Jebediah's Crime: A Heroic Supernatural Thriller (The Hinge Series Book 1)

by Vincent Phan Tran

  She returned his smile and held out her arms. For just a moment, he let himself be enfolded in her arms, in the way a grown man will sometimes want to be held like a child. Then, he straightened and stepped back. She looked down at the blood on his sleeve.

  "Not yours?" she asked.

  "No. I wasn't touched."

  "Even all their monsters can't harm you. Even without their abilities, you are the deadliest one there."

  "Perhaps. Shira destroyed a crimara," he said.

  "Yes. I heard about your sister." She spoke through slightly clenched teeth, and he sensed the undercurrent of distaste. "I heard many things. Your father saw you fight?"

  Raja went back to the sink and resumed washing his hands.

  "Yes," he replied. "He watched the guardsmen and I fight his fight. Then he watched his daughter torture a man. And after that, he ordered me to kill a father while his son looked on."

  He looked up and stared at his mother's reflection in the glass, and his voice became hard and bitter.

  "I am a warrior and a soldier, not a butcher. He thinks this is what men do. But he stands by and sends us in to fight his battles." His hand clenched into a fist, and he pounded it against the sink.

  The look on his mother's face and how she'd looked down and away from his glare filled him with shame. He'd scared her when he struck the sink—just like his Father scared her.

  Gods, I'm just like him, he thought. He stepped away from the mirror and wrapped his arms around his mother. She'd shrunk and felt even smaller in his arms.

  "I'm sorry," Raja said into her hair.

  "You've worked so hard. What more must you do?" she asked.

  "We are together, Mother. Whatever we do, that won't change."

  One of her hands gripped the wrist with the bloodstained sleeve. She wiped her face against his shoulder and walked, slowly and softly, from the room.

  Raja stood still for a moment. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirrors, reflected at multiple angles.

  Chapter 3

  Jebediah grabbed onto the back seat of the trundling car. The grizzled and chain-smoking driver jerked the old taxi left and right to avoid potholes while maneuvering down the narrow roads. After what seemed a lifetime of shaky riding with the looming threat of nausea, the taxi came to a stop, and Jebediah climbed gratefully out the car.

  Dust kicked up from the red cobblestone street. He peered up when a shadow crossed his eyes. A shirt flapped in the wind like a flag, hanging from one of the overhead lines criss-crossing the street from nearby second and third-story apartments.

  Voices from their open windows rattled a mix of French, Spanish, and what he thought was Chinese. Black scarring on one of the upper corners reminded him of a fire from a few years back. There'd been no money to repair the apartment's damage, and two families were put out of their homes. The community gave them couches and floors to sleep on and even got formula for one of the babies. It was that kind of neighborhood, where those that had little helped those that had nothing.

  The people living there repaired appliances, delivered food and cleaned homes. Success was putting dinner on the table and keeping everyone clothed. They'd probably celebrate if they ever found themselves with anything extra.

  On the ground floor were a few small shops. A grocery sold fresh fruit and vegetables off carts. Next to it was a second-hand store specializing in ladies' clothes. Across the street was a warehouse containing auto machinery. Some of the local men serviced the equipment inside. They were working-class businesses set next to working-class families.

  The bounty hunter brushed dust from his dark jeans and started down the stone path towards a nondescript gray building. He turned at a noise behind him.

  "Jeb!" The child's voice called out right before twenty pounds of dark hair and unwashed little boy crashed into him. Scarcity of food had made Javier small for his age but didn't seem to slow him down at all. He wiggled and squealed with mock terror when Jebediah swung him over his shoulder and tickled him mercilessly. He held the boy tight so he couldn't wiggle away, and that seemed to be just fine with the child.

  His father, a lanky man mirroring his son's dark hair and eyes caught up with a tired smile.

  "He hasn't seen you for a while," Roberto said, his voice heavy with a Spanish accent.

  "It's been busy. I just finished a job," Jebediah replied. He twirled the boy around like a helicopter blade, earning him a high-pitched scream of terror, then he set Javier down.

  "You seem fine. It must have been an easy one," said Roberto.

  "If there are easy ones, I don't get them. The Rain makes people animals."

  "Rain! Ay, they are even here sometimes, skulking about in the alleys and shadows. Before they completely turn, they are dangerous. But afterwards …" he shook his head.

  Javier was running circles through Jebediah's legs. He watched the boy's seemingly endless energy.

  "The young all think they've got forever," said Jebediah. "They think 'I have many years, this will only take a few … and look at the power it gives me.' But it takes from them and takes from them, and when it has taken everything, it tells them to find those who loved them. And then it tries to take them, too."

  "But you stopped it?" asked Roberto, petting his son's now sweating head.

  "I stopped him, and his family grieves even more now."

  "Papa work lots!" Javier chimed in. He grabbed at his father's undone tie and gave it a good swat.

  "Your papa works hard. You're lucky to have him." The boy more or less ignored Jebediah. A neighborhood dog came into view that absolutely had to be petted, and Javier ran off on a mission.

  Roberto met Jebediah's eyes with a grateful smile. Both men knew what the boy's father was wearing under the suit. Each morning, Roberto would wake up, put his suit on, then leave his son with a neighbor. He'd walk several blocks away, somewhere his son wouldn't roam, then take off his nice clothes. Underneath was a ragged shirt and threadbare pants with holes.

  He'd sit on a corner, holding a sign in front of a small carton. On a good day, people would give enough to feed him and his son, and on okay days, he'd have just enough for Javier. On the hardest days, he'd walk back with a few morsels he'd found from restaurant leftovers or garbage cans. Either way, he'd always walk back wearing a suit and tie, and Javier would greet him home as the successful businessman he must be. It was easy to fool kids when they were little—when their fathers were still their heroes.

  "The Scrounge, it pays good, yes?" Roberto asked, eyeing the gun strapped at Jebediah's side. There was a look in his eyes that Jebediah recognized. It was a look that got men killed.

  "You don't want to do what I do," he replied.

  "Javier doesn't eat enough. He's not growing like he should. His teeth need help."

  "Find another way."

  "What way, Jebediah? I can't read; I've never gone to school. All I have is a suit I stole from a drunken man."

  "You're still young. You could learn a skill." He pointed to the auto warehouse. "The men there would teach you."

  "And what would Javier say when he saw me? He thinks his father goes to an office every morning. And he thinks the Scrounge are heroes. I could be one of you."

  "This isn't about Javier, Roberto. It's about you wanting a lot of money in a short amount of time. It's about you thinking what I do is somehow easy. I put a gun to a boy's head yesterday. Do you know what that's like? My son is in a hospital, and if I didn't do this, I couldn't pay for his treatment. I'm too old to start again, and this is all I know how to do. But you could be much more than me." He stopped and took a step closer. "Don't be me," he whispered to Roberto.

  Javier ran up to them, apparently tired of chasing the dog. "Papa! Head, Papa!" he demanded.

  Roberto picked him up and put him on his shoulders. "Home, horsie!"

  Roberto obligingly started to trek towards their small apartment. Jebediah stopped him with a touch.

  "Here," he said, reaching out a hand a
nd putting some money into Roberto's palm swiftly so the boy couldn't see it. Roberto slipped the money into a pocket with a nod.

  "Bye, Jeb!" waved Javier.

  Jebediah watched the boy bouncing along on his father's shoulders for a few minutes then turned back towards the nearby building.

  A homeless man was standing close by, and Jebediah waved hello. The street dweller, Hobb, usually hung out because people gave him leftover food. The bounty hunter made a mental note to bring Hobb something later. The man was rail-thin and looked like a stiff wind could knock him down.

  Two swinging glass doors without signs greeted Jebediah. The building itself was unremarkable in every way. Foot traffic often walked past it without pause. Though food was served inside—and what amazing food it was—there wasn't a sign saying "Diner" on top of the building, or a billboard with the specials of the day highlighted. It was one of those places, where unless you knew what was behind the doors, you'd never think to open them.

  Until you did walk in, because someone told you about it, because you wanted a good meal, or because you needed help. Or, as in the bounty hunter's case, because you had to get paid for a job.

  Jebediah pushed through the double doors and entered the place where justice was literally bought and paid for. The home of the Scrounge.

  The double glass doors led to a long, narrow concrete hallway. Hanging along the left wall were black and white photos. None of them were posed. Instead, each seemed to have caught their subject in a candid moment. Some were of people laughing, others just someone sitting and drinking a cup of coffee. There were pictures of crowds in the diner standing around with drinks in their hands. In the middle of the crowds was a photo of a person, and you couldn't tell if it was a wake or a birthday party.

  If you stood there long enough, you started to notice a pattern in the pictures. Though none of the people were related, they all had a similar look, a focus and stillness that seemed to emanate outward. They had the look of eagles.

  Jebediah stopped at the end of the wall and stared at the last picture. The picture was of him, dressed in simple jeans and t-shirt, in the middle of standing up from his chair. One of his hands was reaching out to lay money on the table in front. His shirt had fallen just so and captured the outline of muscle across his chest. His head was slightly inclined and the light shadowed a face that hadn't seen a razor in a few days. It was the face of a man who not only hadn't slept well in quite some time, but had also resigned himself to not resting well in the future.

  "You can sleep when he's awake," he whispered.

  He had never been able to figure out when that picture was taken, and he'd almost objected to it being posted. But you didn't say no to the diner's owner, not if you expected to be fed.

  When he passed the photos and rounded the corner, he marveled at how the place could look so small from the outside and be so large inside. A rectangular room opened in front of him. It seemed as large as a gymnasium. Its dimmed lights and dark painted walls gave it a casual ambiance, added to by a scattering of small sitting areas made up of couches, armchairs and coffee tables at the corners. It was as if someone had set up several living rooms.

  On the far wall was a large garage door, scrolled up because the weather was cool but still pleasant. It let the breeze in from the courtyard, and the scent of greenery mixed with the smell of home-cooked food.

  When it was cold enough outside, a huge stone fireplace next to the open door shed a warmth that permeated the room and filled it with the snap and crackle of burning wood.

  The diner exuded comfort, welcoming people home and inviting them to sit awhile.

  The smell of food wafting from the nearby kitchen made Jebediah's stomach rumble, and he realized he hadn't eaten in a while. He sat down at one of the long, wooden communal dining tables set in the center of the room and nodded at the two men sitting a few feet away.

  "Hey Lee," he said to a light-haired man wearing a white button up shirt.

  "Howdy Jeb." Lee's southern twang made him think of pork barbecue and bourbon. "You do that Leaf job last night?"

  "I did."

  "You took a bodyguard job?" asked Ray, the bulky, dark skinned man sitting with Lee. He was a former football player turned bounty hunter.

  "My last one, Ray. Not really sure how I got talked into it. The pay wasn't even that good. And babysitting just isn't my thing," replied Jebediah.

  "Those Rain addicts are impossible anywhere, but trying to take one in farmland with a bunch of Amish-folk …" Lee shook his head.

  "Who'd you bring with you?" Ray asked.

  "Just me," he replied, then waved over the only server in the diner.

  Lee and Ray exchanged a look. Taking on a late-stage addict was dangerous even with backup. Doing it alone was suicidal.

  Ray shrugged, then glanced to the coffee cup to his right. In an instant he summoned his Hinge gift, and the wooden table under the cup rippled like water. A wave of wood rose from the table, lifted the cup and slid it across to slap into Ray's open hand.

  Lee sipped his own coffee with a grimace, then stuck his pinky into the dark liquid. His finger glowed like an ember, the coffee smoked, then bubbled, then Lee drank the now-warm beverage with a smile. He wiped his finger on a paper napkin, then pointed it at Ray's cup.

  "Warm it up for you?" he offered.

  "Hell no, man. I have no idea where that finger's been."

  "You mean like, your mama?"

  "Boy, you talk about my mama I'll whoop your ass …"

  A waitress arrived before the argument could really ramp up. She was a cute, petite girl with glasses, dressed in jeans and black concert t-shirt. Lee bounded up from his chair like he was on a spring and slid over to stand next to her, a bit closer than normal.

  "Howdy, Jeannie," he said with a smile that twinkled his blue eyes.

  "Hey, Lee." Jeannie tucked one foot behind the other and smiled up at him.

  "You look good. As usual. See you tonight, right?"

  She giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sure. I got this new dress. I think you'll like it."

  "I like all kinds of stuff about you," he told her with a glance. She rewarded him with a blush and another giggle.

  "Get you at seven?" Lee asked.

  "Absolutely," she replied, turning around and walking away with a bit more hip wiggle than absolutely necessary.

  "Uh, Jeannie …" Jebediah raised a hand.

  "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she squealed and rushed back. "You guys eating?"

  All three nodded and she left again, this time headed towards the kitchen. She didn't ask them for their order because the diner only served one thing a day. Through some method no one understood, the cook picked a single dish, chosen from any number of countries across the world seemingly at random. And regardless of what the dish was or where it came from, there was one thing that stayed constant: You ate all of it, because it was just that good.

  Ray watched the waitress walk off and mumbled something under his breath.

  "What's that?" Lee asked him.

  "Man, how many girls you seeing?" Ray asked, louder. "Three? Four? You may as well have a vagina the amount of time you spend chasing it. Mangina. That's what you are. Straight up mangina."

  "That ain't fair." Lee leaned back in his chair with a slightly aggrieved look. "I'm open with them all. I tell 'em all I ain't looking for a girlfriend."

  "That just means you're an honest mangina."

  Ray stopped talking when Jeannie came back carrying three bowls heaped with black beans mixed in a dark sauce and what smelled like pork heaven. She set the bowls down and the three men spent a moment breathing in the spicy goodness.

  "What is it?" Jebediah asked.

  "Feijoada," she pronounced it faij-wah-da. "Black beans, onions, bacon and pork leavings, slow cooked in spices then simmered overnight in a clay pot. It's from Brazil."

  Jebediah scooped up a big spoonful and paused as soon as it hit his tongue. The black
beans seemed to melt around bits of soft sausage and crispy bacon, all tinged with the taste of bay leaves floating in a thick, pungent sauce. He immediately grabbed a second spoonful

  "Boy, this is good," breathed Ray.

  "Incredible," Lee agreed. All three men went quiet while emptying their bowls with amazing speed. Other people filtered into the diner with the advancing lunch hour, and soon the room was bustling with bounty hunters of all ages and backgrounds. The combination of raucous laughter, loud boasting and occasional release of something dangerous gave the diner the feel of a military barracks.

  Jebediah scraped the bowl, getting the last vestiges of food from his spoon, then stood and dropped some money on the table.

  "You guys collect yet?" he asked Ray and Lee.

  "Yeah, we're good," replied Ray.

  "Hey, Jeb," said Lee. "You can always, y'know, call us if you need us. You don't always gotta do it alone."

  "Sure," he said, then waved goodbye.

  Ray gave Lee a look. "Why'd you even ask that? You know he don't want help."

  "Ray, look at him, then look around this room. You see anyone else his age? He's old, I mean, older anyhow. And far as I know the man's not Flashed or nothing. I have to think he could use some backup."

  Ray gave a small laugh. "Yeah, he's older—definitely older than most of us. But you know what that tells me?"

  "What?"

  Ray stared at Jebediah's departing back. "He's an old man still doing a job that kills young men."

  The milling men and women in the diner stepped aside to give Jebediah space as he passed. He headed towards a door in the back of the room, next to the kitchen.

  He pushed through and stood staring at a long alleyway lined with red brick walls and several inset doors. If you'd have looked at the building from outside, you'd have sworn there was no way an alleyway could be there. But this was the Hinge, and here it was.