The Missing Boatman Part 42

The words brought a smile to Death's face. "Always liked that one."

"It is cool," Tony agreed.

"I like 'Angel of Death', too."

"That's you?"

Death nodded slowly. "Yep."

Tony supposed it was. He never gave it any thought before. He thought some more. "You hurt us."

"That's not me though," Death raised a finger. "That's another guy. I end the hurt. I end the suffering. I step in like a referee when a fighter has had enough. When the fight is over. That's when I come in."

"So, who is the other guy?"

"He's an a.s.shole."

"What's his name? Agony? Suffering?" Tony threw out, trying to remember the names of the Riders of the Apocalypse. Or was that Hors.e.m.e.n?

"Close," Death studied the whiskey in the bottle. "Pain."

"So, Pain is the a.s.shole?"

"What do you think?" Death said simply, looking Tony in the eye.

"Yeah, so what's your point? That you're a cold-hearted b.a.s.t.a.r.d that'll let people suffer on their way out?"

"I get blamed for Pain's work!" Death spat out, his hands going up. "I get blamed for the pain! I don't hurt people. It's not my job. I end the hurt. But I always get the f.u.c.king blame for the suffering. I'm sick of it! Just so G.o.dd.a.m.n sick of it! It's not me who speeds on icy highway after a quart of Crown Royal. It's not me who decides to stick their d.i.c.k in an industrial vacuum. And it's not me who does Russian Roulette with an automatic. None of it is me. I don't starve kids in Africa. I don't drown thousands in tsunamis. I don't initiate genocides. I don't make you grow old. But I end it all! Any and all suffering. And I always hear the same s.h.i.t! 'Why did they have to die? Why did Death take them? They were so young. There's too much Death in the world. I hate Death!' I mean, Jesus Christ, if it were up to me, I'd take everyone in their sleep when it was time."

"Then, why don't you?"

"Because..." Death rolled his head in frustration. "I didn't design the system."

Tony's brow crunched up "System?" Tony knew the man-Death-had said something he wasn't supposed to.

"Nothin'. Forget about that," Death said.

"I wanna hear about that."

"No."

"Alright then answer me this..." Tony paused for effect. "Why do we have to die?"

Death leaned forward as much as he could. "Alright, alright, you wanna know why you die? Why you have to die? You wanna know why anyone dies? It's a lesson to those who are still alive. That's why you die. Why anyone dies. Every pa.s.sing is a lesson, and when you finally cross over, there'll be someone waiting to ask you a question."

This sounded serious to Tony. "What?"

"What have you learned?" Death informed him.

The look of confusion on Tony's face made Death frown. "Look. There are things that your science will never accept. Never explain. Life and Death are two of your biggest questions. Why are you here? The answer is there... Some people find it. Some have to wait until they cross over. You all cross over. You will cross over. I'm just p.i.s.sed off about taking the blame for something I don't do. I don't make people suffer as they cross over. People live; eventually, they'll experience pain blinding enough to summon me to take them to the other side. When that happens, I take them. And that's all I do. People should f.u.c.king love me."

In that moment, Death took another swig of whiskey. It was a deep drink, one from the movies where the actor is usually chugging tea. But this wasn't tea.

"You ask a thousand people how they want to go, what do you think they'd say?" Death quietly began again, his lips glistening with residual booze. He didn't wait for Tony to answer. "They'd say 'in their sleep' or 'quick' or 'without pain'. There are people praying for me to end their suffering. People praying to end others' suffering. They say, 'they should just die. Why don't they die? They should'. But... you know about that, don't you."

Tony did not say a word. He reached for the bottle, and Death pa.s.sed it to him. Tony took a long, burning drink and stopped only when this throat and guts choked him to submission. When he lowered the bottle, he was looking at the floor and the old rug covering it. He thought of his mother.

"Don't you?" Death repeated, quiet but firm.

"Yeah," Tony answered.

"Yeah, thought so," Death said, he held his hand out for the bottle. Instead, Tony took another drink and coughed when he was finished. The grimace on the man's face made Death smile.

"I can see Ol' Jack doesn't like you."

"I like him," Tony winced and handed it over. Outside the wind battered the cabin and sang through the broken window. "Why do you take so long then?"

Death took a deep breath and studied the bottle of Jack Daniels. "There's a long line up. And everyone does their best to survive. It's instinct. You're programmed to survive at any cost. Some can go against the programming. Most fight. Hope. Pray. And..." Death never took his eyes from the bottle. "I can be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. When they are ready to go... I'm supposed to take them. If they fight, I let them wait. Just like a parent with contrary kidsa parent that knows better but decides that the kids need to be taught a lesson. I'll let them suffer longer. Even when they... they've had enough. Even after they're more than ready to go. To cross over. Just for spite."

"You let them suffer longer. On purpose," Tony charged him in a low tone.

Death took a moment before answering. "Yeah. Sometimes."

"Maybe it's time for a career change man," Tony reflected.

"Yeah," Death agreed, thinking for a moment. "Maybe."

Outside the snow continued to fall, and the wind blew harder. Daylight faded. And if either Death or Tony had taken the time to look out the window, they would have seen the snow thickening in bl.u.s.tery chunks, reducing their visibility. Just beyond that, where the snow became a grey sheet hiding everything, dark forms gathered.

And began to ma.s.s.

Chapter 55.

Stickman drove the grey Sunbird with a growing sense of direction, as if he were hooked through the front grill and something incredibly powerful were pulling him in. And there was perhaps one of the most beautiful pa.s.sengers in Lucy sitting beside him. Every now and again, his eyes would stray to her legs covered in tight black jeans. He wished it wasn't winter. He could check out what was upstairs if she weren't wearing her leather coat. And she had removed her toque to reveal her black hair with a ribbon of white just to the side. The woman was hands-down s.e.xy. And she was friendly, too. He thought they had gone through the usual Q and A quite well. She laughed at his jokes, and she said that his accent was cute.

The Stickman liked.

He had turned on the radio for some driving music. The news had eventually come on, and when it did, she went quiet. It was beginning to bother the Stick. He found that, only after being exposed to that sunny smile of hers, and her smile was so gorgeous, he wanted more. He wanted to make her smile.

"Anyting wrong, me love?" Stickman asked her.

Lucy shook her head.

"Y'can tell I. We's come so far, ye and I. No secrets, now."

"Well," Lucy began, "it's just that... there's so much going on in the world today. So much pain and suffering. It's a little depressing."

Behind the wheel, Stickman smiled gently. "Ye can only do what ye can wit what ye got."

"I guess but..." Lucy frowned then, and Stickman took his eyes off the road to see it. He was glad he did. "But, well, sometimes I wish I could just do something. Don't you?"

Snow flew at the windshield, and Stickman turned on his wipers. It was an interesting question. "Yeah," he answered after a while, "I do."

"Do you have anyone special, Stickman?" Lucy asked him, gazing at his profile.

The man hunched over the steering wheel. He c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "Not anymore."

"But there was someone, right?"

Stickman glanced at Lucy, looking her in the eyes for as long as he dared while driving.

"Whazzit to ye, Lucy me love?"

"Where is she?" Lucy persisted.

There was something about this woman that made the Stickman feel good. Made him feel better about himself, especially after doing the terrible things he had done. Things a person should not do to another human being. He remembered reading in the Halifax Herald about refugees from some African country where the women would be raped first before they had their b.r.e.a.s.t.s cut off and left to bleed to death. He remembered thinking about just what kind of man, or animal, would do such a thing just for pleasure alone. And then, he remembered having done the same kind of things. Not cutting, but cruel things to rival drug pushers. They had still been men. Still people. Badger had been all talk then. He talked a good fight when he wanted to get back at a couple of punks trying to move in on his corner, but when they actually abducted the men at gunpoint, it became obvious to the Stick that Badger wasn't about to do anything except swear at his captives. Badger was a lot of things, but he was not a killer.

So the Stickman stepped up.

He did it fast. He did it by hand. He placed one man in what the MMA fighters would call a guillotine and choked him to death. Then, he did the other one. The other one screamed for a short time, too, but then Stickman had his neck and was squeezing the life from the man as surely as one might have coaxed toothpaste from the middle of the tube. He would think about it sometimes. He would remember the doughy texture of each man's throat as he slowly took their life.

It changed him.

Badge knew it did, too.

Stickman snorted. It was good for his street reputation. And he swore he would never do such a thing, again.

But he had. Mr. Tigh and Boomer.

Stickman stared at the road ahead, over both hands on the steering wheel.

"I'se..." Stickman smiled, again, and Lucy felt the sadness emanate from him. "Lucy, me love," he sighed.

"What was her name?"

Silence. Then, "Beverly."

"Where is she now? Would you like to find her?"

That brought a dark chuckle from the Stickman. "Sure. Y'gonna help I, are ye?"

"I can."

There was something in her voice and looking at her face. Stickman could see she was serious. So pretty, the Newfoundlander thought.

"Can ye?" he asked, hypnotized.

"I can," Lucy solemnly replied and meant it.

Stickman dragged his eyes back to the dark road. Dusk was coming on, and the chill it brought could slowly kill.

"Alright, me love," the Stickman said.

Lucy nodded. "But there is something I want you to do for me..."

Chapter 56.

It was early morning, Thursday, when Ted Myer opened the door to his downtown apartment in New York, located six blocks away from the hospital. Ted immediately closed the door behind him with a bang and proceeded to twist, throw and slide the six various locking devices. Then, with eyes wide and red looking from sleep deprivation and too much coffee, he reached inside the nearby closet and hauled out the five-foot length of two-by-four wood. There was a k.n.o.b of wood in the floor which Ted had nailed there himself, and against this he placed one end of the thick board. The other end went against the door itself. The brace was thick enough, Ted figured, to stop anyone from coming through. The only concern he had was if someone used an axe or, even better, explosives to force entry. Then, all of Ted's attempts at securing his castle went down the f.u.c.king toilet.

But the drawbridge was up for the moment, and Ted flittered about the entryway, kicking off his boots and throwing off his thick coat. He was an overweight man with a lot of money invested in his paunch. His hair was reddish, thinning but still had its curls. He had huge teeth that were accentuated by his overbite. Ted had to make a conscious effort to keep his mouth closed at all times, for if he didn't, it looked as if he were about to gnaw on something good and hard. He had been the Medical Examiner at Bellevue for four years, and in that amount of time, had witnessed a lot of freaky things.

But this past night was just simply incredible.

Ted went to his kitchen and broke out the bottle of Jack Daniels. Even though he could afford the more expensive stuff, he just liked the nostalgia Ol' Jack brought him from his years in medical school. He didn't go for a gla.s.s. f.u.c.k the gla.s.s. With the bottle of booze, he went into his cosy-looking living room. He cracked the little toe on his right foot off the edge of the heavy sofa and let out a huge, throaty yelp of pain. Ted cursed and swore and even made to kick the sofa, but in the end, he resisted with a whimper and sat his large posterior on its cushy goodness. He placed the bottle of sour mash on the coffee table in front of him and with his free hand, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the remote control. A huge Samsung flat screen TV complete with a surround sound system came to life, and Ted began to channel surf. He got the news channel, clicked past it too fast, screamed "f.u.c.k!" and went back. Once he had the news station, he just sat there for a moment. It was the eight a.m. news, and Ted's eyes went wide, searching.

He watched.

And he was rewarded.

A family of four had been shot and left for dead in their home in the northeast part of New York. They were discovered by their neighbours a day later. The family sustained shotgun blasts to their faces and torsos and yet were miraculously still alive.

A transport truck driver on one of the turnpikes fell asleep at the wheel and ploughed his vehicle through a family's living room, running over three kids watching cartoons. They all lived, even the driver, who sustained heavy injuries to his head and chest.

Another driver speeding on a New Jersey Turnpike lost control of his car and rammed into a new length of guard rail being installed. The rail stabbed through the windshield and impaled the man through the upper chest, almost severing his right arm completely at the shoulder. The victim was in an intensive care unit of Saint Ann's hospital.

Ted took a shot of whiskey and kept on channel surfing, seeking out the morning news from everywhere. Even in the war zones, where death seemed as casual as a yawn, there were no reports of anyone actually dying. There were reports on bombings and shootings, yet all concerned survived.

Earlier in the morning and nearing the end of his shift, Ted got permission from Aaron Roeder to have a smoke, and left him and Garlich to the prize on the examination table. Ted badly needed a cigarette, and halfway through, decided on an impulse to head up to the ER ward to see what was happening there. There had been some disturbing cases. Some druggie had injected himself (herself?) with bleach and was holding on, much to the dismay of the doctor attending the victim. An attempted suicide had opened up her wrists and her throat, and lost d.a.m.n near all the blood in her body, yet she held on for four hours before someone found her in her apartment and rushed her to the hospital. She was still breathing. This prompted Ted to make a quick call to Steve Leeds up at General to see if there were any people refusing to die up there. There were lots, in fact, according to Steve. The staff on duty were either shaking their heads in wonder or celebrating with the number of close calls that could have claimed many lives. Should have, even.

Sitting there in his living room, staring wide-eyed at his wide screen, Ted had a thought. A lot of people weren't dying. A lot of people that should have died weren't dying. In fact, all news broadcasts reported there were plenty of survivors, but no deaths. What did this mean? Was Ted the only one to have noticed such a thing?

"It's f.u.c.ked up," he muttered aloud. He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea, the concept, that if he decided to do himself in right now, there was a very good possibility he would not die.