the top of the blanket. “By a guy who was pissed off about my show. Religious fanatic. He’s called in before. I recognized his voice.”
“Yes,” Gus said quietly.
Julian’s terror intensified. “Jesus.” He began pacing. “Oh my God. Holy shit…Am I going to make it?”
“I don’t know,” Gus said. “I’m not privy to that information. It’s not in your dossier.”
“I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this.”
“That’s understandable. Give yourself time. You’ll adapt. In the meantime, you have a job to do. Get your mind off the situation, so to speak.”
“What kind of job? What? Do spirits need a call-in radio show?”
“Hardly. No, this is far more important than any earthly job. Particularly an earthly job involving prattling on about lesbians.”
“You got something against lesbians?”
“No.”
“Does God?”
“No. She’s of the opinion it’s not who you love but that you love.”
“She.”
“Yes. I told you that already. Keep up, young man. Take notes if you must.”
“I’m trying. Give me a break. I’m still working to fathom that. A woman. God is a woman. Damn. All right, I’ll bite. Do I get to meet her?”
“You don’t want to. If you meet her that means…” Gus looked over at the comatose Julian and then moved his hand across his own neck in a cutting motion of death.
“Gotcha. No meeting God. Okay, so you gonna tell me about my job?”
“Yes. You see, we’re not angels. And we most certainly don’t work for the Other Team.” Gus shuddered. “We don’t have the power of either extreme. We talk and eventually, those on earth start to hear us—maybe. And if they listen, then we have some influence.”
“So what? We talk to schizophrenics? People who hear voices?”
“Oh, no. Those unfortunate souls hear voices from chemical imbalances in the brain. Occasionally, I suppose, they may intercept voices from one of us. No, in our case, the people we speak to hear a voice urging them to do something.”
“Like a conscience?”
“Yes. Or maybe, sometimes, if we have a very strong connection to our assigned case, they may actually blurt out what we say to them. You’ve heard of a Freudian slip?”
“Sure.”
“Freud himself had a strong connection to his case worker.”
“So does everyone have one of these voices? One of us?”
“No. There aren’t enough of us to go around, I’m afraid. Those few in-betweeners like yourself are assigned a case, usually based on need.”
“Need?”
“Yes. The person prays for guidance. Or sometimes those around the person pray. A relative will plead their case. And what he or she gets is us. Or, in this case, you. You have one person, one case, you’ll be seeking to influence and help.”
“That’s it? I talk? Like I do on the air. For an audience of one? That’s it?”
“That’s it? My God, man, have you not been listening? You must not be fully comprehending the gravity of this. Perhaps it’s the shock. We take this job quite seriously. This isn’t a ‘that’s it’ sort of matter. Someone’s life—their very well-being, their sense of hope—is placed in your very hands for help.”
“Well, if they’re looking for help from me…they must really be desperate.”
Gus smiled. “She knows what She’s doing. So no time to waste. Come along and meet your assignment. According to the Boss, your case is fairly desperate. She has had a terrible day of unseemly proportions. Simply ghastly.”
Gus took Julian by the elbow and led him out of the intensive care unit. As they walked past other comatose patients, machines whirring like whispering sentinels, Julian saw other Guides, and even a dog—a big old chocolate Lab—lying by the bed of what he presumed was its master. Deducing that no hospital allowed dogs in the ICU, he guessed the dog was a spirit, too.
As he walked through the lobby, Julian struggled to discern who was real—as in alive—and who were spirits. He quickly understood that anyone dressed anachronistically—like Gus with his monocle—was a spirit. And the ones who walked through things—well, they had to be spirits, too. He had a million questions as they left the hospital. So many questions that Julian felt dazed.
The two of them wandered Manhattan’s streets, unseen. Julian kept looking at people, stepping in front of them at times, but no one acknowledged him. Finally, he and Gus arrived at an apartment building in Greenwich Village, which they entered as a resident left, slipping through an open door, and then ascended a flight of stairs to an apartment door.
“Come along,” Gus said.
“What? Do we ring the doorbell?”
“No, we walk through. Just don’t hesitate—that can get messy.”
Gus took him more firmly by the hand and half pulled him through the door. The two of them were now invisible visitors in a small one-bedroom apartment near Washington Square Park. Two policemen in uniform stood in the middle of the messy living room.
“There she is,” Gus gestured toward a brunette with hair to the middle of her back, neither thin nor plump, with rosy apple cheeks and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She clutched a tissue and looked around her apartment as if in shock.
“Can you see anything immediately missing?” the female officer asked, a notebook open, pen poised.
The brunette shook her head. “The TV. But other than that…it’s just the mess. My jewelry box is gone, but my good jewelry I kept in the freezer—I saw it on a TV show once and always have done that. I just checked. It’s still there. They didn’t take much. My dog must have scared them.” Then she started crying. “And now she’s gone.”
“Your dog?” The second officer looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry. That’s difficult.”
“When they left, they must have…let her out. Will you guys look for her?”
“Realistically…this is New York City. We have hundreds of break-ins. Thousands. What kind of dog?”
“A little Yorkie. Just the kind of dog someone would scoop up and keep.” The woman sat down and started sobbing. The two officers shifted on their feet, looking uncomfortable.
Julian stared at Gus. “You’re telling me I have to solve a dognapping? Give me a break. This isn’t a crisis. You know how many people get robbed a day?”
Gus shook his
