Chapter 7 of Shiva’s Messenger

Reflections of the Ferryman

There was room in the drive behind the two prestigious cars but Romero parked on the street instead. He pressed the doorbell and received an almost instantaneous response. Watson’s nose must have been behind a curtain. The young Columbian was ushered into the living room.

The lawyer already does quite well for himself but he obviously yearns for more. The whole house was luxurious and very well kept. Watson’s wife, whose striking face he could see in a picture on the mantelpiece, had done a nice job of decorating. They could be standing in a page pulled from a home décor magazine. Seated on the stuffed leather sofa was a balding, overweight, middle-aged man: he wouldn’t have been pictured in any stylish publications.

An enameled coffee table held a bottle of cognac, three brandy snifters and a huge ashtray. Four legal documents were arranged with caliper precision around a golden penholder.

“Mr. Romero Escobedo,” Watson began a formal introduction, “I’d like you to meet my very dear friend and business associate, Dr. Frank Thomson. Please call him Frank or just Doc.”

“I’m pleased to finally meet you.” Romero extended a hand still wearing leather driving gloves. “I’ve heard many things about you.” None of them were complementary.

“All good things, I trust.” Frank Thompson’s hairline appeared frontally assaulted by the opposed team of male pattern baldness. The few remaining hair follicles were protected behind defensive halfbacks of protruding ears leaving a tonsure like laurel wreath made of steel wool. The man obviously cherished what was left and allowed it to grow long and bushy. The wild tufts at his temples gave the doctor’s head an apparent football shape, with his joined eyebrows as the stitching.

Watson motioned everyone to sit. The lawyer took his seat on opposite end zone of the sofa from Frank. That left the large leather upholstered chair as Romero’s bleacher seat.

The host poured cognac into the three snifters. They talked casually for the first few minutes. William and Doc each had several belts of liquor while Romero deferred. Instead, the Columbian in the audience attempted to steer the conversation to Dr. Thompson’s medical practice and his other exploits. Frank wet his mouthpiece with some alcohol and tooted his own horn.

“So I gave the guy the purgative,” in expounding some unsavory anecdotes, with himself in the lead role, Doc intentionally portrayed himself as moderately reprehensible, “and she had the aphrodesiac. Then the girl spent the night in my bedroom while her fiancé was back at the hotel seated on his toilet.”

“That’s interesting Frank.” Romero commented on the last story told but it was also to himself. Due to my being a drug lord, he believes that the worse person I think he is: the more I’ll like him. Doc Thompson was making the evaluation far too easy.

“Shall we get on with business?” Romero ended the small talk. Please cease the color commentary now Frank! The newest player had enough marks posted on the plus/minus board, for the ringer to happily zero the Doctor’s balance.

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“I’m Shiva’s Messenger.” On seeing a puzzled expression, John added. “At your final destination you’ll understand perfectly.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Even a cold wetness in his trousers was bliss compared to the prospects awaiting him. “I haven’t lived a very good life and I’m sure where I’m headed won’t be pleasant.”

“You don’t have to fear death or what’s beyond it.” John’s consoling voice was as unwavering as his gun hand. “We all go to a better place, no matter what we’ve done. I’ve been there and back, so I know this to be true. That is also comforting to me because I can hasten your mortality while still retaining my morality.”

“Can I talk you out of it somehow?”

“We both know how this conversation has to end. I doubt you would enjoy your continued existence very much, even if I allowed you to live. Two dead people are in your home and you’re the focal point of the drama. But I’m not speaking with you now to negotiate for your life. I’ve only given you an opportunity to prepare yourself.”

“Thank you.” William couldn’t quite rationalize why he’d just thanked the man who was about to kill him. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. He thought about the inevitability of his death. There was no way to dismiss the specter. It was now upon him. Would it be a good place—even for him? Why would the messenger lie now, when he had dropped his other pretenses?

Glancing one final time at the murderer, the lawyer thought about his money in the case. He’d paid a dear price for a smooth crossing of the River Styx. But as his fear of the unknown ebbed away, he felt the Ferryman was delivering a fair exchange.

“I’m ready now.” William Watson looked back down the barrel of the handgun. He briefly registered the first muzzle flash but was oblivious to the second.

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