Limbo’s Story Part 1

My son died because of me.

People like to pretend life is more complicated than it is.

It isn't.

Sometimes there are layers.

Sometimes there are explanations.

Sometimes there are reasons.

And sometimes your son dies because something you did in another life follows you into this one.

Simple.

Brutal.

True.

The strange thing is I thought I had escaped.

Not the memories.

You never escape those.

I thought I had escaped that life. The other one. The one with covert jobs and code names.

The people who shook your hand while deciding whether you were predator or prey.

I left all of that behind after one long-range shot too many.

Or so I believed.

I got married.

Bought a house.

Raised two boys.

Built something resembling a normal life.

My older son was more like me.

Quiet.

Guarded.

Always watching.

My younger son was different.

Thank God.

Seventeen years old and already twice the man I'd ever been.

West Point had accepted him.

He was going to wear a uniform.

Serve something bigger than himself.

Lead people with his natural gifts.

A president, priest, and provocateur all rolled into one.

Teachers.

Friends.

Classmates.

Even his older brother listened when he talked.

I used to watch him and wonder where he came from.

Certainly not me.

That kid was proof that sometimes the world accidentally gets something right.

The vacation was his mother's idea.

One last family trip before college.

Before adulthood.

Before life scattered us across the country.

The kind of vacation families take when they still believe they'll always have another one.

Ocean.

Sun.

Palm trees.

A pool overlooking the beach.

Paradise.

The sort of place people go to convince themselves nothing bad can happen.

I knew better.

Bad things happen everywhere.

The trick is learning which bad thing is about to happen.

I heard the shot before I saw the blood.

A sharp crack.

Almost lost beneath the sound of the waves.

My head turned automatically.

Training.

Instinct.

Muscle memory.

The things you spend years trying to forget.

At first I didn't understand.

My son was standing beside me.

Confused.

Looking down.

His hand pressed against his chest.

Something wasn't right.

Then he lifted his hand away.

Blood.

So much blood.

Bright red against a white shirt.

The world narrowed immediately.

Not grief.

Not yet.

Recognition.

Whoever took the shot was an amateur.

The distance wasn't difficult.

The target wasn't moving.

The ocean breeze was.

They hadn't adjusted for it.

The bullet drifted.

A few inches.

Maybe less.

The shot had been meant for me.

My son just happened to be standing where I should have been.

The realization hit before he did.

Before his knees buckled.

Before the screaming started.

Before vacationers scattered.

Before somebody yelled for a medic.

I knew.

The bullet wasn't for him.

It was for me.

My son paid the bill.

I caught him before he hit the ground.

I remember his face.

That's the worst part.

Not the blood.

Not the panic.

Not the sirens.

His face.

Confused.

Almost embarrassed.

Like he was apologizing for inconveniencing everyone.

I still see it sometimes.

The look.

The question.

Why?

I never found an answer worth giving.

People were running.

Shouting.

Crying.

The world had become noise.

I held my dying son against me.

Gathered my wife and older son close.

Moved all of us toward cover.

Toward safety.

The way I'd been trained.

The way I'd trained others.

My hands knew what to do.

My heart didn't.

The ambulance came.

The police came.

The coroner came.

Eventually everyone comes.

That's the thing about death.

It attracts people.

The funeral happened.

Then came the silence.

The kind that settles into a house and refuses to leave.

One night my wife finally looked at me.

Really looked at me.

For the first time since our son died.

There was no anger in her eyes.

That would've been easier.

There was certainty.

"You brought this here."

Not a question.

A fact.

I didn't argue.

How could I?

She was right.

I had spent years pretending my old life was buried.

It wasn't.

It was patient.

Patient enough to wait until I loved something.

Patient enough to wait until I had something worth taking.

Then it came to collect.

You can't start a new life without paying for the old one.

Eventually the bill arrives.

Mine arrived with a bullet.

A week later I found the Mortician.

Not because I was clever.

Not because I was skilled.

Because men like him always end up in the same places.

Dark bars.

Bad whiskey.

People who don't ask questions.

He sat alone in a corner booth.

Waiting.

As though he knew I was coming.

Maybe he did.

I sat across from him.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

Neither of us smiled.

"You know why I'm here."

He nodded.

"I do."

"I want names."

Another nod.

"I know."

I leaned forward.

Every ounce of grief inside me hardening into something colder.

Something useful.

Something dangerous.

The Mortician studied me for a long moment.

Then sighed.

Almost sadly.

"I can give you what you want."

My hands tightened into fists.

For the first time in weeks I felt something besides grief.

Hope.

The ugliest emotion.

The most expensive one.

The Mortician smiled.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

Just knowingly.

He raised his glass.

"But first..."

His smile widened.

"I need a favor."

"Favor."

The word slipped from Limbo's mouth before he realized he'd spoken aloud.

The wagon rolled steadily along the path.

Blue trees crowded both sides.

The golden field had disappeared behind them.

Behind him, the group followed.

Talking.

Arguing.

Living.

Limbo shook his head.

Everybody needed a favor.

A fairy landed on his shoulder.

Another buzzed around his ear.

A third tugged at his hair.

Insolent little creatures.

Without looking, he reached up with his right hand.

Caught one.

The fairy squealed.

Kicked.

Bit.

Failed to accomplish anything.

Limbo held it in front of his face.

The fairy glared at him.

He glared back.

Limbo pressed one finger to the fairy’s forehead like the barrel of a gun. His hand dwarfed the tiny creature.

They stared at each other for two seconds.

Limbo cocked his thumb and pulled the imaginary trigger. The fairy threw itself backward dramatically as he released it.

It turned, showed Limbo its backside, then shot toward the top of the canopy.

Limbo resumed walking.

The weight of memory settled back onto his shoulders.

His son.

The Willow.

Simon.

The favor.

The path ahead.

The path behind.

All of it.

He sighed.

Behind him, Clint punched Blaine in the arm.

Hard.

"Ow!"

"Good idea asking him about his story."

Blaine rubbed his shoulder.

"What?"

Clint mimicked him. “What?”

Then he laughed. “Such a putz.”

The group continued forward.

Limbo didn't look back.

The Spot of the Fallen Sun waited.

And some debts took longer than others to collect.