An Unusual Occupation Page 14

  Richard smiled at his wife. He raised his glass to her in another toast. “To life,” he said.

  “To life,” she replied as they touched their glasses together. The night was going perfectly.

  This night sucks, Kyle told himself as he watched the single slice of pepperoni pizza turn in the Quick Stop store’s microwave. Kyle imagined how, at that moment, Richard was enjoying a steak, and he chuckled to himself. After all, this was his idea.

  His mind drifted to the night before and Amanda. He imagined what another night with her would be like. The single bell of the microwave brought Kyle back to the moment and reality. Drifter would walk in at any moment for some coffee, and Kyle wanted a few words with the guy at the counter before that happened.

  He pulled out his pizza and only gagged a little before taking a giant, greasy bite. Richard owes me big time!

  He took a few moments to fill his thermos with coffee before heading to the counter. The attendant—George, according to his nametag—rang up his purchase without so much as looking at him.

  “You work here every night?” Kyle asked.

  “Unfortunately,” George answered. He appeared to be in his early twenties. He was a tall, skinny kid that maybe spent more time in his mom’s basement than he did at college. Kyle filed off the attendant’s statistics while he fished around his wallet for the money to pay for his food.

  “In about two or three minutes, a guy’s gonna walk in here,” Kyle began. He flashed his badge to make sure he had George’s attention. He did. “He might be reading a book.”

  “Bob?” George asked.

  “You two on a first-name basis?” Kyle asked in response.

  “Not really; he just seems, I don’t know, out there.”

  “Out there like how?”

  “Not, like, a freak or anything.”

  “Then, like, how?” Kyle asked, mocking the attendant’s speech habit.

  “He’s just always reading. I didn’t think people read like that,” George said. Kyle imagined comic books didn’t count, in George’s opinion.

  “How long has he been coming here for coffee?” Kyle asked.

  “It’s not coffee, man,” George said with a chuckle. “It’s hot chocolate. Every night.”

  “Hot chocolate?” Kyle asked.

  “Yeah, the dude loves it,” George answered. Kyle had to ask himself what sort of grown adult drinks hot chocolate every night.

  He didn’t have enough time to figure out the answer before a chime at the door sounded, and Drifter walked in, pushing the door with one hand while using the other to hold a book in front of his face. Kyle noticed the author’s name, Dylan Thomas, on the cover. He’d have to look the name up. Kyle wasn’t much of a reader.

  “Speak of the devil,” Kyle said.

  Drifter’s eyes crawled over the cover of his book. He didn’t look surprised, which bothered Kyle. That was half the point of him being in the store when Drifter walked in.

  “I can’t imagine you think that lowly of me, Detective,” Bob said. His eyes went back to his book. The bastard was going to read while he talked to a cop.

  “What sort of sicko drinks hot chocolate, Drifter?” Kyle asked. The reading addict walked right past Kyle to the coffee section in the corner of the store.

  “I can’t imagine any decent human being not liking hot chocolate,” Drifter said. Kyle thought the substitute teacher sounded half serious about the quip.

  Without even pulling the book away from his face, Drifter pulled out a cup and started to fill it. How the hell does he know when to stop pouring? Kyle had to shake the thought from his head. He was losing control of the encounter. Losing it? I don’t imagine I ever had it.

  “Must be a good book,” Kyle said.

  “Do you like poetry, Detective?” Bob asked.

  “Not exactly,” Kyle answered. There’s no way in hell you just walked in here reading a poetry book, looking to buy yourself some hot chocolate.

  Drifter somehow managed to fill his cup without spilling any hot chocolate and even managed to put the lid on after turning a page in his book. Can this guy do everything while reading?

  “I don’t appreciate being ignored, Drifter,” Kyle barked. A chime sounded at the door as another customer entered the store.

  Drifter closed the book. He used what looked like a letter to mark his spot. Kyle reminded himself to look into those letters when he had a chance. “I’m not ignoring you, Detective, but I understand what you mean,” Drifter said calmly. Kyle wondered why he looked so calm. “Did you have something you wanted to ask me?” the suspect asked.

  Kyle was about to lose his temper when he heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked behind him. The detective turned to see that poor George had a shotgun pointed at his head.

  “Open the register now!” the gunman ordered.

  Kyle’s instincts went into overdrive. He memorized everything about the gunman. The gunman was about 30 years old, between five foot nine and five eleven, and had a ragged mop of dark hair over a set of hazel eyes. He looked terrified, which was bad. Scared criminals made snap decisions that usually killed people. George was about eight or ten feet from the gunman, and he looked terrified. Kyle was between the counter and Drifter, who looked calm. A chill shot down Kyle’s spine. Drifter looked as if he wasn’t surprised at all.

  He couldn’t worry about Drifter just then. He had to focus on the emergency. It wasn’t likely that Drifter would try anything in this situation, and he was calm. Calm people didn’t make mistakes. The gunman and poor George were the priorities now. This night definitely sucks.

  Bob slowly put his book and hot chocolate down. He didn’t want to give the gunman any surprises. He watched Kyle slowly walk toward the gunman.

  The gunman took a few seconds to notice. When he finally saw the detective, he swung his shotgun around threateningly.

  “Don’t fucking move!” he ordered. His hands were shaking. George looked terrified as well. Kyle stopped and slowly raised his hands. He looked very collected, which was good, in Bob’s opinion. The police officer had it under control and knew not to panic.

  “OK, I won’t move,” Kyle said in a soft voice Bob had never heard him use before. “George, open the register like the man asked.”

  The gunman pointed his weapon at George. “Hurry!” he barked.

  “It’s OK,” Kyle said. “Everyone just be cool, and we’ll be OK.”

  “Stop saying it’ll be OK!” the gunman barked. He kept his shotgun pointed at George but managed to glare at Kyle. Bob made it his mission in life to stay perfectly still.

  “I’m sorry,” Kyle said. “He’s opening the register.” He looked at George and nodded. George looked at his register, then to Kyle, over to the gunman, and back to his register. He pushed a button and the register slid open.

  “You’re in charge,” Kyle told the robber. Bob admired how calm the detective was. The gunman was obviously terrified. Bob just watched as Kyle tried to maintain a calming influence. “Just think everything through. We can come out of this if everyone just stays calm.”

  “I am calm!” the gunman screamed. “Just shut up and get the fucking money!”

  Bob noticed George’s hands were shaking as he filled a bag with the contents of his register. He knew there wasn’t a lot of money to take. He wondered how much the gunman hoped for.

  Kyle kept his arms in the air. Bob realized what he was trying to do. The cop was trying to get between the gunman and George. He was trying to protect George! Bob smiled at the brave policeman.

  “Get the money from under the register, too,” the gunman ordered.

  “But—” George started to say. The gunman chambered his shotgun again, sending a shell into the air to show it was loaded. Bob suddenly felt cold. Kyle looked as if he wanted to rush, but he managed to hold still. Bob felt an imminent Death Sense, two of them, as well as something he couldn’t truly describe. Whatever it was left a cold pit in his stomach and a chill along the back of his
neck.

  “George, whatever’s under there isn’t worth it,” Kyle said. “It’s o ... it’ll be fine.” George still looked reluctant. Bob watched the young clerk gather his courage. The next two seconds happened so quickly, Bob hardly knew what had happened before it was over.

  George reached under the register. Kyle saw the gun before the robber did. The policeman screamed for George to stop. The man with the shotgun looked at Kyle and noticed the policeman start to run toward the register.

  George pulled out the gun that was hidden under his register and aimed it at the gunman. He fired off a round and missed completely. The robber returned fire with his shotgun, but not before Kyle dove in front of George. The policeman took the blast in his chest. George, perhaps frightened by the shotgun, fired another two rounds. The first hit the robber in the arm; the second found the robber’s chest. The whole event took two seconds, but Bob felt like an eternity had past.

  Bob ran to the detective. “Call 911 right away, George,” Bob said calmly. George’s eyes were as wide as any plates Bob could imagine. “George,” Bob said. The clerk snapped his head down to look at Bob. “Put the gun on the counter and call 911.”

  He didn’t tell George to run, but the clerk did it anyway. Kyle was coughing. The spray of the shotgun had peppered Kyle’s chest with tiny holes. Bob pressed his hands against the wounds. There was no stopping that much blood. Of course, Bob already knew that. He Took Kyle’s pain and was surprised to feel a lump in his throat.

  “I don’t understand.” Kyle managed to choke out each word slowly.

  Bob smiled at the detective. “I’m probably the wrong person to help you with that,” he told him.

  “You—” Kyle said.

  “I’m trying to help,” Bob interrupted. “George is calling 911.”

  The policeman actually smiled. Bob felt a little comfort in the detective’s wry mood. “He’s gonna try to kill you,” Kyle said.

  Bob knew whom he meant. There was no possible way Richard wouldn’t show up. Bob was certain he should have rushed to his house, packed a bag, and motored to Mexico before the first ambulance arrived. There was no explaining this. Whatever really happened wouldn’t matter. Richard was Kyle’s best friend, and he would avenge him. And damn the fact that I didn’t do anything wrong, Bob thought to himself.

  “To be honest,” Bob said. “I’m sort of counting on it.” He couldn’t run, even if he should, even if he wanted to. Bob had to stay. He had to Collect Kyle’s soul and Pass it on. The detective actually tried to chuckle before a fit of coughs hit him. Bob kept pressure on the wounds, for whatever good it did.

  “You tell him—” Kyle started to say.

  “I don’t think he’ll be in the mood to listen.” Bob tried to interrupt.

  “Shut up and listen!” the cop ordered. “You fucking tell him to live. Tell him to remember what matters.”

  “You’re asking me to deliver this message?” Bob asked. He was dumbfounded. The man followed him for days, suspected him of being a sicko and worse, and then expected him to just deliver a message to a man they both knew would try to kill Bob the second they locked eyes.

  “Well, it’s not like I have any other options,” Kyle confessed. “Wish I could have figured out what you were up to.”

  “I’m sorta glad you didn’t,” Bob admitted. Even as he lie dying, every thought Kyle had was for his partner. Bob was nearly overwhelmed with the detective’s display of loyalty for his partner. “But if I can give him your message, I will.” There I go again, Bob thought. Making promises with no way to keep them.

  Kyle was already dead. Bob felt Kyle’s soul rush into him. There’s no way for this to end well.

  The one some called Death heard the gunshots and smiled. At least this death was violent. At least this death had some flavor. He allowed the shadows to fade away from him as the doors opened. Interestingly, another man some would call Death was there. His look of shock was so pure it made the man smile.

  “It’s you,” the other man called Death said. Neither of them were Death. Neither of them could be Death. They were carriers. They were voyeurs. But this other man was worthless. He’d already taken one of the souls.

  “I have this one already,” the other said. His voice trembled when he spoke. The man who wanted to be Death smiled again. “Take that one,” the other said, as if Death would take orders or needed instructions.

  The man who wanted to be Death turned his attention to the carcass with the shotgun. It was already a carcass. He waited. He wanted it to sour. They were worthless unless they were sour.

  “What are you waiting for?” the other asked. He seemed panicked. “The ambulance will be here soon. Hurry!”

  The would-be Death simply watched. He could hear little rips in the carcass’s soul. It was nearly ready to sour. That was the only bit of joy he got from Collecting souls. He hated fate for placing him in this role: To watch death, Collect souls, and never be able to tear them, to rip them apart. Then he had let one sour, and it was better. It gave him power.

  “Dear God,” the other yelled. “What the hell are you doing? Collect it already!”

  The rotting soul screamed. There was no other sound like it. The other decided to be a fucking hero. He set his carcass down and charged. The man who wanted to be Death, the man who wanted to be all of Death, reached out with the power those soured lives gave him and flung the other across the store.

  In a rage, the man who wanted to be Death used his newfound strength to form his scythe. That scythe had made him famous over the years. That weapon helped him earn a new name. They called him Grimm. He meant to kill the other, but the rotting soul screamed again. Grimm let his power wane and decided to watch the soul rot. The other was nothing; the rotting soul would give Grimm more power, and with enough of that, he could truly become Death.

  Richard promised he wouldn’t think about work, but it was common practice for him to keep his police radio on a low volume. He told Linda it helped with traffic, which it did. He was glad she knew him well enough to know he could never fully turn off the cop part of his life. Half of the arrangement they made came from the fact that Richard was a cop 24-7.

  “Accident on I-10 near the Thunderbird exit.” The radio rattled off various updates. Richard didn’t pay much attention, only listening for streets that might keep him and his wife from the ballet.

  He drove, though that in itself was unusual. He usually drove a little too fast for Linda’s taste, but this was a date, and protocol must be maintained. The night was going exactly as planned. The dinner was fantastic. He couldn’t keep his eyes off his beautiful Linda.

  “It’ll be more special if you stay in the moment with me,” she said. Apparently, he’d given his “I want to be with my wife” face.

  “That’s not fair,” he said with mock admonishment.

  “Base, the domestic disturbance here is settled, just some kid angry with his parents ... ” The radio came in and out of Richard’s attention, but Linda was never out of his mind.

  “Maybe I don’t think it’s fair for you to waste that imagination in the car,” she said. She could be so tempting when she wanted to be.

  Richard took his wife’s hand and smiled at her. “Shots fired ... Sun City ... repeat: officer down ...”

  Sun City? His heart jumped. He pulled the car to the side of the road. Linda yelped at the sudden stop. Richard didn’t take the time to explain. He turned the volume up.

  “Base, this is Two Charlie Nine Nine; please repeat,” Richard said. He couldn’t stop the lump in his throat. It’s not him. It won’t be him.

  “Honey?” Linda said. She knew how worried he was. She wanted to comfort him, but he couldn’t think. He had to make sure Kyle was OK. He had to be.

  “Two Charlie Nine Nine, please copy. Reports of shots fired at 2212 Dysart Road, officer down,” the dispatch told him.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Linda asked, sounding scared.

  Richard was numb, and he cou
ldn’t think. He wanted to explain everything to Linda. He wanted to comfort her, but he couldn’t focus any of his thoughts. “Dispatch, Two Charlie Nine Nine, copy good, what happened?” Richard asked. He knew, but he prayed he was wrong.

  “Richard, you’re scaring me; slow down!” Linda yelped. When did I start driving? Where am I going? He couldn’t find any answers. His car sped onto the 101 Loop, and his siren blared on the car’s roof. My siren is on? I’m wrong. It’s not him.

  “Two Charlie Nine Nine, Dispatch, officer-involved shooting during a convenience store robbery attempt ... ” Richard knew the radio didn’t cut out, but he couldn’t hear anything. Linda was calling to him, but he couldn’t hear her either. He hoped his hands and feet knew what they were doing, because his brain certainly didn’t. He managed to whisper the only thought he could form in his head.

  “Kyle,” he said. “Kyle’s been shot.” Linda looks so sad. She hates Kyle. Why is she so sad? He watched Linda caress his cheek, but he didn’t feel her touch. He couldn’t imagine why. He always loved her tender touches. She pulled her hand away. Her hand was wet.

  His senses came back all at once, as if someone flipped a switch. He was flying down the freeway. Linda was terrified. He realized he was crying. “It’ll be all right, honey,” he said. He meant to comfort her, but he couldn’t believe what he said. He could never lie to her.

  He realized he couldn’t convince his foot to come off the gas pedal. Even if his life depended on it, he couldn’t slow down. He didn’t know how long it took, but he swerved off the Dysart Road exit. The Quick Stop was just a few miles off the freeway.

  The scene was absolute chaos. No fewer than three ambulances were parked in front of the door. He couldn’t begin to count the number of police cars. Kyle could collect information in a blink. Could? Can, Kyle can collect information in a blink.

  Richard pulled to the curb and leapt out of the car. He ran as fast as he could to the store. He couldn’t move fast enough. He was just too slow. His lieutenant was there. He got in front of Richard.