Searching for the Enemies

by R. J. GREEN

  Margarette went into the living room and turned on the television, a commercial was showing so she dashed towards her room, leaving the television on. Inside Anna's room the light was dimmed. Anna stretched across the bed with the telephone at her ear. She rushed as she heard footstep coming up the stairs, towards her.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, in a low tone. “Alright, I’ll leave the window open. Okay, top door. Bye.”

  At ten past three, a silver Porsche turned into Mullson's driveway and slowly approached the garage door that had begun to open. When the door got raised high enough Mullson squeezed in beside the Expedition. He twisted the knob and opened a door that led from the garage to the living room where he entered.

  The living room was illuminated by the light radiating from the television, other than the sound of the television silence filled the air. Mullson thought his family had been asleep and decided to head for the sofa; he pushed against the recliner and extended his legs. From off an end table he picked up the TV remote and skimmed through a few channels, finally stopping on one showing police and firefighters flocking the George Washington Bridge.

  “The tragedy here at the George Washington Bridge is beyond our wildest imagination,” the reporter’s voice echoed from the television. “At least ten people are dead. Police are still investigating. The headless killer is at it again. Earlier in Hunts Point a prostitute’s head came crashing onto the street from what appears to be an abandoned building.”

  “Too many killers,” said Mullson, “not enough cops.” He’d been so focused on the television he didn’t even see his wife in the backdrop creeping towards him. She slid off her robe to exhibit her sexy lingerie that hugged her body, revealing in the right area, the way her man loved it.

  Inside a living room, somewhere in Long Island, a sixty inch plasma television had been stuck on a channel covering the accident scene at the George Washington Bridge. They replayed footage captured by cameras on the bridge showing a Grumman Step Van speeding across the George Washington Bridge towards New Jersey. The words ‘I SCREAM’ was graffitied across the back of the beat-up van that cut off a tractor-trailer. The tractor-trailer, with brakes squeaking, swerved to another lane and collided with other vehicles. The overturned tractor-trailer skid along the road sweeping everything in its path. Vehicles piled along the bridge, some bursting into flame, rocketing into the air. The ‘I SCREAM’ van continued ahead of the accident, nothing showed the unidentified driver. The television flicked off, leaving the room in darkness. The sounds of sex filled the air.

  “You got to be kidding,” said a woman, sounding disappointed.

  A clap echoed and the lights came on, revealing fine Italian furniture throughout. Jack scrambled to put on his clothes while a gorgeous white chick stared at him. On the sofa she stretched out on her back with her legs opened, her clothes tossed aside on the floor. She used her hands and caressed her naked body, rubbing her legs against a velvet cover clutching the sofa. About late twenties, the woman’s veins looked as if about to pop through her forehead, her mouth dropped as Jack continued to get dressed. All along she thought he’d be teasing her and waited for him to jump in.

  “Okay I lied,” Jack admitted. “I'm not a Jamaican.”

  She got even more upset at Jack for not working her pussy the way he’d bragged earlier on the phone when he called and woke her. He had her heart pounding twice as fast, and she imagined sinking her nails in his back when she climaxed-- damn. She bit her lips and clenched her fists.

  “Get him Big Boy!” she yelled. A Chow-Chow came running into the living room and dashed towards Jack.

  Jack grabbed his stuff and shot for the exit, as the miniature dog gave chase. He slammed the front door behind. His car rumbled to life then sped away.

  Outside the Mullson’s residence an early morning breeze rushing across the land cleared some of the fog hovering above the ground, smoke plummeting from a few chimneys choked life from the morning, newspapers already tossed on the lawn waited to be picked up. Inside Anna's room the light was dim. Anna was in bed tucked beneath her goose blanket. She’d finally fell asleep about an hour ago, but had begun to twist and turn, as if she sensed the presence of somebody staring at her.

  Engulf with a knife hoisted above his head moved toward Anna. A quick flash as a headless Jason appeared out of thin air and punched Engulf in the face. The impact of the punch sent Engulf crashing into the dresser mirror, shattering glass in all directions.

  Anna jumped out of her sleep and hurried her eyes around the room, neither Engulf nor Jason in sight, the dresser mirror stood intact, nothing seemed out of place, except for a knife on the floor she hadn’t spotted. She swore she heard a shattering sound and wondered if her mind had begun to play tricks. Hesitating to go back to sleep, she forced her eyes open, but not for long, as her tired body dozed away.

  On a futon shoved against the back wall of his office located in the basement, Detective Mullson had been tucked away under his robe. He leapt from his sleep and flicked a switch to brighten the room. He came down earlier to work, but took a quick nap to rid what was left of the headache from last night’s episode, the sex had calmed his nerves.

  The headache had become a part of Mullson’s recent set of problems that constantly beleaguered him. A few days ago when he called an older friend for advice he told Mullson to go and visit a bush doctor. With all the conventional approaches he’d been told over and over, “Mr. Mullson we’re sorry, there’s nothing else we can do. Those medications are very powerful and should have helped to lessen your pain. Remember to take only one tablet a day, if needed.”

  You bet your ass they’re needed, he thought, as he stooped to retrieve a bottle of Oxycontin 40 that stood on the floor next to the futon. He opened the bottle, tossed two pills in his mouth, closed his eyes then swallowed, using a finger to massage his throat as the pills slid along. Bush doctor, do I need a bush doctor?

  He skimmed through months of mail that mostly ended up in the wastepaper basket. From off the computer desk he picked up a picture frame lying face down and removed a picture seemingly of himself, words scribbled across the back he read:

  It's hard to say goodbye. As the time draws near,

  I lived under constant pressure from within.

  The pressure became so strong that I suspected

  there was a psychic disturbance haunting me, which

  led me to submit myself to the impulses of the

  unconscious.

  Love you always

  Your brother Daniel

  Anna turned up the lights in her room, on the floor next to the dresser her attention was eventually drawn to a knife resembling a miniature machete. That’s weird, she thought, and wondered how it got there. Her parents rarely entered her room. The only person that came to mind was Daniel, an uncle who she admitted had an obsession with antique knives associated with religious quest or myths dating back thousands of years. Daniel had gotten her dad involved in a recent search for the lost knife of Satan. She knew for a fact her father wouldn’t leave his toys around the house, Anna could bet on it, but she wanted to ask him anyway.

  She tugged the edges of her comforter and straightened creases before placing the pillows and shams at the head of the bed. Anna recalled all those countless hours she spent with her dad on the range firing at targets. Mr. Mullson taught his whole family how to protect themselves from intruders, but, if someone broke into her room while she’d been asleep she reckoned all that training useless.

  Inside the master bedroom Mrs. Mullson cuddled under a blanket, still asleep. From the master bathroom Detective Mullson exited the shower with steamy water soaking all over his body and entered the room. Across his back, legs, chest, and thighs he hurried a towel, before slipping into a blue robe. On top of a side table the phone lit up to signal and incoming call. Mullson rushed and retrieved the cordless phone from its base.

  “What's really going on?” he said, walking back and forth.

  “Ho
nestly,” Jack echoed from the other side.

  “Go ahead,” said Mullson, waiting for a reply.

  “Agent Hill is willing to team up,” said Jack, his voice fizzled.

  “Is it that bad?” said Mullson, peeping at the clock radio on the chest. “I'm going to check a friend, why don't you meet me in the Bronx.”

  “After breakfast,” Jack interrupted.

  Mullson grinned. “Another bad night?” he teased. He dodged out of the room and descended half the flight of stairs.

  “Mullson!” Magarette shouted.

  “Not again,” Trevor Mullson whispered beneath his breath, to himself. “I’ll be back in a few,” he assured his wife.

  CHAPTER 7

  A crow on the roof of the Mullson’s house cawed occasionally and had the nosey old lady next-door wondering if they’d been up to no good. Mrs. Newton glanced at the annoying creature and could have sworn she spotted a man where the bird perched, provoking her to rip the glasses from her face and rub the lens against her dress. She’d been spying on the Mullson’s residence for the past years, ever since her husband passed and she’d nothing much to do. She loves to play detective. At the side yard Mullson caught her stretching her long neck over the fence and did nothing to discourage her since information about Anna’s friends can be at times vital.

  A BMW came and parked on the road next to mailbox number nine hundred and ninety-nine. Jack exited the car then went and tapped on the front door. Detective Mullson pulled the door open for Jack to enter.

  Mrs. Mullson woke, took a long shower, got dressed then went into the kitchen and prepared breakfast, which consisted of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and sausage. Inside the dining room she got help from Anna to set the table, with knives, forks, spoons, plates, and cups in their assumed position.

  Anna sat at the table and waited for her mother and father who’d went to the kitchen to get coffee and orange juice. On the dining table she placed the knife she found in her room. Detective Mullson came and rested a pitcher of orange juice and a pot of coffee next to the knife. “Keep your toys where they belong,” said Anna.

  Trevor Mullson took the knife and observed the strange encryption carved along the length of its steel frame. “That’s not a part of my collection,” he said.

  “Why was it in my room?” said Anna.

  Mullson moved toward the living room. “In your room?” he said from the living room, sounding astonished. Jack was stretched out on a recliner dozing; he jumped when he heard Mullson’s voice.

  After pointing Jack to the dining room Mullson went and stood staring at the rain that had begun to pound against the window. A broad smile beamed across his face, and he nodded his head with approval. How proud his mother would have felt, he thought, only if she’d been alive to share in his success. Detective Mullson loved his house he and his wife had spent the past years molding into their home. Their lifelong savings had been invested in the gorgeous two story.

  At the dining table Anna, Magarette, Jack, and Trevor sat and ate the scrumptious treat.

  They were halfway through the breakfast when the telephone ringing in the backdrop had Mrs. Mullson dashing towards the kitchen.

  Anna slapped her head between her palms; Detective Mullson spotted her.

  “What's the matter darling?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Jack, after forcing another whole pancake into his mouth.

  “Not you idiot,” Mullson told Jack jokingly.

  “Hold up buddy,” said Jack. “Thought I was the one going through the emotional breakdown.” He glimpsed a familiar knife when he stretched and retrieved a pitcher containing orange juice and he poured a glass. “Holy shit!” he continued, after picking up the knife and found himself facing demons whose souls the knife had conquered.

  “What's so special about it?” said Anna, to Jack.

  Ask your father,” Jack advised her, snapping back to reality. He turned to Mullson. “I thought you had never seen your brother?”

  From the other end of the table Detective Mullson stared at Jack.

  “I didn't,” he said.

  “Why are you so obsessed with weird UGLY machetes?” said Jack.

  “Knife,” Mullson corrected Jack.

  Magarette came back in the dining room and whisked away a few empty plates; she headed back to the kitchen without uttering a word and tossed them on the counters and sink. Detective Mullson got up from the dining table and scurried towards his wife who had tears gushing down her cheeks. “Your daughter and I need you,” she said to her husband, after sensing something bad was gonna happen by the way her right eye kept pulsating.

  Only somewhat superstitious, Detective Mullson never took her words lightly. She’d saved him more than he admitted. “Sweetheart,” said Mullson, to his wife.

  “Mom!” Anna yelled from the dining room.

  Jack stumbled in the kitchen.

  “Am I interrupting?” he asked Mrs. Mullson. She jerked her head upward and gave him the evil eye. He’d been hanging with the family long enough and knew Mrs. Mullson was not in a good mood. Jack made a U-turn, but double backed and grabbed an apple from a crystal bow resting on the counter, next to the faucet. “I’ll just excuse myself,” he continued. Mullson watched as Jack signaled him goodbye and headed towards the front of the house. A few seconds later a door slammed and not long after a car rumbled to life.

  Magarette puts the pancake syrup into the refrigerator and slammed the door. “You’ve spent our entire marriage with Jack chasing criminals across the globe while I sit home waiting for the past how many years!” These she said very fast without pausing.

  “Come on Magarette,” said Trevor. “Why are you so harsh? Seems like you forgot where we coming from.”

  “You don't need to remind me where we’re coming from,” said Magarette, grinding her teeth while peeking from beyond those squinted eyes. “What you need to do is remind yourself WHERE ARE WE GOING! Go ahead Mr. Mullson. When you escape the grip of the devil, we will be back.”

  On a LCD screen built-in on the door of the refrigerator Mullson glanced at the digital date: JUNE 27. “But today is my-” he said.

  “Happy birthday Dad,” Anna interrupted, from the living room.

  “You have exactly one week,” Magarette warned her husband. “Miss Anna, please get dressed… we’re going to Jamaica.”

  Somewhere in Northern New Jersey the morning sun shined over a vast stretch of farmland growing mostly flowers and corn. Dumping grounds popped up every now and then. A Mercedes Benz crawled along the nearly deserted dirt road towards Liberty Street, where Joe and Benny had been keeping a tab on the morning. From a State Trooper car hidden among the shrubs they spotted the black car approaching. Joe, a slender thirty-nine year old fellow sat at the steering wheel. He’d been a veteran in the NJ State Police Department for the past twenty years, and now under his wing, Benny, a chubby officer who was ten years younger and sat at the front passenger seat stuffing his face with donuts.

  “Here we go again,” Joe pointed to Benny, with a grind flashing across his pale face.

  “Joe,” said Benny, flinching. “What's the matter?”

  “Do you suppose that's one of them?”

  “Just a little more patience Benny,” the grind across Joe’s face widened. “Just a little bit more.”

  They stared as the car got closer. The words imprinted on the tag read: MR REX. The windows tinted to the maximum allowed, fancy rims embraced each tires. The Benz had begun to make a right turn towards Liberty Street when the state trooper car emerged and blocked the road. Benny and Joe, each swinging a baton, drifted toward the Mercedes, slowly.

  The driver’s door swung open and a towering fellow stepped out of the Benz; he stood waiting as the two officers approached. Neither of the officers had a clue they were about to confront Mr. Rex — one of the most feared men around the Tri-state area. But this was not his domain, he’d ventured to the wrong town. In a desolated area like this the police are gods,
from racial profiling to hating minorities. Not that they totally hated minorities. They don’t like what they represented. “And with them nosing around changes will follow. Heck no, not good for the community. Next thing you know they will be procreating our mighty fine gurls at Fowl Catcher Dissco — even though a few of them don’t have any teeth, but they still can be work with, as long as they close ’em yawper. Yes-Siree. We might not be educated, but we’re happi.”

  Mr. Rex’s reputation had boosted his confidence over the years, forcing him to let his guard down. Benny went to the back window and shined his flashlight; he spotted a baby secured in her seat, focusing on the light. POW! The sound of Joe’s baton crushed against Mr. Rex’s skull. Benny rushed over and did the same. Batons shattered against Mr. Rex’s body, over and over as he screamed. He fought back, but the grip of the troopers overpowered him. They continued to hammer him even after he was stretched out on the road with his face in a puddle of his own blood, making no sound or movement. Joe looked around then pointed at the cornfield ahead. Benny nodded his head in agreement.

  About an hour had passed. A Grumman ‘I SCREAM’ van found itself along the desolated New Jersey road leading to Liberty Street. Other than loosened soil mixed with small traces of blood there was no sign of Mr. Rex or the Benz. Joe and Benny spotted a beat-up van heading their direction, by the way the van shuffled across the narrow road Joe suspected the driver had to be drunk or blind.

  The van swung left on Liberty Street, just as the patrol car emerged from the usual spot and wailed, signaling the Grumman to pull over. The van stopped on the left side of the road. The troopers suspected they were about to confront a drunkard who’d no respect for the laws. DWI, a danger to others, but they’d no intention of making an arrest. Instead they wanted to have plain old fun. Strangers venturing around these parts — not their concern; their job was to protect the few citizens scattered throughout the town like Billy Bob, the Norton family, Aunt Sally and her family, Judge Mathis, Reverend Dick Slayer, and those mighty fine girls at Fowl Catcher Disco.