Page 66 of Nine Lives

I felt bad about Alison, of course. It was a pleasure to spend time with her in Bermuda. I’d been wanting to go back there for years, and it was nice to see the old haunted place through her eyes. And it was nice to be able to tell her about my sister, about what happened to her. I suppose the psychologists out there will say that was what I was doing all along, that my entire plan was an elaborate way to tell the world about my sister. They’ll say I wanted to get caught, and maybe that is true as well.

I know that I’ve left some questions behind that have not been answered in this letter. Like why did I even bother to mail the letter to myself and then give the FBI information about the Windward Resort? I don’t really have the answer to that question except that it felt like the right thing to do. I am guilty, as well, in the death of my sister, and I deserved to be on the list, just as I deserve what is about to happen to me.

Maybe you will wonder why I even wrote the list in the first place, sending it to the victims. It made my job harder, and it made their final moments more filled with dread, but, again, all I can tell you is that it felt like the right thing to do. Their deaths were an attempt to add order back to a chaotic world, and the list itself was just part of that order. And being on that list only told them something that they should already have known. That death is coming for us all.

And what about Eric Miles, my neighbor in Hartford? All I will say about him is that he deserved to die, more than most of us. Think of me as a garbage man, just out doing my job of picking up the bagged garbage left along the side of the road. Eric was just a piece of trash that floated into my path at random. It wasn’t a whole lot of effort for me to throw him into my truck, as well.

My time is up, I think, and I won’t bore you any more with self-reflection. I’ll hide this letter in an appropriate place, then take my remaining whiskey out to the jetty. I’ll be joining Faye soon. I don’t mean in heaven, because I don’t believe that such a place exists. I mean that other place. The cold nothing that awaits all of us when we finally leave this world.

May your gods have mercy on all your souls.

Sincerely,

Jack Radebaugh né Jonathan Borland Grant

June 21, 1944—November 2, 2014

One

1

Sunday, March 19, 5:14 a.m.

She’d been hearing voices for so long—some she recognized and some she didn’t—that they had begun to mean nothing to her. But then some of the voices began to break through, and one of them said, “Her eyes just opened.”

Or maybe she’d dreamed it.

She was in the darkness again, but there had been a flicker of light.

One of the things she liked about the darkness was that there was no pain.

But then she heard a voice she recognized—her mother’s voice—the words floating in her head, and she remembered that once upon a time she had opened her eyes. So she tried to open them again, and this time there was nothing but darkness, and the sound of machines. The sound of the room she was in, doing whatever it was that rooms do.

When she next heard voices, and felt a hand on her arm, she opened her eyes again and this time a face looked back at her. She didn’t recognize it, but it smiled. A woman’s face, dark freckles along the hairline, a razor thin scar on her chin. “Why, hello, you,” she said.

Later, there were so many faces around her hospital bed that just looking at them made her happy and tired all at once. Her mother was by her side, holding her hand.

“Am I dead?” she asked. Her voice was scratchy and didn’t sound like hers. Everyone in the room laughed, although some were also crying.

“Well, you came close.” This was from her doctor. “What do you remember about it?”

She slowly shook her head back and forth, trying to find the words that would explain her memory. Eventually, she said, “I work for the FBI.”

“That’s right, honey,” her mom said.

Much later, two people she remembered from working at the FBI came to visit her. It was a good afternoon, her mind swimming with memories, and a bar of summer light lying across her legs and warming them.

The woman’s name was Ruth Jackson and she had a round face and a deep voice. The man’s name was Aaron Levin, and he kept bouncing up and down on his toes. She knew that she and the man had been more than coworkers. Her memories kept throwing a few random slides at her—the two of them untwisting themselves from bedsheets, and laughing uproariously; the man outside her door, thumping at it, trying to be let in.

“You look good,” Ruth Jackson said.

A few sarcastic thoughts went through her head, but she dismissed them, and said, “Thank you. So do you. I like your suit.”

Ruth smiled, and next to her Aaron went up and down on his toes, his hands in his pockets.

“Your doctor tells us you’re remembering more and more these days.”

“Just this morning I remembered all of seventh grade in a rush. It was terrible.”

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