Lied about it publicly while privately taking such actions as necessary to protect the firm’s—

  Well, Jesus Christ, it hadn’t been just him. Had it? Hell, no. What about Sawyer, what about Edwards and Chen and Archbold and Keaton? What about R. D. Smitts, Velasco, Purdy, Diamond, Trencher, Filipi? What about Wendell Boot, Tammy Whitman? What about that crowd? What about the guys/gals from the other big operations? Malcolm Handy at Centoil, Brian Haster at Globaco/Bexi? They knew, they all knew, they had research departments of their own, their names were all on that goddamn API memo.

  A gust of something like panic swept over my charge.

  Had he?

  “Lied”?

  Lied, then?

  In a sense?

  If viewed from a certain—

  Ah, fuck it, what did it matter now, what a former waitress and a punk with a bad suit and a bunch of sprites or ghosts or whatnot thought of him? He’d be dead soon. And free. Free of this body. As he’d been when young. When young you were free of your body because it only brought you pleasure. He remembered clearing a chain-link fence in one go; swimming from dusk to dawn, breaking only for lunch; racing up a flight of stairs at Yost Field House, back down, up again, just because he could; diving into Crow Creek, zero fear; helping Denise and Rick Whoever move into their place on Wanamaker: crossing the lawn singing “Que Sera, Sera” at the top of his lungs, a box of records on his head, bottle of beer in one hand, window shade in the other.

  Soon he’d be powerful like that again.

  He just had to get out of this body.

  * * *

  —

  And with this he began seeking death, opening himself eagerly up to it, seeing it as the end of something difficult: not his whole life (which had been wonderful) but just this last phase of it, and not even this whole last day, no, just this evening, and not even the whole evening, just the part of it that began when I came here and started filling his mind with doubts about who he was and what he’d done.

  But that was finished now and the next phase was about to begin.

  This fellow here—who once, though small, had been kind of wonderful-looking, with thick blond hair that went nearly white in summer and snappy little muscles—this fellow here (with a hump on his back now, and patches of terrible-looking eczema all over, and chest muscles that swung like sausages as he dried his feet with a towel)—this fellow here (with a tumor the size of a grape right here behind this eye, a tumor still growing, even now)—this ugly old conglomeration of flesh was going away (like the planks in the floor of his childhood home, like the glass in the windows and the shingles on the roof), and also going away was the flesh-wad in his noggin that had, all these years, been making the thoughts, feelings, and beliefs that had made him, and soon there’d be nothing but a big empty field where his beloved childhood home had been and nothing but a stiff moldering hunk of irrelevant meat left of what had once been the great K.J.—

  As for anything he might’ve done “wrong”—

  Yes? I said.

  I got swept up, he said.

  In? I said.

  Me, he said. Myself.

  Goodness.

  But what else could I have done, he said.

  He was speaking, in his crude way, of elevation itself.

  True, it was only in his head (a mere idea, not yet visceral or urgent).

  But his was a formidable intelligence and could cover vast amounts of ground quickly.

  Don’t give up, I said. You’re on to something.

  Am I, he said.

  Say goodbye to it, I said. Goodbye to the self. That’s all you need to—

  Not so fast, ladybug, he said.

  There was something he needed me to know.

  * * *

  —

  First off:

  Nobody could know what it was like, being him.

  Nobody.

  How delicious, how perfect.

  Nobody.

  Though physically he might have been in Texas, he’d actually been everywhere. People in Paris knew of him, and Dubai and Berlin and Cape Town, and would refer to him by his whole name: K. J. Boone.

  What’s K. J. Boone going to think of that?

  We have to consider the whole K. J. Boone of it all. Don’t we?

  They did.

  They surely did.

  To be him was to be always the biggest fish in a sea of substantial fish. At a shareholders’ meeting, or up at the Capitol, or out on a swanky veranda at some conference center in the Alps. All that power, all that money, all those massed experiences gazing up at him, awaiting his words. He had something to offer; they needed him. He spoke easily, with authority, was charming, in his way; he persuaded, left people feeling his way was the best way. He presented powerfully (if humbly), but it was more than that. What he was, they were not, and would never be; where he’d been, they hadn’t been (and couldn’t go); what he knew, they’d never know.

  So they turned to him, trusted him, feared him, even.

  Only a handful of people in all of history had ever known that kind of power. Presidents, maybe, depending on the era; kings, sure, but their kingdoms were not worldwide; movie stars and such, but that was all superficial crap. He spoke and markets moved; called a king and the king picked up. He’d decided we were sticking with oil and, goddamn it, we’d stuck with oil and the world got twenty, thirty good years in exchange.

  You’re welcome.

  You’re welcome, world.

  Goodbye, beloved hunk of rock, overrun of late with jabbering moronic ingrates.

  His enemies could have it, the whole damn thing.

  Every last one of them could freeze to death while starving in the dark.

  He was going home now, to God, his dear God, who’d always loved and protected him and made good things, all the best things, happen for him. Thank you, Lord, thank you for making me who I was and not some little squirming powerless nincompoop.

  Thank you for making me unique, one of a kind, incomparable, victorious.

  For making me me.

  This guy.

  This guy right here.

  Over and out.

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  It’s hooey, pure hooey, he said, turning on me with surprising force, given the negligible trace of life left in him. You’re a hooey-pusher. A false prophet. Anybody ever buy that elevation crap? You ever actually sold anybody on that line of bull? What a snore. Not for me, thanks. When I win, I dance. When I lose? Also dance. I dance the dance called: next time, fuckers. Goodbye forever, lady. You lost. You blew it. You comforted me not one iota. And I want you to know that.

  He was like a deflated balloon in which, despite all external appearances, there remained one last bit of air.

  Or vitriol.

  Or spite.

  With which someone could yet be hurt.

  If he just put his mind to it.

  * * *

  —

  But then a sudden look of warmth passed over his face.

  Do you remember, he said.

  Remember what? I said gently.

  (Perhaps a change of heart? We had, after all, been through so much together.)

  That salamander, he said.

  Sorry? I said.

  That angel food cake, he said.

  I’m not your mother, I said.

  I felt a presence behind me, and turned, and there she was:

  A country woman, of our ilk, taken aback to find herself in such a grand house, surprisingly tall, taller than he’d dreamed her up earlier.

  She approached timidly, head down, as if afraid she might say something that would, at this fraught moment, harm or confuse him.

  Will you excuse us? she said.

  I withdrew.

  Withdrew from the orb of his thoughts.

  She knelt beside the bed with some difficulty, arthritic from all those years of farm- and housework.

  What song is this? she said and hummed a little tune.

  “Bluebird Lane,” said my charge.

  Remember that table in your room? she said.

  You painted it red, he said.

  With gold trim, she said.

  I’m dying, he said.

  Oh, my boy, she said.

  Then she spoke to him so softly I couldn’t hear.

  But he was, it seemed, comforted.

  I edged back into the orb of his thoughts and confirmed it.

  Yes.

  All was well, he felt. He was off the hook. His mother’d just said as much.

  There’d been some sort of misunderstanding here lately, he felt her to have said. Lots of mean talk and allegations and strange idiots showing up at the last minute. But he’d done nothing wrong. On the contrary, he’d always been a good boy, who’d become a good man, and had gone out and done all sorts of interesting things that she and her people, and his father and his people, being poor folks, had never had a chance to do. That made a mother proud. Yes, it did.

  So, no: he’d done nothing wrong.

  At all.

  On the contrary.

  He should go on now, to glory.

  Are you in glory? he asked.

  She smiled uncertainly, got slowly to her feet.

  Someday, she said. Maybe. But one such as you? Should just go right on ahead.

  He began truly dying.

  His mind was no longer accessible to me; he was no longer thinking, not in the conventional sense, had begun the transition, was merging with all-that-is, leaving the husk of himself behind, becoming something both more and less than he had ever been before.

  His wife, sensing what was happening, rose.

  Their daughter rose too.

  The two of them stepped forward on either side of his mother.

  Wife, mother, daughter stood there in a row. Then his father returned. Still raw from their earlier encounter, he lingered in the doorway in the familiar country slouch. My charge’s eyes went to him. His father raised a hand in greeting, the hand short a finger. Then he grew timid, brought it down, raised the other, undamaged hand.

  My charge understood this gesture to mean: We’ve had our differences, son, but you did big stuff, and if I, even by way of certain errors I made, contributed to that, well sir, I consider myself lucky to have been a part of that whole deal, truly.

  You did us proud, said his mother.

  And how, said his father.

  Go on to glory, said his mother.

  Then his mother went over, hungrily embraced his father, put her mouth greedily on his, and the two became one.

  And it was over.

  My charge’s wife (now widow) stepped up, smoothed his hair, kissed his head, took his two already-stiffening hands into her own and kissed them, left first, then right.

  You did good, she said.

  So good, the daughter said.

  We love you and appreciate you, said his wife, in a voice louder than her usual speaking voice.

  Amazing. It was always amazing.

  Goodbye, goodbye, I thought, and then: Ah, hello.

  Out of my charge’s body leaned my charge.

  In spirit form now, of our ilk.

  He rose from the bed, experiencing, as we all did at first, the suddenly less onerous influence of gravity, glanced at his wife and daughter, then looked over at me, puzzled.

  And the Mels burst in.

  * * *

  —

  At last, said G.

  Long damn wait, said R.

  They had with them a thick, coarse rope, which they wove between his legs, up over one shoulder, then around his waist. They cinched it tight and secured the arrangement with a tremendous rusty lock for which, I somehow knew, no key existed.

  He’ll fight it at first, said G.

  But in time, said R.

  He’ll settle, said G.

  Be broken, said R.

  And together, we’ll roam the earth, encouraging former compatriots in their final moments, said G.

  As we have encouraged him, said R.

  Tonight, said G.

  Only one side’s right, said R.

  Our side, said G.

  Otherwise, what? said R.

  We were wrong? said G.

  All along? said R. The totality of our life’s work a big bleck?

  Every one of our life-moments spent in the service of utter doo-doo? said G.

  Can’t have that, said R.

  Won’t, said G.

  Must remain entirely certain, said R.

  At the risk of, said G.

  We won’t say at the risk of what, said R.

  The more we work to convince ourselves, the more convinced we’ll stay, said G.

  And the more convinced we stay, the less likely we are to consider, said R.

  What might await us, said G.

  Were we to even briefly become less convinced, said R.

  Of the rightness of our cause, said G.

  And by that, we win, said R.

  We win, we win, said G.

  Come along, said R.

  Come along, little dog, said G. Who formerly commanded us.

  My charge looked at me imploringly. Having by now intuited the way things worked in this realm, he (still roped) lunged into me, having, I could tell, something he urgently wished to communicate.

  I held steady, heard him out.

  * * *

  * * *

  —

  Because he was no longer so fixedly himself, his diction was altered, although his voice, there in my mind, by way of his thoughts, sounded much the same as it had when he was alive (same flat Wyoming vowels, same faint, acquired Texas accent).

  His exit from his body had lessened his reflexive defensiveness.

  The magnitude of his sins was now painfully clear to him.

  He had not yet reacquired overt speech.

  However:

  The thing can yet be fixed (was the gist). It can. And I know just how. Am I not ideally suited? For the mighty effort that must now come? If all is to be put to rights? It will, I assure you, be easily done, if led by me. Clean seas, green grass, white shirts blowing on a line in a pure wind. All of that will be. Again. If only you let me lead the thing. It is easily done. Not easily (elbow grease required, sure, a ton of it) but straightforwardly. Once the truth gets into a fellow, all becomes easy. After that it’s just work, work, work, at which (there can be no doubt on your part, sister, having come, tonight, to know me) I am a master. Who better than me? I broke it, I’ll fix it. Easy as pie. It will take some time (not much). For me to acquaint myself. With the methods. That will best suit. Wind, sun, nukes? Some way of reclaiming/purifying? There are so many possibilities once the mind allows them. I shall command the mighty levers. As is natural to me. I did no wrong. Yet wrong was done. By me. And yet: no blame. Blame dissipates the energy of the doing. We must fix, only fix. Fix, fix, fix.

  He was still within me, I was still within him; I spoke gently back:

  Too late, I said.

  Too late? he said.

  Afraid so, I said.

  The violence with which the Mels dragged him out of the room and propelled him down the stairs (even as he protested that to take him now, when the solution was so clear to him, was insane, was an outrage, was a terrible crime against the world) seemed, to me, excessive.

  But there was nothing to be done about it.

  I moved away, to the window.

  * * *

  —

  The wedding was winding down. Guests were piling into shuttle buses, which rolled away down the street, headlights coming on, going off, coming back on again. There were shouts, bits of off-pitch singing, promises to meet again. On the front lawn the bride and groom (drunk) were bidding a digressive goodbye to a (sober) group from the mother of the bride’s church. A few spare children, exhaustion-delirious, dodged in and out of a hedge, one of them with a tail-resembling napkin tucked into the back of his pants.

  Through the crowd, unseen by them, came the Mels, dragging my charge along on his stomach. Though still resisting, he was swiftly being converted by the pain and shock of it to acquiescence. He requested that they stop, please, stop dragging him, he’d walk, he’d willingly walk. They stopped. He got to his feet, and the Mels set off at a rapid pace, him stumbling along behind on the rope, the tenor of his resistance softening into pleading.

  Behind him followed his mother and his father, separate beings again, not speaking to each other. Soon, I knew, their paths would diverge and, forgetting about him entirely, they would wander off separately, to seek their respective solutions to whatever kept them bound in this realm.

  Up above, the sky was full of those collective regional dead, fleeing the death-room, dispersing back to the fields, yards, offices, and nooks between buildings in which each normally, fitfully and unhappily, resided.

  The moon was the highest it had been all night.

  A single cloud moved slowly past it.

  Two pronghorns of our ilk were tightly, repetitively circling my charge’s mailbox, this being the place where, hundreds of years before, they had been killed in successive months by the same mountain lion, who, nearby, staggered around in eternal reenactment of its last moments, having choked to death on the haunch of the second.

  It was hard, this life.

  Poor regional dead, stuck here, confused and discontent.

  Poor pronghorns, who’d died so scared.

  Poor mountain lion, ditto.

  This life would, for no reason, smash its big fist down into this or that face, no apologies. While the rest of the world watched, then moved happily on.

  Including my face.

  I’d gotten blown up.

  ME.

  Lloyd had remarried quick, gone on to have kids, three kids. After his death, he’d fled this realm without so much as a goodbye. My dipshit killer had lived to a ripe old age, having forgiven himself.