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Rufus had a sense of humor—the kind that would crust him into a curmudgeon over the years. Bobby sensed rather than saw evidence of it in those first few days, and he was grateful that Rufus didn't act on it outright at the time. More than that, though, he was grateful that it was there.
Rufus didn't give him the option to wallow. They got to work. Bobby carried Karen out of the room so Rufus could scrub the floorboards. She dripped blood and holy water. He couldn't bear to bring her to the bedroom, so he laid her on a spare couch. He hesitated for a full two minutes before he tried to open her eyes. It was a relief and a horror that they were blue again.
—
They headed to a bar that night. Bobby didn't even realize he'd asked for "the usual" until he saw the bartender give him a glancing nod.
"Make it a double, if it isn't already," Bobby heard Rufus say. "I'm buying."
Bobby found himself at a corner booth, where the sound of conversation rippled the surface of his awareness without quite breaking it.
Rufus appeared with the drinks. "Only so much a place like this can do as far as a decent Scotch." He took a sip, made a face. "Well," he conceded, "it'll do the job."
Bobby looked at the table in front of him. A whiskey double, neat. And a bottle of El Sol. He hadn't realized—this was the bar he used to visit with Karen. Just every so often, but it was often enough and the place was small enough that they were considered regulars. It was just a step up from a dive. Karen liked the jukebox. She'd play The Beatles to annoy him, laugh and lace her fingers through his. He tried to remember to scrub the grime from under his nails after work, but she never minded when he didn't.
Bobby tossed back half the whiskey.
Would she have lived? he wondered. If I hadn't done what I did?
He'd forgotten Rufus was there. He answered. "Lived? Maybe. But she wouldn't have been the same after that. The demons that are stubborn enough to claw their way up here are a special brand of crazy. But don't get too hung up on that question, Bobby. You can't save everyone. It's the oldest rule in the business."
He eyed the bottle and said nothing more.
—
Bobby learned fast. He liked information, and research kept him busy. He caught patterns and details that Rufus didn't. Rufus showed Bobby the practicalities and "street smarts" of the gig. They made a good team.
Their first case turned into a second. Bobby found the third one in a local paper before they'd even washed off the dust of the last town. Rufus grumbled about Shabbat, but Bobby offered to drive. They pieced together a ghost hunt and set out to burn the bones.
"Hope you don't mind if I sit this one out," said Rufus.
"Wouldn't be the first time I've dug six feet down without help." And Bobby was much stronger now than he was all those years ago.
The job went more quickly without the weight of judgment and the weight of a fresh body to look forward to. Even more quickly after Rufus walked back to the car and came back with snacks and another shovel to "make an exception, just this once."
"That's awfully unreligious of you, Rufus."
"Well, we are required to break the rules to save a life, and based on all the huffing and wheezing you're doing, I'd say that's what I'm doing here."
"This beef jerky kosher?"
"You could mind your own damn business. But it is, actually. For your information."
The ghost appeared when they cracked the lid of the coffin. She was young. Kind of sweet-looking, but so sad. She'd died after a backdoor abortion that she'd been forced into. It was the sort of family secret that got passed down through grieved whispers on her side and completely dissipated on his. His descendants were being haunted and they couldn't imagine why. Her family—they knew why.
Bobby wondered what kind of mother she would have been, or if she'd wanted motherhood.
As for the father, screw him to hell.
Her ghost didn't try to stop them, just stared. Bobby felt her eyes through him, even though it was Rufus holding the matches. When the flames licked her bones, her form dissipated without a sound.
Bobby's gaze was locked on the space where her eyes had been. "Where do you think she is now?"
"Somewhere more peaceful." Rufus sighed and picked up his shovel. "Let's tie a bow on this. I’ve got somewhere to be."
—
Bobby must have dozed off in the passenger seat, because when he opened his eyes, the town outside was achingly familiar.
"Why're you bringing me home? I thought you had a lead."
"I do. But I can't take you with me on this one, Bobby."
"Why not?"
"Because it's looking like demon possession, that's why not."
Rufus turned the car onto Bobby's drive, towards the empty, lonely, demon-violated mundanity of his house. "You expect me to sit this one out? Turn the damn car around. I'm coming with you."
"Not this time, you're not. I know you're itching to dance with demons, but that whole situation with your wife seriously messed you up. And being messed up on a job like this makes you vulnerable."
"Rufus—"
"Nah-ah-ah, listen to me, Bobby. You're messed up inside, you're that much more likely to get jumped by one of these evil sons of bitches."
The record that had been looping in Bobby's head got loud, like it did when he was trying to sleep. This time, it was stuck on the worst part: Karen's voice crying, You broke my heart, Bobby. He hadn't found a way to heal it. He hadn't gotten the chance.
"You can confront some literal demons once you've taken some time with the ones in your own head. In the meantime, I don't want you compromised like that. So get your ass out of this damn vehicle before I roll you out myself."
Bobby considered cussing him out. He also considered saying Thank you. He did neither.
"You waiting for the chauffeur to get the door for you?"
"Screw you, Rufus. Call me so I know you ain't dead."
Bobby paused on the porch. Rufus saluted before driving off, and Bobby knew he'd hear from him.
The house felt empty, and Bobby felt restless.
He bought his first book on the occult.
—
She'd been bleeding before Bobby even brandished the knife, her bare right foot leaving smudges of blood across the floor. The cut on her foot was only three days old. It had broken open again. She'd stopped limping, stopped protecting it. He'd noticed that before he noticed her eyes had gone black.
Plunging the knife into her chest was the most physically horrible thing he'd ever done. He'd yelled when he felt the blade grate against bone, drew back quick like something had bitten him.
Karen didn't stop. She backed him through a doorway, laughing in someone else's register. Her fingers clawed the door frame, arms spread at spidered angles, one shoulder and one elbow twisting backward out of joint. A sneer cruelly creased her face as she loomed—somehow—over him. You break everything you touch. Her voice was like the screech of brakes before a crash.
"I'm sorry," said Bobby, and stabbed her again.