Dark Advent

by Rick Jones

  Kimball looked about as if he was reluctant to say anything at all. Then: “I was talking to this girl, and her boyfriend and I ended up having words.”

  “You moving in on someone else’s girl, Boy?”

  Kimball was confused by his father’s tone and manner. In fact, he sounded pleased. “No,” answered Kimball. “It wasn’t like that all. I was talking to a girl named Vicki Pastore. Her boyfriend’s Travys D’Orazio.”

  “The star football player?” inquired his father. “You done hauled off on him?”

  Kimball shook his head. “No. It was one of his linemen. After Travys and I had words, this guy---this kid---grabbed me from behind and turned me around as if he wanted to fight. So I laid him out.”

  His father nodded appreciatively. “See that, woman? The boy went and laid a hand on him.” He pointed to Kimball when he said the word ‘him.’ “Ain’t nobody got the right to put a hand on anyone unless they’re looking for a fight. The boy here just gave him what the other boy was looking for, is all.”

  Kimball appeared confused more than ever. Was his father defending him?

  “Boy done right,” he continued. “Told you. It all depended upon the circumstances.”

  She looked at the father. “You’re impossible.”

  “Ain’t expecting to win an argument with you, woman. That be like trying to squeeze an elephant into a breadbox. Just seeing how it is, is all.”

  “Not only are you an idiot, but you’re a blind idiot as well,” she commented.

  He waved his hand dismissively at her. Whatever.

  When she spoke to Kimball her measure wasn’t as harsh, but it wasn’t quite neutral, either. “The school said that you might be looking at possible suspension here. You might even be looking at expulsion, which means you might not graduate.”

  “I’ll get my diploma, Mom. Even if I have to go to night school. That I promise you.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Look, sweetheart, it’s not like you to be like this.”

  “Maybe it is,” his father interfered. “Sounds to me the boy was justified on all accounts. Even that.” He pointed to the impression in the drywall.

  Kimball was truly befuddled. Was he gaining his father’s respect?

  She gave the old man a stay-out-of-this look. And he looked away.

  Then back to Kimball: “Honey, I know we had this talk before. If there’s anything that’s bothering you, I want you to know that your father and I are here for you.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Is there anything you want to say?”

  Kimball nodded. “Yeah. Becki’s missing.”

  This seemed to grab his mother’s attention.

  “What?” She appeared to be genuinely surprised.

  “Ain’t you heard, woman? Her man done got himself run over by the train in Oak Grove.”

  Of course she heard the news about the tragedy, everyone in Malden did. But she never connected the name of the person involved. Though she knew his name was Dennis, she never knew his last name. If she did, she would have made the connection. “How do you know?” she asked Kimball.

  “I went to her residence. No one was there. And they never left each other’s side. Not for a minute.”

  She went a shade paler. This was her biological niece they were talking about.

  “Now we knew she was in trouble with Cooch in the past. And we know that she would never leave Dennis no matter what. If something happened to him on the platform, she would have stayed there until the authorities arrived,” said Kimball.

  “I thought you done bailed her out, Boy.”

  “I did. Maybe they went right back into the same situation. Only this time I wasn’t there to help them out.”

  His old man looked directly at Kimball’s mother. They both thought the same thing: Becki got herself killed, like Dennis.

  She brought her hands to her face, which was about to break. Becki needed her help but she turned away, always claiming that Becki needed to hit rock bottom before they would extend a hand to her. The only one who helped, or at least gave an effort to do so, was Kimball. Now she was openly racked with guilt.

  Kimball rose from his seat and embraced her. “It’s all right, Mom. I’ll find her.”

  “You can’t find what can’t be found, Boy. If Cooch done away with her, then she’s buried in a place so deep she’ll never be found. No, sir. She gone and done this to herself, she did. Can’t exactly say that I feel sorry for her, either. And you did what you did, Boy, to help her. I see that now. Just your nature. And she couldn’t ask for anything more than that. You done help the girl and she pissed your good intentions away. That’s too bad.”

  “I’ll find her.”

  “Ain’t no need of getting yourself caught up with the likes of Cooch and his bunch. You already struck the first blow at the cemetery with one of his boys. You want to find yourself sharing the same grave as your cousin?”

  “We don’t know if it’s Cooch.”

  “No. But it’s a damn good guess. I don’t think her loser boyfriend tossed himself onto the tracks . . . And neither do you.”

  No, Kimball didn’t. “I’ll find her,” he repeated.

  His father cocked his head in inquisitive study, seeing his son differently. Then softly, his father said: “You’ve done growed into a man. You’re making decisions I could never make. And because of that I won’t stand in your way, Kimball. I can’t. You need to follow this feeling you got. Take the path that’s provided.”

  Did his father just call him Kimball?

  Then a saddened look came over his father’s face, one that simply washed away his hardened exterior, even if it was for a few moments. “When I was a boy,” he started, “I used to get beat up all the time. All the time. I never fit in no matter what I tried to do. Every time I got home from school I went directly to my room and fell into bed, crying. And cry I did until I fell asleep. I hated school. Dreaded to go there knowing the punishment I’d receive.”

  Even Kimball’s mother pulled her head away from Kimball’s chest. This was news to her.

  The old man went on. “Every night I’d lay there praying to God to help me. But every day I got beat up all the same. So I guess His answer was ‘no.’ Nevertheless, I prayed for someone to come into my life to protect me because I couldn’t protect myself. I just didn’t have the tools to fight back, son, even though I tried.” He looked at Kimball with soft eyes. “So I prayed for someone like you,” he said. “I prayed for someone who could protect me. And now that I look at it, maybe God has finally answered my prayers. Maybe you’re the answer, son. Only now I’m just beginning to see this.”

  Hardly, thought Kimball. I couldn’t sit through a session in church, let alone be a vessel of God.

  And then as if a switch was turned on, his father sat bolt upright with his hardened features returning as if he suddenly caught himself in a weak moment. But he said nothing after that. He made no excuses for his admissions, offered no justifications for his moment of vulnerability, he simply remained quiet.

  He looked his mother in eyes that were red and raw. He could tell that guilt was sweeping through her. She had preached Christian values but failed to follow through by not helping her niece when she needed it most, which was hardly Christian at all.

  His mother swallowed. “Find her,” she mustered. “Tell her that her family’s waiting for her to come home.”

  They both looked at the old man sitting at the table, expecting him to voice his disapproval. What they got instead was anything but. “Find her, Kimball,” he said, failing to look at them. “You find her and bring her home to us where we can protect her.”

  Kimball and his mother were mildly surprised by this.

  That was twice his father had called him by his given name.

  After a long moment of silence his father raised his head, sighed, stood up from the kitchen table, and left the room without explanation.

  Kimball’s mother fell into him, and sobbed
.

  This was far from what Kimball expected. He thought he’d be chewed out and grounded for life. Instead the moment became one of triple epiphany with everyone seeing themselves for what they were, and what was required of them from here on out. It was also a moment that seemed to empower Kimball with a purpose that was not quite clear to him yet, but at least it was a direction for him to follow.

  He continued to hold his mother out at arm’s length, and as a tear slid down along her cheek, he gently swept it away with a crooked finger. “I’ll find her,” he whispered.

  She nodded. I know.

  He looked at the pots and pans and the abundance of cooked food. Whenever she was upset she always cooked more than was necessary. “I’ve got to go,” he told her. “Haven’t got time to eat. I hope you understand why.”

  Of course she did, so she nodded and smiled gingerly. “I’ll save something for you.”

  After he gave his mother a wink of reassurance, he raced up the stairway taking two---and sometimes three---steps at a time to his room.

  There was something he needed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Darlene Deveraux left her husband without a parting word. That action alone spoke volumes as she packed her bags and took a cab presumably to the bus station, where she would take the next transit to Jersey to be with her sister.

  But Johnnie wasn’t alone.

  Not by a long shot.

  Johnnie Deveraux sat in a kitchen chair with Beef-Neck and another guy, who was also wide at the shoulders and had the same folds of flesh behind his thick neck, flanking Johnnie with the two wearing tight-fitting gloves.

  “It’s obvious the kid knew you,” said Beef-Neck. “Which means you know him.”

  “He’s a good kid. He thought you were hurting me.”

  “I don’t care what he thought. What he thinks is not my concern. What is my concern, however, is his name and where he lives.”

  “Are you going to hurt him?” When Johnnie Deveraux spoke, he did so in a level that was flat and lifeless.

  “Of course not,” Beef-Neck lied. “We just want to talk to him.”

  “I don’t believe you.” His eyes had a faraway look.

  Beef-Neck lashed out and grabbed the fingers of Johnnie’s good hand, and gave them a twist that was short of breaking them. Johnnie cried out.

  “I want his name and where he lives!”

  Johnnie nodded in submission. If nothing else, Deveraux was a man with no courage. “Kimball Hayden!” he shouted. “He lives on Maple, I think! Two streets over! But I don’t know the exact address!”

  The second man rifled through the pages of the phone book. Listed on Maple Street was a family with the last name of Hayden. The man gave a thumbs up and then closed the book.

  Beef-Neck released his hold. “That’s a good boy, Johnnie. You did good. Real good.” He patted the side of Johnnie’s face. “Now you keep your mouth shut, you hear? Now we know that your wife left you. Sad thing, that is. But if you say anything to anyone, we’ll find her. Get my meaning?”

  Johnnie did. He nodded.

  “Good boy, Johnnie.” More pats to the face. “Keep your mouth shut and she stays healthy.”

  After they left, Johnnie sat in the chair for what seemed to be hours, days, with time having little to no meaning since his life no longer had value. His wife was gone. His son was dead. He had no job, no future, no means to get by. He had nothing.

  He stood up with eyes that had somewhat of a vacant stare to them, and took the steps to the second level. Along the length of the hallway was the bathroom. After going inside he stood before the mirror and saw his image reflect back at him. He appeared drawn and haggard with the beginnings of bearded growth coming on, eyes that were red and rheumy looking, and a pallor that had a hue equal to the underbelly of a fish.

  He opened the draw to the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a box containing a straight razor. It was a gift his son had given him long ago. The intent behind the gift was so that he could save on the cost of razors. He smiled lightly, remembering the moment of receiving the present with fondness.

  Then he closed his eyes.

  It’s said that bleeding out was like going to sleep. After the initial slice across the wrists, then there would be nothing but bliss. But when you make the cuts, make sure they’re true. Cut the veins vertically, not across. But he had a problem. He had a hand in a hard cast, with the cast going half way up his forearm. And he couldn’t cut his good wrist with his good hand, it was impossible to do so. But there was a solution to everything, he considered.

  He stood beside the tub with the razor in hand and stared into its well. He then placed the razor on the tub’s edge and ran the water, making sure the temperature was warm. After disrobing, he got into the tub and had the finger dexterity to unfold the razor. Then he looked at his warped, funhouse-like image against the blade’s mirror polish.

  “I want to be with my boy,” he whispered.

  Just a small nick on the left side of the neck, along the carotid.

  There were no self-discussions or attempts to reason his way out of this, nor would there be any regrets for what he was about to do.

  He felt completely hollow inside, a void he knew could never be filled.

  So finally he took the blade to his neck . . .

  . . . and scored the flesh.

  The water continued to run.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Kimball stood silhouetted against the light of a distant streetlamp. He was wearing his hoodie, which masked his face. In an alleyway, he could see Jesse and Billy-the-Blade taking their proper posts as Cooch’s conduits to sell narcotics, next to the milk crates. Jesse was sitting with his arms folded as he watched Billy-the-Blade flip his knife back and forth repeatedly with marginal interest.

  Kimball knew that Cooch was the head behind the operation, and these two were the sleek body of the snake who ran the transactions. He knew he operated out of the Bellrock area. What he didn’t know was where. So he asked around speaking to those who appeared bone-thin and wasted, with Kimball getting a different location depending on whom he spoke with, after drawing a suspicious eye from most.

  But two answers were the same: behind the Bellrock Row strip-stores where they stack the milk crates, maaaaan. Two guys who’ll sell you the best smack on the planet, maaaaan.

  Thanks, maaaaan.

  So for the past twenty minutes Kimball watched them with saintly patience. But he was hooked with the way the man handled the knife. The moves were well-choreographed, the skilled maneuverability of opening and closing of the blade hypnotic.

  Kimball stood.

  And listened.

  He was an outline that was blacker than black, something that was dark and wicked and felt most comfortable within the shadows.

  Then like a predator who was about to make his kill, Kimball moved forward weaving from one dark shadow to the next.

  #

  The Hayden Residence

  “I don’t see the kid,” said Beef-Neck. He was sitting in an SUV with a guy who was a close facsimile to Beef-Neck, short and stout and heavily built. But his partner was very well dressed. Both were wearing gloves. And both looked on with attentiveness.

  “Maybe it ain’t the right house,” said the other.

  “Of course it’s the right house. You heard Deveraux. He gave us the kid’s name, said he lived on Maple. So here we are, on Maple, looking at the house of Hayden. The one listed in the phone book.”

  “Then what the hell are we waitin’ for?”

  Beef-Neck turned to him. “We can’t rush into something like this,” he answered. “We sit and we wait. When the time’s right, then we go inside and take care of business. Maybe we’ll wait until they go to bed. It’s easier that way, yeah?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, he’s just a kid.”

  “Yeah, well, you keep telling yourself that.”

  So they watched.

  And they waited.

  All w
as quiet at the home-front.

  Elsewhere, however, the story was quite different.

  #

  Jesse and Billy-the-Blade were talking when an empty soda can had obviously been kicked across the mouth of the alleyway sounded off. The two quickly fell into silence and listened while neither moved.

  After a moment Jesse inclined his chin sharply toward the direction of the sound, telling Billy-the-Blade to check it out. Billy returned his own nod, accepting the challenge.

  Billy-the-Blade was an artist at double-edged weaponry, and knew he had the combat skills to back up his constant play with the knife. So when he cautiously made his way toward the mouth of the alley, he did so with the point of the knife directed forward.

  And then he was gone, the man disappearing behind a veil of darkness.

  More than a minute passed.

  There was nothing but the marginal sound of traffic on the other side of the strip stores.

  Then finally from Jesse: “Billy.”

  Nothing.

  Jesse angled his head and called out. “Yo! Billy!”

  Absolute silence.

  Sometimes, Jesse thought, muzzled responses were indicative of a looming threat, which is why the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose in the same manner that the hackles of a dog rises when sensing great danger.

  Then the butterfly knife skated across the cement floor of the alley and stopped about ten feet from Jesse’s position.

  From the shadows a voice whispered. “Pick it up.”

  It wasn’t Billy.

  “Pick it up,” it repeated, the voice barely above a whisper but loud enough to be heard. It was almost phantasmagorical by nature, a strange and articulate hush. “Pick it up.”

  Jesse looked at the knife, then into the shadows. He swallowed.

  “Pick it up” whispered the voice.

  “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  “You have any idea who you’re messing with?” Jesse offered.

  There was a beat.

  Then: “Pick it up.”

  “You want me to pick up the knife, man? Is that what you want me to do? No problem!” The moment Jesse took his eyes off the wall of darkness and bent over to pick up the knife, he knew it was a mistake. Something large exploded from the shadows with an unbelievable wingspan of outstretched arms. It was quick and fast, a black phantom with no face or contours or features. Just a malignant black mass that eclipsed him like a skillful predator.