Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  “I forgot to tell you to come alone. I guess that is my fault.” Kelly moves even closer to me and grabs my hand and squeezes hard.

  “Too bad really, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to entangle anyone else. Oh well, so be it.” The tiny glow from the cigarette enkindles into a bright ember, and then softly dissipates back into the darkness.

  “This is Kelly, my assistant and a trusted friend. Whatever you tell us, I assure you that we will not reveal you as a source of any story we might write. You have my word, I promise.”

  “Matt is right. You don’t have to worry about me telling anyone anything about who you are or even about our meeting here today.” Kelly steps forward to reassure him.

  I hear a faint step, then another, until his movement puts him into a ribbon of diffused light that reveal his eyes, about five feet in front of us. He casually takes another drag from his cigarette and exhales. His eyes peer through the smoke filled streak of light, appearing as some kind of evil spirit before us.

  “I didn’t come here to listen to your promises Mr. Brooks.”

  “OK, what did you come here for? What do you want?”

  “You see Mr. Brooks. You and your pretty partner have put me in a bad position. You both have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, too many times.

  You’ve got two qualities that are just too dangerous for your own good. You’re too smart.” He holds his hand up in front of him to count on his fingers. “And you’re too inquisitive. You can’t let things go. You just got to know the why and how come. Good qualities if you are in the newspaper business, I guess. Good qualities, if you are looking for a corrupt dogcatcher or chicken thief, but in this case, being too smart and too curious could end up getting you killed.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?’ I try to act dumb, since it may mean our lives.

  “Oh come on Mr. Brooks. Please don’t insult my intelligence. You know who I am. You have caught me in to many compromising situations, not to know who I am.”

  “I’m sure I don’t have the vaguest idea what you are talking about,” I try to inflect denial in my voice.

  “You don’t have to worry, sir. We are sworn never to reveal our sources. It is a part of our job as professional journalists that we take very seriously. We would never tell anyone about the several times you threatened us or even when you attacked Matt on top of the Space Needle in Seattle. You don’t have to worry,” Kelly spits out.

  My head jerks over toward Kelly and shakes in reproach of her words. “Kelly shush, quiet!”

  A low breathy ragged laugh exhales from within the dark nebulous shadows before us.

  “Threats, Mr. Brooks? Attack in Seattle? Could it be that you both know more than you are letting on?”

  “She was just...”

  “Don’t be upset with her, Mr. Brooks,” he interrupts.

  “I’m sure that she is as innocent as she is beautiful.” He pauses. I watch his eyes as they look around the room warily.

  “Now don’t get me wrong, Mr. Brooks, I wouldn’t do this unless it was absolutely necessary, but you just know too much. I didn’t ask you to bring the girl. Her life is on your hands, not mine.”

  “OK OK, I admit I know a few pieces of the puzzle, but you’re mistaken if you think I’ve got it all figured out. For some unexplainable reason, I keep stumbling into you. Sometimes you’ve appeared in person, sometimes in a photo, each time appearing in a different modus operandi or disguise. But that is about the limit of my enlightenment. Mostly what I have is questions, lots of questions.”

  “For instance, why did you kill Riker?” I bluntly spit out.

  He stares at me for a moment, and then slowly evicts a breathy gritty smoker’s chuckle, from his throat.

  “You know as well as I do Mr. Brooks, Riker had to die. He just knew too much.”

  “And now we know too much, is that it?” I dart back.

  He responds to my question with the consensus of utter silence.

  “Listen,” I endeavor to prod at his irritating silence.

  “I don’t care about the reason you had for killing Riker. I don’t see what it has to do with Kelly and I. I assure you, we don’t know enough of anything to be of any threat to you or anyone else. And I’m sure that we don’t deserve to have our lives threatened.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” h says grimly, shaking his head slightly. “It has been decided.”

  All of a sudden the sound of birds flapping their wings startles us, as a brace of pigeons hover in midair in an attempt to land on the fourth floor window ledge high above us. All three of us react instinctively, looking up toward the fourth floor window ledge in unison.

  Then striking a match, he lights another smoke. As the flame ignites his cigarette, dancing jumps of light reveal shadowy versions of his face.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Brooks, goodbye.” He steps backwards, withdrawing into the blackened, light deprived concealment of the room.

  “Wait!” I realize he is about to withdraw and escape.

  Kelly then steps forward in front of me and snaps a picture of the departing illusory human form. She then runs off somewhere into the dark for escape; the clacking sound of her spiky-heeled shoes echoes and follows her somewhere into the pitch dark obscuration.

  The flash of the camera instantly fills the room with a saturation of bright light. In a flash of time; the room, the man, and our presence is exposed. In that flash of time, I see the man stepping backwards, a pile of lumber just behind him, and a small red device with a yellow button in the retreating man’s hand.

  As my eyes blink away fictitious polka dots created by the flash of light, I continue to hear his footsteps backing away from us. I then hear what sounds like him stumbling over the pile of lumber behind him. The flash from the camera must have blinded him, I think to myself. The instant I hear the sound of him falling to the ground, a deafening blast rips through the building.

  In an instant, the great cataclysmic blast dissipates into the sound of falling rubble fragments. I have been propelled several feet by the blast and now lay conscience on the floor in silence, my ears are ringing. My body feels as if it has been sandblasted with every piece of wood and brick of this building. The air has been instantly filled with throat choking and lung-clogging floating debris.

  My ears continue to ring. My eyes burn and I can feel little streams of warm moisture running down my face.

  As I lay there numb of thought, I begin to see the dull appearance of light from the windows above me emitting through, except now the blast has replaced the two small square windows with two large jagged holes.

  Bits of dust have been forced into my mouth and now begin to obstruct my windpipe. I begin to gag and cough uncontrollably. As the dust settles, I see piles of brick and timbers heaped everywhere around me. From what I can see, it looks as if we have been totally entombed inside the collapse of this building.

  Then the thought of Kelly jumps into my mind. What about Kelly? Did she get away safe, or is she buried somewhere around here under a ton of brick and rubble?

  “Kelly!” I call out, and then begin to cough once again.

  “Kelly! Are you all right?” Nothing…

  I make an effort to get up off the floor. My back stabs in pain and my head throbs in hostility to my movement.

  Suddenly, I hear a sort of moan and the sound of bricks slightly moving and sliding over one another. I look over to where the sound is coming from. About ten feet away, a mound of rubble made up of brick and timbers seems to have movement.

  “Kelly? Are you all right?” I call out but no answer. I make an effort to move towards her. Every molecule of my body cries out in pain.

  I crawl on my hands and knees over to the pile of wreckage. As I slowly and painfully approach the crumbled heap, I can make out the movement of an arm in front of me. I reach out in front of me to hold Kelly’s hand.

  I immediately realize it is not Kelly’s hand I have grasped onto, but that of the wo
uld-be assassin, almost totally buried under a large accumulation of red brick and wooden beams. As if I had grabbed hold of a man that was infested with some loathsome disease, my hand jerks open instinctively, allowing his arm to fall back to the cement floor.

  Dumbfounded, I sit on my knees for a moment, watching him squirm under the heavy burden of rubble.

  From somewhere deep inside of me a measure of humanity lifts me to my senses. Instead of a monster I see before me, I see a human writhing in agony and begin to pull off the bricks and wood from atop of him.

  The bricks and pieces of wood make sharp echoing sounds, as I throw the building fragments onto the cement floor in another pile next to me. As I work feverishly to rid the man’s body of the burden, a great powdery dust cloud billows up again and overtakes me.

  I remove myself from the man and the pile of debris inside the dust cloud for a moment, to catch my breath. As the dust again begins to settle, I continue on with my work of undeserved kindness and mercy.

  I finally remove the last brick off his back and take stock of what is before me. He lay there on his stomach covered with dust, bleeding from several cuts to his head, slightly trembling as he moves his arms and legs.

  All of a sudden, he props both of his arms up on the floor in an attempt to rise. He pushes up with a low moan. His weakened arms shimmy like rubber under the load of his weight. After only a second or two, he collapses back to the floor.

  “Help me…” I just barely detect his faint whisper of plea.

  I sit there, without movement, on the cold concrete floor, full of righteous anger. I stare upon him in agony for a moment, my dark vindictive side enjoying it a little. Then, somewhere deep inside of me, the humane fraction of my soul overtakes me. I reach over and lift him up to a sitting position. He moans out as I turn him over and sit him down. He opens his eyes for a moment and looks over at me, then closes his eyes once again, his body liberating into a slump.

  Now from somewhere in the dark close by, I hear the sound of rainwater dripping down from a fissure in the roof that has been created by the blast.

  Amongst the rubble next to me, I find an old beer bottle and pick it up. Leaving him there, I feel my way through the darkness towards the sound of water. The crack in the ceiling not only allows seepage of water to leak down but also a cleft of comforting light to flicker through. I crawl over to the waters trickle, and begin to fill the beer bottle in earnest.

  When the bottle is full I drink until I am satisfied, and then fill up the bottle once again. I then lower my head under the drizzle of the water, engrossing myself in the ecstasy of its cool recuperative power.

  Off in the distance, the frail sound of moaning emanates again from my would-be executioner, interrupting my needed bespatter of convalescence.

  His eyes are opened wide as I return and approach him. He squirms at my advance, but is still too weak to get up. I sit down beside him and offer him the beer bottle filled with water. Looking back at me, his brow distorts into the most shocked and confused facial cast I’ve ever seen a human display.

  “Fortunate for you I believe in being humane,”

  “Even to someone like you. Here, drink this; it’ll make you feel better.”

  His hands are too shaky to hold tight to the bottle, so I hold it up and feed it to him. Overwhelmed with thirst, he begins to gulp it down and starts to choke.

  “Not too much,” I advise him, pulling the bottle away.

  “Just sip it.”

  After finishing the bottle of water he lays his head back, relaxing into a more restful and satisfied state. He lay there for a moment and then begins to shiver. I try to wrap him a little better with his large heavy coat that has become tattered from the blast.

  Having finished my benevolent duty for the time being, my thoughts rush back to Kelly’s well-being.

  “Kelly!” Can you hear me. Are you all right?”

  Suddenly, I remember my cell phone. I reach around my waist were it had been clipped, but it is not there.

  Somewhere out there in all that dust and rubble is my cell phone, my cell phone and Kelly.

  I look back to his face with disdain. Conversing with this man, goes against every emotional fiber of hate sake I have been able to gather. But I would be willing to swallow back the foul taste of hate this time, for Kelly’s sake.

  I stare into his strange eyes of guilt for a moment longer. Like a volcano eruption, animosity begins to surge up inside of me. My fist clinches tighter and tighter. In the last moment before I explode, I catch myself, loosen my fist, and then raise it to rub against the sternness of my face.

  “Did you see where Kelly went?” I bark at him. He makes no response, not moving even a muscle. He just stares back at me.

  “I said, did you see if the girl got out or not? Answer me!” I demand. I see a slight movement of his head from side to side.

  Somewhere in the distance I begin to hear the far off siren whine of the police or possibly an ambulance. ‘Is that for us?’ I wonder to myself.

  My unusual partner of misfortune begins to move and moan in pain once again. I look over at him and notice his right thigh is bleeding profusely.

  I take off my coat and then my shirt and then remove my tee shirt. Most hurriedly I put my shirt and coat back on because of the cold, and then start to work in ripping the tee shirt into strips. With several layers of tee shirt material I wrap and bind his thigh and leg tight. He cries out in pain as I pull the two ends taut. As I watch him, I pull hard one more time to see him agonize into a cringe, then tie it off into a knot.

  He lay there in pain for a moment or two, then begins to relax, the pain seemingly subsiding. Looking up at me, he stares into my eyes.

  “I tried to kill you. Why are you helping me?” He almost whispers. I ignore his inquiry.

  Slowly he raises his arm up towards me, the forefinger of his hand pointing at my face.

  “Your face,” he wheezes, coughing a little to clear his throat. “Your face is bleeding,” he informs me in his raspy voice.

  I touch my hand to my face and feel the moisture of my own blood sweating down my cheek. Moving my finger upwards I discover a large cut across my cheekbone and flinch from the pain of my finger’s touch.

  With some of the water left in the beer bottle, I soak one of the tee shirt pieces I had ripped. Taking the strip of cloth, I wipe my bloody cheek, then compress the damp fabric to my wound; my would-be executioner watching every move I make.

  “Why are you helping me?’ He asks searchingly, his face writhing with disbelief and quandary.

  For a few moments I try to completely ignore him and his inquiry. But Kelly’s disappearance floods my mind, until I can no longer hold back my contempt and anger.

  “Listen mister! This isn’t over yet. If I find that one hair of Kelly’s head has been harmed,” I point my index finger in threat. “You’ll wish that you had died in the blast, when I get through with you.”

  Suddenly, I hear the sound of my cell phone ringing somewhere out there in the darkness. I jump up and crawl out towards the ringing so as not to trip or bump into anything. If I can just make it to my phone before it stops ringing and goes to the message mode, Then there is silence. I wait motionless in the dark, my body stuck crouched in the crawl position.

  The phone begins to ring once again. After only a few crawling maneuvers forward, I reach my cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Matt, this is Kelly. Are you all right?

  “Kelly, you OK? I thought I’d lost you!”

  “I’m OK Matt, I’m OK. I barely got out in time. Now listen. I called 911 and help is on its way. They’ll have you out in a jiffy, OK?” Her sweet voice assures me.

  “All right, sounds good. I’m so glad that you’re OK,”.

  “I got to go now and make sure the fireman come to the right place. I’ll call you later OK. Bye.”

  “OK, I’ll be right here waiting for your call.”

  As I push the button on
the cell phone I can feel my heart pumping as if there is electric energy surging inside my chest. ‘Kelly is OK,’ I think to myself. Hearing her voice and the thought of her safety, makes me want to jump up and run somewhere as fast as I can. I decide to use my head instead and again crawl back and await rescue, alongside my wounded aspiring executioner.

  He seems to be uncomfortable and in pain as I approach him. I attend to his wounds once again and give him another drink of rainwater from the beer bottle.

  “Please, tell me,” he aspirates his throaty words. “I tried to kill you and your friend. Why do you help me?”

  His question pricks me hard, like a poisonous thorn. I am beyond irritation as I turn quickly to him for the purpose of rebuke, but the expression of sincerity upon his face prevents me from speaking. We both stare at one another for a second or two more, before something comes to my mind to say.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him.

  “My name?”

  “Yeah your name. You do have a name, don’t you?”

  “No one has asked my name before.” A stunned look appears upon his face. “That is, nobody that I just tried to kill.”

  “Well, I guess that means I get the privilege of being the first one.” I look over at him to respond.

  “My name is Ra.”

  “Ra?” What kind of a name is Ra?” I ask, thinking about it for a minute.

  “You mean like the ancient Egyptian Sun God Ra, during the Pharaohs?”

  “Yes exactly; that’s the one. Now Mr. Brooks; now that you know my name, tell me. I just tried to kill you and your friend. Why do you help me?”

  “I would help any wounded animal if there was a need,” I tell him sullenly. I pause for a moment, noticing the loosened dressing around his leg wound. Pressing the dressing hard with my finger, I retie and tighten the tee shirt ligature that binds the dressing to his leg. He cringes at my non-gentleness and squirms with pain.

  “I guess you fit into the wounded animal category,” I conclude dispassionately.

  Our beginnings of communication have somehow softened the mutual feeling of animosity for one another. The emotions of fear and hate have now somehow transformed into survival.