There once was a story about a man who could turn invisible...
People say that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the
dead...
I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me...
But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with
it.
The operation was a success.
And sometimes, only sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to set things
right.
And that's where everything started to go wrong.
Things can never be right. I can never rest until we are together
Redeye Flight
By The Mad Fangirl
* * *
1/8
//A native Port Columbian songwriter once sang, "It can't rain all the time."
Having spent some time in the city previously, I couldn't believe he was really
from there. Port Columbia was, in my recollection, a wet, unpleasant place to
be, but that recollection might have been colored by the fact that most of my
time spent there had actually been in the local jail. The charges didn't stick,
and I didn't stick around. So, of course, the Fat Man sent me back, bringing to
mind another song by the same group. "You can only fly so high before you have
to come down."//
"All right. Cost's one thing, but you'd think Uncle Charlie'd have some concern
for our effectiveness."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning why the hell did he have to stick us on the redeye?"
"Fat man probably liked the irony."
"You may have a point."
"We're just lucky we didn't go Greyhound."
"Also a good point."
"Mmm-hmm."
Darien Fawkes stretched his legs, or tried to. The modern 737 just wasn't
designed for a man over 6 feet tall. Bobby Hobbes had an easier time of it. At
below the average height of the American male, he was almost comfortable.
Almost. He shifted. The plane flew through a cloud and hit a touch of
turbulence. Darien started but Hobbes just sighed and looked out into the grey.
"Y'know, Hobbes, I'm proud. Surprised, but proud. You fly better than me."
"Well, my friend, I will admit I have my share of neuroses, *but* there's one
thing you have that I don't, which makes you and not me more inclined to be a
poor flyer."
Darien looked at him. "What, pray tell?"
"Control issues. Not that I blame you, but you've got to learn to let go.
Relax, accept."
"You're heavily medicated, aren't you?"
"Maybe."
The plane bumped again. "What was that?"
"Landing gear, Fawkes. Relax. Breathe. Focus on the mission. Someone here has
a Siberian tiger as a pet, no permit on file. That's not kosher. We found her
prospective mate back home, on his way to a rendezvous. He was headed here, so
we find the lucky lady, and we . . ."
"We what? Bring her back in first class?"
"We tell animal control. And the local F&G. When we have the perp."
Fawkes shifted, maneuvering his hands behind his head. "And for that, the
bossman springs for an airplane. I don't buy it. This isn't just paying rent."
"I got a few theories," Hobbes allowed.
"What's the front-runner?"
"You don't wanna know." Hobbes saw Darien bristle, and put up a mollifying
hand. "Look, you know how my mind works. No need to make you paranoid too,
right? Least, not yet, okay?" Darien relaxed in his seat, and Hobbes did
likewise. //And that, my friend, is called damage control.//
Bobby opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by something he'd grown
used to, a disembodied voice. Only, in this case, it wasn't Darien's. It was
their captain speaking.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Port Columbia. We'll be on the ground in
approximately 10 minutes. Local time is 4:00 am, temperature a balmy 40
degrees, and yes, it is raining." There came groans from the tourists and
laughter from the returning natives. "Also, this will be our final stop, as I
get to sleep in my own bed tonight. As a hometown boy, may I remind all of you
to root for our NBA Ravens when they play the Cascade Jags Friday night. On
three. One, two, three . . . "
The airplane thundered with "Kill the Jags!"
"Very good. Flight attendants, stow the parachutes and secure the cabin for
arrival."
"Ha ha," muttered Fawkes.
"Relax. Breathe."
* * *
The plane landed without incident, and the pilot left first. As he retrieved
both carry-on bags from the overhead compartment, Darien supposed there might be
one or two Jags fans on the plane; Cascade wasn't that far away. The two agents
extended their luggage handles and rolled towards the exit, hailing a cab. An
odd tingle of recognition zapped through Darien's exhausted brain, but it took
him a minute down the road to place the driver with the long brown hair.
"Chris Draven! Holy crap!"
The driver braked with a squeal, causing Hobbes to mutter something more
colorful. He turned in his seat. "Fawkes? Fawkes! It's you! Man, Liz said
you went straight too. I said I'd believe it when I saw it . . ."
"Hey look, partner," Hobbes said, "I hate to break up Old Cellmates Week, but
man, it's four AM . . ."
"I hear ya," the driver said, and started again. "You really did it, huh?
Hooked up with the feds? Sweet deal!"
"Yeah. Peachy. Chris, man, it's good to see you, but here? You said you'd
never come back long as your brother was . . ." Darien stopped.
"Alive. Yeah." There was silence for several beats from the driver's seat.
"Look, I hashed things out with Eric." His gravelly voice was sober.
"Glad to hear it," Darien said seriously. "Sometimes you never know how much
they mean to you until . . ."
"They're gone. Yeah. Look, I'm sorry, man. Liz told me about Kevin. I know .
. . I mean, I know it can't be easy."
"I get by. It's been a year, I'm dealing. But you're right." Darien sighed.
"It's not easy."
The cab arrived at a nondescript Motel 6. It was Hobbes' turn to sigh,
sleepily.
"Hey, you asked for it," the driver said.
"Yeah," Fawkes confirmed. "It's pretty much the only place covered by our
expense account."
"You remember that sweet deal bit? I take it back."
"Chris, if you only knew." Fawkes elbowed Hobbes, whose eyelids had started to
drift closed of their own volition. "C'mon partner."
Hobbes shook himself, waking up enough to grab his luggage. Fawkes did the
same, paying the fare and pressing a big tip into Chris' hands. As Hobbes moved
ahead, Chris held Darien back for a second.
"Look, you're going to think I'm a nut, but, man, about Kevin," He took a
breath. "I've seen some things that, look, there's better places out there for
us, okay? I think he's gotta be in one of 'em. It's not the end, you know?
Not really."
Darien smiled slightly. "It's not nuts. Thanks." He pulled out the suitcase
handle, and followed his partner.
//I'll admit, I thought it was bizarre. Chris Draven, a self-centered small
time con man, going straight and finding God? But to paraphrase myself, If I
only knew. And to fracture the Bard, there are more things out there than
Heaven and Earth, period. I was about to find that out for myself.//
* * *
The sun, soon to rise, had set again through the broken window - now,
indubitably, only a window and nothing more. That had been its status quo for
over a month. Nothing but glass and lead since Shelly had welded Eric back
together with his barren other half, losing, in the process, her tenuous
connection to him on this plane. Eric considered the jagged glass as the first
drops of Washington's fall rain hit his face. He stood for a second,
motionless, then turned, water whipping from his long black hair.
//Have to make sure there's plastic on that if Sarah's gonna be comfortable
here,// he thought. The black bird chose that moment to make an appearance,
cruising over his head and getting him wetter. It called once and perched on
his mirror. //I hope she comes by.// It was a new thing, trying to live
without the hope of Shelly in this world, or the desperate drive to reach the
next. Shelly had made sure to take that last when she'd given him back the
Crow.
But Sarah was worth living for on her own. //A thirteen-year-old kid's my best
friend. Go figure.// Even if it wasn't living, as such. "Sarah, Darryl,
Shae," he listed out loud,
"And Chris." Not his voice.
Eric spun. "Dad?"
It wasn't, though. It was a tall, bookish man with sandy hair and glasses.
"Not quite, but we've met."
Eric considered the man, his quality of voice, his appearance. The blood on his
shirt. The fact that he'd entered the loft unseen.
"But you are dead, aren't you?"
"Pot to kettle?" the ghost replied.
"Who are you? How do you know my dad?"
"You don't know me. And considering I died a year ago, give or take, where do
you think I'd know him from?"
"Do you have a message?"
"That he loves you, but you knew that. This isn't about him. This is about you
and me."
"I don't know you."
"No. But we have a lot in common." The man walked across the loft and Eric,
immune to cold, felt a chill. "We're the older brothers. We're the responsible
ones. Our brothers made the same bad choices. And when they needed us, we died
on them."
"So what do you want? Absolution? Chris made his own choices. He made me
realize that. Understanding? Maybe that I can give you." Eric held out a
hand and prepared to open his soul.
"Not going to be that easy. I'm dead. You have nothing of mine. But you will
soon."
"What do you mean?"
"My brother's coming your way. Or you're coming his. Look after him, will you?
I can't. I can't, and it's all my fault. They need you to save them from what
I've made."
"Look, who . . ."
"You'll know him when you don't see him. I have to leave. Guilt and a
desecrated grave only count for so much around here." And although Eric hadn't
been blinking, the man was gone in the blink of an eye. There came a knock at
the door.
It wasn't lonely. Sarah, outside, beat a tattoo on the door, and between beats
shouted, "Hey, Eric, you home? Hey, it's me! Hey - Hey!" she shouted as Eric
swung open the door, picking her up bodily and spinning her.
He set her down. "Hey yourself."
"So, what's been going on?"
"Well . . . " Eric sat back on his haunches. "I had a ghost visit me today."
"Really? He still here? Not that I'd see him," she added, surreptitiously
glancing around the room anyway. "Hey, you're not gonna start convulsing again,
are you?"
Eric smiled a little. "Not unless somebody starts beating up my little brother
again. And I don't think that's the deal this time."
"So what is?"
He frowned. "I don't really know yet. Why are the dead always so damned
cryptic?"
The thirteen-year-old shot him a funny look. "I dunno. You tell me."
"Oh, ha, ha."
"Well, seriously, it's like the pot calling the kettle black."
"Yeah, that's what he said."
"Figures." Sarah walked around her friend, and finally crouched to his left,
mirroring his posture. "But if you saw a ghost, that means we're gonna get some
action."
"Maybe."
"You okay with that? What if you go all . . ."
"I don't want to think about it. "
"But it's okay now, right? The moves plus the conscience? Body *and* soul,
right?"
"Look, I really don't want to think about it. I'm gonna keep it together,
okay?"
Sarah sighed. "Okay. Fine."
"Now, look, sun's coming up. You better get to school."
"In a sec," Sarah said. "Here. Brought you a paper. I figured, no TV, you
gotta know what's going on somehow."
"Hey, I do make enough to buy newspapers."
"Yeah? Where are they?"
"Umm, I recycle?"
"Nice try." Sarah spread out the front page on the floor. "Man mauled by
tiger. Cool."
The black bird cawed and hopped to the paper. Black wings shed a drop of water
on the corner of the page. Sarah looked up at Eric, meeting his dark eyes.
"Whaddaya wanna bet Darryl pulled that case?"
"No dice," Eric replied. "Looks like I get to work today."
"You work nights. Guess it works out if you don't sleep."
"Guess so. C'mon. Get your helmet on and I'll give you a ride."
"I'll get helmet hair."
"Sarah . . ."
"You never wear one."
"Yeah, and look what happened to me."
"Man, I *knew* that was the wrong way to go." But Sarah smiled, and Eric had
the feeling she'd let him win.
"Let's get you to school. I've gotta see a man about a cat."
* * *