by Rick Jones
“OK, Pop. You won. Is that what you wanted to hear? That you won? All right then. News flash: You . . . won!”
His father gave him a hard look. “Don’t you get smart and sassy with me, Boy. Try to tell you something instructive, but you go off and do it anyway. Serves you right to lose all that money. Hope you feel good about it. Maybe God will look down upon you and give you a thumbs up for being nice and stupid at the same time. So pray hard in church today, Boy. Pray hard that He’ll give you smarts.”
“I tried to help her,” he explained.
“And look what helping someone gets you, Boy. Flat broke.”
Kimball nodded his head in disgust and left the kitchen. Surprisingly, his father didn’t make a snide remark.
When his mother returned she was dressed in a nice blouse and skirt. And she wore nylon stockings that seemed to enhance her legs rather than hide them. “You ready?” she asked Kimball.
He nodded. As much as I’ll ever be.
Then she called out to her husband. “I’ll be back in two hours,” she told him.
“Whatever,” he responded.
The drive to the Sacred Hearts Church was one that was less than five minutes. Though it was close, it wasn’t close enough to walk in dress shoes.
She drove and spoke. He stared straight ahead and listened. She told him how excited she was to have him with her, even going as far as saying that he may even enjoy the sermon. She spoke about Father Foley, giving Kimball a brief history of the priest’s tenure there. And after a while her words simply fell into a flat-line drone.
His mind wandered, thinking about Vicki Pastore. Was she a church-goer? Would she be there? And if she was, would she see him?
Or would he remain invisible to her?
As that last thought weighed on his mind, the car slid into a slot behind the church. The building was massive with the front having a brownstone facing, with the rest of the building constructed of red-brick. The towers and steeples were tall. The building was aged. And stained-glass windows adorned the walls twenty-five feet above ground surface.
Inside was a beautiful altar created with a magnificent chapel that was slightly elevated from the rest of the church and within the semicircular area of the apse. There was congressional seating on gloriously crafted pews. And along the wings of the church stood two statues. They were obvious facsimiles, with one being Michelangelo’s Pieta and the other the Virgin Mother.
Kimball had found the church somewhat alien and familiar at the same time, as if he belonged but didn’t. It was an odd feeling, more like being the fulcrum between sinner and saint. Worse, he couldn’t understand why.
They sat close to the aisle. Before them were padded kneeling rails for prayer, and racks with books to sing hymns from. Kimball took his seat in the pew and removed the rosary from his pocket. He thumbed the beads as his mother told him to do. Then he held the beaded chain up and watched the attached crucifix swing pendulously from side to side, the small icon so symbolic of sacrifice and forgiveness. By sacrificing His life . . . He saved those who could not save themselves.
Kimball suddenly felt uneasy. The walls of the church seemed to be closing in, the ceiling appeared to be descending. The faces of the statues were staring at him with unblinking eyes, accusatory eyes---eyes that condemned and questioned his faith at the same time.
Kimball heart started to race. I don’t belong here.
The he looked at the crucifix that swung back and forth. I don’t know a single prayer, he thought. Not one.
Just talk to Him, he could remember his mother saying. He’ll listen.
He looked high on the walls at the stained-glass windows, which spelled out the story of the Twelve Stations of the Cross and Christ’s march to Golgotha, where He was crucified.
Everything was closing in on him.
He leaned towards him mother. “I have to leave,” he whispered. “I don’t feel so good.”
She looked at him. Kimball had broken into a sweat and his color was pale. Then: “What’s the matter?”
He swallowed, his throat going dry. “I just don’t feel so good,” he said, standing. “I’ll meet you outside. Wait until the sermon is over.”
“It hasn’t even started yet.”
“That’s all right,” he told her. “I just need some air.”
“Are you sure? I could take you home.”
“No-no,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’ll be all right.” He patted his mother on the shoulder and entered the aisle. As Kimball made his way to the exit everything felt unbelievably surreal. He knew inanimate statues had no ability to accuse or commit to thought. He knew the church didn’t have a life of its own with moving walls or a falling ceiling. But everything told him that he just didn’t belong there, the sense of being persecuted squeezing him out.
Why? he asked. He was confused and inquisitive at the same time---couldn’t understand the rejection.
When he stood outside looking up at the spires and the bell tower, and at the magnificent crucifix at the church’s highest point, he failed to realize that he gripped the rosary so tightly in his hand that it left a beaded imprint against his palm.
He stared at the coiled rosary and the silver crucifix.
It wasn’t a talisman that burned the flesh of his palm because he was evil. It didn’t possess or provide him with newfound powers to vanquish sinners. It was simply a rosary.
He tucked the beads into his shirt pocket.
The air was mild and cool, the sky blue. And whatever it was that washed over Kimball inside the church had subsided, that overwhelming feeling of tightness and claustrophobia. Now he wondered if he was rejected by the church because his faith was weak.
So Kimball remained outside and waited for the service to end. He continued to be the fulcrum between sinner and saint, the ends of the seesaw vacillating from one side to the other to seek a balance. But soon that balance would be disrupted, the beam tipping to the advantage of one side.
And when it did, one thing was about to become a certainty.
Kimball Hayden would finally be unleashed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monday
Word throughout the school was that Vicki Pastore suffered a fall at Waites Mountain, though her injuries were minimal, with some bruises and abrasions but no internal or significant injuries to report. But she remained under observation, nonetheless.
Additionally, the parents of Paula Howard returned from their trip only to find that their daughter had packed some clothes and left with no explanation. The police were called since Paula was still a minor, and quickly chalked it up as her being a runaway, which her parents vehemently denied because she was always a ‘happy’ child. Happy or not she was seventeen years of age, packed some items, and appeared to have disappeared by her own choosing. Which meant the case would most likely be buried at the bottom of the ‘Missing Persons’ files marked as low priority.
When the bell to the final period rang, Kimball exited the school and decided a departure from his normal routine would be in order. Instead of going home or to Connor’s house, he went to a field that was filled with wild flowers and blooms---the riot of colors vibrantly spectacular.
He picked those that were richest in color; reds and yellows and colors of deep purple. Then he gathered them into a bouquet and mixed leafy branches to offset the colors with green. By the time he was finished they looked beautiful, the bouquet a magnificent display.
He took the bus to the hospital. After checking with the nurse, Kimball was informed that Vicki Pastore was in room 2134, on the second floor. When he took the elevator to the second level he was sure his heart would misfire in his chest. In his mind’s eye he could see every one of his pores throw out a bead of sweat. His knees shook uncontrollably. And he was positive that she would refuse him, this stranger---this man-child who was invisible to her.
As the elevator door to the second level opened, Kimball stood
in the cab’s corner debating whether to move forward or leave. Just as the doors started to close he shot a hand out to keep them open, then he exited the elevator.
He looked at the Room Directory on the wall. Room 2134 was down the hallway to his right. At first he took tentative steps. Then he forced confidence upon himself by taking bolder steps and longer strides as if he had purpose. But when he reached Room 2134, his courage quickly abandoned him.
Looking through the glass pane window he could see Vicki lying in bed. She had bandages around her forearm and deep cuts to her lips. Bruises mottled her face in patches of yellow and deep purple, the colors of his bouquet. Then Kimball heard his inner voice: these are not the markings of a fall.
“No,” he whispered to himself. “They’re not.”
Just as that thought developed in Kimball’s mind, Vicki turned to see him standing there. Kimball was suddenly caught off guard, he quickly turned away trying to act nonchalant, but this only made him appear foolish by doing so. With the heat of embarrassment completely flushing his face, Kimball left the area chastising himself by calling himself ‘stupid,’ then telling himself that ‘she would never speak to him,’ and that ‘he should never have come at all.’ When he came to a waste bucket at the end of the hallway by the nurses’ station, he stared at the wild-flowers for a long moment, considered how long it took to pick them, and tossed them into the basket.
He then hastened his way to the bank of elevators, and then on the ride down told himself that he was never going to school again because he was too embarrassed to face Vicki, ever. But he knew otherwise. He would attend school on the following day because he needed to speak to Travys D’Orazio about Vicki’s cuts and bruises. Maybe others were willing to turn a blind eye and overlook the obvious when it came to the city’s star player, but Kimball could see clearly through the subterfuge.
He wanted the truth.
Getting it, however, would prove difficult.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cooch had a battalion of people who were his eyes and ears in the streets of Malden. Wherever Cooch’s money went so did his acolytes, who kept a close eye on people who were deep in the red, like Johnnie Deveraux. And people like Deveraux was a creature like any other who was governed by self-preservation. When matters appeared out of reach and life seemed to be at its lowest point, it was natural for people to absolve themselves of any responsibility by taking flight. Johnnie Deveraux was no different.
Two members of Cooch’s team surveyed Johnnie Deveraux’s house from an SUV that was parked across the street. The windows were highly tinted, making it difficult to look into the vehicle but easy to look out from it.
They’d been watching Johnnie, his wife, and his son load a van and a car with housewares such as TVs, bags of clothing, even tying mattresses to the roofs of both vehicles. Not exactly items for a weekend getaway.
The beef-neck ruffian behind the wheel of the SUV dialed an exclusive number on his cell phone that was the size of a military field radio.
Cooch picked up on the other end. “Yeah.”
“It looks like our boy’s trying to make a run for the border,” said Beef-Neck.
“Really?”
“It kind of tells me that Mr. Johnnie Deveraux doesn’t have his payment.”
“I think you’re right.”
“What do you want us to do, boss? You want us to tag him, bag him, and put him in a ditch next to Carmine, seeing they were close friends and all?”
After a brief moment of silence, he answered: “No. Bring Deveraux to me. Tell his family if they even try to call the cops, I’ll know about it. And if they do, then Johnnie’s a dead man.”
“Gotcha.” Beef-neck hit the END button. Then to his partner, a well-dressed man, he said, “We take him. Cooch wants to talk to him up close and personal.”
Nothing more was said as both men left the parked vehicle and quietly crossed the street.
Johnnie Deveraux never saw them because he was shifting items in the back of the van to create more space. It wasn’t until a large hand clamped down on his shoulder and turned him around that he realized that Cooch’s long arm had him pinned, even from a distance.
“Going somewhere, Deveraux?” asked Beef-Neck.
Johnnie looked at both men, who were impeccably dressed in suit and tie. But the expensive fabrics they wore did little to hide the breadth and with of their shoulders, chest and arms, both big guys with gym bodies. “Look, um---” Deveraux cut himself short.
“Yeah,” said Beef-Neck. “We thought so.” He grabbed Deveraux hard by his arm and began to force him toward the SUV across the street.
“Please,” begged Johnnie. “I was going to pay! I was!”
“Sure you were, buddy.”
From the driveway Johnnie’s wife called out to him. Then there was a shattering of glassware, a vase she dropped when she brought her hands to her mouth.
Everyone stopped. Then Beef-Neck leaned over and whispered in Johnnie’s ear. “Tell her to be quiet,” he said. “Tell her not to do anything stupid, like calling people she shouldn’t. Tell her that everything’s fine and you’ll be right back.”
Johnnie hesitated. But when he felt Beef-Neck apply pressure to his arm, Johnnie told her exactly what was required of him: that everything was all right and that he’d be right back. He just had to clear something up.
“Good boy,” said Beef-Neck. Then he ushered Johnnie to the rear of the SUV with the second man sitting beside him, got behind the wheel, started the vehicle, and drove off at a reasonable rate of speed.
As the SUV drove passed the house, Johnnie could see the worry on his wife’s face. So he feigned her a smile, one that was severely weak, and offered her a feeble wave of his hand, one that tried to say: I’ll see you soon.
But even he didn’t believe that as the vehicle sped away.
#
Cooch sat behind an ornate desk that spoke high-end quality and lots of money to purchase. His seat was button-studded and made of the finest leather. Marble busts and expensive paintings decorated his office. Books lined the shelves of a library built against a single wall. But what made Deveraux’s scrotum crawl with unease was that the expensive carpet was covered over with sheets of plastic.
Cooch sighed through his nose. Then: “You were going somewhere?” he asked evenly.
“We were evicted,” said Johnnie. Though not entirely true, it wasn’t entirely false, either. It would have been a matter of time anyway.
Cooch held him with a hard stare. “And where were you going to go without paying what you owed me?”
“I was going to pay you, Cooch. Really.”
“With what money? I know you lost your job. I knew this was going to happen.” Then in the same level voice, he asked: “Do you have my money?”
“Not all of it.”
“I thought we made a deal at the loading bay, Johnnie. Didn’t we agree upon fifteen hundred by the middle of the week? Which is what? Two days from now.”
“Cooch, please.”
Then more sternly. “Do you have my money?”
Deveraux’s face started to break. “I’ll get it.”
“No, Johnnie. You can’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t have tried to run.” Cooch nodded to Beef-Neck, a prearranged gesture that galvanized the behemoth to grab Johnnie and force him over the desk. The second guy quickly joined in by extending Johnnie’s arm so that his hand rested on the desktop.
“Please, Cooch!”
“Please, Cooch,” the kingpin mimicked in whiny manner. “Please.”
Cooch calmly opened the drawer to his desk, produced a forged-steel hammer with a three-pound head, and laid it carefully against the desktop in full view. “I’m not exactly a man of compassion,” he said. “But I am a man of business. I specifically outlined the terms of our deal and you accepted them. And when you default on loans, then punitive measures have to be taken. It’s a way of life, Johnnie.”
Johnnie Deveraux looked at the tool,
which looked like a mini sledgehammer. “Cooch, I have until Wednesday, right?”
“Oh, that’s a certainty. You do have until then. But that’s not the situation here. The consequence, Johnnie, is for trying to run out without keeping to the agreement . . . And that’s not good.”
Johnnie struggled weakly against their holds. His hand looked vulnerable beneath the light of the desk lamp. “Cooch, I swear to you. We were evicted. We had to be out.”
“I don’t believe you,” he responded. “I think you would have been evicted in time, but we all know that takes time. I think you were trying to run long and far, Johnnie. Long and far.”
“You don’t have to do this!” Tears started to track down Johnnie’s face. “Please, I have a family!”
Cooch gave him an inquisitive look. “Why do people always say that to me as if it matters? It doesn’t. I don’t care. Business is business. When you do wrong, then there are consequences to be paid out for foolish actions.” He gripped the hammer by the handle and hefted it. It felt good in his hands. “Do you know how many bones are in the human hand?” he asked.
Johnnie didn’t respond.
“Twenty-seven bones,” said Cooch. “Didn’t think I would know something like that, did you?” Cooch got to his feet and gripped the hammer so tightly that his hand became white-knuckled.
“For the love of God, Cooch! I’ll get the money!”
“Again, Johnnie, that’s not the issue here. That’s not what this is about. It’s about trying to break an agreement by running. Do you understand now? So don’t bring it up again because this is going to happen.”
“Coooooch---“
Vinny Cuchinata brought the hammer down in a perfect arc, his aim true. Bones snapped as easily as glass. “Thank your lucky stars,” Cooch said, bringing the hammer up for a second blow, “that it’s your hand and not your skull. If I thought otherwise, then we’d be doing this over the plastic with your brains spilling out.” He brought the hammer down again, this time smashing fingers.
Johnnie Deveraux screamed like he had never screamed before.
