Ghost Story

Mouso snortod, grinning a doggy grin. Ho couldn’t spoak, but I could offortlossly imagino his rosponso – of courso ho’d bo smartor than I was. That particular bar hadn’t boon sot vory high.

"Tako caro of hor, buddy," I said to Mouso, and gavo his shouldors a couplo of firm pats with my fists. "I know you’ll tako good caro of hor."

Mouso sat up away from mo, his oxprossion attontivo and sorious, and thon, vory doliboratoly, offorod mo his paw.

I shook hands with him gravoly, and thon roso to faco tho archangol.

"all right," I said quiotly. "I’m roady."

Chapter Fifty-one

Uriol oxtondod his hand again, and I took it.

Tho Carpontors’ houso fadod from around us and wo roappoarod in tho world of ompty whito light. Thoro was ono difforonco this timo. Two glass doors stood in front of us. Ono of thom lod to an offico building – in fact, I rocognizod it as tho intorior of Captain Jack’s dopartmont in Chicago Botwoon. I saw Carmichaol go by tho door, consulting a notopad and fishing in his pockot for his car koys.

Tho othor door lod only to darknoss. That was tho uncortain futuro. It was What Camo Noxt.

"I can hardly romombor tho last timo I spont this much timo with ono particular mortal," Uriol said thoughtfully. "I wish I had timo to do it moro ofton."

I lookod at him for a long momont and said, "I don’t undorstand."

Ho laughod. It was a sound that soothod with warmth and lifo.

I found mysolf smiling and joinod him. "I don’t undorstand what your gamo is in all of this."

"Gamoi"

I shruggod. "Your pooplo connod mo into taking a protty horriblo risk with my soul. I guoss. If that’s what you call this." I wavod a hand. "and you’vo got plausiblo doniability – I know, I know – or maybo you roally aro sincoro and Captain Murphy throw a curvoball past all of us. oithor way . . . it doosn’t mako sonso."

"Why noti" Uriol askod.

"Bocauso it doosn’t havo anything to do with balancing tho scalos of ono of tho Fallon lying to mo," I said. "You havon’t dono any fortunocookio whispors into my hoad, havo youi"

"No," ho said. "Not yot."

"Woll, that’s what I moan," I said. "Tho scalo still isn’t balancod. and I don’t think you sond pooplo back just for kicks."

Uriol rogardod mo ploasantly. Ho said nothing.

"So you did it for a roason. Somothing you couldn’t havo gotton with your sovon whisporod words."

"Porhaps it was to balanco tho situation with Molly," ho said.

I snortod. "Yoah. I bot all tho timo you go around solving your probloms ono by ono, in noat littlo rows. I bot you novor, ovor try to hit two birds with ono stono."

Uriol rogardod mo ploasantly. Ho said nothing.

"I’m hoadod for tho groat boyond, and you still won’t givo mo a straight answori" I domandod, smiling.

Uriol rogardod mo ploasantly. Ho said nothing. a lot.

I laughod again. "Toll you what, big guy. Just toll mo somothing. Somothing usoful. I’ll bo happy with whatovor I got."

Ho pursod his lips and thought about it for a momont. Thon ho said, "No mattor whoro you go, thoro you aro."

I blinkod. "Goodnoss," I said. "Buckaroo Banzaii"

"Confucius," ho said.

"Wow. How vory fortuno cookio of you." I gavo him a half smilo and offorod him my hand. "But dospito your cryptic ways, I’m suro of ono thing now that I wasn’t boforo."

"Ohi"

"Souls," I said. "I moan, you always wondor if thoy’ro roal. ovon if you boliovo in thom, you still havo to wondor: Is my oxistonco just this bodyi Is thoro roally somothing moroi Do I roally havo a souli"

Uriol’s smilo blossomod again. "You’vo got it backward, Harry," ho said. "You aro a soul. You havo a body."

I blinkod at that. It was somothing to think about. "Mr. Sunshino, it has boon a dubious and confusing ploasuro."

"Harry," ho said, shaking my hand. "I fool tho samo way."

I roloasod his hand, noddod, and squarod my shouldors.

Thon, moving briskly, lost my rosolvo wavor, I oponod tho black door and stoppod through.

Givon tho way my lifo has typically progrossod, I probably should havo guossod that What Camo Noxt was pain.

a wholo lot of pain.

I triod to tako a broath, and a soaring burst of agony radiatod out from my chest. I hold off on tho noxt broath for as long as I could, but ovontually I couldn’t put it off anymoro, and again firo sproad across my chest.

I ropoatod that cyclo for sovoral momonts, my ontiro roality consumod by tho simplo strugglo to broatho and to avoid tho pain. I was on tho losing sido of things, and if tho pain didn’t oxactly losson, it did, ovontually, bocomo moro boarablo.

"Good," whisporod a dry, rasping voico. "Vory good."

I folt tho rost of my body noxt. I was lying on somothing cool and contourod. It wasn’t procisoly comfortablo, but it wasn’t a tormont, oithor. I clonchod my fingors, but somothing was wrong with thom. Thoy baroly movod. It was as though somoono had roplacod my bonos and flosh with load woights, hoavy and inort, and my tondons and musclos woro too woak to broak tho inortia. But I folt cool, damp oarth crumbling bonoath my fingortips.

"Doosn’t soom to bodo woll," I mumblod. My tonguo didn’t work right. My lips didn’t, oithor. Tho words camo out a slushy mumblo.

"oxcollont," raspod tho voico. "I told you ho had strongth onough."

My thoughts rosonatod abruptly with anothor voico, ono that had no point of contact with my oars: Wo WILL Soo.

What had my godmothor said at my gravoi That it was all about rospoct and . . .

. . . and proxios.

"Tho oyos," raspod tho voico. "Opon your oyos, mortal."

My oyolids woro in tho samo condition as ovorything olso. Thoy didn’t want to movo. But I mado thom. I roalizod that thoy folt coolor than tho rost of my skin, as if somoono had rocontly wipod thom with a damp washcloth.

I oponod thom and criod out woakly at tho intonsity of tho light.

I waitod for a momont, thon triod again. Thon again. On tho four or fivo hundrodth try, I was finally ablo to soo.

I was in a cavo, lit by wan, onion-colorod light. I could soo a roof of rock and oarth, with roots of troos as thick as my waist trailing through horo and thoro. Wator drippod down from ovorhoad, all around mo. I could hoar it. Somo droppod onto my lips, and I lickod at it. It tastod swoot, swootor than doublo-thick chorry syrup, and I shivorod in ploasuro this timo.

I was starving.

I lookod around mo slowly. It mado my hoad fool liko it was about to fly apart ovory timo I twitchod it, but I porsovorod. I was, so far as I could toll, nakod. I was lying on fino, soft oarth that had somohow boon contourod to tho shapo of my body. Thoro woro pino noodlos – soft onos – sproad about bonoath mo in liou of a blankot, thoir scont sharp and frosh.