My thoughts turned back to the horrific visage of an old man, rendered in teeming, hungry insects. To a patch of earth dyed red with blood. To a horrid, rasping voice —which I now realized spoke a truth as terrible as the vulgar sketch of humanity from whence it came.
These creatures, it had told me, are but humble servants, lending form to that which in this realm is formless. Just as that decaying sack of meat you’re wearing lends you form.
Over you, it said, I have dominion.
“Lilith,” I said, bile rising in my throat as my repaired meat-suit crawled with terror and revulsion, “who did you call? Who put me back together?”
She hesitated for a moment, reluctance borne of fear. “It calls itself Charon.”
“And this Charon —he’s the ruler of the In-Between?”
“Yes. Are you all right, Collector? You look pale.”
How she could see that in the dark wash of predawn blue, the flicker of firelight, I don’t know —but then, I reminded myself for perhaps the thousandth time, Lilith is not so human as she appears to be.
It would seem neither of us are.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You look anything but fine.”
Fuck it, I thought. She’d been straight with me. I may as well return the favor. “This Charon,” I said. “I met him. In the desert, on the night that we last spoke. He damn near killed me.”
“And yet he came when summoned to heal you this night,” she said. “Most interesting.”
“He told me I had three days to return the Varela soul to him, or he would plunge me into Nothingness for all eternity. My guess is, he only healed me so I could complete my task.”
She considered it. “Perhaps,” she said, frowning. “Though I’m forced to wonder, why you? Charon could have just as easily called on any of your kind. I suspect there is a reason you, specifically, were chosen. Perhaps Charon’s developed a certain affection for you.”
I thought back to our meeting in the desert. To the biting anger in his tone, the seething fury of his assault. “Not likely,” I said.
“Then perhaps you serve a purpose in his plan. A being as powerful as he no doubt sees a great deal more of the board than do such lowly pawns as you or I.”
“Exactly how powerful is this Charon?” I asked.
“How do you mean?” Lilith replied, suddenly cagey, as though there were something in my tone she didn’t like.
“When we met in the desert, Charon claimed he was an Old God. That my God is nothing more than a pretender to the throne. A seditionist. A fraud.”
“And this troubles you?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it does.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “But to me —to all of humankind —the very existence of a loving God is the greatest comfort we could ever know. Even,” I added ruefully, “for those of us removed from His good grace. And the thought that He might’ve stolen his throne —taken it through violence or deceit like a common criminal —robs me of that comfort. It makes him no better than the rest of us.”
“Oh, Collector, when are you going to learn? For all of your moralistic hand-wringing —about your role in this world, your perceptions of my actions, or the origins of your precious Maker —existence is not as simple as all that. There are no good guys, no bad guys —just a giant fucking mess, and a bunch of damaged beings trying to muddle through as best as they can. Perhaps your Maker did steal his throne. Perhaps Charon is lying —you’d be amazed at how many beings like myself have carved out a chunk of history passing themselves off as a deity to one religion or another. Only the Maker Himself could tell you for sure who’s been lying all these millennia, and in case you hadn’t noticed, He’s been quite silent of late. Either way, who are we to judge? We’re each of us nothing but frauds and liars. I mean, look at you! You fancy yourself a decent man, but if that’s the case, then how did you wind up here? How did any of us? There is one thing I do know, though: whatever Charon is, he does not abide insubordination. You’d do well not to cross him.”
“That much, I gathered.”
“So what do you intend to do?”
“Same as before,” I said. “Track down Danny. Find Varela’s soul.”
“Have you any idea where he’s gone?”
“Where worlds draw thin,” I muttered, remembering the inscription on his hovel wall.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, then,” she said, “you’d best go get that rotund dowsing rod of yours and find out. It seems you’ve one day left.”
28.
Problem was, my dowsing rod was gone.
By the time I hit the edge of town, the sun hung high overhead, baking cracks into the earth and obliterating all trace of the numbing chill of desert night. I’d stripped my filthy, tattered suit coat off during the ride, letting it flutter away on the breeze to be claimed by the desert. Once a somber, tasteful black, it’d ended up as dun-colored as the arid wasteland in which I left it —as dun-colored as the once-red Cadillac I drove. I chucked my one remaining shoe as well, this dead man’s dress socks stuffed inside. Even barefoot and in rolled-up shirtsleeves, I was sweating, and I could feel my face and neck begin to burn under a sun that shone as hard and bright as a lamp without a shade.
The Caddy creaked as though arthritic when I braked to a halt in front of the squat, its brakes and shocks no doubt as full of grit as my eyes and clothes, as the lines and creases of my skin. The paved drive way was soft and hot beneath my feet, scorching my soles as I stepped out of the car and setting me highstepping toward the door.
Inside, the squat was still and dark, and stuffy as well —the air heavy and ill-smelling from the breath and sweat of people too long confined. “Gio?” I tried to call, but my voice came out a dry croak. “Hello?”
My feet made little sound as I padded through the skeletal interior of the half-finished house. I strained to hear any signs of life, but there were none. The Gio I knew was not a slight or nimble man; surely, if he were here, I’d hear him. And what of Roscoe? That old coot couldn’t go ten seconds without shouting his fool head off.
No. They were gone. They had to be. Hell, I’d told Gio to do exactly that before I’d left. Of course, I hadn’t realized by doing so I’d be consigning myself to an eternity of Nothingness. Without Gio, I had no way to locate Danny. Without Gio, I was toast.
I strolled the house less cautiously now that I’d convinced myself there was nothing there to find. I remained convinced of that right up until a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air —so loud and so close, if I’d been wearing socks, I would’ve jumped clean out of them.
I turned and caught a glimpse of denim-clad fury. Then a wide, rectangular something swung downward toward me, blotting out my field of vision. I threw my hands up to block the coming assault, but I was too late. The rectangular something connected with my face in a squish of poky bristles and a plume of stale, woody house dust.
I sneezed —which maybe, on reflection, doesn’t do justice to the ferocity or effectiveness of the fwacking I’d received. I mean to say I sneezed a lot.
“Sam?” drawled my attacker, his thick Texas accent somehow finding a second syllable I never knew Sam had. “Sam, is that you?”
Next thing I knew, I was the unwitting recipient of one hell of a bear-hug, the old man levering me off the floor with his prodigious gut and squeezing so hard I couldn’t find the breath to sneeze.
When I’d last seen Roscoe, he’d been tied to the toilet, pleading for his life. Guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder.