completely is because of my friendship with Drisc, who also happens to be in the area. (More on that in a moment. It appears I’m lost in my own thoughts.)

  About a year ago, I decided that I should do more than Transport souls and Pass On the last parts of a person’s essence to another individual. I decided that I must do more because I could do more. I was so damned tired of being feared. I was so tired of feeling like some theatrical being with a ridiculously deep voice calling out to people, “It’s time,” and ripping them from the world.

  So I make it my goal to try and grant some form of “last wish” to people before their time. This is extremely difficult because I’m terribly under-equipped for such work. We have no useful gifts for our job, and we certainly lack the power to wave a hand and magically grant a last wish. No, I work in more mundane ways, but I find myself happier in my work since then. So damn the critics of my methods.

  Tucked between I-90 and Onondaga Lake was the Village of Liverpool. A suburb of Syracuse, the village was home to a strangely diverse population, from middle-aged employees who wanted to live outside of the city to retired individuals who had moved there years ago, before the urban reach of Syracuse began to invade the village limits.

  Onondaga Elementary School was only a few miles away from I-90, a short trip down Tulip Street. The school was a series of small buildings connected by long hallways.

  Bob was at a loss. He’d been teaching for a few weeks and still couldn’t Sense an approaching death. He wasn’t exactly anxious to get on with his work, but he wanted to make use of the time he had. At least I can make a difference in their education, he thought to himself.

  He taught third grade at the time. He’d never instructed kids so young before. He wondered if that had something to do with the unusual amount of time he had to prepare for his work. Needless to say, his usual tactics weren’t effective. He learned quickly that bribing an eight-year-old with chocolate was begging for a hyperactive tragedy.

  He eventually found a rhythm and was happy to discover “circle time,” which gave him the chance to read. Bob was never the kind to care what he read; to him, the written word was a beautiful thing regardless of its intended audience.

  He started with The Boxcar Children, a collection of works he’d enjoyed greatly a little less than a century or so ago. The kids seemed to enjoy the story as well.

  He had different voices for all of the characters. The kids laughed every time Bob used his voice for Violet, one of the main characters in the story. If there were an Academy Award for “Best Rendition During Reading Time,” he was a lock for his performance when Violet became ill.

  “Mr. Drifter, is Violet going to die?” Calista Genmore, a golden-haired student with bright-blue eyes asked.

  “We should probably finish the story to find out,” he said with a mischievous smile.

  “But we only have five minutes left,” she pouted.

  “Today, certainly, but there’s always tomorrow.” Bob felt perfectly fine with promising the kids another day. He looked intently at each of the children in his circle. He looked for any trace of the Death Sense.

  Sensing death was a lot like a police officer looking for trace evidence. It could start as gently as a tingle. Bob frowned. He didn’t so much as feel a chill from the air conditioner. The closer death came, the greater the Sense. It turned from a feeling to a visual representation. If someone near death was close, a slight, red “print” was visible.

  Once death was visible, it was only a matter of following the red prints. These weren’t exactly fingerprints or footprints. Death Prints were more like marks. Bob didn’t find any Death Prints, either. He
had his students do their best impressions of their favorite Boxcar Kid in the hopes that he might find his next Transport, but all he got out of the investigation was a great deal of laughter and a day off of his curriculum.

  Little Andy Tillman, who was sensitive about just how small he was, had the last performance. To everyone’s great amusement, he chose to be Watch, the Airedale terrier of the Boxcar Children. He plodded around on all fours like he had a thorn in his knee—or paw, rather. Bob made it a point to respect his students’ imaginations. Sarah Rios, a Latin-American girl with eyes as dark as her hair, took on the role of Jessie and pulled the imaginary thorn loose. Everyone laughed when Andy leapt on her and gave her a sloppy lick on the cheek, which didn’t gross Sarah out at all. Like a natural actress, she simply told Andy (Watch) to sit and be a good dog, which he did obediently.

  The act was so funny that Bob felt his stomach tighten from the laughter. His laughter died as he wondered whom it was he was there to help. One of the children, a teacher, or someone close to the school was supposed to die, only Bob couldn’t tell who. Either something was wrong with whatever person or force brought him to New York, or something was wrong with his Death Sense.

  3

  Drisc

  November 6, 2007

  Last Year, I made the effort to hone my ability to Sense Death. I still don’t quite know my actual limits. I know that I can Sense Death when it’s a full four months away. I’m not frustrated, but whoever I’m here to Transport isn’t making his or her journey anytime soon. I can’t Sense the slightest hint of anything from my students, and I’m starting to think something’s wrong with me.

  That would make the others happy. Since my decision to do more than just Transport souls, several of my co-workers have started to ignore me. We recognize one another the same way normal people recognize each other. A Journeyman works with death, so we always carry a Print. My friendship with Drisc and the fact that I came up with the term “Journeyman” caused those in my field to think well of me.