Terminus (6 page)

“Thought you enjoyed dramatic constructs,” she said.

“So long as they’re my own.”

“What’s with the nerves?  I mean, you’re an angel, for heaven’s sakes.”  Lena covered her smile.  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s...nothing.”

But it wasn’t.  He’d never before perspired, never felt anxiety like that.  Perhaps he
had
spent too much time with them. 

“Are you done playing?” he said.

“Oh, all right.”  She pointed to the wall, where a large whiteboard lit up like a hi-def TV set.  The images of three people appeared onscreen.

One was a man in a navy blue suit with slick black hair, a red power necktie, and a smile so white it could blind you.  The images were silent, as though someone had pushed a mute button, but the man was standing before a large auditorium, talking and gesturing and holding what appeared to be a Bible. 

“Oh, great, a preacher,” Nick said.  “You’d think more of them would believe in our existence.”

“You’d think.”

The second was a disheveled young woman wearing stained, ragged clothes who sat in a chair rocking back and forth in what appeared to be a homeless shelter.  Her chair wasn’t a rocker, so her jerky movements in it seemed strange. Hard to tell what color her hair might have been if it were clean.  She stared vacuously out the window, hugging her arms as she rocked, lips moving though nobody was there to listen to her. Looking at her, Nick felt a twinge he didn’t understand. 

“What exactly am I supposed to—”

“Hold on, we’ll get to that.”  Lena pointed to the third frame.  A young man with dark hair, a coppery complexion, and perhaps the most troubled eyes Nick had ever seen in a mortal paced back and forth in a dark warehouse, shouting into his cell phone.  Every now and then he pounded a wall with his fist as if punctuating a sentence.

“Your assignment is simple,” Lena said in an official tone.  “These three are extremely dangerous.  Each will have a hand at misguiding many thousands of people and in the process altering the future in disastrous ways.  You will simply hasten them to the self-destructive ends they have chosen before they cause incalculable harm. ”

“Truly?” He looked them over, all three.  “Except for the angry young man, the others seem harmless.”

“Looks are deceiving, you can never tell.  Your assignment comes from this department’s top office.  If you reach your targets on this one, you’ll get the promotion you’ve always wanted.”

“All right.  Give me the specifics.”

Lena reached into her pocket and produced a shiny black smartphone.  It looked like an iPhone but had no distinguishing markings. 

“I’ve uploaded all the information you need here.  Just tap the icon for any of your three subjects to open an entire portfolio.  If you need anything—anything at all—call or text me.  I’m on speed dial.”

“Wait.  Call?  Text?”

“Get with the times, Nikolai.”

“I won’t need this.”

“You have exactly two weeks to complete your task.  We must prevent an event from occurring at Cabrillo Stadium in San Diego, California, an event that could mean a significant loss to our cause.  Two of your assignments are preemptive in nature.  But the most crucial element is to stop this event at all costs.  Two weeks, Nick.  Fourteen days.”

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“Which is why you begin immediately.”  Her eyes brightened.   “Oh, and by the way.  How many other angels in your division—sorry, your
former
division—feel the same way you do?”

“About?”

“Unhappy about their work.”

“I don’t see how that matters.”

“It does to me.  Do you know?”

“Look, I still have questions about my assignment. Let’s stay focused.”

Lena sighed.  “So you’re not going to tell me about the other reapers.”

“I don’t know what they’re thinking.  And truth be told, I don’t care.”

The intensity in her gaze softened.  Like a cat, she leaned against his shoulder and ran her fingers down his arm.  Nick stood there and let her do her thing.  She was an odd one, to say the least.  He didn’t know what to make of her.

“I’ve had my eye on you for some time now, Nick.  You’re special, that’s why we called on you to join our division.”

“You didn’t call me, I came and applied.”

“That’s what everyone thinks, at first.”

“It was my decision.  No one influenced me.”

“Come on, Nick.  Are you going to tell me about the reapers?”

“I told you already, I don’t know.”

“And what about Tamara?  She’d know, wouldn’t she?”

“Are you looking to recruit her?”

Lena only smiled.

Nick returned the smile.  “And here I was thinking I was special.”

“Oh, but you are.” 

She touched his face, and he reacted—he wasn’t quite sure exactly how, but it disturbed him.  If nothing else it reminded him of the emotions mortals could feel. 

“Nick, if I were to send you back, just to bring me some information...”

“Is this a requirement?”

Her shoulders slumped a bit.  She moved away and leaned against the window. 

“No, it’s not.  It’s just that...well, you’re not the only one looking for a change.  If you could help me with the information I need, I might be able to impress my supervisor enough for him to promote me.”

“Can’t you send a simple request via interoffice?”

“It’s never that simple,” she said, her voice a dejected whisper.  Something about her drew his sympathy.  But nothing shy of showing himself to Tamara would get Lena what she wanted.  All the information was in Tamara’s office—her mind.  Going back was not an option.

Not so soon, anyway.

Nick spoke softly into Lena’s hair, which smelled like roses.

“Why don’t we see how this assignment goes?  Then we’ll talk about all this other business.”

Lena nodded.  “Of course.  Forgive me...I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.”

“Desperation can make you do strange things.”

“Why is it so important?”

She shrugged and smiled, covering what he was sure was discouragement and a touch of annoyance. 

“You’d best be off, Nick.  You’ve got deadlines.”

“About that.  You know, I still don’t—”

But she vanished before he could finish the sentence.

10

GETTING TO HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT would have been instantaneous had Nick simply concentrated on the image of the subject’s face and teleported to Long Beach.  But he’d developed a certain taste for flying—not the way humans did, crammed in the bowels of an aircraft like sardines in a tin—but by himself through the sky with the wind in his hair, clouds misting his face, and flocks of startled birds exploding in every direction as he flew invisibly through their squadron at speeds only theoretical to humans.

A trip from New York to Los Angeles took him six exhilarating minutes.  He arrived just outside the Aquarium of the Pacific, where the midday sun called for T-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses.  Not that anyone could see Nick, but he had them on too. He always blended in well just in case he had to interact with the humans.

A cool breeze blew gently against his neck, and for some reason the sensation seemed more tangible than usual.  He rather enjoyed it.  Taking in the warmth, the breeze, and the people—mothers and fathers with their children going into the aquarium and coming out—he further surprised himself by smiling.  A refreshing change from the business of death, untimely or otherwise. 

His smartphone chimed.

A text from Lena. 

SUBJECT: Jonathan Hartwell, Long Beach, CA

ASSIGNMENT: Research routines, family, lifestyle.  

Prevent subject from his daily studies and routines over the next two weeks
.

Embedded in the text message was a photo of Hartwell, a good-looking bloke in his late thirties, dark brown hair, deep-set blue eyes, and the kind of smile that would make people want to talk with him about anything and everything over a cup of coffee.  He looked as friendly and trustworthy as they came. 

But Nick knew better. 

He’d read the dossier.

The subject was a man of dangerous influence.  Wildly popular in the media, invited often to the White House to open important meetings with prayer, a bestselling writer, popular talk-show guest.  Unlike many a famous preacher before him, he was viewed by most Americans, believers or not, as a genuinely good person.  But he would ultimately lead thousands astray, altering their future  directly and even more indirectly.

Just then, a loud shriek pierced the air nearly causing Nick to drop his phone and become visible.  Since his time in London at the beginning of the last century he’d been experiencing some difficulty on the invisible-to-mortals front.  A sudden shock or stress could make him slip.

The shriek had been replaced by unbridled laughter.  A little boy about five or six years old hung by his feet in the air, his father swinging him around upside down. 

“Faster, Daddy!  Faster!”

And the man swinging his son over the concrete?  It was none other than Nick’s subject:  Jonathan Hartwell. 

His wife Elaine made a shushing gesture with one hand while pressing a shiny white phone to her ear. 

“Honestly, Lisa, I wouldn’t pay him another cent! If you keep giving them what they ask, by this time next year you’ll be paying a hundred dollars a week just to have them mow your lawn.  It’s robbery, and you don’t want to—”

Another shriek.

Elaine spun around.  “Jon, would you please put Matthew down?  Stop this foolishness now before you break his neck!”

Hartwell complied.  Matthew whined.

“Aw, Mom!” 

Elaine put the phone back to her ear.  “Sorry, sweetie.  Call you back?  Love you, bye!”

Hartwell and his son gave each other a furtive smile Elaine soon wiped off their faces. 

“Did you ever think what people will say if the media gets footage of you making a fool of yourself in public?”

“Come on, hon,” Hartwell said.  “I get one day off to spend with my son, and—”

“You happen to be a celebrity.  So what you do in public reflects on me, too.”  She grabbed Matthew’s hand and dragged him off, leaving Jonathan by himself at the aquarium’s exit.

It occurred to Nick that Elaine could easily do this job for him.

11

IT WAS THE UTTER CALM THAT STARTLED YURI back to consciousness.  Just how many hours he’d been out, he couldn’t tell—the face of his digital watch was smashed.  The throbbing pain in the back of his head made him wonder if his skull had been too.  He touched it, then looked at his fingers in the sunlight.

No blood.

And sunshine—The storm had passed.

He stood there for a long moment, feeling the knot that ran from the base of his head and into his left shoulder blade.  A dagger of pain impaled his neck at the slightest turn of his head.

He let out a childish yelp. Hopefully Jonas hadn’t heard it, or Yuri would never hear the end of it until they arrived in Ensenada.   

How long until then?

All around, the stench of dead fish engulfed him to the point of nausea.  He couldn’t—

He saw the crate.  Broken open and its contents missing.

The package.

Gone!

Despite the tense muscles that felt more like steel rods in his neck and spine, Yuri whirled around, his feet splashing in ankle-high water.  Where was that suitcase?  Could Jonas have broken into the crate and taken it?  It made no sense for him to do that, but they were out at sea and he was the only other person on board.

The boat leaned slightly to starboard and creaked.  He almost called out but instantly thought better of it.  If Jonas had gotten greedy and decided to confiscate the package...

Yuri reached around his back for his gun.

It too was gone.

At least he still had a small knife strapped to his ankle, though he hoped not to use it.  Knives were so much messier than guns.

He swore under his breath.  Yuri’s contact in Osaka had assured him Jonas was reliable, minded his own business relaying passengers discreetly across international waters.  With no way of getting to dry land without him, Yuri was for the time being literally at Jonas’s mercy.   He’d have to be clever, gain a physical advantage, and compel Jonas to stick with the original terms of their arrangement.  Then, when Yuri and the package safely arrived, he’d teach that slimy mercenary a lesson.

Pulling himself up, Yuri listened carefully for any sign above.

Nothing but the lapping of waves against the bow and the doleful lament of seagulls.  Their dirge grew louder as he gripped the cold metal handrails and struggled to keep his footing on the steps that brought him up onto the deck. 

It took a while for his eyes to adjust in the brightness, even though his back was turned to the warm sun.  Careful not to make any sudden moves, he turned around and scanned the deck, slick with water.

“Jonas?”

No answer.  No sign of the man needed to pilot the boat to shore.  Yuri’s stomach clenched at the thought of being stranded at sea—or, worse, being murdered, fed to the sharks so Jonas could sell the package’s contents to the highest bidder.

He took a cautious step forward.

Something hard and round bumped against his toes.  Glancing down, he noticed some uncoiled rope spread haphazardly across the deck.  It seemed to thin out into a taut line right past where it bent around a leg of the chrome rail.  Following it, Yuri saw that it went over the deck and down into the water.

He didn’t know the first thing about boats, but it almost looked like Jonas had tied an anchor to the rope and cast it overboard.  Yuri approached the edge of the deck, following the rope.

Then he saw it.

At the end of the rope, Jonas’s pale corpse dangled, eyes wide with surprise, mouth agape, blue tongue hanging out.  The rope was wrapped around his neck—which, judging by its perverse angle, was broken.  During the storm, he’d somehow gotten tangled in the line and thrown overboard.