4

     Jim's eyes locked onto empty space.  “I ... felt something this morning.  A call.  I didn't know who it was.”

     Roy shook his head, thinking Jim was kind of weird.  When Jim talked his “psychic talk”, Roy got all jittery.  He didn't know what to think about it.  “So, are you gonna help us?”

     Jim's eyes returned to normal.  “It's not my problem.”

     “We need you, Jim.”

     “I can't help you.”

     “You're the only one who can help us.  You beat it before.”

     Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.  “The price was too high.”

     “You ain't scared, are you?”

     “Get the fuck out of here, Roy.”

     “I didn't think so,” Roy said quickly.  “Just checking.”

     “Let me tell you something.  If this is the same as before, you're asking me to commit suicide.”

     “No, I'm asking for help.  I'll be your backup man.”

     “I don't want a backup man.  I don't want any part of this.  Leave me out of it.”

     “That's fine.  I understand.  But answer me this.  If it is the same guy, don't you think he'd be a mite pissed off that you beat him back then?  Don't you think that when he gets ready, he'll come after you?”

     “It's crossed my mind,” Jim said.

     “Then don't you think it's in your own best interest to tackle him now when he's not ready?”

     “You don't know what you're asking.”

     “Maybe not, Jim.  But if this guy wants revenge, it don't make much difference.”

     “That depends on whether or not he can find me.”

     “I found you.”

     Jim strummed the guitar and Roy sat in silence letting his words sink in.  The longer Jim played, the more certain Roy became that he'd won.  Finally, Jim gave a solemn nod, set the guitar aside and stood up.

     Roy followed him into the bedroom.  It was pitch dark.  Jim pulled a Zippo out of his pocket and lit an oil lamp that hung from the middle of the ceiling.

     The only window in the room was covered with several coats of black paint.  One end of the room had a pillow and sleeping bag.  There were Easyriders magazines and occult paperbacks lying on the floor and one corner seemed reserved for empty beer cans.

     Jim had built shelves out of one-by-eights and cinder blocks along a whole wall.  They were filled by knickknacks and books.  Odd figurines from all over the world--a baku from Japan, an Anubis from Egypt, a phii krasue from Thailand--stood near books on the Senoi, Aleister Crowley and the Masons.  The top shelf held three wooden boxes.  Jim reached up and took one down.  He knelt on the floor and placed his hands on either side of the lid, hesitated, then opened it with something akin to reverence.

     The contents included a leather pouch and a ring with a silver ankh.  Jim stuck the ring on his finger and hefted the pouch a few times as if testing its weight.  Satisfied, he tucked it into his pocket.

     He took down the second box.  It held an old book wrapped in emerald silk.  He folded the silk and placed it back in the box, then gave the book a close examination.  The black leather binding was cracked and split.  It was lettered with gold that flaked off under the touch of Jim's callused hands.  Roy couldn't make out the title.

     “What is all this stuff?” Roy asked.

     Jim grinned.  “This is my soul.  Collected artifacts of my existence.  The ring is the one thing I have of my father's.  The book belonged to my grandfather and this,” he said taking down the last box, “belonged to a man I once had the honor of meeting.”

     He raised the lid revealing a twelve-inch dagger.  The knife had a bone handle in the shape of an eagle head and when he pulled it from its sheath, Roy could see that odd symbols had been carved into the blade.  Jim held the knife up.

     The air felt charged with energy and Roy eased toward the door, but Jim reached out and grabbed his arm.  His other hand held that knife with a death grip and Roy was afraid Jim would stab him with it.  Instead, Jim turned it sideways and pressed it into Roy's hands.

     “You'll need this,” he said.

     Roy stared at it, running his finger along the wooden centerpiece.  “I was kinda hoping for a gun.  A big gun.”

     “A gun wouldn't do us any good, Roy.”

     “And this knife will?”

     Jim shrugged.

     That was a real confidence builder.  Roy looked at the carved symbols, then slipped the dagger back into its sheath and tucked it inside his coat.  He hoped the cops wouldn't stop him again.  The last thing he wanted to explain to a cop was why he was carrying a knife that would look at home in some museum.

     “So, where do we start?”

     “Let's check out the death scenes,” Jim said.  “There are things hidden from the physical realm--traces of the killer.  Vibrations.”

     “Oh,” Roy said.  He never felt comfortable when Jim went all mystical on him.

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