Protected Entity

Protected Entity Part 2 of 2

Lost in thought, I make a neither-here-nor-there hrmphing noise.

"I can see you into something there, Cee. You run along, do your thing. I'll take a look at the collection." Doctor Tennessee knows better than to ask too many questions about what I do.

***

Riley and I hole up in one of those 24 hour spots under the tracks. We eat eggs and sausages and drink bottomless cups of coffee as the night drifts past. I've gotten used to being the crazy guy that orders two of everything and sits there talking to himself. Riley's gotten used to taking little tiny bites and sipping his coffee with the cup on the table. "I think we been barking up the wrong proverbial tree."

"Oh? What'd the good doctor have for you this time?"

We tumble the situation back and forth a bit before straying into an extended imaginary musing about what our lives must've been like.

We shoot the shit 'til quarter to three. That's when an older lady comes in surrounded by a squabbling entourage of toddlers and pre-teens. A tall, sour-faced twelve year old girl walks beside her. They both look exhausted but not altogether put out as they shuffle into the table across from us and try to simmer down the slew of bouncing youngins.

I'm about to get up and be out when a little guy with a bigass afro and corduroy overalls clamors up onto the seat beside Riley and stares at him. Riley looks back at the kid, first with his angry squint and then gradually softening to a sort of Rileysmile. "Wooga wooga," he says. The boy chuckles, holding eye contact. "Boogady boogady boogady." More chuckles. The girl and her grandma are busy with the other wee ones. Time seems to have slowed for my best friend. Ever so carefully, he reaches out a shining, see-through hand to the kid. The child reaches back, still gurgling and giggling away, and wraps his own little hand around one of the glowing fingers. His expression doesn't change, but I can tell something just shattered inside Riley.

"Let's go," he says, when the spell is finally broken and the child wanders off to some new distraction. "I wanna get this over with."

***

At three, we trudge through the humid Manhattan night into West Harlem. Once again, even the trees refuse to rustle on the mourning block. All the houses are dark, but inside restless limbs strain beneath too hot bed sheets and anxious heads play out horrific fantasies in never-ending cycles.

I can be as quiet as any ghost when I have to. Patience is really all it takes. Move like you're made of molasses. Sound just falls away from you. You catch your rhythm and eventually, you're wherever you need to be and no one's the wiser. Riley pops the door and we slow-mo it up the winding stairs to Calhoun's office. I turn the knob ever so gently and soft foot in, Riley at my side. It's completely dark save the little blinking-light city of the computer terminal and modem.

Riley's mingling with the statues again and I'm about to start in on the masks when I feel it. Riley stiffens and readies for combat. A wave of revulsion sweeps over me. I close my eyes, investigating the churning ripple of rage that has suddenly become a presence in the room. We both turn around and there, in the easy chair, sits a very old, dimly glowing man.

As I'm sure you've noticed, death isn't the great equalizer it's made out to be. Layers of hierarchy remain, interlaced by the tangled webs of power and privilege. The dead, after all, are human, and what could be more human than an unnecessarily oppressive bureaucracy at the end all be all of existence? Anyway, through whatever combination of sinister string-pulling and luck, this particular departed old-timer is obviously immensely powerful. If nothing else, you can tell because he's completely unfazed by the presence of two no-nonsense COD soulcatchers in his living quarters. The guy's from way-back-when, judging by his threads. He has on an elegant 18th century type jacket, complete with poufy nonsense at the collar and doily cuffs.