Free Loss by Jackie Morse Kessler Page A

up, and everything Billy thought he’d understood got flushed down the toilet. And now Death had the gall to mock him?
    In his mind, the PE coach sneered, Don’t be such a girl.
    Voice tight, Billy demanded, “Why am I here?”
    Half-hidden by golden hair, Death’s eyes sparkled like caged sunlight. “Depends if your worldview is Maileresque or more along the lines of Vonnegut. Are you a ‘huge purpose’ fan, or more of a ‘fart around’ sort of guy?”
    “You said you needed my help,” Billy said flatly. “And then you brought me here. Tell me why.”
    “Ah, the direct approach. Groovy.” No question about it now: Death was smiling fit to burst. “I brought you here because of your connection to the man lying unconscious in this bed. The Conqueror cannot ride. And so the mantle of the White Rider falls to you.”
    A heartbeat, then Billy said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “You, William Ballard, are now Pestilence. Well,” added Death, somewhat sheepishly, “sort of.”
    Billy’s stomach roiled. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or afraid or something else completely. He wanted to run until his legs turned to rubber; he wanted to throw his head back and scream until the sound was etched in his throat.
    A lick of fire burned behind his eyes, and as the fire crackled it said: You’ve convinced yourself that if you fight back, that will make it worse. It might. Then again, it might not.
    Billy didn’t know about fighting back. But he did know that what Death had just said was ludicrous. The Ice Cream Man was real, and now Billy was . . . what, the Ice Cream Boy? No. Absolutely not.
    “ ’Fraid so,” said Death. “You agreed to wear the Crown when it was time. And it’s time.”
    “I agreed? I didn’t agree to anything!”
    “For the price of a ride on the pretty white horse, you agreed to wear the Crown.”
    The words sank in. “You’re talking about my dream.”
    Death said nothing as he watched Billy, but the smile on his face stretched wider.
    “You’re telling me that because of something I said in a dream from when I was a kid, that makes it a done deal?”
    “It wasn’t a dream. You made an agreement with the White Rider when you were five.” Death paused, then said, “Sorry, William. That’s lousy, but it’s binding.”
    “It’s bullshit! You can’t hold me to something I said when I was a kid!”
    “Actually, I have to,” Death said gently. “Rules, you know. They suck, but they’re still rules. And these aren’t the kind you can break, or that I can overlook. Thou art Pestilence, William Ballard. Of a sort.” Shadows passed behind Death’s eyes. “I can’t give you the White Rider’s Crown because he wears it still. It would have made you the conqueror of health and sickness alike. That title remains with him. He is the Conqueror.”
    Billy glared at the figure lying in the hospital bed. Indeed, on the man’s pox-ridden brow lay a thin band of silver, barely visible between the greasy strands of black hair. Billy thought the silver band was called a circlet. He also thought it looked completely nasty, resting there on the man’s lumpy face. There was no way he would ever let that band of silver touch his flesh.
    “I can, however, give you his Bow,” said Death. “A consolation prize, perhaps, but still a good one.”
    Eyes locked on the Crown, Billy shook his head. “I don’t want anything of his.” He wasn’t going to take over for the Ice Cream Man, or the Conqueror, or whatever he was called.
    “He has many names, and even more titles. Before you prattle on about what you want and what you don’t want, look at the Bow.”
    Something about Death’s voice made Billy turn to face the Pale Rider, who was motioning to the back corner of the room.
    “You have to admit,” said Death, “you’ve never seen anything like it.”
    Despite himself, Billy gazed at the object tucked in the corner of the room. At first glance, it seemed far