Hundreds of people gathered to witness the burial service of Baltimore City Police Homicide Detective John H. “Jack” Street. Most of them that knew Jack say that he was a good man – a man of honor and integrity, blessed with a brilliant mind and a good life where he was loved by family, friends, and colleagues alike. Everyone in attendance shared in a crippling sense of bewilderment in the matter; they weren’t sure how a man of his status could take his own life and hurt the many people that loved him. They stood in semi-circles around the hole, silently sobbing with the chilled moisture of the misty wind biting at their faces. This day was, and felt, unusually cold to them; even if it was an unseasonably warm New Years Eve.

The hair of the hundreds of folks that had gathered around the hole fluttered about amid the macabre garden of chiseled stones. A line of cars, two wide and approximately a mile deep, were parked in uniformity out along the nearby hilly, two-lane country road. In the distance, a motorbike hugged the curves of the road, letting out the lone mechanical screech that echoed throughout the Meadow of Rest Eternal at this time in the morning.

Headlights, flashers, pulsing reds and sobbing blues; almost every patrol car that wasn’t actively on the beat in the city was lined up here today. A practically standard display for an officer lost in the line of duty, yet Jack’s death drew out nearly every one of his former superiors to pay their respects as well. It was the greatest display they could offer, and the largest of its kind in two decades.

Jack’s untimely death was something that no one from the Street family expected. When he took the job as detective nearly ten years ago it was relieving, in a way, to know that Jack only had to show up after the shooting had stopped. His family had grown-up with him comfortable with their worries minimized. Never in a million years would they have expected him to be, or to grow, suicidal. Especially seeing the devastation that such a choice would leave face-to-face as much as he had.

A thousand eyes of despondent attendees focused their attention forward as the ceremonies commenced. The eyes of millions more watched from the comfort of their own homes. Family and close friends moved closer the grave. A local news reporter aimed his camera at a mother, in her nineties, struggling to stand in the sopping sod, unsure if it was the curious rain or her ever-flowing tears that had caused the ground around her to sink. In frame, a new widow new to the world at large, with her two grown children, now without the comfort that their father provided for the rest of their lives. They become the sole focus as they continue to grieve in their own way. Unfathomably saddened, pulsing, and filled to the brim with a burning rage.

Wish I was too dead to cry / My self-affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator / Masochists to which I cater

A close friend of the deceased, and his family, made it his business to protect them. He had brought Jack’s elderly Mother a chair, and helped her sit at the foot of her sons grave. He wrapped his arms around the wife and the son, he watched as his mentor’s remains were placed over the hole by eight other uniformed members of the Baltimore Police Department. Casket bearers marched in unison, bearing the burden of weight, bringing Jack to his final resting place. The nature of his “injury” kept the lid of the casket closed. All that was left of Jack sat locked away in a metal container never to be seen or heard from again.

A picture of his face stood on a tripod beside the grave. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Everyone deserves to have a photograph burned into their memory on the worst day of their lives, and anyone who has ever lost anyone knows that. They had picked the best picture of Jack that they could find – one of LaFayette’s absolute favorites that she ever had of her husband. He looked happy.

It was a mistake.

You don’t need to bother, I don’t need to be
I’ll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on, I won’t let go ’til it bleeds

A preacher in a great violet robe fuddled through the flimsy and tattered pages of a bible that he had carried around for nearly thirty years. It was a gift given to him at seminary, heavily used and well worn. Littered with highlight markings and creased edges, He was struggling to find the specific chapter that he had marked earlier. He always took his sermons seriously, yet at this moment he found himself nervous, he had never preached at a gathering so large in his life.

All eyes on him as he recited verses. The preacher found himself surrounded by statues wearing crisp dress blues, and those sets of lifeless eyes would remember the words he spoke on this day. Tears flowed from crevices like April rain. The preacher knew that he was being heard, lifting his spirits.

There’s a lot of words on the page that describe what the road to heaven looks like. It was the preachers job to convince them that Jack knew the way. It was not an easy task, but it was the one he agreed to take on in the name of the Lord. So many souls lie in the balance, each of them here, now; fixated on a grave.

The soul of the man whose remains lie before him lost forever, or so he truly believed.

Wish I was too dead to care / If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest / So you fed me shit to digest

Standing on the outskirts, a professional wrestler, mostly staying out of view. Beside him, another superstar wrestler. She stood closely by. She was a bastion of support in an otherwise troubling time.

They stood there with their hands tied. He watched quietly behind a ten-dollar pair of cheap sunglasses and a poorly-knotted black tie, keeping mostly to himself. She wore a black dress that she had draped over her figure hours prior and hid behind sunglasses as well. The two performers worked to keep a low profile here because of the prying eye of the local television cameras.

The cameras were always around, and if the cameras spotted them, they’d come rushing in for the inevitable close-up/interview. The cameras seemed to follow them around like a lost child; a bad memory, their prying lenses lingering like a STD.

The woman wrestler squeezed her husbands hand when the preacher quipped of the concept of eternity. She looked at her husband intently with quiet eyes when the preacher asked if “Anyone wasn’t sure of where they would go” after they had met their demise. Her husband looked back at her from the corner of his eye, and gave her a kiss on the side of her forehead. No one knows where they are going when they die, he felt, but he could have guessed that he was going the same place Jack was going; and that was most certainly “anywhere but up”.

“If anyone here truly wished to change their course,” the preacher preached, “Now was the time, before it becomes too late for you…”

Too late, He presumed – as it was for Jack.

I wish I had a reason, my flaws are open season
For this, I gave up trying / One good turn deserves my dying

“If there is anyone here, who does not have a personal relationship with the heavenly Father or with his son Jesus, I ask that you bow your heads and pray with me; and I ask that you accept Jesus as your personal savior and Lord…”

There wasn’t a head not bowed except for a few. The camera panned through the crowd, witnessing a few legitimate new believers among the vast blue sea of pretenders. Mostly those bowing out of respect for Jack’s family, and for the preacher who had just attempted to give the sermon of Jack’s life. The Preacher prayed for everyone’s forgiveness while the reality of death was still fresh in their minds. What followed next was a somber “Amen.” A few more tears were shed. Cozened grace abound.

“From ashes to ashes,” the preacher said, condemning the masses as the bible had clearly instructed. Then he poured a ceremonial ash from his open skyward palms onto the lid of the golden casket before him. He formed the poured ashes into the shape of a cross, for all the world to see, where he then prayed silently, wishing that God would forgive Jack for what was his final sin against him. He didn’t want to be seen as a liar when the new followers he had just created went to Heaven and Jack wasn’t there.

The man of orthodox faith knew according to his belief that Jack could never ask for divine forgiveness for taking his own life. Therefore, his soul would forever be a lost cause.

Purgatory if he was lucky. Hell if he got what was coming to him.

You don’t need to bother, I don’t need to be
I’ll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on, I won’t let go ’til it bleeds

Jack’s mother and wife thanked the preacher for a wonderful service. The preacher nodded his head, proud of his efforts. Jack’s two kids turned away from him, and turned towards their Father’s only true friend who seemed to them just as grief-stricken as they were.

Detective Raymond “Ray” Barnes did not know why that their Father killed himself, only that he was now the greatest detective that Baltimore had to offer being Detective Jack’s protege. His mentor and ally always taught him to never give up on even the most hopeless of cases, and it was this advice that now kept him going through the worst days of his life. He had been through many cases on his time in the force, but he always had Jack’s brilliant mind to lean on for advice. This would be the first time he truly felt alone in the hunt for the truth. Ironically it would be Jack that was both the murderer and the victim. He watched it all unfold right before his very eyes.

Detective Barnes knew that there are no questions he could ask, or answers that Jack could give now; not that any of the potential answers mattered anymore anyway. The job was all about resolution, and all he had left were the two letters Jack had given him, written by Jack in red ink and sealed shut by Jack himself. Jack gave Ray those letters just moments before executing his own death with strict and specific instructions for their delivery. Ray was to make sure that only the person whose initials were written on the face of each envelope read each specifically handwritten letter addressed to them, and not one person more. It didn’t make sense to Ray, but it was the last thing Jack ever wanted from him.

The first letter was simple, the initials L.N.S. belonged to his beloved wife of more than twenty years. When she opened the letter two days ago she had instantly been brought to tears, and whisked herself away into a bedroom that She and Jack shared. LaFayette did as Ray asked her to, she read the letter and did not tell another soul about what the letter said; not Raymond, not Jack’s Mother, even hers and Jack’s kids.

The next set of initials, C.J.W., weren’t nearly as easy for Ray to find. It took Ray the entirety of the following day just to chase down whatever clues he could carefully drum up just to figure out who C.J.W. could be; and was shocked when his investigation came to conclusion. He was equally as shocked to find that the unlikely recipient was here at the burial, almost drawn to him in this moment as if Jack had planned this perfectly timed moment before turning the barrel upon himself and pulling the hammer and trigger.

Ray couldn’t miss him. As most heads were bowed, C.J.W.’s was up and forward. As the crowds began to disperse, that man and his wife stood solid in solitude and as still as statues. The wife was turned toward her husband, but her husband’s gaze was fixed – dead ahead.

“Why would Jack write him?” Ray asked himself quietly. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

In the world of detectives, this would be the first glaringly obvious clue Jack had left as to why he did what he did. Because he knew of the understated importance of this letter, it wasn’t something that Ray could give up on easily. He was determined to carry out Jack’s last wish, but wouldn’t just let C.J.W. walk away without telling him why he got a letter from Jack at all. If he truly was the recipient of one of the only two letters Jack wrote, C.J.W. must know why.

Ray didn’t believe in coincidences. He peered up out of the corner of his eye to see C.J.W. standing still while a few hundred police officers dispersed. Ray knew right away that something wasn’t right, and even though he witnessed Jack kill himself in person, he was not at all convinced that it was Jack who truly made the ultimate decision to end it all.

In the brand new case of who truly killed Jack Street, Raymond Barnes had to become acquainted with someone highly unlikely, yet undoubtedly the keeper of the initials inscribed on the second letter.

Raymond Barnes had to come face-to-face with Professional Wrestling Superstar and local Baltimore Legend CJ Wylde.

Wish I’d died instead of lived / A zombie hides my face
Shell forgotten with its memories / Diaries left with cryptic entries

As the preacher worked to finish up his sermon, CJ Wylde peered down at his phone. Lucy nudged him on the arm with her elbow once, twice, and then spoke up when CJ still didn’t put the phone away.

“CJ, that’s rude,” she whispered sharply with her lips pursed. “Put that damn phone away…”

They could still hear the preacher off in the distance preaching to the masses undisturbed as Wylde tucked his phone away in his inner coat pocket. He turned his gaze forward with a deep sigh that drew Lucy’s attention once more; she shook her head in mild disgust.

“Whats the matter with you?”

“You know I don’t like this place.” CJ whispered back. “I’d much rather be anywhere else than here.”

Lucy sighed.

“You’re here to pay respects to your friend.” She reminded him. “If nothing else, act a little bit respectful towards him and his family.”

CJ wanted to correct her, wanted to remind Lucy that Jack Street was anything but his friend, but decided better of it and didn’t say anything at all. Lucy knew right away that her husband had thrown up an wall between them, shutting himself off not only to her, but to the world surrounding him. It drove her crazy whenever CJ would clam up and keep his emotions locked tight inside. CJ frequently held things from her, things he thought would hurt her if she knew, so in a way he genuinely thought that he was protecting her.

With his face turned towards the preacher, he looked cold and lifeless. On the inside, Wylde was overwhelmed by the moment. He shivered lightly within the dark suit he had draped over the vessel this morning, the same dark suit that he would always wear whenever he was called to come here to the Meadow. Much like the sermons he was subjected to as a child, he felt irritated and bored, and couldn’t wait for the preacher to just stop talking so he could go home. If it wasn’t for what Jack Street had done for the Wylde family, or did to them, CJ wouldn’t have bothered coming at all.

Lucy frowned when she saw the ice-cold countenance and rock-hard demeanor of her husband out of the corner of her eye, and she squeezed his hand tighter to let him know that she was here, and that she cared about him and how he felt.

“I know that you don’t like this place,” she whispered. “The minister is almost done. Then we can go, okay? Unless you’d rather, I mean… if you want to, I don’t know. I don’t want to pressure you-”

“Want to what?” CJ asked.

Lucy looked over her shoulder, peering at a far corner of the Meadow of Rest Eternal that was familiar to them.

“If you wanted to stop by over there and-”

Wylde shook his head.

“Not necessarily, no.” He responded sharply.

“Okay,” Lucy replied, nervously. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

You don’t need to bother, I don’t need to be
I’ll keep on slipping farther

When the preacher finished, hundreds of tearful attendees broke formation and made their way in several different directions. The Wyldes stood out from the crowd because they were a couple of only a few that weren’t in a rush to get moving along. The crowds dispersed like roaches upon the flick of the light switch, and the cameras ceased to roll in kind. The Wyldes did begin to move as well, CJ made an effort to work his way toward the suspended casket with his wife in tow.

A short line had formed betwixt a tapestry of the smaller groups that were left atop the sopping sod and between the weeping stones. People waited in line to hear their own voices offer a brief smattering of last words toward the deceased. It was to make themselves feel better, or at the very least, accomplished.

The Wyldes approached the gold plated casket and CJ lowered his sunglasses, revealing the newly formed scar over his left eye. “Ashes to ashes indeed,” he murmured, carefully to keep his words hidden beneath his breath; his eyes fixated on the cross that the preacher drew on the lid.

Lucy moved to hug Jack’s wife LaFayette, and his elderly mother, too. She offered them her sympathies and support, and even offered to help pay for some the costs of the funeral itself should they find themselves in need. The proud yet shaken women turned her offer down, but thanked her kindly. The Baltimore City police department were kind enough to cover most of the costs, and the rest they would faithfully rely on God to provide for them. CJ and Lucy remembered a time when they could say the same.

Raymond Barnes approached from the side, catching CJ just as he turned away from the casket, squaring up with him so that he couldn’t make an easy escape.

“Are you CJ Wylde?” Raymond asked, towering over the six-foot Wylde, eclipsing him by another half-foot.

“I am.” CJ replied.

“I would like to speak to you, if you don’t mind, in private.” He said.

Lucy stepped forward, her eyebrows raised, a lioness protecting her pride.

“And just who are you?” Lucy quipped.

“I’m Detective Raymond Barnes, Ma’am. I have a few questions that I’d like to ask your Husband.”

The details of their marriage were common knowledge, so it didn’t faze her that this stranger knew. But being of sharp wit, red flags shot up in Lucy’s mind instantaneously. There was something in the way of Detective Barnes approach that made her feel uneasy.

“Oh, alright.” She replied with a glance and a glare, looking over to her husband and then back at Barnes with her arms folded across her chest. There was something about Ray Barnes – She hadn’t known the man for thirty seconds and already didn’t trust him.

But once I hold on

Barnes walked alongside Wylde as they moved toward a clearing.

“What’s this all about?” CJ asked.

Barnes stopped and looked about, just to make sure that there weren’t any stragglers or otherwise prying eyes surrounding them. Satisfied that no one was looking, Ray reached into his inner coat pocket nervously. Wylde flinched at the sudden movement, but held firm when it became clear that Barnes wasn’t brandishing a firearm, but instead producing a white envelope with droplets of crimson splatter over it. Raymond held the envelope out to Wylde, and it became apparent from the scarlet letters that the missive was addressed to him.

“Jack wanted you to have this,” Raymond replied, extending the envelope out further. “At least I think he wanted you to, anyway.”

Wyldes eyes widened a bit upon first glance. He reached out to take the letter from Raymond’s nervous hand.

“He wanted me to make sure that you got that,” Ray added; “And that no one else got to see the contents of that letter.”

Wylde looked up at Ray, and back down at the letter. His fingertips traced over the stained paper. He could only guess that the droplets on its face were Jack Street’s blood (that much was unmistakable) forever sealing the reality of the moment and the importance of the message contained therein.

“I, uhh, don’t mean to pry into your business, Mister Wylde – But do you know why Jack would write to you?”

CJ looked up from the letter at Ray, and his head shook no but his eyes screamed yes. Wylde wasn’t exactly sure what the letter would say, but he was almost certain that he already knew what the letter would be about.

“No.” Wylde replied as he tucked the letter away inside his own coat pocket quickly.

Ray pursed his lips.

“None at all?”

Wylde balked.

“No idea.”

“Well, I guess that’s it then,” Ray sighed. “I guess we’ll never get to know who really killed Jack Street.”

It ate at Ray knowing that Wylde was a key witness that was visibly scared into withholding vital information, but he didn’t want to dishonor his mentor’s final wishes by interrogating CJ any further. He had to remind himself over and over and over again that the contents of the letter were for CJ Wylde and CJ Wylde alone.

Wylde peered at Ray questioningly, as it had been widely known and accepted that Jack Street had committed suicide.

“That’s fine. If you ever need anything; like you open that letter and wish to talk further, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Alright,” Wylde replied, sliding the letter into his own coat pocket.

“I’d also like to give you my card, if you don’t mind. Just in case you come across something in that letter that doesn’t make any sense. I’ll help you out in any way that I can.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“No problem.” Ray said. “I’d do anything to help out Jack.”

Wylde didn’t yet know of the troubles that Barnes went through just to get him that letter, but he did sense from Barnes determined secrecy that there was more to this than simply reading a special message sent from an old ‘friend’. Wylde turned his head to look among the dispersing crowd, noticing out of the corner of his eye one of Jack Street’s children turning away quickly when she came into his view.

Ray placed his hand on CJ’s shoulder.

“I just hope whatever is in that letter is worth-”

A loud, lone gunshot rang out through the meadows.

What was left of the crowd ducked and/or ran for cover. The women screamed, drowning out the rolling echo of the blast through the hills. Two men had fallen to the ground, and Lucy rushed over to the spot where they fell.

“CJ!!!”

Raymond Barnes rolled over and shook the dusty cobwebs out of his head. He would swear that he had heard the bullet whizzing by. He sat up to see Lucy slide down on her knees, immediately cradling her husband in her arms. She bellowed louder than the explosion of black powder; more powerful than the moment that a soul leaves its vessel forever.

CJ Wylde was down.

I’ll never live down my deceit

 


The Thirteen Steps Saga
Step 2

“Out of the Blue” Part II

[December 23rd, 2016 – 10:01 AM – Scene of Traffic Accident – Baltimore]

For those who have fallen, and for those that rise, there is always a perfect amount of time in between. Well equipped with this knowledge, time still seemed of the essence, especially considering that the angel that was once CJ’s first wife Alice Wylde had no idea what it was that she was supposed to do with the precious time that she had been given back on Earth.

“Allie” had just descended Jacob’s Ladder, unceremoniously, with a velocity that rivaled a speeding bullet. The trajectory was purposefully chosen for her, as the base of the ladder touched down in the exact place that she had died years earlier, alongside a great oak stripped of its bark on one side. As her eyes gazed upon her surroundings she could still picture the mangled remains of what used to be her car practically wrapped around that very same tree. It was the last thing she saw as her soul left for a greater plane.

Her company, the Half-Ghost of her former Husband CJ Wylde (It’s complicated) had initially followed her down the ladder, but has since disappeared as it had become increasingly draining for him to manifest within the physical plane.

Allie was alone, bewildered and somewhat upset. She had quickly noticed that she had no effect on any object within the physical plane whatsoever. Nothing she touched, not even the ground beneath her feet, showed the effect of her touch – and this problem would only grow worse for her as she struggled onward. Not only could she not manipulate anything, she quickly found herself molting away what little feathers she had left. With her wings torn off and now the gradual loss of her bird-like coverings, she felt as if she were becoming more and more human by the second.

Allie realized after a few hours of traveling up the road with her thumb stuck in the air that the drivers of passing cars weren’t not just seeing her, either. Surely a concerned or otherwise malevolent motorist would have stopped by now. She summized that she was practically invisible to the living. This was concerning but somewhat relieving as well considering that she was almost naked by now. She had been reduced to just a blonde-haired figure resembling her former self, one arm over her chest and her other hand covering her sex.

If she wasn’t to be allowed to do something as simple as put on a set of clothes, she wondered why God would have sent her here in the first place. And if she couldn’t figure out why God sent her here, she was doomed to fail her mission before the mission ever truly began.

Miles down the road, after abandoning hitchhiking for a more modest approach, Allie happened upon a service station. She approached with a heavy limp on her right side; the weight of gravity drug her down by the shoulders only to apply more pressure to the newly formed blisters on her bare feet. She was by now, hours beyond the fall, hungry and considerably tired – two things that she hadn’t been since she became an angel some many years ago. She clung to her bare frame despite the fact that she was 99% sure that she was invisible, because there’s a clear difference between knowledge and belief, even if the difference is small.

She stood awkwardly, waiting for a patron who would open the station door for her after one frustrating whiff at the handle herself. Luckily it didn’t take long, as a family of four would pull up in a sleek, modern SUV. The kids hopped out of the back seats before the car even came to a stop and crashed their way through the glass door like heathens. Their parents, not too far behind them, kept as best they could toward the act of civility. Little did the Father know that when he held the door for his wife to enter that he also held it open for Allie to slip right in, too.

The children ran through the aisles, two tiny human tornadoes that ransacked anything in their path. Chips, candy bars and cookies, anything with the word ‘Chocolate’ or any snack that was at least half-sugar was theirs by proxy; nothing was safe. Their tirade would draw the angst of their mother from a considerable distance because she was too busy to tend to them. She couldn’t decide which choice of the twenty-four different flavors of potato crisps she would be willing to sacrifice her semi-thin, girlish figure over.

“I want that candy bar!” The little boy yelled.

“No, I saw it first. It’s mine!” The girl yelled back.

Allie watched as the mother sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Do I need to come over there and give you two the ass-whoopin’ of ya lives?” Their mother quipped back. “Jesus H. Christ. I swear I just don’t know what to do with these children.”

Allie wanted to speak, wanted to give the mother her two cents on what she wouldn’t give to have her child back. Allie watched closely as the two gluttonous children pocketed about as much sweets as they could, dragging armfuls up to the counter like Halloween was coming awfully early for next year. Allie watched as the woman grunted towards the cashier while swiping a payment for her spawn with her charge card. The Father, finally emerging from the bathroom, kisses his wife on the lips as they exit. As if Allie hadn’t been taunted enough.

Left to her own devices, Allie tried to grab whatever she could. But nothing, no bag of chips, no cinnamon bun; every swipe of her hand would yield a negative result. Her hand would pass right through the item that she required. It’s taunting posture unfazed despite her best attempts to procure the nutrients her body cried out for.

She was quickly losing faith.

“Is there something I can help you with Miss?”

Allie’s gaze shot over towards the store clerk. He had his head down, eyes hidden, but the corners of his lips were upturned into a little smirk. Allie quickly covered the more feminine parts of her body the best that she could.

But there was no way that the clerk could see her, right? She thought. There must have been another patron, somebody else in the store. Even though she wasn’t entirely convinced at first that he was talking to her, Allie now had her gaze focused solely on the man whose nothing more at first glance than a tightly woven sack of skin and bones with dark hair and a youthful complexion.

“Perhaps a set of clothes, and some shoes are in order.”

“A-are y-you, t-talking to m-me?” Allie replied.

“Follow the signs, and you will be just fine.”

“The- the signs?”

The man looked up and smiled at her and held his arm out toward the hall. On the wall was a sign posted that mentioned that the bathrooms were in the direction that the arrow was pointing to; a pretty typical sign but not one that she felt helped her in any way in this particular moment.

Allie nodded at the clerk. Her mind flooded with all sorts of questions, though she thought it best to stay quiet and just press on. The clerk did mention clothes, something that she desperately needed, now more than ever. She followed the sign back to the bathroom and placed her hands against the door. She shook her head and pushed forward, expecting no movement from the door.

Her jaw dropped. Not only did the door swing open just as she had intended it, but there indeed was a full set of clothes on a hanger, almost as if they were waiting for her. A brilliant white shirt, dark denim jeans, undergarments, and shoes; it would be the first time that Allie had worn real human clothes in over a decade. Overwhelmed with the prospect of getting a second chance at life, Allie couldn’t help but to give herself a long hard glance in the bathroom mirror. It was more than just a little nice to see her own reflection after so long. Allie then took a few moments to freshen up and in about five minutes time she was fully dressed and ready to go.

Allie strolled back into the main floor area of the station clutching onto the little bit of confidence that came from a modicum of hope.

“Hey, whoever you are, thank you for the-” She said in the direction of the counter, yet the clerk was no longer there.

Allie noticed how quiet things had grown.

“Hello?” She asked loudly, hoping the clerk would return. “Is anybody there?”

No reply.

She wrapped her hand around her elbow and stood still for just a moment; the eerie calm in this space was starting to get to her. You see, angels are never alone, not in heaven anyway. So Allie waited a bit in silence, but the clerk never showed. If this was to be the case, she wondered, then she had best be on her way – so she moved toward the exit. Allie pressed her hands against the glass door to push it open, but unlike the bathroom door this one refused to take her cues.

With a deep sigh she cried out. “Just great-”

“Allie?”

She gasped. Allie spun around one-hundred and eighty degrees on her heels to see whose breath was brushing the hair off of her shoulders.

“It’s me, CJ-”

The ethereal ghost, the black smoky figure with glowing emerald eyes. CJ Wylde himself.

“CJ!”

“Shh. Quiet!” The ghostly figure commanded. “Listen, I can’t stay long-”

“I know.” Allie replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here to warn you,” the ghost’s reverberating, echoed voice replied. “I found out that you’ve only got three days to complete your task.”

“Three days? Wait a minute, hold on. Where did you hear this?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” The ghost reiterated. She could hear the urgency in his voice. “Just listen to me, okay? You have three days to find the key.”

“Find the key?”

“Yes! Find the key!”

“But I – I don’t know what that means!”

“You need to go back to-”

Suddenly, Allie and CJ both hear a bell chime as the glass door rattles. Both of their eyes grow wide as Allie ducks for cover, and the ghost disappears back into the nothingness from whence he came. By the time Allie gathers herself, she looks back up towards where CJ was standing.

“CJ?”

But he was gone. Gone before he could finish what he was saying. Allie whispered out into the nothingness-

“Where am I supposed to go back to? CJ? CJ??”

But there was no reply.

Two large truckers pushed their way through the door. And in the moment that they entered, the station shop snapped right back to normal. The truckers moved past Allie, with one of them walking right through her, all without noticing. There was a clerk behind the counter, but it was not the same person from before. The two truckers laughed at jokes that they were telling one another as they gathered snacks and beverages for the long road ahead, drawing the ire of the clerk who seemed as though he would rather be anywhere else but here.

“So where are you headed out to, Jim?” The one trucker thunderously asked.

“Acckh, headed up to Ballmore.”

“Baltimore, eh?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“Boy do I feel sorry for you. Hahaha.”

Allie perked up when she heard the truckers mentioned Baltimore, and figured that she could stand as closely as she wanted to them without ever being detected. Even though she was at the mercy of people to open doors for her and for other things, being the ultimate fly on the wall had its perks. The two truckers dumped their piles onto the counter for the clerk to begin scanning through them.

“Why, cuz it’s Chrissmas?”

The clerk looked up from under his brow.

“Nah. Christmas ain’t nothing kiddo.”

“Haha, suuuure. If it ain’t Chrissmas, den what is it though?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about the thing.”

“Hear what thing?”

“That policeman got killed.”

“What policeman?”

The clerk rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t killed.”

“Awh, don’t tell me that you didn’t hear about that on the news by now.”

“Nahhh man. Tell me about it.”

The clerk spoke up once more. “It was a suicide.”

The first trucker continued: “Big time police officer, a detective I think, ended up putting a bullet through his brain.”

“Wooowwww.” The second trucker replied. “No shit.”

“I wouldn’t shit you, you’re my favorite turd!” The first trucker said. The two shared a laugh. “Supposedta be a big funeral or somethin’ this weekend. I hear half of the city cops are gonna be out taking up most of route forty just to get the man down to the cemetery.”

“No shit!” The second trucker replied. “Please tell me you didn’t jus say route forty though.”

The first trucker nodded his head. The second trucker shook his.

“Daamn yo. That’s gonna fuckin’ suck!”

“I told you.”

“Fuck me. I’m going right by der.”

“Hahaha, I know.”

The clerk announced their total, and it was a pleasure for the first truck driver to offer to pay for the entire stash. After paying, the two men worked to gather their separate things back from the counter space, and made their way towards the exit. Silently, Allie stood by, contemplating the nature of the upcoming funeral, how horrible life must have been for someone to want to commit suicide right before Christmas, and how terrible it must have been for the poor Detective’s family, whoever they are.

The two truckers pushed through the glass door when the clerk suddenly snapped to attention, yelling towards them in an attempt to get their attention.

“Hey!” The clerk shouted. “You forgot your keys!”

As the clerk held the set of keys up into the sky, he not only caught the attention of the truck drivers, but he caught the eye of Alice as well, the keys reminding her of what CJ said earlier – something about needing to ‘find the key’.

“You dumbass, you nearly left without the keys!” The first trucker proclaimed.

“Fuck you, Tom!” The second trucker replied, scooting over to snatch the set out of the hands of the clerk. “I obviously ain’t goin’ nowhere wifout my keys!”

“Obviously,” the first trucker replied, rolling his eyes.

The two truckers shuffled back out the door, but this time they had a third party in tow.

The third wheel was the invisible and inaudible Allie, now feeling compelled to follow. There were too many coincidences at play, too many things that all seemed to add up in the craziest ways. Perhaps this was the strange way how the man upstairs got stuff done – who knows.

“Good luck in Baltimore, Jim.”

“Thanks a million, Tom. And thanks for lunch.”

“No problem man. You take good care of yourself, okay? Hit me up on the radio if you need anything.”

“No problem!”

As Jim and Tom split, Allie followed the driver that was called as Jim like his shadow, staying only a half of a step behind him wherever he went. As Jim moved over to his rig, an over-sized eighteen-wheeler, Allie had to move fast to scoot herself into the cabin at the exact moment that Jim opened the drivers door.

Allie sat in the passenger seat completely undetected. She watched quietly as Jim settled in, placing his food and his drink in the usual places that he liked to keep everything before he shut the door. With one turn of the key and a gratuitous scratch of his crotch, Jim was ready to go.

“God damn dis shit’s lonely,” Jim proclaimed, to what he thought was nothing more than thin air. “What I wouldn’t do for a good fuckin’ broad right now, I swears-”

Allie giggled as she heard that, and the truck began to pull away. Out of habit Allie reached for her seat belt, but it didn’t matter. Not only would it not have been the first accident that she had ever been in, but the belt wouldn’t have moved for her anyway.

It was Christmas Eve, and Allie was nearing the end of her third day.

She had rode the truck to Baltimore completely undetected, and for the next two days she struggled to make any headway as to what this key was or where she was supposed to go back to.

As a bit of a hunch, Allie spent hours walking alone in the darkness of the night. She followed the somewhat familiar long and windy country road that lead to a peaceful meadow surrounded by what she remembered as calm trees swaying in the breeze.

Except this Christmas Eve was no picnic, nor was it a vacation. The trees were bare, like skeletons sticking up out of the ground. Sharp edges piercing the gray skies as they rattled their bones from frostbite. What was an unseasonably warm day was still in the high 30s or low 40s, just enough radiation from a quiet sun to keep the sharp mist wet as it sneaks down into ones clothes. Snow would have been preferable at this point, but the ambiance seemed fitting, too. With all of her other leads dry, this damp, shipwreck garden of vessels was her last hope of figuring this thing out before she would be doomed to wander the Earth aimlessly, permanently.

“Alright CJ,” She proclaimed in a breathy voice, trudging her way up a hill and passing through the gates of the cemetery. “I’ve gone back everywhere else I’ve ever been. This is the last place on the list.”

And in truth, it was.

Her feet screamed from abuse. Her stomach grumbled from both hunger and intense thirst – this truly was hell on Earth. Even though every fiber in her earthbound being told her to stop or take a break, she thought of this pain as simply a test. Just another way of the man upstairs working to test her faith.

She passed by the stones of many men, many women and children as well. Each granite or marble stone etched meticulously with the dateline of a life that was lived to its fullest in the most basic of fullest’s definition. As she pressed on, she moved from strangers to friends, and from friends to family. She knew from her life where the plot that she was looking for was, she had just never seen it before. Upon her arrival, even she had to admit that the sight that she expected was unfathomable.

She looked down to see the headstone of the Wylde family. Laurel Alice Wylde, died in 2004; her daughter Hope Rosella Wylde, died on the same exact day, 2004. There was another grave, off to the side, a child by the name of Riko Wylde, but she didn’t recognize the name. It said that he died last year, too, at a very young age.

The only other grave that was there was the grave of CJ Wylde. It was an empty grave despite his name already having been carved on the stone next to hers. It had his birth date etched on one side and a dash mark in the middle, but on the other end it was empty, much like the ground beneath it.

Allie dropped to her knees in front of the grave site. Tears welled in her eyes despite the fact that she had already known what she was going to find by returning here. It was surreal in all of its perfect serenity – the biting mist hugging her with its jagged uncomfortableness making her feel no less the worse than she already did on the inside.

There was no key.

Allie decided, much like her life that ended in two-thousand and four, that the end of this little journey would be in this spot. She would sit here and be with her daughter for the final moments before God or whomever inevitably came from above just to smite her for a job well failed. She sat over her own grave and watched the hills grow gradually brighter at sunrise, never quite able to shake off the gray that had overtaken the valley.

Hours passed, and soon Allie noticed a single car, then multiple cars. Soon, a parade of red and blue lights danced in the distance and grew brighter as they pushed through the mist. Sirens echoed in the meadow as a large procession followed a black hearse and two black limousines over the hills. It was at this time that Allie noticed that freshly dug grave on the far side of the valley from where she was seated, the light finally allowing her to see the happenings of the funeral in the distance.

Allie watched as the police cars parked along the road, and as hordes of policemen and women gathered around the grave. She watched as the family sat around the opened earth and as the pallbearers carefully placed the casket over the hole, and all safely from both her invisibility and from the distance.

She saw all of the pomp, the news crews, and even the twenty-one gun salute, and having figured out by now who the deceased was – that suicidal cop that she heard about days ago – and wondered if anyone dared think that the display was too inappropriate given the circumstances and especially what day it was.

But she was shocked to see her husband, the living CJ Wylde, and his now-wife Lucy, standing along the outskirts of the crowd, watching what appeared to be intently as the preacher went along with working the crowd.

Finally, she thought, she had reached the man who she was looking for. This moment had to be the key that the ghost CJ warned her about, telling her to return back to her body the entire time. She wanted to run down to the living half of her husband; wanted to run to him if nothing else than to hope that he would see her and take her into his arms, and that he would comfort her.

However, it was at that precise moment that she heard the lone cry of a motorbike growing ever louder as a rider tried to sneak his way over towards the graves on the far side of the cemetery without disturbing the funeral of Jack Street.

Allie turned her head as she saw the lone headlight switch off even though the bike continued to roll. She found it odd that the rider decided to switch the light off so soon, especially with the conditions making these slick little roadways inside the cemetery less than desirable for a cyclist in the first place. The bike rolled forward until it came to a set of tall bushes, where the rider quickly dismounted and hid the bike within the shrubbery. The biker, clad in a full head helmet and a full-body leather suit (all black), exited from the shrubs with a dash and it was at this moment that Allie saw that the biker had a rifle strapped to his back.

Her eyes widened, and she knew immediately what she had to do. She bolted upward from her seated position against her own headstone and ran towards the biker at breakneck speed.

“HEY!!! WAIT!!! STOP!!!”

But her words were nothing to the living. Not even a mere whisper no matter how loud she shouted.

She came to rest at the side of the biker just as the biker took a knee behind a stone. The biker pulled the bolt-action rifle from behind and rested it on top of the stone, apparently using the stone to help with his or her aim.

Allie frantically worked with her hands to shake the biker, trying to jostle him or her just to do anything to get their attention. Nothing that she did fazed the biker. The biker flipped up the dark visor that was getting in the way of their aim. Allie could see through the scope that the biker was using who the biker’s target was. The crosshairs were aimed squarely at the back of the living CJ Wylde.

“You think you can ruin my life and get away with it-” the biker grumbled, revealing himself to be a man through the tone of his voice. “I’ll fucking take yours!”

The biker turned the dials of the scope with his leather-clad fingertips, dialing in the distance so that the shot would hit CJ true – right in his heart.

Allie saw the tears welling up in the eyes of the assassin, and noted how he worked to wipe his eyes because his tears were screwing up his vision. But she didn’t care. This man, for whatever reason, was going to end the life of her former husband and that made him nothing less than a murderer.

With his eyes clear, the gunman moved his helmet closer, the composite material clanging with the metal scope as the two banged together.

“No, no, no!” Allie cried, frantically, grabbing the barrel of the gun with both hands, but pulling it with all of her might made her feel like that she was trying to pull a tanker ship through the ocean with her feet having nothing but water to stand on.

“This is for everything that you’ve ever done to me, CJ Wylde-”

“Don’t do this! Please don’t do this!”

“Good luck burning in hell!”

“Please God – help me!!!”

The gunman squeezed the trigger. Allie pulled with literally all of her might; she gave it her all.

What happened next was the gun flying up in the air, on the strength of her pull. The bullet’s path diverted; both Allie and the Gunman hitting the ground at the same time.

Allie sat up, first looking over in the direction of CJ to see that both he and the man who he was standing next to were both down. Her first thought – that she was too late. She turned towards the gunman screaming.

“You son of a bitch!!! I’m going to-”

But when the gunman sat up, his helmet was gone. It had rolled some distance down the hill. The man beneath the helmet, Steve Parker, looked at Allie as if he were seeing a ghost!

Allie stood and approached him with clenched fists, but Parker, the former UGWC Wrestlestock Participant, scrambled backward away from her, scooting his rear end along the muddy ground as quickly as he could.

Allie took a swing at him, but this was Parker’s opportunity to duck her wildly thrown fist, and at the same time he swept out her legs with a well placed kick. Allie hit the ground with a bit of a thud, and this gave Parker just enough time to scurry back to his feet, making a b-line for his motorcycle.

By the time Allie had gotten back up to a knee, she was able to catch a glimpse of Steve Parker struggling to get his motorcycle to re-fire. An odd moment where something clicked inside of her head: Steve Parker was staring right back at her – the only person besides that one strange disappearing clerk that could actually see her or hear her speak.

Parker fired up the bike, and in an instant the crotch-rocket had taken him on a dangerous path back out onto the main road. A legion of police officers that were attending the funeral of Jack Street were just now making their way over hill.

Allie stood still with her arms held high in the air, expecting fully to be arrested by the police that found her.

But instead, none of the police saw her. They just kept yelling at each other that someone needed to “pursue that bike”, that they needed to “catch the gunman at all costs”.

As Allie looked down the hill, both Lucy and Ray were helping CJ back to his feet.

It seems as if the bullet had just barely grazed his shoulder, leaving a superficial wound and a brand new scar to behold.