The Broken Ones (Book 2): The Broken Families

by David Jobe

  Mac turned to face his father and found him uncapping one of those syringes that they screw into your IV and inject things with. The contents of the syringe were a milky gray, almost metallic look. “What is that?”

  Jesuit connected the syringe to Mac’s IV, pressing on the contents before he said anything. “Some nanotech I have been working on. The military plans to use it to repair soldiers wounded in combat.” He gave Mac a long stare as he pushed the rest of the contents into his IV. “In your case, we can’t really call it combat, as you were more of a scarecrow at best. A diversion if we are being honest. You really went to fight known murders with no weapons of your own? Where you high?”

  Mac watched as the grayish white substance flowed through the tubing and then into his veins. He thought about ripping the IV out, throwing it back in his father’s face, but his father’s words cut him down. Pushed him into a weak defensive. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  His father shook his head, his curly gray hair bouncing on his head. “I comprehend your lack of planning. Your failed methods and the aftermath it deserved.” He gestured at Mac with his free hand. “You should have died on that highway; a cautionary tale for others who might follow suit.”

  Mac narrowed his eyes. “Then why help me at all.”

  His father unscrewed the empty syringe and put it back in his pocket. With that, he sat down and once again took a casual position with ankle resting on the other knee. “Because I made the grievous error of thinking you would amount to something when you were born. That you would be worthy of the Patton name, lest I would have let you keep your mother’s maiden name. Then at least your shameful demise would have fallen on her lineage and not mine. I can’t undo my error, so I must staunch the wound and hope that you can be shown to have enough potential to die a passable death.”

  “Wow.” It was all that Mac could manage.

  “You remember when you told me that you loved comic books?”

  Mac nodded, but said nothing, working instead to keep the tears from his eyes.

  “What did I do?” He was looking at the paper again. He knew it to be a way of his father showing that Mac’s intellect remained so far below his own that he could multitask with ease.

  “You went out and bought all the comics you could find. We spent a week in the front room reading them together.” It had been one of Mac’s happier memories.

  “And do you know why I did that?”

  Mac knew the next words out of his mouth were going to destroy that great memory. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Ignorance is not the Patton way, Machiavelli. We did that so I could understand something you enjoyed on a competent level to use it to educate you. After that week, what comics did I buy you regularly?”

  Mac blinked. He had forgotten that for about two years his father made sure to read the newest editions of a few comic books. He hadn’t even clued in that they had been specific ones. “Um, Batman and Iron Man?”

  His father nodded. “And which one did I refuse to buy?”

  That one he remembered well enough. It had been his favorite one. Mac knew that had been the whole reason he refused to buy that series. “Spiderman.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Still thumbing through the paper.

  “Because you wanted to deny me the thing I liked the most?”

  His father’s gray eyes flickered to him. “When have you known me to act in an emotional manner such as that? Use your cognitive functions to find the truth, instead of your emotional response.”

  Mac swallowed hard. His father had a point. He had never seen his father act out of anger. Though he still suspected his father remained capable of spite. Either way, he had no desire to play this game. “I don’t know.”

  His father sighed, putting the bundle of papers down. “What are the things that are similar about Batman and Iron Man?”

  Mac shrugged, “They are both rich and wear suits, their own business, and crime fighting.”

  His father shook his head. “You are being willfully obtuse.”

  Then it clicked. “Neither had a real superpower. They used their intellect and ingenuity to be heroes.”

  “You are on the right track. Keep going.”

  “Batman had a belt with a bunch of inventions, as well as vehicles that served multiple functions. Iron Man had a suit for almost every occasion.”

  His father nodded, revealing a smile that Mac rarely saw on the man. “Exactly. They came prepared. They just didn’t rush off into battle without a plan, and several back-up plans. You think either one would have gone to stop a hijacking without some offensive weapon?”

  “No,” Mac said.

  “And Spiderman. Why do you think I didn’t like him?”

  Mac shrugged, “because he was a teenager with powers.”

  His father shook his head. “It is something that you two share in similarity, but it is not your age and having powers.”

  “I’m tired. Just tell me.”

  His father gave one of those disapproving sighs. “Spiderman had several powers, as well as being billed as creative and intelligent, yet he was often depicted as failing classes, losing jobs and unable to support himself. “He tapped his temple. “He was no Batman or Iron Man.”

  Mac nodded.

  His father sighed. “The nanites will take a few days to repair the damage to your spine, so you will have time to think about what I have told you. Think on it you should. This is the only mulligan that you get from me, Machiavelli. Next time I will cut my losses. “He let that last sentence hang in the air, feeling very much like a threat to Mac.

  “Will that be all, Father?”

  His father shook his head. “The bullet also tore through your small intestines on the way through. You almost died of septic from all the garbage that was in there. You really do eat like a pig. Since the doctors were going to have to remove some of your small intestines anyways, I also had them perform a Roux-En-Y bypass on you. It’s typically a weight loss surgery, and since they already had to do half of that anyways, I authorized them to do the other half.”

  Tears dropped from Mac’s eyes. “You used this as an opportunity to finally get that bariatric surgery you have wanted me to get?” His father had been leaving pamphlets for the surgery all over the house when he was home. Even had some of the staff leaving them around when he wasn’t.

  “Dying of obesity is just as pathetic as dying of lack of preparation. It could be argued that they are the same thing. “His tone remained unapologetic. He patted the papers he had been leafing through. “They left this for you. It’s details on what you can expect and what you should be doing. I suggest you follow this as if it were your new religion.”

  “You are proud of yourself, aren’t you?” Mac spat the words out at him.

  “I have already established that it is lack of pride that has me here today. Take this time to sort yourself out. I don’t want to see any more of this foolish superhero nonsense again, am I understood?”

  “I knew you would disapprove of me trying to be a hero. You would rather me be a villain of some sort, wouldn’t you? Out for my own gain. A son you can be proud of.”

  His father frowned. “I don’t care which end of the spectrum you fall, Machiavelli. What I don’t want to see is you being a lazy version of whatever you decide. “ He leaned in to be in Mac’s face. “Next time you show up on national television, have a god damn plan.” He leaned back and smoothed out his jacket.

  Mac blinked. He couldn’t remember a time when his father had cussed. “Yes, sir.”

  His father nodded, turning to leave. He stopped and looked back at Mac. “Two things, Machiavelli.”

  Mac felt tired. “Yes, sir?”

  “Your ability has never been flight. I had hoped you would have figured that out by now.”

  Mac shook his head. “And the second thing?”

  “You steal my technology again, and I will kill you.” The look on his calm face let Mac know that he wasn’
t being figurative. Not that his father ever was.

  “Yes, sir.” Mac bowed his head and listened to the sound of his father leaving.

  Chapter Thirteen

  You Fancy Me Mad

  Since long before he had become a police officer, hospitals at night freaked Chris out. His father had been prone to extended stays in the south side hospital, his life of sin and excess had come calling around the time Chris had turned fifteen. Back in those days, the hospitals were barbaric by today’s standards. Chris remembered a few nights where he had gathered his bedding and found a nice out-of-the-way corner to curl up and read books or comics. He had found that back then, being underfoot was a quick way to get those kind nurses to show their more hidden natures. On some nights, his dad would be snoring away through his breathing mask while Chris sat curled up against the side of the bed, ready to help should his father wake with some urgent need. He remained diligent to watch the door, in case a nurse would come in for the regular vitals, so he could scurry out of way as soon as they entered.

  Some nights, he would look up and see them cart by a bed with a body on it. He knew that when the sheet covered their heads, they weren’t playing peek-a-boo with the nurses. He remembered one night the sheet had rustled just enough so he could see some old man’s eye peering out at him from under the blanket. Later, as a police officer, he would learn that the look was just a part of what happened, but to a 15-year-old, that was an angry look of someone who planned to come back later and drink your blood. Chris hadn’t slept that night. Nor on the night his eleventh grade English teacher, Miss Pebblebrook, had made him read “The Tell-Tale Heart”. Chris had known when he read it, that the eye Poe was describing in the tale was the same eye that had peered out at him from under a blanket of death.

  These days, most hospitals have clever tricks to hide the fact that they were removing a body from a room. Beds that appeared empty in passing, but a clever eye could see that the bed was thicker. These hid the bodies of the deceased. To this day empty gurneys gave him the heebie-jeebies. His mind conjuring up corpses hidden in plain sight. As if any moment the old man with the gray eye would bound out of it, sheet flapping as he came to claim his bloody reward.

  So of course, someone had placed a gurney across the hall from the open door to Chris’s room. It sat there, still as the grave, with no other purpose but to drive him further around the bend. Chris shared his room with Trip, who snored away on the other side of the room, his bed pushed into the very corner and the thin man curled up with his back against the wall. Chris had seen that sleeping position many times before. People who were afraid that they would be attacked at any moment slept like that. Chris’s own bed still sat a good two feet from the wall on his side of the room. He lay sprawled out, head propped up and watching the gurney through the space between his feet. “You fancy me mad,” he quoted to the near quiet room, following it with a chuckle.

  One of the night nurses had been walking by at that very moment and stopped. He tilted his head as if to verify that he had heard something. In gradual degrees that bordered on cinematic, the nurse turned his head to face Chris, a slow smile spreading across his gaunt face. Standing in the low light of the hallway, Chris could see that the young nurse sported a short cropped blue Mohawk, with tribal tattoos peeking up from his white smock collar. Half a dozen earrings of varying design dangled from his larger than normal ears. He padded into the room, showing a level of professional quiet that sent shivers up Chris’s spine. “You Chris?” His voice low, a sidelong glance to the sleeping Trip. In that movement, one of his earrings hit another, giving off the softest of tinkles.

  “One of them.” Chris offered a weak smile, wary of the man.

  “Story around the water cooler is you have the ability to see the future,” Tinkles said. “Only catch being that you gotta be high to do it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my confidentiality is being maintained at the level of professionalism I was told to expect.” Chris offered another weak smile.

  Tinkles chewed his bottom lip for a second, slipping into the side of the bed closest to the wall and farthest from Trip. “You taking a piss?”

  Chris blinked. “You gonna clean it up if I am?”

  Tinkles gave a low snort. “Sorry. Still learning the terms over here. I believe you yanks call it pullin my leg.”

  “First off, never put the word yanks in a sentence that ends will pulling my leg.”

  “Wha?” Tinkles shook his head, creating more tiny tinkling noises. “Can you see the future?”

  “Yea.” Chris had started to get that vibe he used to have on the beat when he saw a deal about to go down.

  “Can you see stuff like lotto numbers and that?” Tinkles leaned him, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

  Chris shook his head. “No. Just murders. “

  “Bugger.” He bit his lips, perhaps pondering something, “Though, knowing who might get offed next might be something I can make profitable.” He patted Chris on the leg, a little too high for comfort. “Tell ya what, Guv. I’ll give you a freebie just to tickle my fancy on if you are on the level. Tell me it will be, and I’ll consider giving you another. Sound like a good deal?”

  Chris frowned. He couldn’t lie to himself. He did want another go. He wanted to see if he could work through a death and stop it before it happened. Being in here had got him to thinking about why he saw the things he did. Why those people in particular. That being admitted, he had a bad feeling about the man sitting on his bed, touching him in a way that was the first step towards something he didn’t want to consider. “First one’s free? What’re you offering?”

  Tinkles stared at him for a moment. “You’re not looking to trip me up, are you?”

  Chris shook his head. “Besides. Who’s going to believe the looney who says he has to get high to see the future?”

  Tinkles gave another snort. “True that. Only thing I got on me is some E. That work for you?”

  Chris had never taken Ecstasy, but he doubted that it would be any less effective than what he had already taken. “Never tried it, but worth a shot.”

  Tinkles nodded, peering through the darkness at Trip as he rifled through his pocket. “At the very least, you will have a nice night.” He gave a smile and a wink that sent another shiver up Chris’s spine. “Here.” He placed a pill into Chris’s hand. As Chris went to grab it, Tinkles grabbed his hand with his left and leaned in real close. “You rat me out, and I’ll gut you like a fish.” Tinkles’ other hand appeared, and from his closed fist a long blade shot up. In the space of a second, it appeared and disappeared, the soft metal noise of a switchblade giving away what it was.

  Chris nodded, at a loss for words at the threat.

  Tinkle nodded, letting go and stepping away. “If it works for you, we can discuss what the next one costs.”

  “Costs?” Chris blinked.

  Tinkle smirked. “Ain’t no free ride in here. You gotta pay to play.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  Tinkle snorted again. He gave Chris a wave, walking out humming under his breath. “Gas, grass or ass, nobody rides for free.”

  Chris spent a good long while staring at the open doorway. He had a sneaking suspicion what the payments would add up to. Another shiver slipped over him. He found himself gazing at the gurney again and without hesitation popped the pill in his mouth. With the deed done, he rolled over, his body facing Trip.

  Across the way, Trip stared at him with hard and cold eyes. “You shouldn’t deal with him.” Trip said. “It never ends well with him. Never.” With his advice dispensed, he curled up even tighter into the corner and closed his eyes. “Is how I lost my last roommate.”

  Another shutter fell over Chris as he could feel the drug taking hold. He had heard on the street that the drug gave you a sense of euphoria. It was the drug that people used to make you feel like getting cozy with someone else. With Chris, it felt like ice spiraling out from his stomach. Like ice water h
ad entered his veins. Darkness crept up, clawing at the back of his mind. He had no doubt that a vision lingered on the horizon.

  So Chris braced himself for another conversation with a corpse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Quiet Evening Together

  Concert posters decorated the walls of Eleanor Millie’s two bedroom apartment. Even now, as Lanton relaxed at the small circular glass table, music floated through the whole apartment via speakers mounted all over the walls. On the wall closest to the front door, shelves had been mounted to display a host of framed pictures of Eleanor standing in front of venue after venue. She herself hummed along in the kitchen wearing a faded Ramones shirt and tattered shorts. She smiled up at him as she noticed him looking. “You like pasta, right?”

  Lanton smiled back. “Have you met anyone who doesn’t?” He took a sip of the coffee placed before him.

  “You sure you don’t want any wine?” She raised her own glass half filled with red wine. “It’s a good year.”

  Lanton shook his head. “I can’t afford the lapse in judgment.”

  Her beautiful brow arched, but she said nothing. She took another sip while staring him down.

  Lanton chuckled. “Though I am technically not on call, there is a chance that I could be called away to take a look at an Altered case.”

  She shook her head but smiled at him. “The deal was you came over for a hot shower, which you have managed, a home cooked meal and some sleep.” She threw him a glance he had no idea what meant. “On the couch of course.”

  “Of course. It’s a very comfortable looking couch.” He turned to look at it, running his gaze over it like he might buy it off a showroom floor. “Very spacious and it looks to be quite soft. Kings could sleep no better.”

  “It is very spacious.” She had her back to him at the moment. He could hear her chopping something on the cutting board.

  Lanton coughed and could swear he heard her chuckle under her breath. “Thank you for this.”

  She nodded, turning around to dump what looked like mushrooms into a steaming pot. “They are running you ragged. I get that the whole city is in an uproar, but if you let them burn you out, you will be no help to anyone.”