Fic: Claiming a Soul, Part I
Title: Claiming a Soul
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy's sandbox, I'm just playing in it.
Rating: R for (hopefully) frigthtening concepts
Word Count: 7202 (between both parts).
Continuity: This is an off-shoot of my universe. This is set when they're in college, and they've been married about seven months. Everything that happened in my canon universe has happened here, but this is its own parallel universe (you'll understand why).
A/N: A huge thank you-as always-to my writing...I don't know. What do I call you? My very, very beloved good friend and person whom without I would get nothing posted: Redlance. You're awesome!
A/N II: This is a little different from my normal fics. This story has some supernatural/mystery elements to it. Nothing too scary (no zombies or anything). I came up with the idea a few weeks ago when I was moving. I hope everyone likes it but it is a little off the beat and path. It did, however, just kinda by the fluid nature of the creative process, become a Bram fic in the end. Funny how that happens.
Summary: Sam, a star reporter for the USC student newspaper, investigates an interesting story.
Claiming a Soul - Part I
Not exactly, she admitted, followed by a long groan from the other end of her cell phone.
Sam, what do you mean: ‘not exactly’? her editor complained-but then, he complained a lot for the editor of a campus newspaper. We’re waiting for that story!
I’m following a hunch, she said.
A hunch?
Yeah, a hunch. Real reporters have them, she jibed. She couldn’t resist.
Sam, I--
Hey, I gotta go, Sam cut him off. I’m here.
Where’s ‘here’?
I’ll talk to you later, Todd, she grinned. She clapped her cell phone shut and tucked it into her pocket.
A moment later a chime heralded her arrival into VJ’s -a local pawn shop and popular destination for USC students on the hunt for bargain CD’s.
The proprietor sized her up like a piece of meat. She squelched her immediate impression and put herself into objective reporter mode.
Managing a smile, she approached the counter with an outstretched hand and a secret desire for some hand sanitizer. Hi, she smiled. I’m Sam McPherson. Are you the owner?
I’m Vince, he answered-perhaps implying that he was the ‘V’ in VJ’s. You lookin’ for some jewelry? He gestured to the menagerie of rings and necklaces on display through the counter’s glass surface.
No thanks, she smiled. She resisted the urge to show off the wedding ring on her left hand.
Vince, she turned on the charm, I’m with the Daily Trojan. I’m following up on a rumor I--
Oh, I know why you’re here, he interrupted.
So it’s true...? Sam probed.
He nodded, and waved for her to follow. Sam let him take the lead. She’d interviewed scores of people over the last three years for the USC newspaper. She knew his type. He was a showman, this one. He was just dying to tell her a story.
And if the rumors were true, there was one hell of a story to tell.
Vince led her to a display case off to the side. Here it is, he announced.
Sam looked inside the display case. Contained within -beneath a protective pane of glass-was a single sheet of paper. Written in large black ink was the simple sentence:
I, Ryan McMillan, being of sound mind and without duress, do hereby bequeath to the bearer...
My soul, she finished aloud, swallowing the lump in her throat.
With some effort, she tore her eyes away from the unassuming piece of paper. She looked up at Vince, and the serpentine smile on his face sent a shudder down her spine.
A hundred bucks, he grinned, answering the obvious question.
Why-- she stammered-realizing she couldn’t articulate an actual question. There were so many. She cleared her throat and tried again: Did he say why he did it?
He shrugged. Needed the money, I guess. He came to me with the offer, he disclaimed.
How did you come up with a hundred dollars?
He thought about that for a moment. How do you put a price on a soul? he mused, much more philosophically than she would have believed possible. If he was willing to risk it, I thought it was worth some value. But at the end of the day it’s just a piece of paper that I know he probably won’t be back for-so I wasn’t going to open up the bank for it. You know what I mean?
Sam nodded.
It’s more of a novelty. I never had nobody offer me something like that.
How long? she asked.
He answered her with raised eyebrows.
How long does he have to claim it?
The claim ticket expires today, he said. At closing time.
Sam looked down at the display case. She asked Vince if she could take a few pictures for her article. He didn’t mind, and she snapped away with the new Canon camera Brooke had bought her for Christmas.
What was going through Ryan’s mind when he wrote this on the paper? Did he really believe that he was bartering away his soul?
At the moment, this was a curiosity and not much more. She needed the real story if she was going to get an article out of this. And that meant finding Ryan McMillan.
She stole a glance at the door: the shop closed at eight. That gave her seven hours.
* * *
Sam’s finger scrolled down the newsprint pages, smearing ink as she scanned the ‘M’s in the campus directory. Her phone rang. She dug into her purse and smiled at the name displayed on the Caller ID. Hey, babe! she answered.
Hiya, Brooke responded cheerfully. Whatchadoin...?
I’m trying to find this kid for a story I’m working on. She resumed her search of the directory. ‘Mc’ would go after ‘Mac’, she presumed.
Huh, Brooke answered. What should you have been doing?
Sam stopped cold. With a sinking feeling she looked at her watch: 1:40. What was she supposed to be doing at--
Shit! I’m sorry! She was supposed to meet Brooke for lunch ten minutes ago.
Its okay, her lovely wife laughed, letting her off the hook. We got out early, so I was almost finished by the time 1:30 rolled around anyway.
That’s good, Sam said.
Should I expect you home for dinner?
I’m not sure, Sam answered, trying to gauge the level of disappointment in Brooke’s voice.
Okay, the blonde answered-sounding cheerful enough. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. I’ll order take out.
Sounds good, Sam grinned. I’m sorry you had to eat by yourself today.
Oh, I wasn’t by myself, Brooke teased. At least Sam hoped she was teasing. Two frat boys thought it was a tragedy that-how did they put it? ‘...someone as breathtaking as myself should be all alone.’
Oh, Sam replied glumly.
Sammy! Brooke laughed. It’s no fun to tease you if you’re going to get all mopey.
Sorry, Sam smirked.
Its okay, the blonde replied. Good luck with your story.
Thanks.
I’ll talk to you later, my wife. Brooke giggled. I never get tired of saying that.
Sam’s grin overtook her. Me either.
They exchanged good-byes and ‘I love you’s, and Sam tucked the phone away with a warm feeling inside that she’d grown very accustomed to.
For a moment she wanted to forget all about Ryan MacMillan and just go home and spend the afternoon with Brooke. But she was a professional-and she had a story to write. And besides: she was dying to see how this one turned out.
There were three Ryan McMillan’s in the campus directory. Not too bad for a student body the size of USC.
She recognized the address of the closest immediately: he lived at the Cross Creek Apartments, not too far from campus.
A short bus ride and a few flights of stairs later she knocked on Ryan’s door. She waited, and knocked again.
Sounds of shuffling from inside. He was home. Or a roommate was, she realized as her excitement deflated. These apartments usually housed four or five tenants.
The door opened, and a handsome, sandy haired surfer answered the door. His face lit up upon seeing an attractive brunette on his doorstep. Well, well, well, he grinned, turning on the charm. Who do we have here?
I’m Sam McPherson, she replied, drinking up the attention that she so rarely got from guys these days. Girls, yes-for some reason, the female population ate her up with a spoon-but not so much with the fellas any more. Hopefully it would make her job a little easier. Are you Ryan McMillan?
He nodded, and turned his chin to a different angle. Was he...posing?
Ryan, I’m with the Daily Trojan, she explained. I’m investigating a story I found at VJ’s. Have you heard of them? Little pawn shop not too far from here?
On Royal? he replied.
Yes! Sam affirmed. So you’ve been there?
His shoulders shrugged nonchalantly. Not so much anymore, he informed her. They have good prices on CDs-six bucks each-but now that everyone’s heard of them their selection sucks. It used to be a lot better when I was a freshman. You could get some really killer shit there.
Huh, Sam nodded, mimicking that she gave a damn about their CD selection. Did you ever sell anything?
I dunno, he thought back. Couple ‘a CDs, I think. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Why: are you doing a story about stolen stuff being sold? Hey, anything I sold was mine. I just got tired of listening to it.
I’m sure, Sam assured him. That’s not the angle of my story.
What is the angle...?
Sam debated for a moment. A kid named Ryan McMillan ‘pawned’ his soul.
Ryan was taken aback. No shit?
No shit, Sam replied.
Realization dawned on Ryan. And you thought that I...?
She didn’t now. There were three Ryan’s in the campus directory, she explained. You were the closest.
Oh, he nodded. That’s really fucked up, he commented. He was quiet a moment as he pondered his next question, and came up with the obvious one: How much did he get for it?
Like that mattered. But it had been the first question on her mind too: did he get enough to justify--?
Was there enough to justify giving up that? A hundred bucks, Sam answered. She made a show of glancing at her watch-a classic nonverbal cue that the conversation was over. Listen, Ryan, I gotta go. If you’re not him, then I--
I gotcha, he nodded. Hey, if you don’t mind: let me know what happens-will ya?
You can read all about it in tomorrow’s Daily Trojan, Sam replied.
* * *
The trees were beautiful in springtime: little buds covering the branches, some just on the verge of flowering-a swath of green and white against some of the bluest sky Sam had ever seen. She loved California.
Her original plan would have taken her to Chicago-to Northwestern University. Surely that would have been lovely as well, but she doubted she would be out in jeans and a long T-shirt in March in Chicago.
Sometimes she marveled at the path she thought her life was going to take-and the path it took. No where in her wildest dreams did she ever think Brooke McQueen would show the slightest interest in someone like her.
And once they were together, Northwestern wasn’t part of the picture. For one thing, the cold would make the injuries from Brooke’s accident a constant source of discomfort at best-or debilitating at worst. Add to that the blonde couldn’t travel anywhere when it came time to selecting a college. USC was the obvious choice.
Sam still remembered the day Brooke found her acceptance letter to Northwestern’s journalism program. God, she thought the poor girl was going to unravel. Sam had never seen her like that: she really looked like her world had caved in.
Sam glanced at the ring on her finger. It amazed her to this day that Brooke loved her as much as she did.
Almost on cue her phone rang. She checked the Caller ID with a smile that fell as soon as she saw the name.
Hello, Todd, she deadpanned.
Do you have anything yet? the editor demanded.
Still working on it.
You know, McPherson, he warned, you get cut a lot of slack around here. You think just ‘cause you’re well known and popular and got the whole lesbian angle thing working that you can do whatever you want. Well you can’t! We’ve got a paper to publish!
I have a lesbian angle? she chided. Actually I’m pretty much 360 degrees lesbian.
You know what I mean, he retorted.
Truthfully, she had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Todd, if I get cut any slack it’s because I’m the best writer you have, I’m the most recognized name the paper has, and I always deliver the goods.
She waited for a comment, but there was none forthcoming. So when I say I’m working on a story, she continued, you’re just going to have to trust me.
Or I’ll sic Brooke on you, she added for good measure.
How long do you need? he finally capitulated. Sam grinned to herself. No one wanted to go toe to toe with Brooke because they all thought...well, that she was a little crazy. Don’t get her wrong: Brooke was very popular among the staff. She showed up at the paper often to meet Sam for dinner and for staff parties. They all loved her.
But none of them had forgotten that she tried to staple a girl’s head to the desk in their sophomore year.
And Todd? He’d be no match for her. All Sam would have to say was that he made lewd advances toward her, and it’d be all over. No more Todd...
Hmm. Wow, that was tempting.
She shook the daydreams from her head, and returned to the conversation. The end of the day. Maybe ‘til morning ‘til I get it to you.
You’re sure?
The story ends today, she assured him, one way or another.
All right, Sam, he stated loftily, I’ll trust your gut on this one.
As if he had a choice. She was going to do what she wanted anyway. He was right: she did have a certain amount of leeway at the paper. But that meant that she had to keep coming through. As much as people loved you when you were on top, they loved you even more on the way down.
She thanked Todd cordially and hung up the phone.
It never even occurred to her to ask Todd what he thought of the story. She was intrigued by its premise, and just assumed he would be as well. Would Todd just write it off as some stupid prank? That’s what the rational part of her wanted to do: scoff and say ‘so what? It’s just a piece of paper.’
But another part of her-the part that knocked on wood or stepped over cracks in the sidewalk when she was young or used to be scared of her dark closet-wondered ‘what if...?’
She looked at her watch. On to Ryan number 2.
* * *
She knocked on the door to Ryan’s apartment and waited.
Nothing.
She knocked again-this time a little louder. He lived on the third floor of an older three-story apartment building. A corridor ran through the center of the building with apartments flanking either side. Her pounding on the wooden door resonated throughout the inside of the building. If he was in there, he heard her.
She drew breath to call his name when the phone rang inside the apartment. She leaned an ear toward the door, listening for any sound of movement.
The phone rang five times before the answering machine picked it up. Hi, this is Ryan. The voice sounded cheerful enough. I’m either at class, or don’t feel like picking up the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back!
After a moment, the familiar ‘beep’ heralded a second voice. Hey, Ryan. It’s me: Chet. Hey, dude, I don’t have allthe money I owe ya, but I can give you at least fifty. Will that help? Sorry, man, I just don’t have much on short notice.
I have class in an hour, and then don’t get done until tonight. Can you meet me at the Hub in twenty minutes? I’ll call you on your cell too. Bye.
The line disconnected. Sam’s brain was combing over the transcript from the phone call. This Ryan needed money-more than $50-and he needed it on short notice. The end of the day, perhaps?
She had a feeling this was her man. And she had about nineteen minutes to get over to the Hub.
She expended another minute writing a quick note to Ryan explaining who she was and the story she was writing. She slid the note under his door, and ran downstairs to the bus stop. The only way to make it to the Hub in eighteen minutes was to get lucky.
* * *
Twenty-two minutes later Sam ran into the Union Building reasoning to herself that your average college kid was about as prompt as she was. But the Union wasn’t small, and as she scanned the crowd she realized that she had no idea what Ryan or Chet looked like.
Brilliant, McPherson. And there were only, like, seventy-five thousand people there. Okay-that may be more than actually attended USC, she acknowledged-but the point of the metaphor was that there were a lot of damn people at the Union building this afternoon.
Shit! she frowned. Maybe she’d get lucky.
On the flip side, if Brooke McQueen fell in love with her then she probably used her entire life’s allotment of luck to make that happen. She wasn’t just going to stumble upon to the two of them.
She could always just...yell? The worst she could do was make a complete ass out of herself, right? And who did she have to impress anyway? She was married.
Ten minutes later, Sam satisfied herself that Ryan McMillan wasn’t in the Union building. She nursed a Pepsi for her dry throat and wounded ego from being told to ‘shut up’, or-alternately-‘fuck off’. The latter was extremely popular toward the end.
And it was amazing. Brooke would have been able to shout Ryan’s name all day and if someone told her to shut up (which they wouldn’t-because she’s Brooke-even at USC, she was still ‘Brooke’) she would just give them the finger and keep shouting. And strangers at the table next to the heckler would lynch him. Not even knowing why-just following some primordial impulse to show in whatever way they could their eternal allegiance and undying devotion to her. Because that was Brooke’s freakish power: everyone loved her.
And Brooke was even more dangerous now that she’d come out-because she truly didn’t care. Old Brooke: oh my God, she had to take a census poll before she would have an opinion. Not anymore. The new Brooke could give a rat’s ass what anyone thought of her. Didn’t like her? Too fucking bad.
She was like a force of nature-because she could lead nations to war simply by batting an eyelash, and could pay a fiddle while Los Angeles burned around her, fires set by a thousand pyromaniacs vying to make the biggest blaze and capture the heart and attention of Brooke McQueen.
McPherson, dummy.
Sam looked down at the ring on her finger. It was Brooke McQueen-McPherson now, her subconscious reminded her.
She loved the new Brooke. Hell, she loved old Brooke, new Brooke, classic Brooke, Diet Brooke-you name it. But Brooke had transformed into this completely amazing person -and it made her insecure as hell because what if there was another amazing person out there just waiting to meet her: a Greek god waiting for his goddess?
What would happen to Sam then...?
She drank the soda and blinked back tears. She tried to reign in her raging insecurities, feeling very stupid. What the hell brought this on all of a sudden?
She also wondered why-when she ran these self-torture scenarios through her head-her brain often had Brooke leaving her for a guy. Did she still have some lingering doubts about Brooke’s sexuality?
Who knows? Maybe she needed to go see that shrink again. What was her name: the one she saw in high school...?
She couldn’t remember.
Brooke would know, wouldn’t she? Yes, Sam realized with a grin. Of course she would remember.
Brooke loves you, you dolt, her subconscious chided her. Now stop being a dumbass.
She finished her soda, and couldn’t help but chuckle at what passed for a pep talk these days...
* * *
Going to see Ryan number three was strictly because of her father. Her gut told her that number two was the one-her guy. But she would be remiss in her research if she didn’t confirm that by at least looking for number three.
And that was something that her father had pounded into her from day one: research, research, research. Some pretty credible journalists had been brought down (Dan Rather’s recent collapse came to mind) by stories that turned out not to be true.
That had never happened to Joseph McPherson, and it wasn’t going to happen to his daughter either.
She was walking down the street, comparing addresses to the one on her paper when a shadow fell over her. She looked up, and saw that the source of the obstruction was the steeple of St. Michael’s Catholic Church. It wasn’t nearly as flashy as the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels that served downtown Los Angeles, but Sam thought it looked like a church should look: more traditional and less like the headquarters of a talent agency.
Hmm...
Sam changed direction and walked toward the church’s side entrance. What would a priest think about someone pawning their soul?
A few minutes later Sam rose from her chair in the waiting room and greeted Father Edward. He had short, curly grey hair and a bright, smiling expression. Thank you for seeing me, Father, Sam offered.
He gestured to his office. Come in, Miss...McPherson, was it?
She nodded in confirmation and preceded him inside. He shut the door behind them and she took the seat opposite his desk.
What can I do for you today?
Father, I’m a reporter with the Daily Trojan, she explained. I’m working on a story, and I wanted to get the Church’s take on it.
Father Edward smiled. Well, Miss McPherson, I can’t speak for the Church. You’d have to address the Holy See in Rome for that.
The what? Oh: the Pope. Right, Sam acknowledged. I understand. If I could just get your opinion as a priest, she pleaded.
What is it you wanted to ask me?
Father, I’m investigating a story about a student who... she paused, not sure how to word this. Would he think this ridiculous?
Who pawned their soul.
What did you say?
Sam swallowed the lump in her throat. A USC student pawned their soul at VJs, she reiterated. It’s a local shop not far--
Oh, I know where it is, Father Edward frowned. Vincent Fratangeli is one of the parishioners her.
Vince? she blurted. He goes to church?
Father Edward smiled at her characterization of the man. Yes, he nodded. Every week. And I will be speaking to him about his role in accepting such a thing.
She almost felt bad for getting him into trouble. Almost. So you think it’s real, then: that you could actually pawn your soul?
The Priest digested that for a moment. I suppose-on the record-that there is no intrinsic power in a simple piece of paper to give away ownership of one’s soul.
Off the record...? Sam prodded.
Off the record? the Priest echoed. There’s been a great disservice done by science over the last fifty years that’s left us unprepared to face the challenges of the spiritual world. We don’t speak of ‘evil’ anymore. Modern science-psychology-would rather label it as madness.
But evil does exist-even in our modern age. Not everything can be explained by a poor upbringing or abusive parentage. And as evil exists so do forces beyond the limits of our scientific understanding.
On the record: it’s just a piece of paper, he concluded. But off the record: I fear for this boy’s eternal soul...
What do you mean? Sam chuckled nervously. What could happen to his soul?
Miss McPherson, the battle to win the souls of men and women goes on everyday.
Sam didn’t know how to answer him. Are you saying--?
I’m talking about Hell, Miss McPherson. I’m talking about the war between the forces of Heaven and the Prince of Darkness...
The phone ringing in her lap made her jump. She offered a quick apology to the priest, and looked down at the Caller ID.
She didn’t recognize the number. One second, Father, she beseeched, and answered the call.
A voice on the other end-male-and he sounded shaky. Is-is this Sam McPherson?
Yes, she answered.
This is Ryan McMillan.
She met Father Edward’s gaze and covered the microphone with her hand. It’s him!
(To be continued...)
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy's sandbox, I'm just playing in it.
Rating: R for (hopefully) frigthtening concepts
Word Count: 7202 (between both parts).
Continuity: This is an off-shoot of my universe. This is set when they're in college, and they've been married about seven months. Everything that happened in my canon universe has happened here, but this is its own parallel universe (you'll understand why).
A/N: A huge thank you-as always-to my writing...I don't know. What do I call you? My very, very beloved good friend and person whom without I would get nothing posted: Redlance. You're awesome!
A/N II: This is a little different from my normal fics. This story has some supernatural/mystery elements to it. Nothing too scary (no zombies or anything). I came up with the idea a few weeks ago when I was moving. I hope everyone likes it but it is a little off the beat and path. It did, however, just kinda by the fluid nature of the creative process, become a Bram fic in the end. Funny how that happens.
Summary: Sam, a star reporter for the USC student newspaper, investigates an interesting story.
Claiming a Soul - Part I
Not exactly, she admitted, followed by a long groan from the other end of her cell phone.
Sam, what do you mean: ‘not exactly’? her editor complained-but then, he complained a lot for the editor of a campus newspaper. We’re waiting for that story!
I’m following a hunch, she said.
A hunch?
Yeah, a hunch. Real reporters have them, she jibed. She couldn’t resist.
Sam, I--
Hey, I gotta go, Sam cut him off. I’m here.
Where’s ‘here’?
I’ll talk to you later, Todd, she grinned. She clapped her cell phone shut and tucked it into her pocket.
A moment later a chime heralded her arrival into VJ’s -a local pawn shop and popular destination for USC students on the hunt for bargain CD’s.
The proprietor sized her up like a piece of meat. She squelched her immediate impression and put herself into objective reporter mode.
Managing a smile, she approached the counter with an outstretched hand and a secret desire for some hand sanitizer. Hi, she smiled. I’m Sam McPherson. Are you the owner?
I’m Vince, he answered-perhaps implying that he was the ‘V’ in VJ’s. You lookin’ for some jewelry? He gestured to the menagerie of rings and necklaces on display through the counter’s glass surface.
No thanks, she smiled. She resisted the urge to show off the wedding ring on her left hand.
Vince, she turned on the charm, I’m with the Daily Trojan. I’m following up on a rumor I--
Oh, I know why you’re here, he interrupted.
So it’s true...? Sam probed.
He nodded, and waved for her to follow. Sam let him take the lead. She’d interviewed scores of people over the last three years for the USC newspaper. She knew his type. He was a showman, this one. He was just dying to tell her a story.
And if the rumors were true, there was one hell of a story to tell.
Vince led her to a display case off to the side. Here it is, he announced.
Sam looked inside the display case. Contained within -beneath a protective pane of glass-was a single sheet of paper. Written in large black ink was the simple sentence:
I, Ryan McMillan, being of sound mind and without duress, do hereby bequeath to the bearer...
My soul, she finished aloud, swallowing the lump in her throat.
With some effort, she tore her eyes away from the unassuming piece of paper. She looked up at Vince, and the serpentine smile on his face sent a shudder down her spine.
A hundred bucks, he grinned, answering the obvious question.
Why-- she stammered-realizing she couldn’t articulate an actual question. There were so many. She cleared her throat and tried again: Did he say why he did it?
He shrugged. Needed the money, I guess. He came to me with the offer, he disclaimed.
How did you come up with a hundred dollars?
He thought about that for a moment. How do you put a price on a soul? he mused, much more philosophically than she would have believed possible. If he was willing to risk it, I thought it was worth some value. But at the end of the day it’s just a piece of paper that I know he probably won’t be back for-so I wasn’t going to open up the bank for it. You know what I mean?
Sam nodded.
It’s more of a novelty. I never had nobody offer me something like that.
How long? she asked.
He answered her with raised eyebrows.
How long does he have to claim it?
The claim ticket expires today, he said. At closing time.
Sam looked down at the display case. She asked Vince if she could take a few pictures for her article. He didn’t mind, and she snapped away with the new Canon camera Brooke had bought her for Christmas.
What was going through Ryan’s mind when he wrote this on the paper? Did he really believe that he was bartering away his soul?
At the moment, this was a curiosity and not much more. She needed the real story if she was going to get an article out of this. And that meant finding Ryan McMillan.
She stole a glance at the door: the shop closed at eight. That gave her seven hours.
* * *
Sam’s finger scrolled down the newsprint pages, smearing ink as she scanned the ‘M’s in the campus directory. Her phone rang. She dug into her purse and smiled at the name displayed on the Caller ID. Hey, babe! she answered.
Hiya, Brooke responded cheerfully. Whatchadoin...?
I’m trying to find this kid for a story I’m working on. She resumed her search of the directory. ‘Mc’ would go after ‘Mac’, she presumed.
Huh, Brooke answered. What should you have been doing?
Sam stopped cold. With a sinking feeling she looked at her watch: 1:40. What was she supposed to be doing at--
Shit! I’m sorry! She was supposed to meet Brooke for lunch ten minutes ago.
Its okay, her lovely wife laughed, letting her off the hook. We got out early, so I was almost finished by the time 1:30 rolled around anyway.
That’s good, Sam said.
Should I expect you home for dinner?
I’m not sure, Sam answered, trying to gauge the level of disappointment in Brooke’s voice.
Okay, the blonde answered-sounding cheerful enough. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. I’ll order take out.
Sounds good, Sam grinned. I’m sorry you had to eat by yourself today.
Oh, I wasn’t by myself, Brooke teased. At least Sam hoped she was teasing. Two frat boys thought it was a tragedy that-how did they put it? ‘...someone as breathtaking as myself should be all alone.’
Oh, Sam replied glumly.
Sammy! Brooke laughed. It’s no fun to tease you if you’re going to get all mopey.
Sorry, Sam smirked.
Its okay, the blonde replied. Good luck with your story.
Thanks.
I’ll talk to you later, my wife. Brooke giggled. I never get tired of saying that.
Sam’s grin overtook her. Me either.
They exchanged good-byes and ‘I love you’s, and Sam tucked the phone away with a warm feeling inside that she’d grown very accustomed to.
For a moment she wanted to forget all about Ryan MacMillan and just go home and spend the afternoon with Brooke. But she was a professional-and she had a story to write. And besides: she was dying to see how this one turned out.
There were three Ryan McMillan’s in the campus directory. Not too bad for a student body the size of USC.
She recognized the address of the closest immediately: he lived at the Cross Creek Apartments, not too far from campus.
A short bus ride and a few flights of stairs later she knocked on Ryan’s door. She waited, and knocked again.
Sounds of shuffling from inside. He was home. Or a roommate was, she realized as her excitement deflated. These apartments usually housed four or five tenants.
The door opened, and a handsome, sandy haired surfer answered the door. His face lit up upon seeing an attractive brunette on his doorstep. Well, well, well, he grinned, turning on the charm. Who do we have here?
I’m Sam McPherson, she replied, drinking up the attention that she so rarely got from guys these days. Girls, yes-for some reason, the female population ate her up with a spoon-but not so much with the fellas any more. Hopefully it would make her job a little easier. Are you Ryan McMillan?
He nodded, and turned his chin to a different angle. Was he...posing?
Ryan, I’m with the Daily Trojan, she explained. I’m investigating a story I found at VJ’s. Have you heard of them? Little pawn shop not too far from here?
On Royal? he replied.
Yes! Sam affirmed. So you’ve been there?
His shoulders shrugged nonchalantly. Not so much anymore, he informed her. They have good prices on CDs-six bucks each-but now that everyone’s heard of them their selection sucks. It used to be a lot better when I was a freshman. You could get some really killer shit there.
Huh, Sam nodded, mimicking that she gave a damn about their CD selection. Did you ever sell anything?
I dunno, he thought back. Couple ‘a CDs, I think. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Why: are you doing a story about stolen stuff being sold? Hey, anything I sold was mine. I just got tired of listening to it.
I’m sure, Sam assured him. That’s not the angle of my story.
What is the angle...?
Sam debated for a moment. A kid named Ryan McMillan ‘pawned’ his soul.
Ryan was taken aback. No shit?
No shit, Sam replied.
Realization dawned on Ryan. And you thought that I...?
She didn’t now. There were three Ryan’s in the campus directory, she explained. You were the closest.
Oh, he nodded. That’s really fucked up, he commented. He was quiet a moment as he pondered his next question, and came up with the obvious one: How much did he get for it?
Like that mattered. But it had been the first question on her mind too: did he get enough to justify--?
Was there enough to justify giving up that? A hundred bucks, Sam answered. She made a show of glancing at her watch-a classic nonverbal cue that the conversation was over. Listen, Ryan, I gotta go. If you’re not him, then I--
I gotcha, he nodded. Hey, if you don’t mind: let me know what happens-will ya?
You can read all about it in tomorrow’s Daily Trojan, Sam replied.
* * *
The trees were beautiful in springtime: little buds covering the branches, some just on the verge of flowering-a swath of green and white against some of the bluest sky Sam had ever seen. She loved California.
Her original plan would have taken her to Chicago-to Northwestern University. Surely that would have been lovely as well, but she doubted she would be out in jeans and a long T-shirt in March in Chicago.
Sometimes she marveled at the path she thought her life was going to take-and the path it took. No where in her wildest dreams did she ever think Brooke McQueen would show the slightest interest in someone like her.
And once they were together, Northwestern wasn’t part of the picture. For one thing, the cold would make the injuries from Brooke’s accident a constant source of discomfort at best-or debilitating at worst. Add to that the blonde couldn’t travel anywhere when it came time to selecting a college. USC was the obvious choice.
Sam still remembered the day Brooke found her acceptance letter to Northwestern’s journalism program. God, she thought the poor girl was going to unravel. Sam had never seen her like that: she really looked like her world had caved in.
Sam glanced at the ring on her finger. It amazed her to this day that Brooke loved her as much as she did.
Almost on cue her phone rang. She checked the Caller ID with a smile that fell as soon as she saw the name.
Hello, Todd, she deadpanned.
Do you have anything yet? the editor demanded.
Still working on it.
You know, McPherson, he warned, you get cut a lot of slack around here. You think just ‘cause you’re well known and popular and got the whole lesbian angle thing working that you can do whatever you want. Well you can’t! We’ve got a paper to publish!
I have a lesbian angle? she chided. Actually I’m pretty much 360 degrees lesbian.
You know what I mean, he retorted.
Truthfully, she had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Todd, if I get cut any slack it’s because I’m the best writer you have, I’m the most recognized name the paper has, and I always deliver the goods.
She waited for a comment, but there was none forthcoming. So when I say I’m working on a story, she continued, you’re just going to have to trust me.
Or I’ll sic Brooke on you, she added for good measure.
How long do you need? he finally capitulated. Sam grinned to herself. No one wanted to go toe to toe with Brooke because they all thought...well, that she was a little crazy. Don’t get her wrong: Brooke was very popular among the staff. She showed up at the paper often to meet Sam for dinner and for staff parties. They all loved her.
But none of them had forgotten that she tried to staple a girl’s head to the desk in their sophomore year.
And Todd? He’d be no match for her. All Sam would have to say was that he made lewd advances toward her, and it’d be all over. No more Todd...
Hmm. Wow, that was tempting.
She shook the daydreams from her head, and returned to the conversation. The end of the day. Maybe ‘til morning ‘til I get it to you.
You’re sure?
The story ends today, she assured him, one way or another.
All right, Sam, he stated loftily, I’ll trust your gut on this one.
As if he had a choice. She was going to do what she wanted anyway. He was right: she did have a certain amount of leeway at the paper. But that meant that she had to keep coming through. As much as people loved you when you were on top, they loved you even more on the way down.
She thanked Todd cordially and hung up the phone.
It never even occurred to her to ask Todd what he thought of the story. She was intrigued by its premise, and just assumed he would be as well. Would Todd just write it off as some stupid prank? That’s what the rational part of her wanted to do: scoff and say ‘so what? It’s just a piece of paper.’
But another part of her-the part that knocked on wood or stepped over cracks in the sidewalk when she was young or used to be scared of her dark closet-wondered ‘what if...?’
She looked at her watch. On to Ryan number 2.
* * *
She knocked on the door to Ryan’s apartment and waited.
Nothing.
She knocked again-this time a little louder. He lived on the third floor of an older three-story apartment building. A corridor ran through the center of the building with apartments flanking either side. Her pounding on the wooden door resonated throughout the inside of the building. If he was in there, he heard her.
She drew breath to call his name when the phone rang inside the apartment. She leaned an ear toward the door, listening for any sound of movement.
The phone rang five times before the answering machine picked it up. Hi, this is Ryan. The voice sounded cheerful enough. I’m either at class, or don’t feel like picking up the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back!
After a moment, the familiar ‘beep’ heralded a second voice. Hey, Ryan. It’s me: Chet. Hey, dude, I don’t have allthe money I owe ya, but I can give you at least fifty. Will that help? Sorry, man, I just don’t have much on short notice.
I have class in an hour, and then don’t get done until tonight. Can you meet me at the Hub in twenty minutes? I’ll call you on your cell too. Bye.
The line disconnected. Sam’s brain was combing over the transcript from the phone call. This Ryan needed money-more than $50-and he needed it on short notice. The end of the day, perhaps?
She had a feeling this was her man. And she had about nineteen minutes to get over to the Hub.
She expended another minute writing a quick note to Ryan explaining who she was and the story she was writing. She slid the note under his door, and ran downstairs to the bus stop. The only way to make it to the Hub in eighteen minutes was to get lucky.
* * *
Twenty-two minutes later Sam ran into the Union Building reasoning to herself that your average college kid was about as prompt as she was. But the Union wasn’t small, and as she scanned the crowd she realized that she had no idea what Ryan or Chet looked like.
Brilliant, McPherson. And there were only, like, seventy-five thousand people there. Okay-that may be more than actually attended USC, she acknowledged-but the point of the metaphor was that there were a lot of damn people at the Union building this afternoon.
Shit! she frowned. Maybe she’d get lucky.
On the flip side, if Brooke McQueen fell in love with her then she probably used her entire life’s allotment of luck to make that happen. She wasn’t just going to stumble upon to the two of them.
She could always just...yell? The worst she could do was make a complete ass out of herself, right? And who did she have to impress anyway? She was married.
Ten minutes later, Sam satisfied herself that Ryan McMillan wasn’t in the Union building. She nursed a Pepsi for her dry throat and wounded ego from being told to ‘shut up’, or-alternately-‘fuck off’. The latter was extremely popular toward the end.
And it was amazing. Brooke would have been able to shout Ryan’s name all day and if someone told her to shut up (which they wouldn’t-because she’s Brooke-even at USC, she was still ‘Brooke’) she would just give them the finger and keep shouting. And strangers at the table next to the heckler would lynch him. Not even knowing why-just following some primordial impulse to show in whatever way they could their eternal allegiance and undying devotion to her. Because that was Brooke’s freakish power: everyone loved her.
And Brooke was even more dangerous now that she’d come out-because she truly didn’t care. Old Brooke: oh my God, she had to take a census poll before she would have an opinion. Not anymore. The new Brooke could give a rat’s ass what anyone thought of her. Didn’t like her? Too fucking bad.
She was like a force of nature-because she could lead nations to war simply by batting an eyelash, and could pay a fiddle while Los Angeles burned around her, fires set by a thousand pyromaniacs vying to make the biggest blaze and capture the heart and attention of Brooke McQueen.
McPherson, dummy.
Sam looked down at the ring on her finger. It was Brooke McQueen-McPherson now, her subconscious reminded her.
She loved the new Brooke. Hell, she loved old Brooke, new Brooke, classic Brooke, Diet Brooke-you name it. But Brooke had transformed into this completely amazing person -and it made her insecure as hell because what if there was another amazing person out there just waiting to meet her: a Greek god waiting for his goddess?
What would happen to Sam then...?
She drank the soda and blinked back tears. She tried to reign in her raging insecurities, feeling very stupid. What the hell brought this on all of a sudden?
She also wondered why-when she ran these self-torture scenarios through her head-her brain often had Brooke leaving her for a guy. Did she still have some lingering doubts about Brooke’s sexuality?
Who knows? Maybe she needed to go see that shrink again. What was her name: the one she saw in high school...?
She couldn’t remember.
Brooke would know, wouldn’t she? Yes, Sam realized with a grin. Of course she would remember.
Brooke loves you, you dolt, her subconscious chided her. Now stop being a dumbass.
She finished her soda, and couldn’t help but chuckle at what passed for a pep talk these days...
* * *
Going to see Ryan number three was strictly because of her father. Her gut told her that number two was the one-her guy. But she would be remiss in her research if she didn’t confirm that by at least looking for number three.
And that was something that her father had pounded into her from day one: research, research, research. Some pretty credible journalists had been brought down (Dan Rather’s recent collapse came to mind) by stories that turned out not to be true.
That had never happened to Joseph McPherson, and it wasn’t going to happen to his daughter either.
She was walking down the street, comparing addresses to the one on her paper when a shadow fell over her. She looked up, and saw that the source of the obstruction was the steeple of St. Michael’s Catholic Church. It wasn’t nearly as flashy as the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels that served downtown Los Angeles, but Sam thought it looked like a church should look: more traditional and less like the headquarters of a talent agency.
Hmm...
Sam changed direction and walked toward the church’s side entrance. What would a priest think about someone pawning their soul?
A few minutes later Sam rose from her chair in the waiting room and greeted Father Edward. He had short, curly grey hair and a bright, smiling expression. Thank you for seeing me, Father, Sam offered.
He gestured to his office. Come in, Miss...McPherson, was it?
She nodded in confirmation and preceded him inside. He shut the door behind them and she took the seat opposite his desk.
What can I do for you today?
Father, I’m a reporter with the Daily Trojan, she explained. I’m working on a story, and I wanted to get the Church’s take on it.
Father Edward smiled. Well, Miss McPherson, I can’t speak for the Church. You’d have to address the Holy See in Rome for that.
The what? Oh: the Pope. Right, Sam acknowledged. I understand. If I could just get your opinion as a priest, she pleaded.
What is it you wanted to ask me?
Father, I’m investigating a story about a student who... she paused, not sure how to word this. Would he think this ridiculous?
Who pawned their soul.
What did you say?
Sam swallowed the lump in her throat. A USC student pawned their soul at VJs, she reiterated. It’s a local shop not far--
Oh, I know where it is, Father Edward frowned. Vincent Fratangeli is one of the parishioners her.
Vince? she blurted. He goes to church?
Father Edward smiled at her characterization of the man. Yes, he nodded. Every week. And I will be speaking to him about his role in accepting such a thing.
She almost felt bad for getting him into trouble. Almost. So you think it’s real, then: that you could actually pawn your soul?
The Priest digested that for a moment. I suppose-on the record-that there is no intrinsic power in a simple piece of paper to give away ownership of one’s soul.
Off the record...? Sam prodded.
Off the record? the Priest echoed. There’s been a great disservice done by science over the last fifty years that’s left us unprepared to face the challenges of the spiritual world. We don’t speak of ‘evil’ anymore. Modern science-psychology-would rather label it as madness.
But evil does exist-even in our modern age. Not everything can be explained by a poor upbringing or abusive parentage. And as evil exists so do forces beyond the limits of our scientific understanding.
On the record: it’s just a piece of paper, he concluded. But off the record: I fear for this boy’s eternal soul...
What do you mean? Sam chuckled nervously. What could happen to his soul?
Miss McPherson, the battle to win the souls of men and women goes on everyday.
Sam didn’t know how to answer him. Are you saying--?
I’m talking about Hell, Miss McPherson. I’m talking about the war between the forces of Heaven and the Prince of Darkness...
The phone ringing in her lap made her jump. She offered a quick apology to the priest, and looked down at the Caller ID.
She didn’t recognize the number. One second, Father, she beseeched, and answered the call.
A voice on the other end-male-and he sounded shaky. Is-is this Sam McPherson?
Yes, she answered.
This is Ryan McMillan.
She met Father Edward’s gaze and covered the microphone with her hand. It’s him!
(To be continued...)