Aftermath (3 page)

Ben's Story

I watched her from the borrowed police car in the sweltering heat.

It wasn’t noon, but the thermostat on the squad’s dashboard registered 88 degrees. Officer Scott Michaels wasn’t on duty—until I dropped in at the police station, that is. His uniform with badge and name tag hung neatly in his locker beside his gun belt. I slipped into his clothing, altered my appearance, and impersonated an officer. I had a discussion with the garage manager and took a squad for a few hours.

Discussion was my term. In reality, I compelled him. It was a tactic I seldom used. Molly did it all the time. It was a tool available to undercover agents, but one we weren’t encouraged to use often. Even though the human had no residual effect, the remorse I felt lasted longer than it was worth. Of course, there were times I had no choice.

Today seemed like one of those times.

It was the date circled in thick, red marker on my calendar. The day I waited for since I learned the details of Emma’s life. Today, Brian Bennett would transition. In my world, that meant he would move on. In Emma’s world, it meant her father would die.

Sometimes, I hated knowing the future.

I drove around the neighborhood outside Highland Park High School. It was a series of dominos falling in sync that morning. First, there was the accident that killed Brian when he crossed Madison Avenue in downtown Chicago on his way to work. Then there were the phone calls to the various police departments looking for next of kin, and finally the one that reached his sister, Barbara Carmichael, in Westport, Wisconsin.

When a squad was requested to accompany another municipality on a notification call, I responded, being the closest to the high school.

I had to see Emma.

I adjusted the rearview mirror in the police car and watched the detective load Emma’s things in the trunk. The reflection staring back at me was far different from my normal look, or any disguise I ever used. I had to resemble Officer Michaels, in the rare event I ran into anyone that knew him. He was thirty-eight, six-feet tall, and about ten pounds overweight. A little shorter than my actual height and older than I was when I died.

Disguising our appearance was one of the benefits of being an immortal. It was something Molly enjoyed. She enhanced her looks every chance she got. Of course, not all missions allowed her to resemble a runway model. For the most part, immortals chose an appearance they were happy with when they were alive.

Crandon, the detective, waved and drove out of the school lot. Emma didn’t make eye contact with me as they passed by.

I heard her thoughts and felt her emotions long before I saw her in the hallway. It was a perk of the job, but it could also be a curse. Emma was cautious, nervous.

I couldn’t blame her, knowing what she would face in the aftermath of this tragedy.

When she turned the corner and saw us clustered at the doorway, her feelings changed to fear with thoughts flashing quickly between insignificant teenager things. She didn’t put it all together until she saw her aunt.

There was nothing I could do but witness her reaction.

Crandon explained how Brian Bennett was killed by a drunk driver, but Emma wasn’t paying attention. Her thoughts swirled with recollections of her dad, her friends, school, and someone named Matt.

At one point, when our eyes locked, I almost blew my cover. Despite the look of pain on her face and the bloodshot eyes swimming with tears, she was beautiful. Deep down, behind the layers of innocence, she was the woman I once knew. It was my opportunity to compel Emma, to alleviate the sorrow, to release the block that prevented her from remembering me. It was my chance to save her. Instead, I looked away and did nothing.

Molly’s voice screamed in my head, distracting the thoughts of my past life with Elizabeth.
Are you seriously at her school? Of all times to stalk her, Benjamin, what are you doing?

I sighed.

Don’t ignore me, Benjamin! How do you expect to get away with this?
She was right. I crossed the line.
The commander will not condone this, and you know it,
Molly continued.

Being here was a mistake.

Emma's Story

Detective Neal Crandon placed my things in the trunk of an unmarked police car.

Like a criminal, I sat in the back behind a Plexiglas divider.

“We’re friends,” Aunt Barb said. She sat in front. The emblem on the dashboard read Westport, Wisconsin. “The Highland Park Police Department called him this morning.” Her tone was low. I didn’t answer. Instead, I stared out the window during the short drive to my house.

Dad’s house.

We pulled in the driveway on Cavell Street, and Neal shut off the engine. Even though I knew the house hadn’t changed since I left a few hours earlier, it suddenly seemed different.

Aunt Barb got out of the car and retrieved the house key, leaving me alone with Neal.

“I forgot my car at school,” I blurted out.

“I know. Barb and I’ll take care of it.” He turned to face me. “Right now, the most important thing is to get you home. I’ll handle the rest.”

I nodded when our eyes met.

Neal carried my backpack inside. I stood firmly on the concrete step, refusing to enter. The house was oddly silent. Chester, our four-year-old English Mastiff, didn’t bark. He came bounding out to greet us, his tail wagging more sluggishly than normal. It was like he already knew.

Thoughts circled in my mind so quickly I had trouble sorting them out. I was frozen in place. Regret for arguing with Dad hit me hard. I gasped for air. Aunt Barb wrapped me up in her arms. Chester sat at our feet.

Then it dawned on me. Aunt Barb was all I had.

“Emma, I want you to know that I will take care of you.” Tears poured down my cheeks. “I know this is the worst possible thing that could have happened, but you’re not alone.” She attempted a weak smile. “We’re in this together.”

I wanted to run and hide, but I knew I couldn’t get away. I walked across the backyard and sat on the swing. Aunt Barb followed, sitting beside me.

“We’ll need to make funeral arrangements… and then you’ll come live with me.” She swung slowly, lifting her feet so her heels wouldn’t drag in the dirt.

Suddenly, I realized the impact of her words. “But—”

“I know. Your life is here.”  

My life here was over. I knew that back at school. “I’ll have to move?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Your dad and I talked about it, once. It was so far-fetched. I never thought it would happen.” She gazed at the house. “He wanted me to take care of you… if anything ever happened. I promised I would.” She wiped her eyes with a wadded tissue.

Aunt Barb was the only close family I knew. Living with anyone else was something I couldn’t comprehend. But living with Aunt Barb meant giving up the only life I had ever known.

We rocked back and forth. Our feet barely left the ground. Aunt Barb told me what to expect over the next few days. Neal would be leaving and her friend, Lisa Lambert, would be coming to stay with us. “To help out.”

It didn’t matter to me. Nothing did. Not anymore.

When a black sedan pulled into the driveway minutes later, Aunt Barb greeted the blonde I remembered from visits to Lake Bell.

Lisa stood a few inches taller than Barb did, probably at about my height. She was slender with shoulder-length platinum hair and as kind as I remembered. Grabbing me, she hugged me hard. Her strength was infectious. “Honey, you’ll be fine. I know it seems like the world is ending right now, but it’s not. You’ll see.” She released her grip on me.

Was she for real?

Aunt Barb cleared her throat, and I noticed her glare. She squinted, lifting her eyebrows. Remembering my manners, I mumbled a thank you.

“Emma, can I have your car keys?” Neal interrupted. “Lisa and I will get your car.” He turned to Aunt Barb. “A Jetta, right? Did you say it was silver?”

Why couldn’t he ask
me
the type of car? I grabbed my keys from my bag and handed them over without saying a word.

Ben's Story

Downtown Westport hadn’t changed much.

A few storefronts were painted brighter colors, and a few eateries switched names and menus. For the most part, the four-block strip on the shores of Lake Michigan looked the same.

I parked atop the hill in front of Holy Name Church. It was where Elizabeth and I were married back in September of 1934. The carved-stone church was the largest in the area and the only catholic parish in Westport.

Father Richard Cornwell waved as I locked the borrowed silver Mercedes. He was the local priest assigned to Holy Name for over thirty years. He recognized my mid-forties disguise from frequent visits here when I searched for Elizabeth all those years.

The evening air was cool for late August. I walked the short distance to Rusty’s Anchor on the harbor. My new assignment was a vacation compared to what Molly and I worked before. Serial killers, drug dealers, and other unsolved crimes were common missions for us. We aided victims and directed authorities to the culprits. We were decorated agents, a team with more tenure than any other officers on the force had. Most worked shorter assignments and lost interest after their loved ones joined our world. Not us.

Molly and I were the exceptions. She didn’t have any loved ones to think about, and I spent years searching for Elizabeth, only to realize I missed her transition.

The last few years, however, were different. It was at a much slower pace. Commander E understood and concurred, allowing Molly and me to spend the next two years in Westport.

“I can’t afford to lose my top agents. If you both need some downtime, consider this an extended R and R,” he said after the call came that Elizabeth had been found.

With that, plans were made, staff was assigned, and backstories structured. Molly and her fake parents, Grant and Ava Preston, moved to Westport from the East Coast a year earlier. At least, that was their cover story. Her parents were staff Sleeper Officers. In my world, that meant dormant duty. To me, that meant boring.

SOs, as we called them, infiltrated society, held jobs, owned houses, and participated in normal everyday life, except they were not human. They were dead, like me.

Dormant officers were in every city, ready to engage when called upon. Most spent their days like ordinary humans. Contracted for a decade or two, they were nurses or doctors, teachers or police officers. Empty nesters, they traveled in pairs, a husband and wife team. It allowed their term to be extended if needed, though most officers dreaded the aging disguise. It meant they had to be conscious of their appearance on a daily basis. Adding a wrinkle here or there, packing on a few pounds, and graying their hair, all little by little each day, so no human noticed a drastic change.

Dr. Grant Preston took a position at the county hospital. Ava Preston was a science teacher at Westport High School. Both were strategically placed where their special talents could be put to use.

For the next 730 days, I would be an SO, too.

Rusty, Jr. nodded when I walked into the bar and grill. I was disguised like a typical customer, middle-aged and well dressed. Rusty’s Anchor had been around for generations. I took a seat at the bar and pulled out a couple of twenty-dollar bills. Rusty was the original owner’s son. At fifty-eight years old, he wasn’t in great health. He smoked, drank, and ate like shit, too many bar burgers and not enough exercise.

“Whadda’ll ya have?”

I ordered a gin and tonic, and he hurried off to mix it up. It was a slow night, even for a Monday, eighteen minutes past nine o’clock. Small towns had a way of shutting down early, and Westport was no different. Aside from two rough-looking guys shooting pool and a man in his seventies paying his tab, the place was dead.

Rusty put the drink in front of me and made small talk. Was I in town for business? How long was I staying? Where was I from? I responded with made-up answers fitting for my designer silk shirt, trousers, and expensive penny loafers.

Time ticked away, slower on earth than where I was from. Minutes were seconds back home. I glanced at the clock behind the bar when Rusty filled a pitcher of beer for the tattooed man in the sleeveless black t-shirt.

Six minutes until Rusty’s heart attack.

I sipped my drink and watched the football game on the TV above the bar. At least there was some entertainment to pass the time.

Rusty was oblivious to what the future held. He washed a few glasses and wiped down the counter. The cook and waitress checked in with him on their way out. I read their minds and his.
Good workers
, he thought.
Dedicated
.

Three minutes left.

The job of a Sleeper Officer was easy. Wait and observe. Observe and wait. It was nothing like the missions I worked all those years waiting for Elizabeth. This was simple. All I had to do was bring Rusty back to life. If it weren’t for one of my kind, Rusty would die tonight. But it wasn’t his scheduled time. His transition was set for 2024. 

Two minutes left.

When the Chicago Bears scored, Rusty groaned. “I wanted them to lose.”

I nodded. We were in Packer territory, after all.

“Ready for another?” He noticed my drink was almost empty.

“Sure.” It would give him something to do.

One minute left.

The tough-looking guys were busy chugging beer and watching the game, in between shooting pool. Rusty put the drink in front of me, reached for my money on the counter, and turned toward the cash register. He never made it. Rusty slumped to the ground as the Bears scored again, and the tattooed man cheered.

I walked behind the bar and heard Molly’s voice in my head.

Need any help?

I shrugged.
Why not? I always enjoy your company.
She was the sibling I never had.

I placed the palm of my hand on Rusty’s chest, just above his heart. Molly slipped through a portal and crouched beside me.

Molly, you just can’t pop in like that. There are some guys over there.
I nodded in the direction of the pool players, though the bar blocked our view of them.

They can’t see me. Besides, you wanted my help!

I rolled my eyes and lifted my forefinger, tapping it gently on Rusty’s chest. I felt the gentle start of his heart under my hand.

Once it was beating at a steady pace, I looked at Molly.

I thought you were here to help.
I waited for Molly to breathe oxygen into Rusty’s lungs.
Or did you want me to do it?

She shook her head.
No, I got it,
she said, and then hesitated, wrinkling her nose.
Man, he smells like an ashtray. What the hell?

What the hell?
I mimicked her words slowly.
You sound like a teenager.

And you put me in this role, remember?
She tilted her head and blinked her hazel gray eyes at me.

I chuckled aloud, accidentally.

The tattooed guy and his buddy heard the noise and called, “Hey, Rusty?”

Molly, you gotta get out of here. I don’t feel like explaining your sudden presence, since you didn’t walk through the door.
Even though we were out of view, I knew it was a matter of time before someone peered over the bar and saw what was going on.

Hold on.
She leaned down, about two inches from Rusty’s face, and gently blew air toward him.

Ten seconds to disclosure,
I said, knowing the tattooed guy was headed our way.

He’s not breathing yet,
Molly replied.

I stood up. “Call 911! Rusty had a heart attack.”

The guy with the tattoo pulled out a cell phone, while his buddy finished his shot, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

Rusty opened his eyes and looked at Molly, then at me.

I held his hand, flooding his mind with my thoughts.
This is your second chance. Make the most of it.

He blinked rapidly.
Thank you.

You’re welcome,
I answered, happy for a simple assignment.