Mortality Bridge by Steven R. Boyett

like some wounded cornered animal. His heart torn from its mooring. The bay become a sob he leans across the bed to hug her one last time. The heartbreak yield of her.
    Now let her go. The clock is ticking, Niko. Let her go. Let her go or never get her back.
    He knows it’s true. He knows what must be done. He’d thought that he was ready but how could he be. Who could be ready for this? The grief that sunders him.
    No. No. Contain it. You have to contain it. You have to turn your back on it. If you grieve now Jem is truly lost and all your plans mean nothing.
    He straightens from the bed. Makes his hand let her hand go. Jemma’s utter stillness so pitiful there. Deep breath. Keep breathing. He steps back from the bed. Breathe. Breathe. Now turn around. Turn away. “I can’t,” he tells the bed. The room. The waiting deep. “I can’t do this.”
    Oh yes you can. You know very fucking well you can. You’re the one who put her there. You goddamn well can get her back. Now turn your back on her and start this whole machine or just surrender now and save yourself the trip and live with what you’ve done.
    He knows his demon voice is right. He takes a deep and shaky breath and says goodbye to her and shuts the bedroom door and pulls it tight until he hears the gentle click of latch. Soft as if to avoid her waking. Breathe.
    Go.
     
     

 
    IV.
     
    BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY
     
     
    TAPED TO THE back of Niko’s driver’s license are three old coins and a yellow Post-It with a neatly lettered phone number. Niko has to dial three times before he gets it right. The knot in his throat feels like a fist.
    It’s picked up on the first ring. “Delivery,” a woman answers. “How may we help you?”
    “I need a ride.”
    “Name, please?”
    Niko gives his name.
    “Password?”
    Niko speaks a word not uttered in four thousand years. “We show a carrier is on the way already, sir.”
    He thinks about what this might mean. “Not that one. This ride’s for me.”
    “One moment.” Incantatory static. Niko feels something in his hand and looks down to see an empty syringe. When did he administer this? How long has he been holding it? He tosses the syringe and it clatters likes some insect across the beveled glass coffee table.
    The woman’s voice returns. “The current carrier is all we’re authorized for, sir. We’re very sor—”
    “This has been willed,” he says, “where what is willed must be.” A sharp intake of surprise. “Please hold, sir. We have to speak with a supervisor.”
    “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
    “Yes sir, we understand. Just one moment.” An interminable minute. “We apologize for the wait, sir. This is very unusual, we hope you understand. We’re sending you a driver right away. Our very best.”
    “How long?”
    “Ten minutes at the most. The first carrier will probably arrive first.”
    “I see. All right. Thank you.”
    “You’re most welcome. And sir? Sir?”
    Niko brings the phone back to his ear. “I’m here.”
    “We just wanted to wish you good luck, sir. Good luck and good traveling.”
     
    HARD ABOUT HIM now the empty house lies still. Tick of the old Herschede grandfather clock in the foyer, its snoring Man in the Moon face and deep broad chime that always make him think of early childhood at his grandparents’ house in Florida, which was why he’d bought it in the first place.
    The bedroom door beyond the stairs. Jem I pray your pain is gone. I pray you will forgive me. All I’ve done, all I am about to try to do.
    Two carriers on the way. Ten minutes at the most. Hurry. Breathe.
     
    CLIMBING FROM THE San Fernando Valley on the San Diego Freeway the Black Taxi crests Mulholland Drive and starts the long descent across the pass and into orange city light. The big car passes through the Friday traffic and drifts right and exits on the Sunset ramp. Eastbound through Bel Aire and Westwood, through Beverly Hills and on the crowded Sunset Strip it eases forward