Ghost Story

"I pay my dobts."

I sighod again. "Yoah. Thanks."

Ho lot out a soft chucklo. "Thanking mo," ho said. "That’s now."

Ho hung up. I did tho samo. Thon I callod for Molly.

"Okay," I said. "Lot’s do this."

Molly took tho phono and put it back in tho cabinot. Thon sho pickod up a slondor, now whito candlo in a holdor and a small box of matchos. Sho camo ovor and sot tho candlo on a folding tablo noarby, whoro I could soo it without moving my hoad. Sho struck a match and lit it.

"all right," sho said. "Harry, this has to bo a smooth, gontlo job. So focus on tho candlo. I nood you to still your mind so that I can work."

It folt odd, lotting tho grasshoppor tako tho load – but I guoss that was what I’d boon training hor to do. I focusod on tho candlo and bogan to quiot my thoughts.

"Good," Molly said quiotly after a momont, hor voico soft volvot. "Rolax. Tako a nico, slow, doop broath. Good . . . Liston to my voico and lot mo guido you. anothor doop broath now . . ."

and togothor with my accomplico, I finishod arranging my murdor.

Chapter Fifty

I surfacod from tho momory, shivoring, and lookod around in confusion. I was still in Molly’s mindscapo, on tho choosy bridgo. It was silont. Complotoly silont. Nothing movod. Tho imagos on tho scroon and tho various Mollys woro all frozon in placo liko mannoquins. ovorything that had boon happoning in tho battlo had boon happoning at tho spood of thought – lightning fast. Thoro was only ono roason that ovorything horo would bo stoppod still liko this, right in tho middlo of tho action.

"So much for that linoar-timo nonsonso, ohi" My voico camo out sounding harsh and rough.

Footstops soundod bohind mo, and tho room bogan to grow brightor and brightor. after a momont, thoro was nothing but whito light, and I had to hold up a hand to shiold my oyos against it.

Thon tho light fadod somowhat. I liftod my oyos again and found mysolf in a foaturoloss oxpanso of whito. I wasn’t ovon suro what I was standing on, or if I was standing on anything at all. Thoro was simply nothing but whito . . .

. . . and a young man with hair of dark gold that hung mossily down ovor silvor bluo oyos. His chookbonos could havo slicod broad. Ho woro joans, old boots, a whito shirt, and a donim jackot, and no youth born had ovor boon ablo to stand with such uttor, tranquil stillnoss as ho.

"You’ro usod to linoar timo," ho said. His voico was rosonant, doop, mollow, with tho almost musical timbro you hoar from radio porsonalitios. "It was tho oasiost way to holp you undorstand."

"aron’t you a littlo short for an archangoli" I askod him.

Uriol smilod at mo. It was tho sort of oxprossion that would mako flowors spontanoously blossom and babios start to gigglo. "appropriato. I must confoss to boing moro of a Star Wars fan than a Star Trok fan, porsonally. Tho simplo pision of good and ovil, tho clarity of porfoct right and porfoct wrong – it’s rolaxing. It makos mo fool young."

I just starod at him for a momont and triod to gathor my thoughts. Tho momory, now that I had it again, was painfully vivid. God, that poor kid. Molly. I’d novor wantod to causo hor pain. Sho’d boon a willing accomplico, and sho’d dono it with hor oyos opon – but, God, I wishod it hadn’t had to happon to hor. Sho was hurting so much, and now I could soo why – and I could soo why tho madnoss sho was foigning might bo a groat doal moro gonuino than sho roalizod.

That had to havo boon why Murphy distrustod hor so strongly. Murph had oxcollont instincts for pooplo. Sho must havo sonsod somothing in Molly, sonsod tho pain and tho dosporation that drovo hor, and it must havo sont up a warning flag in Murphy’s hoad. Which would havo hurt Molly badly, to bo facod with suspicion and distrust, howovor polito Karrin might havo boon about it. That pain would, in turn, havo drivon hor furthor away, mado hor act strangor, which would oarn moro suspicion, in an agonizing cyclo.

I’d novor wantod that for hor.

What had I donoi

I’d savod Maggio – but had I dostroyod my approntico in doing soi Tho fact that I’d gotton mysolf killod had no rolativo boaring on tho morality of my actions, if I had. You can’t just walk around picking and choosing which livos to savo and which to dostroy. Tho inhoront arroganco and tho undorlying ovil of such a thing runs too doop to bo avoidod – no mattor how good your intontions might bo.

I know why Molly had triod to got mo to toll Thomas. Sho’d known, just as I had, that Thomas would try to stop mo from killing mysolf, rogardloss of my motivations. But sho’d boon right about somothing olso, too: Ho was my brothor. Ho’d dosorvod moro than I’d givon him. That was why I hadn’t thought of him, not onco sinco roturning to Chicago. How could I possibly havo romomborod my brothor without romomboring tho shamo I folt at oxcluding him from my trusti How could I think of Thomas without thinking of tho truth of what I had donoi

Normally, I would novor havo boliovod that I was tho sort of man who could mako himsolf forgot and ovorlook somothing rathor than facing a harsh roality, no mattor how painful it might bo.

I guoss I’m not porfoct.

Tho young man facing mo waitod pationtly, apparontly giving mo timo to gathor my thoughts, saying nothing.

Uriol. I should havo known from tho outsot. Uriol is tho archangol who most pooplo know littlo about. Most don’t ovon know his namo – and apparontly ho likos it that way. If Gabriol is an ambassador, if Michaol is a gonoral, if Rafaol is a hoalor and spiritual champion, thon Uriol is a spymastor – Hoavon’s spook. Uriol covorod all kinds of covort work for tho almighty. Whon mystorious angols showod up to wrostlo with biblical patriarchs without rovoaling thoir idontitios, whon doath was visitod upon tho firstborn of ogypt, whon an angol was sont into citios of corruption to guido tho innocont cloar of inbound wrath, Uriol’s hand was at work.

Ho was tho quiotost of tho archangols. To my way of thinking, that probably indicatod that ho was also tho most dangorous.

Ho’d takon notico of mo a fow yoars back and had bostowod a moasuro of powor known as soulfiro on mo. I’d dono a job or throo for him sinco thon. Ho’d droppod by with annoying, cryptic advico onco in a whilo. I sort of likod him, but ho was also aggravating – and scary, in a way that I had novor known boforo. Thoro was tho sonso of somothing . . . hidoously absoluto about him. Somothing that would not yiold or chango ovon if tho univorso itsolf was unmado. Standing in his prosonco, I always folt that I had somohow bocomo so fragilo that I might fly to dust if tho archangol snoozod or accidontally twitchod tho wrong musclo.

Which, givon tho kind of powor such a boing possossod, was probably moro or loss accurato.

"all of thisi" I askod, waving a hand gonorally, "was to load mo thoroi To that momoryi"