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Authors: Scott Nicholson
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myself this time. Some guy shot me." I fingered the fifth and newest hole in my jacket.
"You're a tweener , like I told you. You got special protections, but you also have special responsibilities. Like not getting yourself killed in the meantime."
"I didn't know a dead person could die. Especially not twice."
"We're all dying, all the time, over and over. Or hadn't you figured that out yet?"
"I've had other things on my mind. What's with the bad Christmas music?"
"We're equal opportunity up here. Before this, it was a Tibetan chant, ' Hava Nagila ,' ' Kumbaya ' and something which might have passed for a Unitarian hymn, if they even have one. But that doesn't concern you, because you still don't believe in any of them, or anything , for that matter."
"I believe in Lee."
"Sure you do. So much that you jumped off a building and then went and got yourself shot. And your funeral's coming up as soon as the medical examiner finishes the autopsy."
"I'm going to make it work. For her sake."
"No. Do it for yourself . That's the first lesson of love. Settle your own soul before you go mixing up with somebody else's."
I looked at the clock. "Jingle Bell Rock" mercifully ended, and an African tribal hymn came on. "I owe it to Lee to finish this job," I said.
"I can tell. You got to have a little faith, remember?"
"I'm starting to believe there's a higher power at work." I said it not as a hollow, rote acknowledgment that might score me some brownie points with somebody on a golden throne. I was getting as many second chances as I needed, apparently, and so far I had done little to prove I could handle my affairs on my own.
Because I couldn't. And I'd always been too stubborn and scared to ask for help.
"That's a good boy. Only took you forty human years and a couple of trips through afterlife administration. Hell, if we gave you a few extra eternities you might even turn out to be somebody."
"Glad you have such faith in me." I stood and turned toward the door. "I'd better hurry. If Lee's involved in this, my killer could be planning to get rid of her, too."
Miss Titanic's sarcasm stopped me. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
I faced her desk and she waved three pieces of paper. "Schedule X. An override for Form 3716. Sign three times in blood, and you're out of here."
***
11.
I smiled back at Wesmeyer in the boat's cabin, enjoying the aroma of gunpowder and another chance.
"You didn't die," Wesmeyer said, shaking his head and rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
"We're all dying, all the time."
He looked at the gun, then back at me. "In my case, I just want to speed things along."
"Nothing's worth killing yourself over," I said. "Believe me, I know."
"Who are you? Really? Because you're not real. You're not even here right now." He stared at the Scotch bottle as if I were its genie.
"I'm a friend."
"Friend? I don't have any friends." The gun barrel tilted down but still pointed in my direction.
"Surely somebody cares about you. Got any family?"
"Two daughters," he said, his sibilants mushy from the booze. "I lost one, and I never had the other."
"You've got more than you know. Money, accolades, starlets' numbers in your speed dial. You're a producer who produces. Dance of Dust, Love in the Afternoon, The Slow Parade . Who wouldn't want to trade places with the great Ron Wesmeyer ?"
He waved the gun toward his head. "I'd like to get the hell out of Ron Wesmeyer ."
"Don't be a damned coward. Surely you've got something to live for. Something besides yourself."
"I've screwed it all up," he said. "No hope for it now."
I felt myself fading, dissolving. I fought to maintain my grip on existence. My anger helped, and the discovery that in solving someone else's problems, I was facing my own.
"Listen here, buddy." I leaned over the table, trying to look menacing. "If you've got a chance to fix things, you better take it."
He blinked. "I must be as drunk as an agent. Talking to a freaking ghost." But the gun
"You're a tweener , like I told you. You got special protections, but you also have special responsibilities. Like not getting yourself killed in the meantime."
"I didn't know a dead person could die. Especially not twice."
"We're all dying, all the time, over and over. Or hadn't you figured that out yet?"
"I've had other things on my mind. What's with the bad Christmas music?"
"We're equal opportunity up here. Before this, it was a Tibetan chant, ' Hava Nagila ,' ' Kumbaya ' and something which might have passed for a Unitarian hymn, if they even have one. But that doesn't concern you, because you still don't believe in any of them, or anything , for that matter."
"I believe in Lee."
"Sure you do. So much that you jumped off a building and then went and got yourself shot. And your funeral's coming up as soon as the medical examiner finishes the autopsy."
"I'm going to make it work. For her sake."
"No. Do it for yourself . That's the first lesson of love. Settle your own soul before you go mixing up with somebody else's."
I looked at the clock. "Jingle Bell Rock" mercifully ended, and an African tribal hymn came on. "I owe it to Lee to finish this job," I said.
"I can tell. You got to have a little faith, remember?"
"I'm starting to believe there's a higher power at work." I said it not as a hollow, rote acknowledgment that might score me some brownie points with somebody on a golden throne. I was getting as many second chances as I needed, apparently, and so far I had done little to prove I could handle my affairs on my own.
Because I couldn't. And I'd always been too stubborn and scared to ask for help.
"That's a good boy. Only took you forty human years and a couple of trips through afterlife administration. Hell, if we gave you a few extra eternities you might even turn out to be somebody."
"Glad you have such faith in me." I stood and turned toward the door. "I'd better hurry. If Lee's involved in this, my killer could be planning to get rid of her, too."
Miss Titanic's sarcasm stopped me. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
I faced her desk and she waved three pieces of paper. "Schedule X. An override for Form 3716. Sign three times in blood, and you're out of here."
***
11.
I smiled back at Wesmeyer in the boat's cabin, enjoying the aroma of gunpowder and another chance.
"You didn't die," Wesmeyer said, shaking his head and rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
"We're all dying, all the time."
He looked at the gun, then back at me. "In my case, I just want to speed things along."
"Nothing's worth killing yourself over," I said. "Believe me, I know."
"Who are you? Really? Because you're not real. You're not even here right now." He stared at the Scotch bottle as if I were its genie.
"I'm a friend."
"Friend? I don't have any friends." The gun barrel tilted down but still pointed in my direction.
"Surely somebody cares about you. Got any family?"
"Two daughters," he said, his sibilants mushy from the booze. "I lost one, and I never had the other."
"You've got more than you know. Money, accolades, starlets' numbers in your speed dial. You're a producer who produces. Dance of Dust, Love in the Afternoon, The Slow Parade . Who wouldn't want to trade places with the great Ron Wesmeyer ?"
He waved the gun toward his head. "I'd like to get the hell out of Ron Wesmeyer ."
"Don't be a damned coward. Surely you've got something to live for. Something besides yourself."
"I've screwed it all up," he said. "No hope for it now."
I felt myself fading, dissolving. I fought to maintain my grip on existence. My anger helped, and the discovery that in solving someone else's problems, I was facing my own.
"Listen here, buddy." I leaned over the table, trying to look menacing. "If you've got a chance to fix things, you better take it."
He blinked. "I must be as drunk as an agent. Talking to a freaking ghost." But the gun
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