Complicated Shadows

by James D F Hannah

  I dropped the burgers on the grill and set the tray underneath to catch the fat run-off, and poured us both glasses of sweet tea.

  Jackie sipped at his. "So what you going to do now?"

  I drank some tea and tried to seem contemplative. "I'm clueless about how killed Pete, and the same with who tried to kill me and Woody. I piece one of those together, I might stumbled onto the other. Lacking that, I might go on a rampage of vengeance."

  "You want some friendly advice?"

  "How much is 'advice' and how much of it is 'this is what you should do'?"

  "It's gonna be way more the latter than the former."

  "By all means tell me what I should do, then."

  Jackie drank more tea. "Stay out of it. Quit. Leave it alone. Walk the fuck away. No, cancel that; run the fuck away, or limp, or hobble, or whatever it is you can manage these days."

  "What you're saying, real subtle-like, is I shouldn't get involved."

  "That would be the gist, yes."

  "And what about this shit? Pete? What happened to Woody and me? Do I go to bed at night and pretend it never happened?"

  "Let your wounds heal. Go see a therapist. Get in touch with your inner child. I don't care what the fuck you do so long as you stay out of this and let me do my job. Lest I have to remind you, I'm good at it. Besides that, you shouldn't be fucking with the McCoys, or these rice-eating motherfuckers who already tried to put you in the ground and may try again. There's only one of you walking around now, and you're not even the good one of the two of you."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I said.

  "I think it's self-explanatory. Woody, he's all 'mysterious military past.' He's got the guns coming out of every orifice. The ATF would blow a load in their collective shorts at the shit Woody owns that isn't street-legal. Fuck, Henry, he was the one up there in the hill who pulled the trigger on Monica Mayhew, not you. She'd have killed those women that night if not for him. No offense to you, but if I were writing a book about you two, you'd be the sidekick."

  Jackie finished his tea and helped himself to more. We didn't talk much after that while the burgers cooked. I had a block of cheddar cheese I needed to use, so I cut thick slices and laid them on the burgers and let them melt, got out the condiments and the buns, and we ate. Jackie said it was a damn good burger. He was right; it was damn good.

  26

  The next morning, everything on me ached in ways new and unique to the whole pain experience. I walked so slowly from the bedroom to the kitchen, shadows shifted from the movement of the sun.

  The hospital had given me crutches to use, and a cane for when I worked up to that. All I thought of was the months after being shot, and hobbling through life, essentially having to learn to walk again, and the shame that racked me for months, the frustration that had burned at me every time I couldn't move the way I had wanted to.

  This wasn't as bad as it had been then—there was no way possible for it to be as bad without lopping my legs off—but I kept having flashbacks to it, and it made me push myself harder than I should.

  Izzy stared at me as I worked my way through the doublewide. She must have figured her food bowl would get replenished, and then she got bored and trotted on ahead into the kitchen and laid down on the floor.

  "Lassie would have made a pot of coffee for Timmy," I said. "French press."

  Her eyes drifted upward toward me, but it was obvious she didn't give a shit for my sarcasm.

  I got the coffee started. I suppose I should have stopped there and called it good, but me, being the glutton for punishment I am, decided I also needed to piss. By the time I made it to the bathroom, it had gone from being an urge to becoming a necessity.

  I lifted the lid and waited.

  And then it happened. From wherever it was inside me that my kidneys are, the burning began. It started as a small ember of warmth, but it spread like a kerosene-fueled wildfire, its fingers stretching throughout my lower body and reaching around and pulling down on my shoulders until my body threatened to double over. I pressed one hand on the wall behind the toilet, pushing to keep myself upright, the twinge of ache in my knees growing until my legs wobbled, and I had to let go of myself and use both hands to keep from falling head-first into the commode.

  When the stream started, I wanted to cry. It was like burning knitting needles pushed out of my urethra. My vision blurred, partially from tears, and partially because I struggled to keep my eyes open. Once I got them cranked open, I saw the bright red swirling inside the toilet bowl.

  Jesus.

  This lasted longer than I thought possible. Cold sweat poured off my forehead, and chills raced through my body, until the final dribble dripped away and my lungs would accept oxygen again. My legs chose that precise moment to collapse underneath me, and I fell backward and forgot there wasn't anything to support me, and I tumbled into the bathtub. I folded like a lawn chair, and my cracked ribs weren't happy about the sudden change, and they offered to puncture an internal organ to get the point across. A scream jumped out of my throat, and I shifted around and pulled my legs in, pushing until my whole body was in the tub.

  I laid there for a while. I didn't want to move. I wasn't sure I could. I wondered what would happen if I died there. There were worse ways to go than in your bathtub with your underwear around your ankles, and blood-stained urine in the toilet. Checking out David Carradine/Michael Hutchence-style—naked and hanging from the hotel room closet—was worse. This, though, had to be high on the list.

  Izzy came into the bathroom. She stared down at me with those huge brown eyes of her, eyes that betrayed pity, and likely wonder of what would she do if I didn't get out and feed her. She whined and stretched over the edge of the bathtub and licked my face.

  I wanted to cry again.

  I took my time getting out of the tub and kept the sobbing to a minimum. I flushed the toilet and washed my hands and headed into the kitchen to get my coffee, dreading what would happen when the coffee I was about to drink kicked my kidneys around later.

  I drove out to Woody's place. It had been four days, and while I knew Woody had automatic feeders and water bowls set up for his dogs, they still hadn't been outside to do their doggy business, and they'd all be eager for fresh air.

  They huddled together, 10 of them, all in the living room, all shapes, all sizes. Pits, German shepherds, beagles, mostly mutts, grouped in a mass of canines on the floor.

  The air sat stale and unmoving in the house, and everything reeked of pooch. I didn't smell dog shit or piss—just the heavy, stagnant scent of a lot of dogs. Woody had trained his dogs, and rule one was you didn't shit where you slept. They would have kept it together like there were corks in their asses until they exploded.

  Link, the pit bull mix, was curled up in the center. He popped his massive misshapen head up as I walked into the room and looked at me with suspicious eyes. The rest of the dogs followed suit, giving me long, uneasy looks. The chihuahua close to Link gave me the hardest stare, like he was ready to take my ankles out.

  I crouched down, which hurt so much more than it should have, and whistled, and tried to remember the command Woody had taught the pack. It was something in German. I didn't want to get it wrong, afraid that maybe Woody had trained these guys to rip my balls off if I said the wrong thing.

  I said, "Steh! Hier!" Link rose onto all fours and climbed over the rest of the dogs and came over and sniffed me once and dragged his massive tongue up the right side of my face. I must have tasted incredible to a dog.

  The others joined, coming over and sniffing me out. Once they realized I wasn't there to rob the joint, they buried their faces into me, eager for attention.

  They followed me outside and then pooped and peed everywhere they could. Watching 10 dogs claim their own little spot of land, realizing you never want to walk in that area again, and grass is never, ever going to grow there again, it's something you don't forget, regardless of how hard you try.

  The auto-feede
r was almost empty, so I filled it up, and added water to the other one. The dogs quivered with anticipation at the food. I gave them the command to eat, and they charged like Romans into war.

  I sat down in the living room, exhausted. Link wandered in and put his head under my hand. I scratched the top of his skull. He was a huge dog, and my hand wouldn't fit over his skull. I rubbed his head. It was like petting a pineapple.

  As much as I knew I'd never admit it to his face, Jackie had been right. Woody's realm was the "let's go kick ass" thing. I found the trouble, but Woody knew how to fight our way out of it. If I had to handle this, and had to be the tough guy, the best hoped for was not shooting off a toe.

  But Woody was my friend. Pete had been a friend. And I needed to do something.

  I looked down at Link. "What do you think I should do?"

  Link gurgled a sound I interpreted as him enjoying the head rub.

  More dogs came into the room and surrounded me. The chihuahua hopped up onto my lap, did a few spins, and curled up into a circle and fell asleep.

  "It would seem," I said, "that this is what I'll do." I let my body relax. "For now."

  The dogs got one more round of yard decimation in before I herded them back and locked up. I'd come back tomorrow, and every day until Woody got home. It was the least I could do if I didn't get my rampage of vengeance.

  It was almost dark by the time I got back home. I walked up to Billy's house and let myself in.

  Billy and Izzy were in the living room. Billy was kicked back in the recliner, snoring. Izzy was stretched out on the couch, doing the same. Neither of them flinched when I walked in.

  The TV was on, turned to an old black-and-white war thing, with John Wayne storming a beach and killing the Japanese.

  I took the remote from the arm of Billy's recliner and laid out on the love seat, my legs dangling over the arms at my knees, and flipped channels until I found something where Liam Neeson snapped necks every 10 minutes, and set the remote aside.

  The next thing I knew, Billy was standing over me, saying, "Christ, but you look like shit on a shingle."

  I made a good try to stretch, and my body revolted by sending waves of pain throughout every nerve ending it could find, radiating from my core and dispersing it evenly to ensure everything hurt as much as possible.

  I got upright and on my feet. Billy watched me through the lens of his thick-framed glasses. "How you doing?"

  "Like someone worked me through a washing machine."

  “Don't blame you. None of it did much for your looks, either."

  "We need to discuss how you can be a supportive and nurturing parent, Billy."

  "I took care of the zoo animal you claim's a dog." He jerked his thumb toward the couch. "Damn thing doesn't do nothing but sleep, and she knows well enough she's not allowed on the furniture."

  "Then why didn't you move her when you woke up?"

  He hesitated for a moment. "I didn't want to throw my back out. Besides, damage is done already. Figure she'll move when she wakes up. She will wake up, won't she?"

  Izzy had rolled around a little, but she was still as unconscious as if you'd shot her with a tranquilizer gun.

  "Someday," I said.

  In the kitchen, Billy poured glasses of tea and we sat at the table. He drank his tea and looked at me and shook his head.

  "All joking aside, you look like hell," he said.

  "I look better than I feel."

  "You must feel awful, then."

  "You can't stop using the hammer to drive home a point."

  He asked me about Woody, and as I talked, Izzy came into the kitchen. She went to Billy for a moment, then saw me, and rested her head on my thigh. I petted her, and the way she looked up at me, it made me smile.

  "She and I should head home," I said.

  "Yeah, you should," Billy said. "Looking at you is starting to bother me."

  Billy walked me out to the front porch. I asked him if he'd watch Izzy in the morning. He asked me why.

  "You going to keep on with this, ain't you?" he said.

  "Folks put me in the hospital. I want to ask if their insurance will pay for it."

  Billy shook his head. "So what happened, it wasn't enough, was it? You've got a point to prove now? Push it even further?"

  "If keeping her is a problem, I'll—"

  Billy shook her head. "Drop the beast by before you go. You do what you have to do."

  Izzy and I crossed the yard toward my house. We were about halfway there when Billy said, "Henry!"

  I stopped and looked back. "Yeah?"

  "You be careful."

  "I will."

  "Good. Because I'm not taking care of that dog if something happens. Damn thing would eat me out of house and home." Billy went back inside, the screen door slamming in the frame.

  Thanks, Billy.

  27

  I took a self-imposed exile from Morgantown after Maggie and I separated. It was a not-proud combination of self-preservation and cowardice, wanting to avoid memories of the two of us, or that slimmest of possibility of seeing her somewhere. In a college town, there are only so many places to go, and so many places to hide.

  But she had moved to Philadelphia. Going on vacations with a new boyfriend. Guess that made everything safe now.

  Woo hoo. Goddammit.

  Red Salt LLC was in a business park close to I-79, overlooking the Monongahela River. I drove up a narrow dirt road, passing a tall sign with a lot of blank spaces available for company names. A banner at the bottom proclaimed about office space available for lease.

  A slick-looking building, long and narrow, gray stone and steel and plenty of windows, rest at the end of a narrow road, encircled by a near-empty parking lot. The lobby was stainless steel and marble, full of vintage-modern furniture not getting much use, all as pristine as a sunrise. The guard at the front desk glanced up from his newspaper long enough to see I wasn't carrying an AK-47, then went back to reading.

  I took a two-floor elevator ride up and walked down a hallway as empty and quiet as an Old West street moments before the gunfight. Red Salt LLC was the only name on a door. AC/DC rattled the pressed-wood door, and Angus Young's 30-year-old guitar riffs threatened to throw my hair back once I cracked the door open.

  The offices design was by the editors of Frat House Monthly. Folding chairs sat in the waiting area. Someone thumb-tacked posters to the wall, all for Japanese horror movies, divided between flicks where a giant creature laid waste to a city, a black-eyed ghost crawled out an air vent, and someone did something indescribable to someone with knitting needles.

  I followed the music until I found Patrick Price and Vikram Kaur at desks pushed up against one another, their computers set back to back. The stereo was on a low bookshelf next to the desks.

  I knocked on the door. Neither of them moved. I banged on the door harder. They kept staring at their computers. I walked over to the electrical outlet and flipped off the power strip. The computer screens go blank and the stereo went silent.

  Price needed to back off the steroids; he was so pumped up, he couldn’t drop his arms to his side. If his veins popped much more, they’d be external. He had a neck tattoo now—always classy—of a giant spider web that reached out and across the front of his throat.

  Kaur had rounded out, with longer hair aimed in a dozen directions. His T-shirt read "Life Is Simple: Eat, Sleep, Code."

  Price raised out of his chair. "What the fuck do you—"

  I held up my hand. "Tone it back, 'roid rage. I need to talk about Isaac Martin. Or McCoy. Whatever the fuck he called himself."

  Price shifted his shoulders and twisted his head around. The tendons in his neck stretched as he did it, pulsing beneath his flesh like snakes under a bed sheet. The only thing that compensated for the overcompensation was he barely hit five-three.

  "Did you find him?" Kaur said. His voice held only a twinge of an accent. "We heard about what happened to Pete—"

  I explained t
he situation. They led me into a converted makeshift break room. It wasn't anything more than some chairs, a table with magazines thrown across it, and a Keurig. The chairs were green armchairs that looked third-hand from a hotel sale, the magazines about computer technology or wondering when Jennifer Aniston would have have a baby, and the Keurig ... the less said about that, the better.

  Price and Kaur each made themselves cups of coffee. I declined.

  Price drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup. "What the fuck happened to your face? You look like you got fucked over with a crowbar and a chainsaw."

  "I forgot my spotter at the gym," I said. "Let's talk about Isaac."

  Price: We were both taking some boneheaded programming class at WVU. When I'm saying it was "boneheaded," that means I aced through the fucker. I'll own up I'm not the brightest guy in the room. Vikram—

  Kaur: You can call me "Vikki." Everyone does.

  Price: Yeah. Whatever. So, Vikki, he kicks my ass. I'm good, but Vikki, he's better than I'll ever be. He can do shit you wouldn't think possible in code. But then there's Isaac.

  Kaur: Isaac's different. Not like, because he's gay, because we never cared about that.

  Price: What two guys do, that's their own business. What two girls do, fuck, let me watch! Am I right? Right?

  Kaur: Anyway, as good as I am, and understand that I am very good, Isaac's brilliant. Professors told us Isaac's one of the best programmers in the country. He could do so much. The CIA or NASA came calling for him. He could make bank for these giant corporations. You name it, and Isaac could write his own ticket.

  Price: And that's why Vikki and I never understood what made Isaac to want to hitch to our wagons, except I think maybe he liked the autonomy. Charting his own course, setting his own sails, that kind of shit.

  Me: Did Isaac ever talk about his family? His past?