He leaned against his car with a look that made me nervous, but didn’t stop me from walking away.
I felt his eyes on me as I crossed the lot to my Honda and got in. I’d thought he knew me, but maybe not as well as I’d imagined.
Nothing about this was a game. I was running scared.
Chapter Three
I’m currently away from my table right now.
After ditching Fate in the parking lot, I’d barely had time to get the polishing compound for the guards before my job. As it was, I’d have to cut the explanation of the directions down to a minimum, which could be a problem. They took polishing very seriously, and did not appreciate being rushed.
“Now, you need to wait for this stuff to turn white before you rub it off.” The medieval looking armored guards of the doors nodded their heads as I handed them both a bag. “If this one still doesn't make you as shiny as you want, we're going to have to start doing mail order. This is the last brand sold locally.”
They nodded again. They weren't known for their great communication skills. I often wondered what was under those suits. When I’d tried to peer into the eye slits, I never saw anything but pitch black. I’d stopped looking after that. It was a notch creepier than I preferred to know.
As it was, I could barely see past the reflection they were throwing off, but if it made them happy, I'd keep finding new polish.
The guard on the right started making circling motions with his left hand. I knew what he wanted but tried to ignore it. The guard on the left joined in and did it in larger motions until it was impossible to pretend.
“You couldn't have gone through all of them, already. I just bought you a new pack two days ago.” I was on a first name basis with half the staff at the hardware store these days.
They both nodded vigorously.
“What are you doing with all the rags?” They didn't look like much, but they weren’t free and I was on a fixed budget. I hadn't been out to Vegas with Luck in a while, and my paycheck was barely over minimum wage. If I’d had to pay rent at the condo, I would've gone under for sure.
They dropped their heads but didn't answer. Then they both slumped their shoulders.
I’d never done well under the force of a guilt trip, and they had me reacting true to form. “Okay, I'll get more rags, but that's it for the rest of the month.”
When they nodded eagerly, I felt bad about giving them a hard time. The polish made them so happy that I hadn't waded into a lake or pond in weeks.
My watch ticked to three p.m. “Time for work. I'll see you boys in a bit.”
The doors shimmered into existence and swung open to a street in historic Montreal. The crowds swelled past as I walked into their midst, sending my senses on a roller coaster of awareness. Ever since that night on the beach with Lars and Fate, I could feel each individual's karma hit me right in my core, as if it were magnified by a thousand.
At first, I’d had trouble even walking through a small group of three or four people. But I'd adjusted. It's amazing what people can live with when given no other option.
The only ones who didn't affect me at all were the people who were in perfect alignment. It didn't mean they were good or bad; just whatever they'd done had caught up with them. They'd either reaped the benefits or paid the piper for their misdeeds.
Looking around, it appeared like the Universe was behind, since there were so few of them. When I really thought about it, shockingly few. Is this how it had always been? I mean, there was only one of me. I could only get to so many people, and my workload was supposed to be dedicated to those who had an immunity of sorts to being balanced out.
Appraising the busy streets right now, there was probably only one in ten who looked like they were in balance. It just didn't seem like it should be this off kilter. But at least one more would be, by time I was done today.
I walked along the cobblestoned street, lined with shops that had signs hanging from wrought iron posts above their doors, until I spotted the name I'd been looking for. Vintage Reads.
No one saw me as I entered, blind to my form walking in and deaf to the chime of the door opening. The store was a front—one of many—to launder money from illegal sex trafficking. And there, behind the register right now, was the man in charge. Everyone thought he was a pillar of the community. A criminal of the worst type, he was hiding in plain sight.
He sat behind the small counter, probably looking like an average man to most, in his plaid button-down shirt and khakis. They couldn't see the deathly pallor of his skin, or the cracks along his cheeks that oozed the sickness of his soul. That was my special gift, if you wanted to call it that; being able to see him for what he was.
An officer of the S?reté du Québec, the Montreal Police Force, walked in the store behind me, and then past, equally oblivious to my presence. He wasn't dark or bright, just perfectly aligned with his karma.
“Hey, Tim,” the officer said, greeting the owner.
“Nick, how is everything?” His cracked skin erupted into a smile, forcing pus from the cracks in his cheeks.
“Pretty good. How's the wife?”
“Same old. Complaining about my hours.” Tim stood and moved toward the back stock room. “Hang on, I'll go get that book from the back I was telling you about.”
Their entire conversation had been in French and I'd understood it. Wow, that was a neat new trick. Could I speak it, too? I didn't have time to ponder it now; I had a job to do.
I grabbed the passport that had appeared in my hand this morning when I’d had the vision of the job. I still hadn't opened it. I didn't want to see the face of the young girl staring back at me again. It was too late for her. She was already dead but her passport would hopefully save many others from the same fate.
The store's walls were packed with shelves of antique books. I tossed the passport at the police officer's feet, and he immediately looked upward, assuming it had fallen.
He scooped the passport up, probably out of reflex, and looked at the picture. It was the same image as the one posted in his station earlier today, right before his shift.
His face transformed and then he looked at the door leading to the back, where Tim had gone. He pocketed the passport and called out to him, “Hey, I gotta run. I'll be back in a few hours.”
“Sure,” Tim yelled from the other room.
Tim didn't realize Nick would be returning en masse.
***
The leather-bound notebook had cost twenty-five dollars, but I'd wanted something that would hold up over the years. Harold wouldn't pay to have copies made for something that was against the rules, so this was it. It had a ringed binder inside, so I could add pages as needed.
Flipping to the first page, I wrote the title.
A Transfer's Guide to Forces of the Universe
Skipping a couple of lines, I jotted down a brief introduction.
First of all, if you are reading this, you’re a new transfer to the agency. I'm sure you've looked around and felt as if the world has turned upside down. That you are the one who’s gone crazy. Don't be alarmed. It’s them, not you. This place is odd. The people are even odder. The whole situation is reminiscent of a bad acid trip.
Second, flip to the page of your new occupation. This manual will give you a description of the position and a run-down of all your new responsibilities.
It's very important to do this, as no one else will tell you. I'm not sure if it's from unwillingness or inability, but don't kill yourself trying to get answers out of them—please don't be offended by that last statement if you actually got here by killing yourself. Answers are few and far between. If you do get them, they tend to not be worth the time and energy you invested.
Hopefully, this book will get you through the initial confusion. But keep in mind, it's written by a transfer, just like you.