Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

The pungent aroma of smoky peat filled my nose as I leaned in close to the half-filled glass of scotch. I’d only been dead for a short while, but the longing to slowly sip at the wonderfully woody spirit was overpowering. I wondered if I’d ever drink the golden nectar again.

To think of myself as dead is a little disingenuous, as I really am alive. I just can’t talk or interact with the living, only the dying. So it goes.

I stepped away from the edge of the bar as Jake, the proprietor, slid the lowball tumbler toward his customer—a well-dressed businessman most likely stopping off for a cocktail after a long day at the office. Prior to a few weeks ago, I too stopped at Jake’s for a drink from time to time, just to release the built-up demons of a hard week at work. And until recently, Jake’s was a relatively quiet little hole-in-the-wall that gave me the solitude I craved. The fact that it was located directly across the street from my apartment was just a bonus. Now, everything’s changed. With all the news coverage, Jake’s has transformed into a hotspot for fans of all things mysterious and captivating, hoping to catch a glimpse of the portrayed dastardly man on the run. Me.

Looking up at the television behind the bar, I wished I could hear the broadcast. But as the place was rather packed on this particular Thursday afternoon, I couldn’t very well turn up the volume on my own. Not with all these people around, watching. I had to stand there, reading the text scroll across the bottom of the screen.

“The woman that mysteriously fell more than twenty flights of stairs two weeks ago has died. Cynthia Duffy, the wife of Jack Duffy, succumbed to her injuries shortly after being discovered. The exact cause of her fall has not been determined at this time, but police continue to investigate the scene. Jack Duffy, her husband of fifteen years, has not been seen or heard from since the day of the accident. Police are reluctant to declare if foul play was a factor in the accident. The couple had no children, and no other family members could be reached. For more details on this tragic incident, our on-the-spot correspondent, Addison Madera, is live at the scene.”

“Thank you, Claire. I’m at the Dodson Apartment building, where Jack and Cynthia Duffy lived for more than eight years before Cynthia’s life came to a tragic end almost two weeks ago. She was found unconscious at the base of the exit stairwell by another building tenant, who dialed 911. When emergency services arrived on the scene, Cynthia’s husband was nowhere to be found, and their apartment was riddled in mystery. Their apartment door was left wide open, but nothing appeared to have be taken. After speaking to several of the Duffys’ neighbors, all of whom declined to come on camera, a resident from the floor below spoke candidly with us. Beatrice Eastman said that she knew the couple well, and that for as far back as she could recall, the Duffys were relatively quiet people, generally keeping to themselves. Ms. Eastman went on to say that despite their reserved nature, they would be greatly missed.”

“Such a tragedy. Addison, do the police have any leads on the whereabouts of the husband?”

“Yes, it is. Very heartbreaking. I spoke with the police chief just thirty minutes ago, and she said that they are actively looking for Jack Duffy for questioning. She said that at this time, he is in fact a suspect, but they are also looking into other leads as well. Namely, an acquaintance of Cynthia’s, a man named Kevin Roberts. The police chief said that Mr. Roberts has already been interviewed once, and although he is not in custody, he remains at the precinct.”

“Very compelling. Did the police chief disclose anything about why Roberts was being questioned?”

“Not at this time. She said it was too early to speculate, and that they would know more soon.”

“Okay, then. Thank you, Addison.

“If you have information on the whereabouts of Jack Duffy, you are asked to call our tip line at 210-555-9076 with any information. We’ll continue to monitor the situation and update you with any breaking news on the story.”

Shaking my head in disgust at the nonsense of the news report, I refocused my attention to the bottle of scotch nearly at my fingertips.

“Please, Jake. Just pour me one drink. After the hell I’ve been through these last few weeks.” My pleas to be served were drowned out by the dull murmurs throughout the bar.

Frustrated and confused, I blasted my way through the crowded bar for the exit. Even though I was basically invisible, I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of still occupying space. As I trudged through the crowd, I did so without touching a single soul. It was as if I were Moses and the sea parted for me. I’ll have to ask Hauser about that when I next see him, I mused.

Stepping out into the late evening, I wondered what I should do. I had a job to do—to collect the next soul. But in order to do that, I’d have to return to the hospital. Something I was not quite ready to do just yet. I could try to clear my name, but what use would that do? I struggled with the inability to talk to anyone; to even attempt to explain the truth was futile. Unless they were about to die, I would be wasting my time. No, my efforts were better off spent doing something else. But what? I thought about my apartment and how there might be something there that could occupy my time. A second later, I vanished from the sidewalk.

I appeared on the twenty-fifth floor of my apartment building, at the center of the elevator lobby. I looked around. The corridor was empty. The hallway leading toward my apartment, however, had been cordoned off with multiple strips of yellow police tape.

I ducked under the tape and walked up to my apartment door, but didn’t enter immediately. The door was open, and I could hear several voices echoing from inside.

“Aren’t they done in there yet?” I questioned.

Stepping across the threshold and into my apartment, I encountered several plainclothes detectives. I knew they were police by the familiar brass shields dangling on chains around their necks and by the IPO-CSI emblazoned on their ball caps. There were two in the living room and one in the kitchen. As I walked through the entryway and deeper into my apartment, I could hear more voices coming from the master bedroom. It appeared that they were skimming through every belonging that Cyndi and I had. Talk about an invasion of privacy.

I knew instantly that whatever I was there for would be difficult to do with all of these people around. Based on the moment that I first tried to take Wilson’s rosary, I knew I wouldn’t be able to touch a thing as long as somebody else was in the room with me. Walking down the hallway and past the master bedroom, I stepped into my study. Surprisingly, there was nobody inside. There had been, however, recent activity in the room. All of my prized book collection had been boxed up, as well as all of my sports memorabilia. It was obvious that the police were looking for something, most likely searching for a clue as to my whereabouts. But how is boxing up all of my stuff going to tell them anything?

I moved around my desk and sat in my chair. I looked across the desktop and noticed that it was also void of all of my personal belongings. I quickly opened all the drawers and found each of them empty as well. Frustrated, I slammed the last drawer shut, misjudging my force. It shut so hard that the only thing present on top of the desk, a Tiffany-style lamp, nearly fell off the edge. I leaned back and wondered if the noise would bring in a visitor. Within moments, one of the detectives walked in, a baffled look plastered on his face. I laughed out loud. He walked around the desk and peered at the empty space in front of my chair. The cop couldn’t see me right in front of him. He circled back around the desk, grabbed a packed box of my stuff, and carried it out into the apartment.