Dark Advent

by Rick Jones

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Becki Laurent had been beaten down by her sickness almost to the point where she weighed nothing at all in Kimball’s arms. So Kimball was swift on his feet as he worked his way to a payphone. In his arms Becki was shivering from the cool weather.

  And when he carried her she looked at him with endearing eyes of gratitude. “I’m sorry, Kimball. I gave up your name. I couldn’t help it.”

  “I know,” he told her. There was no anger in his voice. No malice. And no hint that he blamed her for any of her faults. She was ill.

  More importantly, she was family.

  “You’re going to be all right,” he told her. “You should have been helped long ago. If anyone should be asking for forgiveness, it should be me asking you. I should have been there for you.”

  She let her head fall against his chest. “I wouldn’t have accepted. You know that.”

  Kimball didn’t say a word because his mother was right on that front. Becki had to hit rock bottom before she reached a hand out to salvation. Finally she did, finding Kimball at her grasp.

  When he reached a payphone he sat Becki down and dialed his father’s number.

  When his father answered he sounded exhausted. But Kimball knew that it was something different. His old man was deflated. “Pops, I have Becki. I need you to pick us up.”

  There was a slight hesitation. Then: “Where you at, son?”

  Kimball told him.

  Then his father hung up, leaving Kimball standing there with the receiver still in his hand.

  #

  Kimball’s father was there in less than ten minutes. When he helped Becki into the car, Kimball was sure that his father would let loose with a string of vulgarities about the sour stench that came off her in waves. Instead, he surprised Kimball by not saying anything at all with the exception of a single declaration: “Don’t worry, Becki. You’re with family now.”

  Kimball thought she was just as stunned as he was.

  And as they drove lips began to loosen.

  Kimball told his father that she was under the forced guardianship of Vinny Cuchinata, who planned to market her on the streets as his new whore.

  His father listened. Nodded. And sometimes he offered his advice, but nothing too damning or critical.

  “You know he’s coming, son,” he said. “He will find you.”

  “I know that, Pops. That’s why I want you to take Becki to a motel on route ninety-nine. I want you two to stay at the Blue Star until I get back.”

  “Until you get back?”

  “We’re going to need some supplies. And Becki’s going to need some clothes. I’ll get a few of mom’s.”

  His father pulled the car over and turned to look at Kimball, who sat in the back seat with Becki. His eyes threatened with the fall of tears. “Kimball, you’re all I have left.”

  “I know, Pops. But you know this is the right thing to do.”

  “Then we’ll call the police.”

  “They won’t come,” he told him. “You know that. They’ll come when Cooch tells them to. And that’s when it’s all over. You even said that yourself, remember? About the cops in this town.”

  “Then let me come with you.”

  Kimball nodded. “Too dangerous,” he said. “If they connect Becki with me, then they might be waiting.” Then he told him about seeing Beef-Neck at the funeral, and how he connected his mother’s incident to be one of murder and not an accident. “It was a willful hit for standing up against Vinny Cuchinata,” he finalized.

  Throughout his father had listened with a teardrop slipping occasionally from the corner of his eye.

  Then: “Get me as close to the house as you can,” Kimball told him. “I’ll do the rest.”

  His father looked at Kimball with pleading eyes which had no effect. His son was going to stand firm in a situation he knew they could never run from. And for that instance in time he felt immeasurable pride for his son. Here was a young man who cared little about his own welfare in order to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

  Without saying anything further, but with a proud glint in his eye, his father faced forward, set the car in gear, and headed for their house on Maple Street.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Only the creeps come out at night.

  The voice of Kimball’s mother sounded crystal clear in his mind. It was so strong, in fact, it was as if she was standing beside him as he stood in the shadows looking at his house across the way on Maple Street.

  The lights were out.

  The neighborhood was quiet.

  If the creeps were out, he considered, if his mother’s warning had merit, then Cooch was close by.

  He wondered if Cooch would realize that he had been the one to remove Becki from the Chamber. One man for sure was dead. The other? In hindsight he should have checked the injured man, knowing he had the ability to point an accusing finger at him since Becki gave up his name.

  Only the creeps come out at night.

  He turned to his left, to the sound of the whispering voice hoping to see his mother standing by his side.

  She wasn’t.

  The noise was nothing more than the soft rustle of leaves from a leafy hedge.

  Are you with me, Mom?

  The response nothing but the leaves playing in concert in accordance with a light breeze.

  Mom, I killed a man tonight.

  Silence.

  Kimball didn’t know whether or not to accept this as disapproval on her part. Especially when she was so deeply rooted in Catholicism. Worse, Kimball couldn’t deny the fact that he felt no contrition for his action, or guilt, or any internal struggle with his conscience, whatsoever. In fact he felt vindicated, the killing of the Casually-Dressed Man easily justifiable in his viewpoint.

  Did you hear me, Mom? I killed a man tonight, maybe two. And I feel . . . nothing.

  He stood in the shadows and waited.

  There were no cars parked suspiciously across the street. Nor was anyone standing within eyeshot of the house. But he knew in his heart and felt with every fiber of his soul that something was out there waiting for him. He couldn’t explain this heightened sense of awareness, this feeling that danger lurked within arm’s distance. All he knew was that he was not alone.

  Kimball took in a deep breath and released it with an equally long sigh.

  This was his doing, he knew that. All the steps he had taken were by his own decisions. Decisions he knew that had to be made. Hard decisions. And he made them as he walked the line through the Gray Area between the Darkness and Light.

  Vinny Cuchinata was an operator who always had his thumb on the pulse of the community. And Kimball realized that he had not only jeopardized himself, but his family as well. If he one conscionable regret, it was placing people like Becki Laurent and his father in harm’s way. Because people like Cooch would never stop in his chase of them, he thought. Some people were just wired that way: to kill.

  And Kimball realized that he was no different.

  Sometimes people kill.

  It’s what they do.

  It’s what they’re good at.

  Kimball moved toward the house with his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie. In the right pocket he held onto his butterfly knife, ready to bring it forth if the occasion presented itself.

  He moved with caution, his olfactory senses picking up something he couldn’t quite define in his mind, other than a dangerous presence. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. The house was dark, quiet, the blackened windows refusing him access to see the dark secrets within, if any.

  He climbed the steps.

  Tried the knob.

  Locked.

  He went to the rear of the house, tried that knob, which was also locked.

  Then he stepped back and looked at the house with appraisal.

  In a split moment of time that was too fast to calculate, and before Kimball could turn completely around, he caught something coming down
at him from the periphery of his vision and was struck by a baton.

  Kimball went to his knees, saw the bright flashes of light before his eyes, and felt the throbbing pain from the blow. When he was struck a second time, his world became as black as pitch while his body seemed to spiral downward into a never-ending abyss.

  Still raw and sophomoric in his ways, Kimball Hayden never had a chance.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The old ceiling.

  The constant hum of florescent lights burning overhead.

  The paint peeling off cracked and aged-looking walls.

  The empty space of a giant factory floor.

  The broken windows.

  When Kimball awoke he thought his head was going to split, if it hadn’t done so already.

  He was lying on the floor with his hands bound behind with zip-ties. Cooch was standing before him wearing an expensive trench coat. His hands were tucked inside the pockets. The front of the jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a suit and tie underneath.

  Next to him were four men he clearly recognized. The man he’d beaten in the cellar on Ripley Street, the Well-Dressed Man, though his face had seen better days, was standing alongside Beef-Neck, Jesse, and a pissed-off looking Billy-the-Blade, who apparently took his knife back from Kimball’s pocket and swung it expertly about.

  They were inside an old candy factory that had gone defunct years ago, a wasteland where Cooch liked to place the bodies of those he didn’t want to be found.

  Kimball worked his way to his knees. Blood had congealed against the side of his face.

  Cooch walked circles around him in study. Then after a few slow laps he stood directly in front of Kimball. “You think a punk kid like yourself can just come into my world and flex his muscles?”

  Kimball said nothing.

  “Two things, kid. I like you. I really do. You got brass and you remind me of me when I was your age. But you don’t go against a bull with bare hands, you know what I’m saying?”

  Kimball looked at him thinking: And the second thing?

  “And the second thing,” said Cooch, “is that you’re about to be gored by the bull. The girl I’ll find and get back. She won’t be a problem. And maybe your old man will follow your mother to the grave. I haven’t made up my mind about that yet.” Then he pulled a gloved hand out of his pocket and pointed a finger at Kimball. “But you,” he said, then paused. “You’re different, kid. I like that. I could’ve used you in so many ways. You could have followed my path and been somebody. Unfortunately, I don’t reward those who think they have enough brass to take me on and win.”

  Kimball turned his head to the side and spat out a wad of blood. Apparently the knock on the head was hard enough to cause his teeth to bite down on his tongue, cutting it.

  “Let me teach you a final lesson, kid,” said Cooch. “No matter how tough you are, there will always be someone who’s stronger, faster and tougher than you.”

  “Does that apply to you as well?” Kimball asked. “Is there someone out there who’s stronger, faster and tougher than you?”

  This seemed to hit Cooch the wrong way as his features hardened. “No, kid. There isn’t. I was referring to us. Me and you. But then again, I guess kids are supposed to be stupid, right?”

  “Wrong. I do get it,” Kimball returned curtly. “Maybe you should take to heart the very words you speak.”

  Cooch barked a laugh. “I will say this: you got guts, kid. But you’re not too bright.” Then with a straight face he added, “Your road ends here. Tonight you visit your mother.”

  “Who cried like a bitch, by the way,” said Beef-Neck, smiling arrogantly. “Just before I tossed her ugly ass down the steps.”

  This comment brought Kimball to his feet. The look he gave Beef-Neck spoke volumes. As thick as your neck is, I’m going to snap it like a pencil.

  And Beef-Neck intuited this. “Give me all the looks you want, kid. Ain’t gonna help you any.”

  Cooch turned to Jesse and Billy-the-Blade. “You boys got this?”

  Jesse offered a smile. “Oh yeah,” he said. “This little party’s mine.”

  “You know what to do with the body afterwards. Bury him next to Carmine.”

  “Will do, Cooch,” said Billy-the-Blade, swinging the knife in perfect sweeps and arcs.

  With an inclination of his chin toward the doorway, Cooch gestured for the Well-Dressed Man and Beef-Neck to follow.

  As soon as they were gone Jesse walked to the bank of windows and turned Kimball, who still wore his hoodie, and addressed him. His hand was in a cast. “We’re seven flights up, big boy. You want to learn how to fly?”

  “Nah,” said Billy-the-Blade. “Too easy. Too quick.” He held the knife up. “Let’s have us a little fun and play around a bit. You know, a cut here. A cut there. Maybe a slice along the gut to see what the big boy had to eat. Maybe we can pop an eye. Maybe both. You know, play around. Then if he’s still alive, Jesse, then we can teach him how to fly.”

  Jesse and Billy-the-Blade laughed with malicious humor. Their banter was meant to be deliberate and cruel.

  Kimball stayed his ground as his mind began to envision maneuvers, his maneuvers, seeing in his mind’s eye how things were going to play out with mental rehearsals. The first problem was his binds, the zip-ties. Then of course Billy-the-Blade, the man with the knife. Jesse, at least for the moment, was only an afterthought.

  Billy-the-Blade’s smile vanished. Then more seriously, with all dark humor gone, Billy-the-Blade said, “I’m gonna cut you up, tough guy. Gonna cut you up so small that your momma in heaven won’t recognize you.” He came forward swinging the knife---open, close, open, close, open.

  Kimball readied himself for the cutting blows.

  And when Billy-the-Blade was on top of him, all hell broke loose.

  #

  Climbing down steps is always easier than climbing up them. But Beef-Neck was winded all the same when they reached the ground floor and headed to the dirt lot where their cars were parked. Cooch leaned against the car, watching Beef-Neck catch his breath. The Well-Dressed Man, though big himself, appeared fine.

  “You really need to get in shape,” Cooch commented.

  “I’m in shape,” Beef-Neck managed to say.

  “Yeah, you look like it.”

  Beef-Neck looked up at the tall building, as if his eyes were following the slow trajectory of a rocket. “Kinda wish I was up there. I got as much of a beef with that guy as those two.”

  “Relax. Take a ringside seat and enjoy the screams.”

  Then the window on the seventh floor broke, sending the window’s lattice framework and broken shards of glass sailing into the night. A body soon followed, his arms and legs pin-wheeling madly, the man’s cries piercing.

  “That was quick,” commented Cooch, then pointing. “Here comes your boy now.”

  The man tumbled through space in freefall, spinning in revolutions until he hit the trunk of Beef-Neck’s parked car, crushing the metal, then landing several feet from the rear of the vehicle after taking a hardy bounce, where the body lay in odd configurations from too many broken bones. When they went over to examine the corpse, they were completely stunned.

  It wasn’t who they thought it would be.

  #

  Kimball had a long reach and wingspan. When Billy-the-Blade was on top of him Kimball lashed out with his foot and smashed Billy-the-Blade on the point of his chin, causing his head to snap violently back and sending him to the floor.

  Kimball leapt straight up in the air, brought his legs and knees up into acute angles, swung his long arms beneath him, and landed on his feet with his bound hands now in front of him. As Billy-the-Blade slid across the floor on his backside, Jesse approached with his good fist swinging. Kimball took a shot to the face, another to his chin, then he grabbed Jesse by the front of his shirt, hoisted him off his feet, and carried the man across the floor and to the broken window.

  Jesse saw the fury in Kimball’s e
yes, saw the lack of empathy for Jesse’s welfare as the window neared. Jesse kept looking at the window, then back at Kimball, then to the window, which was quickly approaching, the outcome inevitable.

  “Oh God, no!” he cried. “Please! PLEASE GOD, NO!”

  Jesse was propelled out the window, screaming, the man falling end over end until he hit the trunk of a car below, hard, then bouncing and taking residence in a cloud of dust and dirt.

  Billy-the-Blade was clearing the cobwebs from his mind while laboring to his feet. The knife had slid from his hand. Beneath the humming of fluorescents lights the blade gleamed. Billy-the-Blade saw the knife. So did Kimball. Then they looked at each other.

  The window behind Kimball was smashed outward. Jesse was gone. And the conclusion as to what happened to him was clear to Billy-the-Blade. Within a split second Billy-the-Blade was in motion and dove for the blade. But Kimball was swift, moving and kicking the blade aside, the weapon skating away from Billy’s grasp. Billy-the-Blade rolled and got to his feet, and came after Kimball with a series of blows. Kimball countered the strikes by raising his arms like Ali in a rope-a-dope technique, absorbing the punches with no real effect. The moment Billy-the-Blade started to slow, Kimball came across with his bound hands grasped together like a massive fist, and struck a blow of his own, hitting Billy-the-Blade in the temple, then once again to the side of his face, sending the man off balance.

  As Billy-the-Blade stumbled back Kimball raced for the knife, grabbed it, and returned to Billy-the-Blade, who was beginning to settle himself into a firm stance.

  “This knife you’re so fond of,” said Kimball. “You can have it back.” Kimball drove the point of the butterfly knife deep in the center of Billy-the-Blade’s forehead until the knife could go no more.

  Fueled by adrenaline, Kimball found Billy-the-Blade quite light to carry as he quickly dragged him to the window, looked over the edge to see Cooch and his boys standing below, then called down to them. “Here’s the other imbecile!” Before he tossed Billy-the-Blade out the window, however, he noted the knife and regarded its importance. “I may need this.” He removed the knife and shoved Billy-the-Blade’s body out the window, with Billy-the-Blade having the same bone-snapping effects as Jesse upon landing.