Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

  “Are you not in control of your own life?” The red glow of the pipe bathed Mo’s face for a moment, then subsided.

  “Well, at the moment, it would seem not.” Look, Mo Evans, I need more answers and less questions.

  “Why would you give over control of your own life?” Not a question, but an accusation.

  There it was again, thought Quinn, feeling the fear in his gut. Not a giant ogre maybe, but this guy scares the crap out of me. Should have listened to Lewis, yes? Still, here he was.

  “I didn’t give anyone anything. First my neighbor’s car is vandalized. This neighbor, he accuses me of being the vandal. So I have to talk to the cops and try to straighten that out. Then, two days later, this same neighbor ends up dead on the sidewalk below his balcony. The cops think that I had something to do with it. I almost ended up a suspect in a murder. So, yes, I feel like my life is being pulled out of my control and I’m trying to find out why.”

  “And you decided I might have some answers for you?”

  “Today, after I, um…” Quinn faltered.

  “After you beat a man in the street who was asking you for money, you saw me on the sidewalk and thought that I might have the answers to your questions, is that it?” No aggravation, no annoyance, the same quiet voice, unchanging.

  “I saw you, yeah, standing on the sidewalk. And something seeing you made me think that maybe you could shed some light on all of this. And I’m sorry now, sorry about hitting that guy, sorry about bothering you. This was a stupid idea.” Quinn felt the fight go out of him.

  “You like to apologize. For what? You beat a man on the street because you thought he was attacking you. And that beating was a tidy bit of work at that. I was impressed. Should I be frightened of you Quinn Boyd? Are you going to attack me if you don’t get the answers to your questions?” The quiet menace in the voice was overlaid with a hint of amusement.

  “I’m not like that Mo. That wasn’t me. That guy, he just surprised me.”

  “We are all like that, every one of us. You did what was in your nature, exactly what is in your nature. A man leaps out at you on a city sidewalk and you defended yourself. It is not even worth thinking about.”

  Quinn felt the words settle into his heart, chilling him. No thought of consequence, no hint that Quinn’s actions had been wrong. Before he could speak, the quiet voice rolled across the room.

  “What you want to ask me is whether I can somehow give you back control of your life, something only you have the power to give away. You want to ask me if I etched the words ‘Not Polite’ into the hood of James Watson’s car and then, two days later, threw him off of his balcony. Is that correct?”

  He knows all about it! He knows James Watson’s name. Stripped of any doubt, the folly of his actions crystalized in Quinn’s brain. This was a very, very stupid idea, and Quinn was suddenly very, very afraid. The hand holding his cigar began to tremble. Quinn fought to control the shaking. The room was quiet. He needed to be out of here, away from this.

  “Look, Mr. Evans. Mo. I’m sorry I bothered you. This was a mistake on my part. I apologize. I should be going.” Before he could move, the voice lashed across at him, deadly in its calm.

  “No. You still have a cigar to finish and we have not gotten you back control of your life.” The tone of command was unmistakable. It froze Quinn’s heart.

  “Now,” the quiet voice resumed, “It was I who etched that message into the hood of your neighbor’s precious car.”

  Quinn was stunned, not by the news but by the casual admission. “Why did you fuck up his car?”

  “The words of the message weren’t obvious to you? It was obvious to your neighbor.” There was a pause. “Eventually, that is.”

  “Yeah, okay, he wasn’t a very polite guy, sure, but why would he accuse me if your message was that obvious? I mean, he told the cops that I did it.”

  “That is correct. He was a man who could not bridle his mouth, and he said things he should not have said, both to the police and prior to that. He needed to be reminded of that which he was seemingly unaware of. That was the intent of my little message. It seems that your neighbor believed you to be an easy target. He believed he could turn the event to his advantage. Much easier to accuse you than for him to accuse me. And much safer for him.”

  “You couldn’t just send him an angry letter like everyone else?” Quinn felt anger pushing back against his fear.

  Mo Evans ignored the taunt. “Quinn, did you kill your neighbor?”

  Now Quinn was truly angry. His voice belied his emotion. “No, I didn’t have anything to do with that son of a bitch, not his car and not his death.” Quinn was bristling. “You fucked up his car and that sucked me into all of this shit.”

  “Are you sorry James Watson is dead?” Reasonable, calm, the voice of control.

  “What are you talking about? Of course I’m sorry the old bastard is dead.”

  “No, I don’t believe you. Are you mourning the loss of James Watson, a world without his presence? Do you feel the loss in your heart? Do you grieve for him, the one bell tolling for us all? Or are you just sorry for the trouble that his death is causing you?”

  “I’m sorry for him, I mean…” Quinn struggled to find the words, not liking the truth that was there in front of him. “Okay, honestly, I’m not sorry that he’s dead. He was a miserable fuck and I didn’t like him. Shit, that sounds horrible.” Quinn dropped his eyes. A question flared across his mind. He looked up at the man in the shadows.

  “Wait, did you kill him?” Quinn did not really want to hear the answer.

  “Did I kill who? Your neighbor? No Quinn, I did not kill James Watson. My message was enough to accomplish what needed to be done. James Watson may have deserved killing, but not for anything he did to me.”

  “So, I didn’t kill him and you didn’t kill him.” Quinn shook his head. “Then…”

  “After your neighbor accused you, accused you to the cops, were you angry?”

  “Yeah, of course I was angry, who wouldn’t be?”

  “Precisely. And at that moment, if you had had the power to wipe him out of existence, Mr. James Watson, at no trouble to yourself, no consequence, would you have done it?”

  “No! What kind of a question is that? I was angry, sure, but I’m not a killer.”

  Mo Evans grunted. When he spoke again, Quinn could hear disdain in the words. “People kill each other all the time. It’s just one way human beings solve problems. They kill.”

  “Yeah, but civilized people don’t kill each other. I mean, that’s what it is to be civilized, right?”

  “Wrong. Look, I didn’t kill him and you didn’t kill him. The cops have nothing and the annoying neighbor is dead. Isn’t the world a better place without the departed Mr. Watson? Doesn’t everyone benefit? Who cares how it happened. That’s meaningless. Maybe your grubby assailant did the deed, trying to rob that sorry excuse for an old man. His death does not matter to me. Does it make a difference who threw the old fart off of his balcony? The result would be the same, and the benefits remain. Case closed, as your cop friends would say.”

  Quinn was repelled by the man’s words, fought to push them back.

  “Even if I admit that in a moment of anger I might have wanted him dead, I didn’t kill him. Wishing someone dead and actually murdering them are two completely different things.” Quinn struggled to come to grips with his conflicted emotions. Anger, fear, and remorse swirled in his chest, each one clawing for his attention.

  “And I tell you that there is a very fine line between those two things.” The voice sent a chill spilling over Quinn.

  “But what about the law? Wishing someone dead is not killing them.”

  “Please spare me the appeal to the common good. James Watson overstepped his bounds, and I am not a person to be overstepped. I made certain that there was payment for the debt owed. It is a simple matter. Why should I wait for some cosmic justice, or some appeal to law, to set things back in ord
er. That is the shield of the weak. Intent, action. Two sides of the same coin. Once one has intent, action is the simple culmination. Nothing more. I do not choose to relinquish control of my life to any paltry common good. Not to anything or anyone else. Nor should you. Nor should anyone.”

  A silence fell over the room. The two men smoked, one without regard, the other in the face of a malevolent presence. Time seemed to have no hold over the room.

  Quinn was startled at the sound of a pipe being knocked out. The man in the shadows was attending to the task as if Quinn did not exist. There was the clicking sound of the burl being placed on the workbench. Quinn felt the eyes on him.

  “Do you have anything else you would like to ask me?”

  “No, I don’t.” Quinn set the remains of his cigar into the ashtray, making sure it did not touch the other cold cigar at the bottom. A thin spiral of smoke rose toward the pull of the fan. Looking up, he saw that Mo Evans was already standing.

  “Then our talk is at an end.” The man raised an open hand in the direction of the door.

  Quinn slid from the stool, pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder. As he walked to the door, he could feel the presence of Mo Evans behind him. At the locked door, Quinn stood aside. Mo stepped to the door and shot back the deadbolt locks. He paused with his hand on the door handle and faced Quinn. “I am not overly fond of company Quinn Boyd.”

  Standing there at the threshold Quinn could clearly see the other man’s eyes for the first time. He wished he had not looked. Unblinking, those dark eyes bored into Quinn, the eyes of a hunter. Killer’s eyes. Quinn shuddered. The man opened the door. Quinn looked away, seeing a clear path into the safety of the night.

  “Goodnight Quinn. When you see Lewis Penn, would you please tell him that the favor slate is now clean?” Mo Evans stepped aside and the pathway opened.

  “I will. Goodnight.” Quinn looked straight ahead as he stepped through the doorway. The door swung closed behind him. He heard the sound of two deadbolts being shot back into place. As his feet led him away, Quinn felt the cool evening air washing over him. He had never been so glad to leave any single room in his entire life.

  Chapter 20

  James

  James Watson took a stiff drink of whiskey, anger creasing the corners of his mouth. He brought the highball glass to rest atop the low wall of the balcony. The thump-thump of heavy bass beating from the adjacent building was just loud enough to reach his ears. Miserable slackers, they call that music? Don’t they have anything better to do on a Thursday night? Oh, of course they don’t, because they don’t have jobs to get up for, the cretins. Why not stay up all night bothering the entire neighborhood with that horrible racket? James snorted in disgust while he raised the whiskey glass to his mouth and drank. Holding the whiskey to eye level, he extended one finger from the glass, pointing it like the barrel of an unsteady pistol. He took aim at the curtained windows of the offending apartment. Yeah, that would shut them up. Sad, that’s what it was, this lack of respect for others. James tipped up the glass, draining off the last of the liquor. He walked off of the balcony and into the living room, leaving the door open. The cool evening air felt good, even with the goddamn racket.

  Stepping into the cramped kitchen, James stood at the sink. He rinsed out his glass, splashing the water around the empty sink to rinse it as well. As the water swirled across the stainless steel surface, James mused on the situation with the scribbler neighbor, that insolent Quinn Boyd. How could the police just let him walk away? Worthless, the cops, absolutely worthless. I solve the crime for them, practically hand them the suspect, and the bumblers just let the man go free. I bet if I could get to his phone there would be a selfie of him standing over my Saab, a selfie of Boyd with a big stupid grin plastered across his face. Maybe I can catch him on Facebook, thought James. Would Boyd be stupid enough to post an incriminating photo? In his last years teaching, James had caught several moronic students posting trash about him on their little social media accounts. James chuckled at the memory. Those kids had paid for their indiscretion. He had seen to that. Through the open doorway, he heard the beat of the music change to a faster tempo. Goddamnit!

  James charged back out onto the balcony. He wanted to scream across the gap between the two buildings, scream at them to shut off that damned racket, but they’d never hear him over that infernal thumping. James checked his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Okay, right. If the little punks didn’t knock it off by midnight, he really would call the cops on them. Not that the worthless police would do anything. James stood at the wall of the balcony, trying to ignore the noise, gazing off into what he could see of the night sky. He sighed to himself. This building had such potential. That’s why he moved into the place. Classic brick walls, wooden floors, high ceilings. Toss out the riffraff, knock out a wall to the kitchen, open things up a bit, this would be a great condo.

  A scent on the air snapped James’ attention back from imagined visions of the perfect condo. Was that cigar smoke? He craned his head to the side, looking up towards the rooftop. There was nothing to see in the darkness, but his nose was not lying to him. It was Quinn Boyd, that rotten neighbor. He’s up there on the roof smoking cigars, thumbing his nose at me. That little bastard should be in jail. Instead of doing their jobs, the cops just let him wander off. Now he’s up on the rooftop polluting the neighborhood with that stench.

  James leaned out over the edge of the balcony wall, twisting his body in an attempt to get a better look at the edge of the rooftop above. Was that a wisp of smoke, right there? He snuffed at the air like a hound on a scent. There it was, the faintest hint of one of those nasty cigars. James grabbed the top of the balcony wall with both hands, levering himself out over the open space, desperate to see the offending clouds of smoke. Yes! Right there, was that…? Without warning, he felt his stocking foot slip on the tile floor of the balcony. Unsupported and off balance, his torso rocked forward, falling toward the yawning darkness. As he fell, his hands slipped off of the top of the wall, saving James from disaster. He landed in an awkward heap across the edge of the wall, banging an elbow and cursing.

  Righting himself, he rubbed at the bruised elbow, felt the tingling traveling up his arm. That worthless little shit is going to pay for this. James stomped off the balcony. I’m going to march up onto that roof and put a stop to this. Perfect timing, but not for you Mr. Quinn Boyd. I’ll show this punk who’s in charge. Before he could find his shoes, the intercom box at the front door squawked to life.

  What the hell? James strode to the door and pressed the talk button. “Who’s there?” A tinny electronic voice answered, as if from the bottom of a well. “Portland Police, Mr. Watson. It’s about your car. May we come up?” James could not believe his ears. It was like a gift from the gods. “Yes, of course, I’ll buzz you in.” He pressed the button to release the security door, making sure to hold it down long enough for the officers to get inside. James remembered the whiskey. That won’t do at all. He scurried off to the bathroom.

  James unscrewed the top of a bottle of mouthwash and spilled some of it into the cap. He threw the minty liquid into his mouth, swishing it between his teeth. Spitting out the mouthwash, he regarded his reflection in the mirror. Yes, you have every reason to smile, my friend. Oh, this is so sweet! Not only are the cops here, but I’m going to lead them up to the roof so they can arrest that kid. Finally! He felt his feet against the bathroom rug. Dammit, shoes, you need shoes Man! He wiped his mouth with a hand towel and hurried back to the entry hall. As he looked about for his shoes, there was a sharp rapping on his door.

  James reached for the door and yanked it open, already speaking as he did so. “Good evening Officers…” What he saw in the doorway caused him to stagger back into the entry hall.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” James took yet another step backwards. The man framed in the doorway wore a snap brim hat pulled low on his forehead and heavy work clothes. Without a word, he stepped through the door
, never taking his eyes off of James. The man used his elbow to swing the wooden door closed as he took another step into the room, deliberately and without hurry. Those eyes, shadowed under the brim of the cap, never left their mark. James stared, horrified, as the man pushed the rubber sole of his shoe behind him to fully close the door. The click of the latch echoed very loudly across the entryway.

  “You are apparently not getting my message, Mr. Watson. A very clear message.” James felt the assault of the quiet voice. “And then, feigning ignorance, you accuse your neighbor. Not smart.” The intruder stood as still as a statue.

  James felt fear coursing through him as he recognized the face. Oh, Jesus, now I remember. A workman blocking the sidewalk with some ugly metal thing. So I took the lout to task for hindering a public walkway. Okay, okay, the guy was angry. But what was he doing here? He never said a word when I yelled at him. And how did he know about that Boyd kid?

  “Look, I, uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. But I, I need you to leave my apartment right now.” Yes, push back, this guy has no business here. But he heard the fear in his own words, words stuttered and small.

  James saw the man smile, a mirthless crooked thing that disappeared in an instant. “I will leave when I am sure that my message has been delivered and not before. I do not allow trespass on my property, I do not allow trespass on my work, and I do not tolerate rudeness. Hence my message on the hood of your automobile. I defend what is mine, Mr. Watson.”

  James felt the color drain from his face, tasted sour bile at the back of his throat. This simple working guy, this was the person who had ruined his Saab? And now he is standing in my apartment. What the hell is happening to me? Icy fingers of fear raced down his spine. He suddenly needed to use the toilet, needed to use it in the worst way.