Grave Intent

by G. K. Lund

  Chapter 23

  I do not like feeling uneasy and helpless. Before this all happened, before I took over this body – that never happened. There was never any doubt then. Only existence, mixed with duty, watching and the odd curiosity. The feeling of needing to take action was unfamiliar because then I only had to wait, and never long. But now I wanted nothing more than to do something to help. That was how I felt the following couple of days. I knew Evy was in trouble and there was nothing to be done to help her. I had no idea where she was. I wouldn’t be surprised if her captors had taken her abroad by now, but for some reason, Peter didn’t think so. Given the current security measures at the airports, despite the arrest of Gil Barber, it would be high risk trying to take an unwilling person through such a public place.

  “You look like crap,” Peter said as he walked beside me onto Central Bridge.

  “I don’t care,” I said and glanced ahead. There was little traffic as it was Sunday, but there were already some people on the pedestrian part of the bridge.

  “What I mean is, we can do this later if you need some time.”

  I shook the head and walked on. We were early on purpose as we had some business to attend to before the ceremony over at Cury Square that would draw many people to the bridge. Being early, allowed us space in the middle of the bridge which gave quite the view. To our right, we saw Northwater with its modern architecture. It seemed as quiet from a distance as Harrow to our left. Now that I knew about it, I saw the large brick building containing Current Magazine rising a little above a few other buildings. Straight ahead stood City Hall which loomed over Charton further north. It could be seen from most places in Ashdale.

  The river flowed slowly below us. It had a murky brown-gray color, only hints of the blue it had once been. That is what happens with rivers as cities grow up on their sides. Except being driven over the bridge, I had in fact not been up there since the night Old Ben died. In a sense, I hadn’t been up there then either. I had a fragmented memory of the large construction. However, I was not certain if I actually remembered anything or if the brain confused it all with what I had been told afterward. It was probably the latter. No – the first thing I remembered for certain was Olivia giving me a suspicious look as I woke up and committed a crime against nature and breaking every law of existence in her book. Good thing she had come around.

  I looked down at the flowing water below and saw for the first time how far down it really was. I could remember the pain from the body setting itself right. Old Ben had been broken on impact. As far as I understood, the city’s three bridges had been built this high to accommodate large boats and barges bringing in shipments of goods. That was before transport had been made easier with airplanes and trains. There were still boats to be seen now and then, but these days they usually went no further than Ashport by the coast.

  “Now’s a good time,” Peter said as he glanced around. There were few people close by us, but that would change. I nodded and pulled the gun from the jacket pocket, moving the hand carefully and trying to avoid any attention. The weapon was concealed in a white handkerchief, but it still looked odd. Without any fuss, I unwrapped the gun and let it fall. We stood in silence as we watched the now black dot race toward the water. A small white spray came as it hit the surface, and then it was whisked away under the bridge.

  “What a relief,” Peter said, still looking down. Neither of us had any use of it, and the fact that it belonged to a now-dead man meant it was a dangerous thing to keep lying around. After all, he hadn’t died under normal circumstances. According to the few news reports that covered anything other than the Grenade-man it was clear one of the dead people had died by his own hand. The others had been murdered. Getting rid of the gun was for the best, so we had agreed to do this as Peter wanted to come to the bridge anyway.

  A loud ping from Peter’s phone sounded and made him wince. “Shit, I should mute that.” He glanced at the screen, and then stared some more, his whole face a question mark.

  “Something wrong?”

  Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll read it later.”

  More and more people trickled onto the bridge, ready to take part in what was happening at Cury Square. There was not enough room over there for everyone. After a short while, it began to get crowded on the bridge as well. It didn’t take long before getting a space by the railing became impossible. People stood close together as those who were late looked over strangers’ shoulders. Some also went to the other side. In the end, it wouldn’t matter as for the view anyway.

  “I wonder if Evy’s okay,” Peter said, his voice low and blending seamlessly into the general murmur around us. “I mean, if they need her, they won’t hurt her right?”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. He was only hoping. But we were standing there because a man had decided that others should die because he was angry about something. I was at that time not particularly impressed with human kindness.

  “I don’t know. I hope she’s okay. Olivia has her feelers out, but…” I had nothing more to say. I had been surprised when Peter didn’t want to call the police. He had sounded so much like Evy herself then, but he had agreed to calling Olivia. Unfortunately, she didn’t know more than us, and so Evy was beyond our reach.

  We stood in silence a while longer as we waited with everyone else. We could hear the muffled voice of someone giving a speech at Cury Square, the echoes spreading further than the confines of the square. Then a song. I have heard many a dirge in my time, but if this was one I couldn’t discern it. The human ears could not pick up what was sung at that distance.

  Peter seemed uneasy, like he had something on his mind. He looked better than he had the last week though. Like he was sleeping more and eating better. I knew he’d spent some time with George finally. It did him good. He absentmindedly scratched his beard while thinking about what to say. I let him be. He had seen and struggled with a lot lately. I couldn’t blame him for being confused. In an echoing subconscious gesture, I felt the hand scratch the stubble on Old Ben’s face. It seemed pointless to remember to shave as it came back again, annoying and itching as ever. How did Peter stand it?

  “I read about this woman who was in a coma,” Peter began, pointedly not looking at me.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. She’d been in an accident. A car crash I think. Anyway, when she came to, she was speaking with a South African accent. Not a bad one either.”

  “Okay…?” I eyed him sideways, wondering where he was going with this.

  “The thing was, she had never been out of the country. Ever.” He turned his head and looked at me now like I was supposed to understand everything from those words.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “Well, people don’t change accents like that by accident. Especially to one they have no reason to. I guess she’d heard it somewhere during her life, and after the coma it manifested and she can’t get rid of it.”

  “I’m at a loss here, Peter. What’s your point?”

  “It’s just…” he looked out over the river again. “You’ve never spoken Spanish in your life. And now you do?”

  With everything that had happened, I had to think about that one before remembering that the man Evy had used her ability on had in fact spoken in Spanish, and that somehow I had understood him.

  “Anyway,” Peter went on. “I thought maybe it’s sort of the same thing. That after your accident you woke up being able to speak another language.”

  I felt the lips press together as I thought this through. It was odd how much of what I thought manifested physically in the body. He was wrong. That was the first thing that struck me. I hadn’t woken up able to speak Spanish. I had no idea why I was even speaking English. The other thing was the fact that he was attempting at finding a reasonable explanation. He had seen and heard so much by now. He even referred to Ben’s fall into the river as an accident. It was in a way interesting to see the human mind at work in su
ch a situation, but it was also a bit sad. Peter was Old Ben’s friend, and my friend. I didn’t want to be the cause of his distress. Still, it was best to let him figure it out himself.

  “Maybe,” I heard myself say, as a whisper went through the crowd. I looked toward Cury Square and saw they had begun the Flower Shroud.

  Flower upon flower was put in the river, some from the other side in Northwater as well. Hundreds of thousands of them, if not more. They were given by the people of the city who had flocked to the square to do so, and even more, were gifts from the City. Though it was a river, soon it looked like an ocean of colorful flowers that floated through the city and down toward us up on the bridge. The murky water turned into a painting of colorful celebration, for that was what it was; a memorial of the dead and a celebration of those still there – of the city’s strength to carry on.

  “It’s beautiful,” a woman to Peter’s left said to the general murmur of approval. As the shroud of flowers reached the bridge many let their own flowers fall from above.

  A woman not far from me was crying at the sight. “But I don’t understand why he had to hurt people just because he doesn’t like—”

  “Shh, Carrie,” a man said as he put his arms around her and held her close. “I don’t think that guy understands much himself.”

  I had to agree to that. The news about the Grenade-man had intensified as there had been more to report over the last few days. The attacks thirty years ago had happened before he got his job, but while he was in training. One police detective had recognized him one night as a spectator at one of the Grenade-man crime scenes. There had been no reason for him to be there in that part of the city. Almost getting caught had stopped the attacks then. He prided himself on being smarter than the police, and the detective had had no evidence against him. During the next thirty years, the Grenade-man’d had a good career and been respected in his job. Respect had been something he craved as well, but after retirement, something had changed. He had become unimportant, as one reporter had put it, and so he had put his grenades to use again, and in a much more cunning manner this time. No, this man didn’t care about the people he hurt. He cared about his pride and anger; as if it justified what he wanted.

  No one spoke more of him, at least not around us. We all stood in silence as the flowers floated by us below. They would follow the river until they sank or reached the coast. In its way, it was a fitting farewell to grief, though that would last a long time of course. We stayed on the bridge for the better part of an hour before deciding to leave.

  “I need a coffee anyway,” I said as Peter asked if it was okay if we left.

  “There’s a difference between need and want, and besides—”

  He broke off and resolutely turned to face the river again.

  “Something wrong?” I asked. Stupid question, I know.

  “Don’t turn around,” Peter said, his voice strained from not shouting in panic.

  “What’s wrong?” That was a much better question considering the circumstances.

  “Promise you won’t turn around.”

  “Okay. I promise. So who is behind me?” Whoever it was, was not close enough to hear us talking. Otherwise, Peter wouldn’t have said a word. I figured we were not in any immediate danger despite Peter’s apparent discomfort. No, discomfort was not right. He was afraid of someone. He was pretending to look calm, but his voice and the way his knuckles whitened as he pressed his hands around the bars of the railing told me that.

  “I don’t know his name, but he was there when they tried taking Evy the first time. When she got away.”

  I nodded. He had told me this before, and I had silently berated myself for not paying more attention to her when she tried getting Winter’s help.

  “I’ll try a discreet look later. Describe him for me.”

  “I don’t know. Tall dude. Dressed casually. Long hair. Kinda dark. Why are you smiling?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it? The guy is an abductor. He hangs out with other abductors. How is he someone not to worry about?”

  “Listen to me, Peter,” I said, going for a decisive tone. “Follow the crowd and take a cab home. I’ll call Olivia and she’ll figure this out.”

  “No, you can’t involve the cops.”

  “I won’t. Only her. She’s okay with that.” I was lying of course. I had no idea if she would be okay with such a thing, but then again, I had no intention of calling her. Peter seemed to believe me though because he did as I said. I let him have a good head start. I didn’t want the long-haired man following Peter as well. Hopefully, he would only think he was a friend who was not involved in this.

  The end of the Flower Shroud was reaching Central Bridge as I began walking, as well as making no attempt to hide in the crowd. If he was following me, I knew I could at some point turn it around and follow him instead.

  Chapter 24

  Peter looked up at the house for the second time and wondered why he hesitated. The name on the mailbox stated that the person living there was named Alekseev. So, it had to be the right place. He hadn’t hesitated the last time he met this man. It was foolish to do so now, he thought, and walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. It was a nice house, but that was to be expected on the outskirts of Charton. It was an expensive part of the city to live in.

  The door was opened by a familiar face, but there was no fear or pain to be seen there now. The man’s lined and wide face cracked into a welcoming smile at the sight of Peter.

  “Peter,” he said with a voice as warm as between life-long friends.

  “Uh, yeah. Are you Armen Alekseev?”

  The man nodded and extended his right hand, which Peter took. “Yes. I must look different, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Peter agreed. “You look different without all the… blood.”

  “Thanks to you. Come in.”

  Peter entered a spacious and lovely home full of warm colors and lots of pictures on the walls. This had clearly once been a family home, but he got a sense that was no longer the case. There was too much silence.

  “I made some coffee,” Armen said as he led Peter into a large living room that sported a grand piano in one side of it. “But I can make tea if you prefer. Or a beer?”

  Peter smiled and sat down on a soft couch covered in a golden-brownish velvet. He carefully put his satchel with his laptop next to him. “Coffee is fine, Mr. Alekseev.”

  “Armen, please. I may be old, but no need to be formal.” Armen poured Peter a cup and handed it to him. He didn’t look old exactly and Peter knew from his Facebook profile that he was fifty. Way too young to die – especially in such a pointless way. Armen poured a cup for himself and walked over to one of the matching soft chairs and sat down, facing Peter.

  “I see you’re not limping. That’s good.”

  “Yes. Again, thanks to you. I was so curious after the attacks you know. I never got yours or your friend’s names.”

  “His name is Ben—”

  “Reed. Yes, I found out. But he hasn’t responded to my message.”

  Peter sighed. How many times had he tried getting Ben to check his various accounts? At this rate, it was a miracle he responded to text messages. “He may look like he’s in his twenties, but he’s like a ninety-year-old grandma online.” That made Armen chuckle at least. To Peter, it had become an everlasting frustration.

  “Well, be sure to thank him for me. If he wants to stop by he is welcome to do so anytime.”

  Peter nodded. “So how did you find our names?”

  Armen took a sip of the coffee and then put the steaming cup on the table between them. “I wanted to thank you for what you did for me. Without you, I would’ve been trampled by running people, or at least damaged from the shrapnel that hit me.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” Peter said, feeling a little embarrassed. He didn’t understand why. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “But it was somet
hing. For me at least. The doctors said I could have ended up with nerve damage in my leg if you hadn’t done what you did.”

  “Wow,” Peter blurted, a little surprised by the man’s frankness. “Then you don’t know how lucky you are because I only know a little bit of first aid and I had no idea if I did anything useful when it was happening.”

  “More than you know. Anyway, I didn’t get your names. Everything happened so fast afterward. It felt like an eternity while the explosions were going on, but after… everything is a blur.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you gave your statements like everyone else, and a helpful police officer came to my aid.”

  Was that even allowed, Peter wondered, and decided he didn’t care.

  “Let me show you something,” Armen got up from the chair. He went over to a dormant fireplace and took a framed photo from the mantlepiece before he returned and handed it to Peter. It was of a little girl, light brown hair to her shoulders with about thirty percent of it gathered on top of her head in the most untidy of ponytails. A pair of large blue eyes stared at the camera and smiled with the rest of her face.

  “Your kid?” Peter asked.