Stealing Second

Stealing Second:

Miles Norton had a hurt hand. He wasn’t too concerned.

Sure, something was broken but it was only making his fist a tad more pudgy, and his fingers a little stiff. It wasn’t anything obvious—like a large amount of free-flowing red—and that was important. Nicky didn’t like to be reminded of what Miles did for a living, and tonight Miles was in no mood to make things worse.

A week before, he’d tried to tell Mr. Colbi his usual story. It was so weird. When Miles had been a cop he hadn’t ever entertained the idea that one could schedule anything with any criminal. They were always just those who dabbled in meth, or used automatic weapons—and well-placed bribes—to traffic people around to an epic degree. There was no way they would ever pencil in a random vacation request, or a business meeting, yet—somehow—Miles was doing that all the time now.

Maybe it was because criminals liked him, and never wanted to tell him no? Or, maybe it was because Miles had been working for Mr. Colbi for forever—stretching back to when Miles had been on the force, before prison and all his own bribes had come to light—and since Mr. Colbi gave him time off everyone else had to follow suit.

Whatever the case, Miles had had years of success where asking for a little vacation wasn’t a problem. But last week things had gone wrong.

He’d tried—his feet the same shuffle they always were whenever he entered Mr. Colbi’s office, his head low too as if burdened by a shame he didn’t understand. He’d been halfway through his usual speech—it’s the anniversary of when they—but suddenly Mr. Colbi had interrupted. There’d been an accountant, or whatever—Miles never cared for tons of information—and that man needed to be made an example of, could Miles be of assistance?

The yes he’d given—I’ll take care of it, for sure—had arrived a second later…he hadn’t even had to think all that much about it. But then came the wait, it was just the way it went with Mr. Colbi. Once you agreed to anything you didn’t ever try to rush it along you only went home and hung around until he called to tell you when and where. It was often perfect.

Besides, Miles didn’t have the speed of the lean and the young anyway. He just had his girth, and a determination to carry that girth as best he could. Why not wait for a ring when he was fine with that?

However, and to be completely honest, even Miles’ girth had recently become an issue. For years, he’d been a tad overweight—he liked to eat, yet he’d managed. His wife had always teased that she would leave if he ever got any bigger, that she’d married the college wrestling star that had muscle, not the lumbering cop who never chased anything because he was too busy enjoying donuts and sitting behind a desk. Miles wondered what she would think of him now. Just how sad would she be?

Still, she was gone so who cared about her sorrow…right? Let the weight grow, that was Miles’ new philosophy, and no matter how large he got he could take it slow—wait a little more until his determination caught up—and then go about his work.

He would always imagine something nice too—just a quick daydream about how he was finally going to meet the man, or the woman, who’d jumped a curb before disappearing like magic. That’s what it had been—magic, or a trick of the light—and after all these years what bothered him the most was that no matter how much he thought about it, ran the details of their death over and over, he still couldn’t find the magician who’d cast such a spell.

His wife, his daughter, their killer had vanished as if they’d never existed—which meant any victim that someone needed hurt, or any man or woman Mr. Colbi needed dead, was Miles’ most pleasant daydream. This was his chance—I got them, it’s all better—and last week that accountant, or whatever, had even had a tasty price on his head…most definitely why Miles had said yes so fast.

Miles looked back down at his hand. Was there blood? He struggled but finally brought his fingers together into agony of closed knuckles. He felt the grind of bone against loose bone. It hurt—the guy who was whatever had had quite the surprisingly hard head—but there really was no free-flowing anything that he could find.

A smile appeared on his face. It was so random it caught the breath in his lungs. Miles hadn’t smiled in forever.

He tried to remember when last he’d done it. Out of happiness, out of hurt, the upward quiver of his lips felt beyond foreign—he couldn’t recall. It had probably been when they were alive, or perhaps at the funeral when Nicky had gotten up to give the eulogy and it had been so beautiful Miles had smiled until the wake of their absence had sent him drowning back into grief.

Maybe this was why he always went to Nicky’s on the anniversary of their death. After Miles had been kicked off the force—and after he’d served his time in prison too—Nicky had taken early retirement and had opened a bar. But Miles couldn’t go there all the time. There were too many disappointed glances, and sighs of regret.

But he couldn’t avoid the place either. He would stay away until it was their week, their day, their everything—the hurt he would see in Nicky’s eyes so awful it made any other glance fade into inconsequential. It was just another perfect he had to have.

He usually even felt a nice level of awful while walking to Nicky’s so why wasn’t he close to that now? It didn’t make sense.

Miles almost smiled again. Twice in one night, why was he acting so odd? He’d been more depressed when he’d left his apartment. He kept flexing his hand. Blood or not, he deserved this pain…but there was still that smile.

He turned. For a second, he was sure someone was behind but there was nothing. Miles shook his head. It was just the night. It felt off.

He resumed his walk, Nicky’s soon appearing in a neon bath of blues and reds—a sad spotlight of a sign that painted just “icky’s” along the deepening night. Maybe now things would return to awful.

“I’m back.” Miles sighed. He entered a low hanging fog of cigarette ash, and the scattered detritus of lost change and spilled booze.

“Expected you sooner,” Nicky said. He was in his usual spot of polishing glasses, and making drinks, from behind a mahogany countertop that already had three regulars stationed around it. “Like last Monday. What happened?”

Miles shook his head. Often, he wasn’t much of a talker. Mr. Colbi would give that call and it would only be a few grunts of “okay,” or, “so who’s giving me a lift,” before he’d be in a warehouse, or a field, and the screaming would start. There wasn’t much need to speak after that either, and Miles liked how his words could be better given with a fist, or the occasional kick. But, Nicky—every year it was the same. He had his questions and Miles, normally, forced himself to answer. It was a second layer to that awful he adored.

“Seriously,” Nicky kept on, “what’s up?”

Miles shrugged. He knew Nicky wouldn’t quit, but for some reason he wasn’t ready for any awful just yet.

He went to a coat rack off to his right. Already it held quite a few jackets—way more than three but not a whole lot, Nicky’s would never be one of those places that was overflowing with customers. A thick array of grey and brown cotton, with a random added dash of black leather, hung on thin bronze hooks as Miles peeled off his jacket and added it to the mix. He could barely stand how large his was next to the others.

“One free drink,” Nicky said. Miles turned in surprise. He stared at Nicky through puffy cheeks that often threatened to swallow his black eyes whole. “I need to loosen your tongue.”

Miles shrugged again. Nicky was nothing if not direct, his questions so spot on Miles’ loved the tremble they brought. Like how about Amber’s hair…did he remember it? How it had held the luster of her name, a dark yet sunshine hue. Or Megan—always circling back to his little Megan—did he remember when her first tooth fell out?

Miles still had the quarter he would have given to her, it was under his pillow on the bed back in his apartment. Meghan had cried because of that tooth—all her tears spent wondering, and wondering, just how the tooth fairy was ever going to find what she’d hidden. Her face had been so precious too—she was just beyond devastated that she’d been asleep when that tooth had fallen, her slumber causing her to swallow it whole—and Miles had promised that though he was busy now he’d soon make everything okay. How could he forget that?

Of course, Megan and Ambers being killed just a few days after his promise had been given, taken before he could prove anything true—it’s okay, daddy’s’ got the quarter, I made it okay—meant his mind would never let him forget even if he begged it for reprieve. He was always remembering, even when he was on his bed deep into sleep, but he still appreciated how Nicky would ask and he would answer.

Still, this night just kept feeling off. It was a strange tug that made Miles not want to talk. Or, really, not want to talk to Nicky.

Even the lighting in the bar suddenly seemed off. Nicky had always enjoyed soft light, the kind of daggling bulbs that had multicolored shades. Such things didn’t cast the room in a swirl of many colors, that would have been annoying, but they did make the place feel un-earthly.

Yet tonight that un-earthly was expanding. Miles could see it clear. Darkness pulsed every few seconds as shadows that normally edged the room took over.

The coats on the rack had made it clear that other people were in the bar, even the three he’d noticed before had announced that fact rather loudly, but now Miles couldn’t see a soul. It was as if every daggling bulb only made islands of white—tiny pockets that revealed a quick peak of the floor, or a slender hint of a chair’s leg, before a void so deep returned and Miles could almost believe that just he and Nicky were around.

“I was busy,” Miles finally said. He sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. Nicky was already moving towards him with a large frothy glass of beer.

“With what,” Nicky asked.

Miles held up his fist. It was like when he’d smiled outside, an action done so fast he hadn’t even realize he was doing it until it was done.

“Idiot,” Nicky said. He gave the beer to Miles. Really, he dropped it in disgust, a quick wave of suds falling across that mahogany countertop.

Miles reached for the glass. “Sorry,” he sighed, “but you know what I do. Why are you always so upset about it?”

Nicky shook his head, and took a towel out from somewhere, as Miles found himself, yet again, about to smile. Every time he came to Nicky’s he enjoyed this other bit of magic. Not wife and daughter murder magic….no, this was just a simple spell where no matter where Nicky stood he could always conjure up a towel from somewhere nearby.

“Not upset,” Nicky said. He began to wipe up what he’d spilled. “I’m tired. Guys come in—they talk. I know how you’ve fallen I just…what would Amber say? What would Megan…”

Miles took a quick sip of his beer. This was the normal, Nicky bringing up Megan. She always helped to make the awful flow.

“She’d probably say,” Miles began. Somehow, Megan had done the trick. The strange tug was gone and now he really, really, wanted to talk. “No,” Miles clarified, if he was going to speak he might as well get it right. “Megan would definitely say, dad, daddy, why did I die when I was five? Why was I crushed to death by some grey monster with paint so common you could only trace it to a model of truck that about half the country owns? Why couldn’t you save me? Why couldn’t you avenge me? Why are you such a terrible waste of space?”

“Go to hell,”

This was new. Nicky had never cussed at him before. “What?” Miles set down his beer. Nicky wasn’t the angry one. Why was this night switching everything around?

“I’m done,” Nicky said. “I’m not…this anniversary—or last weeks’ anniversary—it’s our last one. I’m out. I’m not watching you continue your suicide. We’re not friends, Miles. We’re very distant acquaintances who act like mad scientists every time we see each other. We keep the dead alive, we’ve been doing it for two decades. I thought Amber—I even thought Megan—would be happy I was here for you but this…why can’t you forgive yourself? It’s not your fault.”

Miles sighed. “You’re wrong,” but he wasn’t angry like he thought he should be. He was only tired—yet a true tired, not whatever lie Nicky had said he was. “It is my fault,” Miles sighed again. “It’s my fault they died. It’s my fault I couldn’t find their killer.”

“No,” Nicky yelled, “it isn’t!”

Actually, he screamed so loud the whole bar should have come alive—proving even more that he wasn’t tired in any way—but no one noticed. The darkness, how Nicky and he probably could have howled and howled and no one would have cared—some things might have almost been back to normal but Nicky’s place still held that strange dark at its edges.

“Nothing is your fault,” Nicky continued, “and even if it was you’ve paid. You’ve made yourself pay. Just forgive yourself. Miles, please, forgive.”

Miles reached back for his beer. He still wanted to talk, which was nice, but not about this. “I don’t do forgiveness.”

“Fine,” Nicky said, “but I’m done. We’re done.”

Miles eyed him careful. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No,” Nicky said, “you can have this night, and your drinks, but I’m not going to speak to you unless you talk to me about forgiveness. We’re not going to dig Amber and Megan back up, and I’m not going to ask you question after question about what you remember or what shade of grey paint it was you found. Talk to me about letting go and I’m here. Anything else and I’m just a silent bartender giving you booze.”

Miles drained his glass before setting it back onto the bar. “But I want to talk,” he said, “I really do.”

“About forgiveness,”

“No,”

“Then let me refill,” Nicky said as he grabbed up Miles’ empty glass, “but that’s all I’m going to do.”

He walked away. “But,” Miles said as he watched Nicky go. However, his voice wasn’t nearly loud enough. He was so sure no one would hear. “But I finally want to talk.”

“Okay,” a voice said from out of nowhere.

Miles turned. A man was on a stool just two over from him. He was sitting in one of those rare islands of light, so brightly lit Miles had no clue how he could have missed him before.

“Who,” Miles asked, “are you?”

It was a rather odd statement. One he hadn’t known he would say until it fell from his lips. He had other things he should have asked—where did you come from, or why do you want to talk to me—but this was what came up.

He was also feeling happy again. As Miles turned to fully face the man, one last smile threatened to make an appearance. This guy wasn’t making him feel better, was he?

“They call me Spartan,” the man said.

He was stocky with hair cut so short Miles couldn’t tell what color it was. Beyond that he also wore a short sleeved green shirt that fit tight against his athletic frame, and tan pants that where nicely pressed. Spartan looked half dressed for some kind of casual affair, and half dressed for a more business frame of mind, but it was only when Miles cast his eyes even lower, and took in the worn running shoes on Spartan’s feet, that it fit.

Spartan was obviously a former military man who hadn’t yet accepted life in the real world. Miles knew those types of guys, and green shirts and running shoes were things they never could stop wearing. But he also knew that those guys also made the occasional sacrifice and put on nice pants, or a tie, when they had some business to do. The only thing Miles couldn’t quite figure was what kind of business Spartan was involved in.

“Spartan,” Miles said. Nicky was at the other end of the bar. Why not speak with someone else? “Is that a last name—first?”

“Kind of both,” Spartan said.

“So…no Tom, no Bob,”

“Nope,”

“You really don’t have a better first name?”

“Just Spartan—or, maybe, Mr. Spartan if you prefer.”

Miles nodded. “Well thanks for the conversation, Mr. Spartan. What would you like to talk about?”

Spartan smiled. “Let’s talk about stories.”

Miles coughed, he couldn’t help it. For a second he thought some strange bark of laughter might escape from his lungs, but this was all that arrived.

“Stories,” Miles said once he’d recovered. Spartan’s grin was so natural there was true jealousy deep inside him—something primal that was stuck in his throat and causing him to cough. Miles just knew he’d never be able to create a smile like that even if he practiced hard. “Wait,” he sighed. He swallowed down the jealous, and cleared his throat. “Why would you want to talk about stories?”

“Because it’s what I do,” Spartan said. “I tell people the stories they need to hear.”

That was weird, but Nicky came back over, dropped off a second glass, and Miles realized it didn’t matter. Without saying a word, Nicky gave him his refill, went on his way, and Miles was glad. With the jealous now gone, and a nice chat already being had, he’d somehow gone back to not wanting to talk to Nicky.

Miles took a sip of his second beer. “Am I supposed to ask if you have a story for me?”

“You are.”

“So, what is it?”

“Something you’ll really like.” Spartan said. “My story is about how you can steal someone’s soul.”

Miles had so many things to say about that—souls, was this guy religious—but he only heard himself asking, “Okay, how am I supposed to steal those?”

“It’s hard work,” Spartan said, “but in the end, I have to say it revolves around baseball.”

Miles shook his head. “How does anything relate to baseball?”

“Good question,” Spartan said. “I guess…well, maybe in this modern age things don’t relate well to it, but at its beginnings you could use baseball to describe almost anything. Love, death, war, you name it and we could take that idea and spin it into the greatest baseball metaphor you’ve ever heard. Stealing souls just happens to be one of the only things left that works. You see it takes a kind of stillness that a person must have before they can make their move. There are these creatures, these angels and…”

“Wait! Wait!” Miles said. Maybe Spartan was religious after all. Didn’t he have to be if he was talking like this? “Are you saying you believe in angels of death?”

“I do.”

Miles shook his head again. “And you’ve seen them, big black cloaks and sickles? Are they really all bone underneath those robes? I’ve been curious about that.”

“Common mistake,” Spartan clarified. “Angels of death, or Reapers, look like you and me. No robes, no large pointy metal objects, just men and women going about their business in other realms until they get an order to swoop on down. You may have even seen one or two and not known it. They do sometimes visit when they’re not ripping out souls.”

“Okay, so, no bones,”

“No bones.”

“Got it,” Miles said. “But where does the stillness come in?”

Spartan gestured to one stool closer to Miles. It was obvious what he wanted and Miles nodded an okay, and took another sip of his beer, as Spartan moved.

“Stillness,” Spartan finally said. He’d taken a few extra seconds to get comfortable, but now he was talking. “It’s in the first step. You see a person who is about to steal a soul is also about to die—their time is up—yet they need to walk around as if they don’t have a care in the world. It’s an attitude of unconcern and no emotion until the moment when a Reaper is so consumed with its target it isn’t prepared for what comes next.”

“And what comes next?”

“That’s when the victim arrives.” Spartan smiled. It still looked amazing, probably more so now that it was closer. “Of course, it helps if this victim is not so nice, someone the Reapers don’t really care about because this person doesn’t really care about themselves.”

Miles nodded. For some reason that last bit made a lot of sense.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Using nice people is bad.”

Spartan smiled even more, a wide grin that suddenly seemed hungry—maybe even malevolent. But then Miles blinked and everything went back to amazing.

“I knew you’d understand,” Spartan laughed. “But, also, just to let you know, this victim needs to be close, very close. Again, that just helps with everything. Yet once they are close, the final step is made. All the dying person has to do is wait around until a Reaper is swooping in and then they move out of the way. They let the victim be taken instead.”

Miles let that settle. It took a moment—and maybe this second beer was hitting him way too hard because he now felt so warm and comfortable—but something finally clicked into place. “Wait,” he argued, “that doesn’t…how’s that stealing? You haven’t done anything except dodge?”

Spartan sighed. “I will admit that calling it soul stealing may not be absolutely accurate. But the person who remains on this earth does take something from the event. When a Reaper grabs a soul that wasn’t supposed to be taken all the extra life that that soul had, or was ever going to have, stays on this plane of existence and whoever is near enough to take it gets to have it. It’s as simple as that. Find someone not so nice, yet someone who still looks like they have a few years left in them, and let a Reaper attack while you stand back and absorb all the precious leftovers of a life gone before its time. It’s quite easy.”

“And these angels of death don’t get mad?” Miles had many more doubts swirling around. But, again, this was all he found himself saying. “Why don’t they put the unintended soul back where it came from?”

“Remember,” Spartan said, “you have to pick a not nice victim. It helps. But, also, once a soul is ripped out it can’t go back in. And, once someone has absorbed all the leftovers their soul is renewed and a Reaper can’t touch them.”

Miles nodded one last time. “Find a patsy, let them take the fall. I’ve seen that done before. But where does your baseball thing fit in?”

“It relates to the stillness,” Spartan explained, “because stillness is in every aspect of baseball. This is best seen when someone steals second.”

“Stealing second,” Miles sighed, “I…I’m confused?”

“Not a problem.” Spartan said. “Just imagine you’re a baseball player who is known for stealing bases. It’s your thing. So, if you ever make it to first base it is the most pivotal part of your game. Sure, stealing second to third will be hard, and stealing home will be audacious at best, but nothing compares to first. You’re standing on that base, and you know the pitcher has you in the corner of his eye, and this is where pure stillness arrives. The pitcher is all ice and is just waiting for you to melt, but if you can out last him, if you can out still that frozen idiot, you’ll trick him every time. He’ll start to think that maybe you aren’t going to steal any bases this game, that maybe you’ve given it up, and sooner or later he will drop his eyes off you and that is when you make your move.”

“Stealing second?” Miles asked.

“It’s the best example I’ve got.”

“So, you’re saying these Reapers know that somebody is going to try and dodge them?”

Spartan stretched, and slowly stood. “Let’s just say they’ve been burned before,” he said. “They’re ready for someone to try and extend a life.”

At three in a far too chilly am, Miles finally left Nicky’s. He’d hung around after Mr. Spartan had taken off, after last call too and some cleaning had been done—an event that had needed Miles to lift his legs, never fun, so Nicky could sweep under the entire bar.

But when Nicky had looked him in the eye, and was about to speak, Miles had bolted. He’d spent most of the night in silence—after Spartan was gone he truly had no one else to chat with—and even if it wasn’t tradition he was steadfast in his resolve. He wasn’t going to do as Nicky had asked—no forgiveness, none of that—so why even try conversation.

Miles stood on a corner of an empty street. The night outside was as bleak and un-earthly as the inside of the bar had been. Streetlights were on, but the safety of their radiance meant crossing a desert of asphalt. There was no way he had the energy for that.

Miles wanted to stand in this ocean of absence. His tradition really was over. It had been so clear when he’d left. Why go back to his apartment? Why go anywhere?

“You know,” a voice from out of the darkness said, “I did forget one part.”

Mr. Spartan was right at his side. He was standing serenely as if he’d been next to Miles—almost shoulder to shoulder—since Nicky’s had been forgotten to the past.

“What,” Miles asked, “you mean there’s more than just stealing?”

“Yep,” Spartan said, “a lot more…but I only tell this part to the most important of people.”

Miles felt honored. “So,” he asked. But he should have been more upset—how had Spartan gotten this close without him noticing—yet he was calm, relaxed even. “What did you forget?”

“The ending,” Spartan said, “it’s up for grabs. In your story, there is a way to escape from soul stealing, a very special way.”

“What,” Miles asked. Was he whispering, or had Spartan been the one to talk in hushed tones. The night now held a reverent cadence to its dark, like something holy, or other worldly, was about to step out a say hello. “What lets you escape?”

“Forgiveness,” Spartan sighed. “I know you don’t like it, but it’s there. We could talk about it if you’d like.”

Miles shrugged as his calm began to slip. The night even lost a touch of that other worldly as he had only one thought now racing through his mind. Was he going to be facing words like forgiveness till dawn?

“I don’t do that,”

“Really,” Spartan asked, “you sure?”

Miles nodded. He did it with so much force he was afraid his head might slip from his shoulders. “Really,”

“So,” Spartan said, “you’re beyond redemption?”

“Redemption,” Miles sighed, “forgiveness, even if God, right now, bled both for me I would turn them down. I deserve whatever I get.”

Spartan smiled, this grin as hungry—and malevolent—as the one Miles had seen back in the bar. However, no matter how much Miles blinked—or wished it away—this grin never switched. It never turned into amazing.

“Well,” Spartan said, “just one last thing to say,”

Miles was calm again, the night also back to being tinged with something extra. Spartan’s hunger, just the look of his smile, should have been causing his skin to bristle in terror but all Miles felt was content.

“What,” Miles asked. He should have been screaming, wondering loud what was happening, but this was all he uttered. “What do you have to say?”

“I should have let you know that magic helps,”

“Magic,” Miles sighed, “what does magic help with?”

“In getting to your ending,” Spartan whispered. He was definitely hushed tones now—no doubt about it. “Sure,” he continued, “a hard emotion—like hearing about a lost child, or feeling upset because we keep talking about things you don’t like—will make you shake out of the intent and not feel as calm as I’d like, but that can be overcome and magic really does work. It allows me to be able to absorb all that extra life that is left lingering after a Reaper takes an unintended victim and, once any hard emotion is defeated, it also helps in getting you to stand still.”

“Oh,” Miles said, “nice to know.”

“It is nice.” Spartan kept whispering. “Magic even helps with the pain. It isn’t a lot but…well, it would be impolite if I didn’t at least try to make this comfortable.”

Magic, Miles had known for far too long that it was real, so why be surprised when someone finally admitted they used it. He wanted to nod again, or sigh thanks that someone was being honest about what he could conjure, but Miles’ shoulders could barely move. That warmth and comfort had spread, invading so far into his bones that even when he tried to shake his arms they didn’t budge.

“It’s magic,” Spartan said.

Miles’ voice was sweet, as if nothing were wrong. “What is,” was all he whispered.

“Stealing second,” Spartan said. “Do you still think you deserve this?”

Miles wanted to say no, or at least give one scream so he could wrench himself free of the crushing weight that his life had become, but he couldn’t. There was Megan, and Amber, and grey paint that he hadn’t been able to connect to anything. How could he ever forgive himself for letting them down?

“I…I deserve….” His limbs were frozen, but he could mumble that. It summed up so much.

“And that’s why I told you your story,” Spartan said, his smile growing ever larger. “That’s why this is how it ends.”