Devious Origins

by Thad Phetteplace

CHAPTER 22

  Her bed was empty, the covers shoved toward the foot of the bed. The door to the balcony was open, letting in cool air. The room lights were off, but the street lights cast a few broken beams through French doors, enough that I could be sure I was alone. The brass key sat on the night table between the two beds. Dee was probably just down the hall in the bathroom. I walked to the door and was surprise to find it locked and deadbolted, not something she could have done from the outside without the key. I walked to the balcony. Dampness slicked the floor and railing. The air smelled mossy and electric. It had rained while I was sleeping. The streetlights glistened on the empty streets. Dee was not there either. I looked at the rain slick side of the building, its various window ledges and trellises and ornamental trims providing potential handholds for a skilled climber. Yes, Dee was probably crazy enough to do it.

  I grabbed the key from the table, slipped my shoes on, unlocked the door, and headed out into the hallway. The bathroom door at the end of the hall gaped open proving that Dee was indeed not there. Locking the door behind me, I headed down the hall, downstairs, and out into the night.

  I had no real plan and no reason to think Dee was in any trouble. Honestly, she was far more capable of protecting herself than I. But I knew going back to sleep was not really an option, so I picked a random direction and walked. I walked around the block that contained the hostel, then I went a block farther away and began a larger circuit that encompassed that block. My plan was to do an expanding spiral until I either ran into Dee or got tired. I was halfway around my second circuit when I saw the police lights in the distance.

  Somehow I knew I would find Dee there. If she hadn't caused the trouble, she would likely be attracted to it. I picked up the pace and headed for the lights. Four squad cars obstructed the street, blocking traffic from both directions. In between, a small crowd of people formed a ragged arc around the police. Two of the officers walked the edge of the crowd, urging them back. At the focal point of the arc, three police officers were converging on an obviously disturbed civilian.

  He was older than me I think, but not by much. He was also taller, and heavier, with darker hair. He wore only shorts and a t-shirt, not even shoes. An agitated older woman kept approaching one of the police officers, pleading with him, but speaking Spanish, so I don't know what she was saying. Neither did the officer I think; he kept answering in English, asking her to step back, guiding her back to the line of onlookers using hand motions and gentle shoves, only to have her wander closer again when his attention turned back to the disturbed man.

  It was like watching some sort of dance. A police officer would approach the young man, shouting at him to get on the ground. The young man would turn the other direction only to be confronted by another shouting officer. He bounced back and forth between the officers like a ping pong ball as they gradually approached. Two of the police had their guns drawn. My gut clenched. I silently willed the guy to just comply and get on the ground before something horrible happened, but he just kept spinning around, becoming more scared, more confused it seemed.

  Another squad car arrived, and a female police officer approached. Her attention turned to the older woman. She listened, then turned to her fellow officers. “She says he doesn't understand you,” she shouted to the others. She approached the frightened young man and began talking to him in Spanish.

  It didn't seem to help. If anything he was only getting more upset. He clutched at the sides of his head, pulling at his hair and moaning. The female officer continued talking to him in a loud but calm voice. The older woman became even more agitated, repeating something in Spanish over and over. A third cop drew his gun.

  Time slowed down. Everything went silent.

  I felt detached. Like I had in the grocery store parking lot. Like when Dee rescued me from drug dealers. The world dimmed, as if the street lights were fading out, except two points remained lit. Two people. The police officer who had just drawn his gun. The frightened young man pulling at his hair. The world was a stage with only two actors. All the other people were merely extras. The officer raised his pistol as he edged closer. I saw his finger move from the edge of the gun to inside the trigger guard, preparing to shoot. It hovered there, not actually on the trigger, but only a breath away from it.

  He was afraid. Not for himself, but his fellow officers. It was like an echo of the young man's fear. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and amped up his emotions even more. He began breathing more rapidly. I sensed some sort of tipping point coming. I was shouting something, but I had no idea what. A scenario was playing through my head like some sort of dark fantasy. Like a premonition.

  A gun shot. Multiple shots. Cell phone videos. Public recriminations. A family and a neighborhood devastated by grief. A police officer plagued by and guilt and doubt. A career ruined. A marriage strained. Countless negative consequences, rippling out from this one event. None of them certain, but all of them much too likely.

  “Don't do this,” I pleaded as I took a step closer. He looked young. Maybe only a few years on the force. But his eyes looked old. “Don't do this to yourself,” I shouted.

  His head turned slightly in my direction.

  He pulled his finger away from the trigger and lowered the gun. He took a ragged breath and stepped backwards, then holstered his pistol. The police woman took a step toward the suspect as she continued talking to him in Spanish. He spun away from her, but tripped on the curb. Two officers were immediately on him, pinning him to the ground and handcuffing him before he got up. Tension drained from the air. The old woman continued shouting, pleading. The female officer turned back to her. Sudden understanding claimed her expression.

  “He's deaf,” she said, then turning back to the other officers, “He's deaf. He can't hear any of our commands.” She returned to the older woman and and began talking to her.

  “You knew, didn't you,” I heard a voice whisper behind me.

  I turned. It was Dee. “What do you mean,” I asked.

  “Before you shouted don't do this, you kept saying I can't hear you. Over and over again.”

  “I... I don't remember that.” I remembered shouting something, but not what. It was like it was a different language. Syllables without meaning.

  I stood there, unsure of what to say, trying to make sense of it all. Dee stood with me, a faint smile and curious look on her face. She finally took my arm and started us walking back toward the youth hostel.

  “Come on, let's get some sleep,” she said, “we have to catch an early train tomorrow.” I nodded and followed along.

  As we walked away, I looked back at the scene behind us. The crowd was dispersing. The frightened young man was now sitting up, still in hand cuffs, but less agitated. The police woman was talking to the older woman who was in turn directing sign language at the young man. All the guns were holstered. Some of the police had even returned to their squad cars. The crisis was obviously over, but an overwhelming question remained.

  Had I just saved a man's life?