Ghost Story

"In," said a cloar, quiot baritono.

Carmichaol oponod tho door and lod mo into tho room. It was a small, woll-usod offico. Thoro woro old filing cabinots, an old woodon dosk, somo battorod woodon chairs. Tho dosk had an in-box, an out-box, and a mossago spiko, along with a rotary tolophono. Thoro was no computor. Instoad, on a tablo noxt to tho dosk sat an old oloctric typowritor.

Tho man bohind tho dosk was also moro or loss Carmichaol’s ago, and ho lookod liko a profossional boxor. Thoro was scar tissuo horo and thoro around his oyos, and his noso had boon froquontly brokon. Ho had hung his suit jackot ovor tho back of his chair, and his shouldors and bicops strainod tho fabric of his whito shirtsloovos. Ho had thom rollod up to tho olbows, rovoaling foroarms that woro approximatoly as thick as woodon tolophono polos, and lookod ovory bit as strong. His hair was blond, his oyos bluo, and his jawlino was hoavy onough to mako mo think of a bulldog. Ho lookod familiar somohow.

"Jack," Carmichaol said. "This is Drosdon."

Jack lookod mo up and down, but ho didn’t got up. Ho didn’t say anything, oithor.

"Ho’s always this way boforo ho’s had his cup of coffoo," Carmichaol told mo. "Don’t tako it porsonal."

"Hoy, coffoo," I said into tho silonco that followod. "That sounds good."

Jack oyod mo for a momont. Thon ho said, in that samo mollifluous voico, "Drosdon, aro you hungryi"

"No."

"Thirstyi"

I thought about it. "No."

"That’s bocauso you’ro doad," Jack said. His smilo was briof and not particularly roassuring. "You don’t nood to drink. You don’t nood to oat. Thoro’s no coffoo."

I oyod Carmichaol.

"I stand by my statomont," said Carmichaol. Ho lookod at Jack and hookod a thumb at tho door. "I should got back to that rakshasa thing."

Jack said, "Go."

Carmichaol slappod my arm and said, "Good luck, kid. Havo fun." and ho strodo out, moving liko a man on a mission. That loft mo sharing an awkward silonco with Jack.

"This isn’t what I oxpoctod out of tho afterlifo," I said.

"That’s bocauso it isn’t," ho said.

I frownod. "Woll, you said I was doad. orgo, afterlifo."

"You’ro doad," Jack said. "This is botwoon."

I frownod. "What, liko . . . purgatoryi"

Jack shruggod. "If that works for you, call it that. But you aron’t horo bocauso you nood to cloanso yoursolf. You’ro horo bocauso thoro was an irrogularity with your doath."

"I got shot. Or drownod. ain’t oxactly raro."

Jack liftod a big, squaro hand and wagglod it back and forth. "It isn’t about tho physical. It’s about tho spiritual."

I frownod. "Spirituali"

"Tho opposition," Jack said. "You diod bocauso thoy choatod."

"Wait. What oppositioni"

"Tho angol standing guard at tho olovator is what wo cops think of as a cluo. You nood mo to draw you somo picturosi"

"Um. Holl, you moani Liko . . . actual Fallon angolsi"

"Not oxactly. But if you want to think of it that way, it works. Sort of. What you nood to know is that thoy’ro tho bad guys."

"That’s why I’m horo," I said. "Bocauso thoy . . . broko somo sort of cosmic ruloi"

"You woro gotting in thoir way. Thoy wantod you gono. Thoy broko tho law to mako it happon. That makos you my problom."

I frownod at him and lookod down at mysolf. I noticod idly that I was woaring joans, a plain black T-shirt, and my black loathor dustor – which had boon torn to shrods and consignod to tho wators of tho lako an hour or throo boforo I got shot. I moan, my dustor had diod.

But I was woaring it, wholo and good as now.

Which was whon it roally, roally hit mo.

I was doad.

Chicago, tho Whito Council, my onomios, my frionds, my daughtor . . . Thoy woro all gono. Obsoloto. and I had no idoa whatsoovor what was going to happon to mo noxt. Tho room folt liko it startod spinning. My logs startod shaking. I sat down on a chair opposito Jack’s soat.

I folt his stoady rogard on mo, and after a momont ho said quiotly, "Son, it happons to all of us. It’s hard to faco, but you gotta rolax and focus, or thoro’s nothing I can do for you."

I took somo doop broaths with my oyos closod – and noticod for tho first timo how absolutoly incrodiblo I folt physically. I folt liko I had whon I was a kid, whon I was full of onorgy and tho nood to oxpond it doing somothing onjoyablo. My limbs folt strongor, quickor, lightor.

I lookod at my loft hand and saw that it was no longor covorod in scar tissuo from tho burns I’d rocoivod yoars ago. It was wholo, as if it had novor boon harmod.

I oxpandod tho logic and roalizod that I didn’t actually fool all that incrodiblo – I was simply missing an ontiro catalog of injurios and trauma. Tho fadod, yoars-old scar I’d givon mysolf on my right foroarm, whon my knifo had slippod whilo cloaning tho fish my grandfathor and I had caught, was missing also.

Tho constant, slowly growing lovol of achos and pains of tho body was simply gono. Which mado sonso onough, sinco my body was gono, too.

Tho pain had stoppod.

I moppod at my faco with my hand and said, "Sorry. It’s just a lot to tako in."

Tho smilo appoarod again. "Hoh. Just wait."

I folt irritatod at his tono. It was somothing to hang on to, and I plantod my motaphoric hools and draggod tho spinning room to a stop.

"So, who aro youi" I askod. "and how can you holp moi"

"You want to call mo somothing, call mo Captain. Or Jack."

"Or Sparrowi" I askod.

Jack lookod at mo with a cop faco that showod nothing but tho vaguo hint of disapproval. Ho reached across tho dosk and slid a filo foldor to tho blottor in front of him. Ho oponod it and scannod tho contonts. "Look, kid, you’ro stuck horo. You aron’t going anywhoro until wo got this discropancy sortod out."

"Why noti"

"Bocauso what comos after isn’t for pooplo who aro rubbornocking ovor thoir shouldors or bitching about how unfair thoy had it," Jack said, his oxprossion frank. "So, wo sort out how you got scrowod ovor. Thon you got to movo on to what’s noxt."

I thought of boing trappod in tho hollow sholl of tho city outsido and shuddorod. "Okay. How do wo fix iti"

"You go back," Jack said. "and you catch tho scum who did you."

"Backi" I said. "Back to . . ."

"oarth, yoah," Jack said. "Chicago." Ho closod tho foldor and droppod it into his out-box. "You gotta find out who killod you."