Chris Holm - The Wrong Goodbye

“That’s right. Only we’re not talking harps and feathers —these are more the angry Wrath of God types. Believe me,” I said, thinking back to my own tangle with an angel months before, and the swath of destruction across the length of Manhattan that had resulted, “angels are not to be trifled with.”

That inner light faded, replaced by something closer on the reverence scale to fear. “Still, I don’t get why you’re so sure this Richard dude’s our guy.”

I smiled. “Easy. Demons got themselves a nasty sense of humor. They’ve pretty much got their pick of living vessels, but usually they’ve got a reason for choosing the one they do. Sometimes, they’ll snatch a priest, make him speak in tongues at Mass to fuck with him. Sometimes, they’ll take some buttoneddown old schoolmarm and ditch her at a leather bar. Or sometimes, when they need to hitch a ride, they’ll pick a guy because they think his name is funny.”

“What’s so funny about Richard Shaw?”

“Nothing in particular,” I admitted. “But what do you want to bet he goes by Rick?”

Richard Shaw’s home was a low-slung yellow brick ranch in a quiet residential neighborhood about a mile north of the university. A pair of live oaks on either side of the pebbled front yard shaded the house from the light of the afternoon sun. I pulled the Cadillac into the short concrete drive, coming to a halt beside a beige Buick LeSabre adorned with a Jesus fish and a sticker for the local Christian station ( REJOICE in the Lord! ). Looks like whatever smart-ass demon decided to take himself a ride in a Rick Shaw got a twofer in the fucking-with-mortals department.

Though the day was bright and clear, and the temperature a balmy seventy-five degrees, every window in the house was closed, and the blinds were drawn as well. Three days’ worth of newspapers sat untouched atop the stoop, and the letterbox beside the door was overflowing.

I scaled the porch steps and knocked.

Nothing happened —unless, of course, you count me and Gio shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot in our filthy funeral suits like the most unlikely, bedraggled missionaries ever while we waited for the door to open as something happening .

I knocked again. Still nothing.

“Mr Shaw?” I called. “I was wondering if we could have a moment of your time.”

Inside I heard a scuff of feet on tile. A twitch of curtain revealed a glimpse of darkened living room as Shaw appraised us from inside. “Go away!” he cried, his voice plaintive and unsteady.

Gio looked from the door to me and back again. Then he patted his prodigious stomach and smiled. “You think maybe if I do the Truffle Shuffle, he’ll let us in?”

“You’re not helping,” I replied under my breath. Then, louder toward the door: “I assure you, sir, we’ll only be a minute; we just have some questions about what happened to you the other night.”

“I told you people a dozen times already —I’m not talking to reporters! Why can’t you all just leave me alone? Isn’t it enough you ruined my life, you… you… bunch of jerks !”

Bunch of jerks. My, but that one stung.

Time to try a different tack.

“My associate and I are not reporters, Mr Shaw —we’re Federal Marshals.”

Gio looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “We’re what now?” he muttered.

I shrugged my best roll with it shrug. Gio responded with what can only be described as a harrumph.

There was a thunk as the deadbolt disengaged, and the door opened a crack. The chain was still set, and Shaw peeked out under it, wary but hopeful. He was a slight, small-boned, thirty-something man in a pink polo shirt and iron-creased jeans over off-brand tennis shoes of gleaming white. His features were delicate bordering on feminine, and he had wide, pale blue eyes that, from the lack of lines surrounding them, appeared unaccustomed to the doubt that now darkened his face. “Federal Marshals?”

“That’s right,” I replied. “I’m Marshal Hutchinson, and this is my associate, Marshal Starsky. Now if you would please let us in, I believe we could shed some light on what happened to you Sunday night.”

“But how do I know you’re real Marshals, and not reporters pretending to be Marshals so I’ll let you in?”

I sighed and dug Ethan Strickland’s wallet from my inside coat-pocket, flipping it open and waving it at him as though it meant a damn. When he reached for it to take a closer look, I yanked it back. “Mr Shaw, attempting to handle a law officer’s badge is a federal offense.”

“Oh. Of course,” he said, withdrawing his hand as visions of prison time danced in his head. “And please, call me Rick.”

As Shaw closed the door, and disengaged the chain, Gio leaned in close, a grin plastered on his meaty face. “A federal offense, huh?”

“Hey, it could be.”

“You’re a fuckin’ piece a work, you know that? And Starsky? Really? Why the hell couldn’t I be Hutch?”

The door swung open once more, this time all the way. “Please, come in.” We complied. Once we entered, Shaw ducked his head outside, casting furtive glances left and right before shutting the door behind us. “Sorry about the mess.”

I looked around. Aside of a smattering of cellophane candy wrappers on the coffee table, the Spartan living room was immaculate. A floral couch sat beneath a simple wooden cross. Two royal blue recliners faced it from across the coffee table. No knick-knacks, no TV, and not a speck of dust in sight.

“Please, sit down,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen around the corner. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Beer, if you have it,” Gio said, as we both settled into the recliners.

“I do not . Alcohol is the devil’s gasoline, and I for one like to keep the great deceiver’s tank on E. Besides, I thought officers couldn’t drink on duty?”

“That’s only in the movies,” I replied, and shot Gio a look that could’ve shattered glass.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. As Reverend Bellows always says, fiction is lying. So: apple juice or Fresca?”

Gio mimed gagging, and I punched him in the thigh. “Water would be fine,” I said.

“Water it is,” he said. A couple minutes’ puttering, and he returned carrying a tray laden with drinks, and a crystal dish of hard candies.

“Care for one?” he said, grabbing a handful and unwrapping them with all the eagerness of a methhead looking to score. “They’re sugar-free. Even still, I usually limit myself to two a day —Jesus hates a glutton —but this week has left me out of sorts. As if I need to tell you that, after my outburst at the door. I’m so sorry you had to witness that; my language was inexcusable.”

“The hell’re you talkin’ about?” Gio asked. “You mean when you said jerk ?”

Shaw colored. I fought the urge to punch Gio in the leg again.

“You have to understand,” Shaw said, “I’m simply at the end of my rope. I haven’t slept a wink in days. My Mabel took the girls up to Branson to stay with their grandparents as soon as we returned home from the police station —she scarcely said a word to me that whole ride home, and now she won’t even return my calls! Of course, normally in times of crisis, I’d find solace in the church, but once my story hit the papers, my congregation wanted nothing to do with me. I’ve been asked not to attend services until further notice. They gave away my choir solo to that cow Lorena Wilkins. Now I hear there’s even talk of excommunication! I know the good Lord never presents us a challenge we can’t handle, but right now, I don’t see how I’m going to manage!”