The Wrong Goodbye Read Online Free PDF Page B

finished my second cup of coffee, I was jumpy, and my palms were sweating. My waitress wasn't faring much better. When she brought my second refill, she shot off something in rapid-fire Spanish that I couldn't understand, but I think I got the gist: order something besides coffee or beat sidewalk. I tried to explain to her that I was waiting for someone, but that didn't seem to get much traction. Eventually, I acquiesced, looking over the menu and picking an item at random. That seemed to mollify her, because she snatched the menu from my hands and disappeared into the café, leaving me and my coffee jitters in peace. 
      "Hello, Sam. It's been a while."
      Even though I'd been expecting him, I swear I never saw him coming. See, every Collector's got their type. Some pick meat-suits based on strength, or speed, or stamina. Me, I prefer the quiet of the newly dead. But Danny, he's got a whole 'nother set of criteria. Danny likes 'em pretty. Good teeth, a healthy tan, and ideally with a walk-in full of swanky clothes. He told me once in a moment of drunken confession that he clings to the creature comforts he enjoyed in life as a way of protecting against the erosion of self that comes from subjugating vessel after unwilling vessel, but I didn't believe him for a second. He does it because he likes the way the ladies look at him.
      But that was then, I guess. Today, he looked like shit. Sunken eyes ringed dark from lack of sleep. Sallow skin beaded with sweat and streaked with dirt. There was dirt in his hair, as well, and his clothes were so covered in it, it took me a moment to recognize them as the same fatigues worn by Varela's men. So this is where the eighth man went, I thought – the one whose rifle I found abandoned alongside his dead compatriots. But that was nearly a week ago, and I'd never known Danny to stick with a meat-suit longer than a day or two. Something clearly wasn't right here.
      "You ask me, Danny, it hasn't been long enough. Now where the hell is Varela's soul?"
      He blinked at me for a moment as though he hadn't understood the question, and then dropped awkwardly into the chair opposite me. His eyes darted to and fro, never settling on anything for more than a second. His hands found the unused place setting laid out before him and began fiddling absently with it. His feet tapped out a twitchy, nervous rhythm from beneath the table.
      "I wasn't sure you'd come," he said, his once lilting Queen's English now brittle, strained. 
      "Then you're an idiot. I had to come – your little stunt in the jungle made sure of that."
      He recoiled as if I'd slapped him. His features twisted into an expression of hurt. "I'm sorry about that – really, I am – but I didn't know what else to do! I've got no one else to turn to."
      "Sure you don't, Danny," I replied, my words dripping venom. "How is Ana, by the way?"
      "Piss off, Sam, that was years ago. I mean, I'm sorry how that shook out, but I was hoping we were past that."
      "Past it? Is that what you hoped? You lied to her, Danny. You betrayed me. You know damn well I had nothing to do with Quinn getting shelved – but hey, if pinning it on me means you and Ana get to ride off into the sunset together, then by all means. After all, what's a little backstabbing between friends?" 
      "Oh, for God's sake, Sam, we've been through this all a thousand times. I swear to you, whatever she heard, she did not hear it from me. How many times am I going to have to tell you that before you'll actually believe it?" 
      "At least once more."
      "I think I'll save my breath," he said. "Besides, what I did or didn't tell her is immaterial. Ana's a big girl, and her conclusions are her own. You know as well as anyone that once she's made up her mind, there's not a force on God's Earth that's going to change it. Now, I won't deny that when she turned her back on you, it was me she turned to, but I can promise you there was no riding off