Trisha realized that Weevil was watching her, and she snuffed away her runny nose and wiped the tears out of her eyes.
“I thought so,” he said. “Now, sister dear. I have a plan. And you’re going to help me. Because if you don’t, I will see to it that our father suffers. Greatly.”
Trisha nodded and sniffed. “What do you need me to do?”
Weevil smiled. “It starts with the murder and replacement of Detective Janet Palmer.”
Trisha jumped out of the chair and dove at her brother. Her fingernails dug at his face leaving long claw marks from his eyes down into the scruff of his beard. She kicked. She fought.
She lost the fight.
Weevil pinned her to the ground, hands held behind her back. His knee planted itself into her kidney and he pushed down with all his weight until she screamed for mercy.
It took two thugs to help Weevil keep her under control. As they bound her hands and feet Weevil pressed his hand against the scratch she’d left on his face. He winced and pulled his hand back, staring at the lines of blood that ran down his fingers and across his palm.
As the thugs carried Trisha from the room, she heard Weevil yell after her. “Just for that, Ms. Palmer. Just for that I’m bringing him here. You’ll watch me break him. One bone at a time. I’ll cut off an inch of his flesh every time you blink and I don’t give you permission first. You hear me? You think on that, Ms. Palmer. You think on that.”
Trisha’s body bounced as the thugs carried her farther back into the depths of Weevil’s Club. In the occasional overhead light she searched the faces of the two thugs.
One of them she recognized but, from her current perspective, being carried upside down between the two of them, she couldn’t quite place. Only once they dumped her and she got a chance to orient herself did she recognize him—or, rather, the part of her that had been Reggie recognized him: Uniform Musclehead. Officer Burke.
Weevil gave strict instructions that Trisha was to be searched thoroughly before they locked her in that empty back room. “Leave nothing she can write with,” he said.
And Burke knew how to be very thorough. By the time he was done Trisha had been completely violated.
At last they dumped her, bound and gagged, on a cold cement floor in an empty storage room. She heard the door close and lock behind her.
And she wept.
Everything she thought went into forming the perfect character for Detective Palmer—the fierce determination, the perfectionism, everything—cried out at Trisha demanding to know where she had gone wrong. If all these things were supposed to make her good at being a policewoman, how did she get here where everything was broken?
And, adding insult to injury, if she was such a tough woman, why had she been crying so friggin’ much? Her eyes stung. Her throat felt tight and tired. Her nose ran.
She grew angry at herself—at what she had become and what she had allowed to happen and, above all, at her tears, and she set herself a goal. One thing to focus her fierce determination on.
Escape.
She found that her hand could almost slip through the cords they’d tied her wrists with. Only the thumb kept her hands bound.
If only she could write herself a smaller hand.
But there was nothing to write on. Her fingernails couldn’t even scratch at the cement.
And if she pulled any harder she was likely to—
Break.
Her.
Thumb.
She could. She could break her thumb. If she pulled hard enough … It would hurt in ways she couldn’t possibly imagine, but her fierce determination kicked in and she knew it was possible.
She closed her eyes. She arched her back. She bit into the cotton of her gag as hard as she could.
She puuulllllllllleeed.
Crack!
The pain smothered her. Her vision blurred and filled with white snow. She gasped and fought for each breath.
But her hand—
—came free!
When she looked at her hand the pain returned, fresh and new. The thumb dangled limply below an open wound, through which a shard of bone jutted. Blood ran down the front of her hand, pooling on the cement.
She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.
The past several hours had convinced Trisha of one thing: She was not the person who could stop her brother. She was soft. Stopping her brother required someone cold.
No. Trisha Palmer was not that person.
But she could become that person.
She dipped her finger in her own warm blood, then, rubbing her finger across the coarse surface of the cement floor, she began to write.
The city is a cold place. Look in the eyes of the people, you’ll see it for yourself.
When the days get long and temperatures go up, tempers go up, too. There ain’t no howdy-doo to your neighbor. No, you’d sooner beat him over the head than have to listen to another note of what he calls music.
Arguments spring up over the littlest details. Need to borrow a cup of sugar? What? You blew it all on weed and now you can’t afford to make little Timmy cookies?
Serves you right.
Go away.
And that’s just the regular folks.
Try walking into a place like King Street on a hot summer night when “sweltering” doesn’t even begin to cover the way the neighborhood feels. See what you get then.
But there’s always some busybody, thinks it’s okay to be a good neighbor. Thinks it’s good to do the right thing.
If they’re not careful, they’ll end up in a world of hurt.
People like that need somebody wise to the ways of the city. Somebody who can smell the trouble they’re about to step in before it messes up their nice new shoes.
You got troubles? Who doesn’t. But if you ask nice, maybe you can find somebody willing to help a fella out.
Trevor Nichols didn’t hesitate when the goons opened the door of the cellar he’d been stashed in. He jumped and he jumped hard. Drove the leftover piece of Trisha’s thumb-bone into the throat of the big muscleheaded turd who’d touched that poor woman where no man has a right to go without her permission. Drove his knee into the other goon’s stomach and twist-broke his neck while meathead gurgled out the last of his life on the floor.
Just another day at the office.
He borrowed the clothes from the second goon—less blood; besides he don’t need them no more—and swapped them for the ladies’ clothes he’d been wearing. Just a good thing nobody saw him dressed like that. One thing Trevor had never been able to stomach was embarrassment.
Meathead had a pea-shooter tucked away in the back of his waistband. A Smithfield Armory nine mil. Very nice. Trevor checked the magazine—full—and pulled back on the slide, chambering a round.
He worked his way back through the hallways behind Weevil’s Club, listening to the music pounding away. People who listen to that need to get their ears cleaned. Hell, people at a place like Weevil’s on a Friday night need to get a life. Get out of the city. Breathe some fresh air once in a while. It does wonders.
He just hoped the music was loud enough to cover the racket he was about to make.
At the back door to Weevil’s office he paused, gun held at the ready. He opened the door just a crack and peeked inside.
Janet Palmer crouched uncomfortably in the oversized leather chair in front of Weevil’s desk. Why uncomfortably? It’s a little hard to relax when a man the size of Weevil’s holding a gun on you.
“Honestly,” he was saying, “you should be dead already. But I had to see your face when you meet my sister.”
Janet didn’t shrink at all in the face of Weevil’s threats. Oh, she was nervous—who wouldn’t be? But she wasn’t backing down. Trevor admired that in a woman.
“This shouldn’t
be taking so long,” Weevil said, glancing toward the door. Trevor ducked out of sight, but it was too late.
“Is that you, sister dear? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Trevor steeled himself, taking a deep breath. No sign of his old man. Trevor sincerely hoped they hadn’t got to his father already.
“Let me put it this way,” Weevil said. “Come out right now, or I kill her right now.”
Trevor pushed the door open and strolled in as if he owned the joint. He nodded to acknowledge Detective Palmer, but kept his pea-shooter trained on Weevil.
“Your sister?” said Janet.
“She has been a naughty girl,” said Weevil, keeping his gun on Janet. “We’re going to have a nice long visit after this—just you, me … and our dear dad.” The look on Weevil’s face could kill puppies.
“You found him already?” said Trevor.
“Not yet. But we will. So nice to have someone you care about, unlike Miss Palmer here. She’s all alone. No one to miss her when she’s gone.”
Trevor took a step forward; his finger tightened on the trigger.
“You won’t do it,” said Weevil. “I saw your life just like you saw mine. Leaving dad all alone to come find me. Tsk-tsk, Trisha.”
“Trevor.”
“Whatever—the point is, we’re supposed to do this together.”
Memories. Jumped out of nowhere. Trevor’s mind filled with memories.
A cheerleader and her brother, celebrating a state championship after the big game.
Two old wizened cab drivers playing checkers in the station after a shift.
Two hungry Cambodian boys, trading each other food in the line at the shelter.
Sisters giggling at the naughty gag gifts at a friend’s bachelorette party.
Trevor lowered the gun, just a fraction of an inch.
Weevil pulled the trigger. Red mist exploded from Janet’s chest.
Trevor drilled him. Two to the chest. One to the head. Right between the eyes.
It was over.
But for the first time, he’d hesitated. He’d been too slow.
And Trevor was left facing the one emotion he dealt with worse than embarrassment.
Guilt.
Trevor leaned against Weevil’s desk, watching the lifeblood trickle from the two dead bodies.
He did not know what to do.
There was maybe only one person who would.
He picked up the phone on Weevil’s desk, fumbling with the buttons until he found one that gave him a dial tone, and he called old Ms. Baxter. His father didn’t have a phone. Ms. Baxter would have to do.
She answered on the third ring.
“Hello? Ms. Baxter? I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m—” How could he explain it? He couldn’t. All he could do was ask for his father—by the name his father had chosen for himself. “I’m trying to find Reggie’s dad.”
There was a long pause and Ms. Baxter said, “I’m sorry. Them Williams boys done moved out. They gone, both of them, as of a couple weeks ago.”
The news shook Trevor deeper than he thought possible. His breath caught and he swallowed to keep his emotions in check. “He moved out, did he? Well good for him. Best of luck to them both.”
Trevor hunted the back rooms of Weevil’s Club until he discovered a janitorial closet. There, among the foul smelling chemicals, he found a bucket, some bleach, and some mops and brushes.
With these in tow, he returned to the cellar where Trisha had become Trevor.
He read the words he’d written.
This was not who he wanted to be. But who was he? Weevil had been right about one thing—they weren’t bound by genetics. They really could become anyone they wanted to.
The only thing Trevor knew for sure was that he did not want to be Trevor Nichols.
Trevor Nichols had a part to play, but his part was over.
Trevor took the bleach and the brushes and, for the first time in his life, erased the words that had created him.
Weevil’s office stank like the sewers of hell when Trevor finally returned. His fingers stung from the bleach. His eyes burned from the fumes. But the smell of smoke and gunpowder and death overpowered everything.
Trevor pitied that little pine-scented candle. It was doing the best it could against hopeless odds.
But Trevor felt he owed a moment of respect to Janet Palmer. She had put him on this road, and he had to believe that some good had come of it.
And if Weevil was telling the truth, Janet didn’t have anyone else who would mourn her loss. That didn’t seem right.
The more Trevor thought about it, the more he thought this steel-willed woman deserved more than that. Someone needed to know who she was. Someone needed to tell her story to the world.
He fished through her pockets until he found her wallet and badge.
Forty-seventh Precinct. No wonder Trisha hadn’t been able to find her.
And there, on her driver’s license, was her address.
Impulsively, Trevor leaned her body forward and checked the back of the chair. The bullet had gone completely through Janet’s body, but not through the chair itself.
With a knife from Weevil’s desk Trevor cut through the leather and padding until he found the wooden frame.
There it was. The bullet that killed Janet Palmer.
He cut it out of the frame and put it in his pocket. One last memorial to take with him.
As he opened the door to the main part of the Club, Trevor saw the lowlife scum who populated the booths and tables, who played pool with stolen money. He saw dealers selling hash and weed to the poor idiots who didn’t know to do any better with their lives.
The utter hopelessness Weevil’s inspired in him drove Trevor to make one final decision. He took some of the papers from Weevil’s desk and held them in the flickering flame of the pine-scented candle.
Once they were going, he dropped some in the paper-filled trash can, put others in the filing cabinet. He spread the flames to everything that could catch fire until his lungs burned from the smoke and he could barely see to make it to the entrance.
When the fire alarm went off, Trevor escaped into the street with the rest of the crowd.
Janet Palmer lived in a quaint little red-brick home in the suburbs just east of the city. It wasn’t a rich neighborhood, but it was a long way from the atmosphere of the city.
It was dark. And quiet always came with darkness to a place like this. Still, Trevor doubted it got much louder during the day.
Trevor smelled the air. He could live in a place like this.
The third key on her key chain opened the front door. The little entryway smelled of potpourri. His steps echoed off the slate gray linoleum. “Hello? Anyone here?”
No answer.
Pictures on the walls showed Janet at different stages of her life. Pigtails. Braces. Proms and graduations.
In each photo Janet was surrounded by a different family.
Foster care.
Trevor’s impression of Janet grew by leaps and bounds—she’d been able to come out of the system and end up a decent person, trying to make the world a better place.
The closets in her room, filled with suitable and attractive clothing. Her bed, neat and tidy. Covered with pillows and a few stuffed animals. Her drawers held sports gear and workout clothing.
Trevor wondered what it would feel like to actually work for a body instead of simply writing one into existence.
Janet had turned her guest bedroom into a library. She read mysteries.
Appropriate.
But the real treasure was Janet’s journals. Two shelves full, volume after volume. Janet kept a detailed record of every event in her life.
Trevor sat down, cross-legged on the floor, and began to read.
> September 28, 1992
Mom is helping me write this. Today was my first day of third grade. Mom says I should write where I’ve been and to write my dreams.
Trevor kept reading. He read of her parents’ death in an automobile accident. He read of her abuse within the foster system. The policeman who had helped her and who had arrested the foster father who’d perpetrated the abuse.
He read of her hopes for adoption being dashed over and over again. He read of the joy she felt when she stood up to the class bully in eighth grade. Of her first crush. Of her heartbreak when her fiancé died during military training exercises. He read of friends made and friends lost. Of triumph and success in the face of crushing defeat.
When he finished, he knew.
His whole life—excepting maybe these past few weeks—it amounted to nothing. A figure, hiding in the shadows, afraid to live for fear of being discovered as the unique creature that he was.
Janet Palmer—she’d lived.
And Trevor was extremely jealous.
He wanted that. He wanted to come home, the way Janet did at the end of every day, knowing he was working to make a difference. To bring order to the face of the chaos in the world around him.
And it was completely unfair of the world to leave a wretched creature like him alive and remove the Janet Palmers of the world from their rightful place.
Well, that was something Trevor could do something about.
He found a pencil in one of Janet’s desk drawers.
At the beginning of the first volume, at the top of the page, in big bold letters Trevor wrote: This is my history.
And, writing lightly so as not to smudge a single letter of her hand-written journals, he began to trace every word.
The sun rose and set. The phone rang and went unanswered.
Trevor continued to trace.
Every.
Word.
The last entry was dated July twenty-seventh. Three days ago.
And when, at last
I finished writing, I looked at myself in the mirror. My blonde hair popped out at odd angles from the sides of my head, a mess of snarls. My eyes, bloodshot and tired.
But I recognized my reflection. And I liked who I’d become.
Writers of the Future, Volume 30 Page 7
