A Question of Will

by Craig Spector

  Paul’s eyes went wide. "Holy shit," he gulped. The drunken behemoth snorted gruffly.

  "Told ya," he said.

  ~ * ~

  The excitement lasted another thirty-five minutes, give or take, as first aid was administered and ambulances called. Paul left the fork in place but did what he could to stem the bleeding; as he worked he learned that the grumpy victim had indeed not only been stabbed during a festive holiday dinner by his equally alcoholic common law wife of eight years, but had ridden down to the station on his big Harley hog all by his lonesome, eschewing medical attention in favor of legal payback. He wanted her jailed, pronto. Unfortunately, Buscetti would now have to oblige him... and depending on how the victim’s blood tox screens came back, lock him up, too. Happy Thanksgiving.

  The detective sighed as the ambo crew trundled away with their gurney-load of pissed off, bleeding biker scum, leaving Paul and Buscetti staring in amazement. Buscetti glanced out the window, saw waning sunlight giving way to dusk. "Shit," he muttered. "Now I gotta go and arrest this asshole’s asshole wife, then spend half the night filling out sixty-fives to keep their sorry asses in jail." His mood turned dour, morose. He sighed. "My girl’s first Thanksgiving..."

  Paul patted him on the back. He knew the feeling, in reverse.

  He left moments later: bidding his friend adieu, empathizing with the unfortunate turn of events. It was a sorry situation. Buscetti would be busy and distracted for hours. Paul felt the thin sheaf of papers tucked inside his coat, the ones slipped from the middle of the case file. The case file, left neatly on the detective’s desk, just the way he had found it. More or less.

  Yes, Paul thought. A sorry situation, indeed.

  And about to get a great deal more so.

  PART FIVE

  FLASHOVER

  THIRTY-THREE

  In the life of a fire, there are many subtle forces at work. The laws of thermodynamics and volatility, the tetrahedral relationship of fuel to temperature to oxygen to uninhibited chemical chain reaction, all of these and more factor in. A bit too much of one, a bit too little of the other, and nothing happens.

  Combine forces just so, and a fire is born.

  Once born, other subtleties come into play. Fire is alive, and like any living thing, it does not want to die. Once born, fire will burn until there is nothing left to burn, transforming everything in its path to fuel and char, for its own sake. Once born, fire fights for its life, the only way it knows how.

  But beyond the technicalities of conduction and convection and heat transfer, the pyrolysis of solid or vaporization of liquid into combustible gas, fire depends on circumstance, random chance, and fate to shape its course. Combine forces just so, and it will burn until its heat reaches everything in the room, until things previously untouched by flame spontaneously ignite, each possessed of their own distinct thermal characteristics, each driven to their own unique flashpoint.

  This is the point of full involvement: the precise moment at which random factors and the laws of physics collide, when the fire’s power is never more lethal, or complete. It is not a matter of bad or good. It is simply the nature of fire.

  But the same could also be said for hate...

  ~ * ~

  Paul drove his truck down the main drag of Glendon Blvd., heading home after his tour, his thoughts swirling and abstract. It was just after eight on Sunday evening, the tail end of the holiday weekend. The streets were cold and glittering. On the radio, Nat King Cole crooned:

  Have yourself a merry little Christmas

  Let your heart be light

  From now on our troubles will be out of sight…

  Outside the driver’s window, spindly plastic Rudolfs lashed to jolly plastic Santas flashed by, all propped on the narrow median; illuminated snowflakes and twinkly lights arced overhead, spanning the street. Cheesy, cheerful icons loomed from every storefront and shop window with manic holiday abandon. Cole’s sweetly husky voice filled the cab, the melody cascading and timeless...

  Have yourself a merry little Christmas

  Make the Yuletide gay

  From now on our troubles will be miles away…

  Paul shuddered. Thanksgiving had passed, only to usher in the season he had once hated, then come to love, and now dreaded with every cell and shred of his being. Call it Christmas or Kwanzaa or Hanukkah or whatever else one’s personal taste or cultural disposition so deigned; for Paul it was all a hell by any other name. A reminder of the world he no longer felt a part of, because Kyra was no longer in it.

  The tune swelled into the bridge. Paul felt his throat tighten.

  Once again as in olden days

  Happy golden days of yore

  Faithful friends who are dear to us

  Will be near to us once more…

  As a child he had hated Christmas: when it was just his mother and he they were too poor to ever really enjoy it; when his mom married Ken, Paul’s newly minted stepdad quickly converted to such a ball-breaking prick that he made the Grinch look like Mother Theresa. Paul’s memories of their first Christmas as an alleged family unit began with Paul getting his first bike -- an honest-to-God Schwinn with a metallic sparkle banana seat and wheelie bars that he had lusted for with every ounce of desire an eight-year old heart could muster -- and ended with a drunken Ken deliberately backing his car over it because Paul had forgotten, in his childish excitement, to park it in its "proper" place in the garage.

  By the time Paul was a teen, Ken’s escalating and alcohol-fueled holiday tirades couldn’t have been uglier if the bastard had butt-fucked little Cindy-Lou Who in the Who-ville town square. And the entire span from Thanksgiving through New Years became a six-week long forced march into dysfunction, compounded by the nonstop bombardment of images designed to imply that somewhere, everywhere, happy families were gathered in loving Yuletide embrace, having merry little Christmases, one and all. And Paul hated it for that.

  Until he met Julie...

  Through the years we all will be together

  If the Fates allow

  Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

  And have yourself a merry little Christmas now...

  Paul flashed back to their first Christmas together, positively Dickensian in its poverty; their tree, a sad little Charlie Brown Christmas reject so wilted and droopy it leaned against the wall of their apartment as if trying to catch its breath; their presents, if not Magi-grade, humble and spare. But they were young and together and deeply in love, and Paul had never felt happier, or more full of promise. And each year that followed, that feeling grew, as though they had secretly declared the year zero and started anew, erasing bad memories, replacing them with the spirit of the season, the spirit of hope.

  And when Kyra was born, the promise was complete.

  Through the ups and downs of the next sixteen years, through good years and bad, it had held true. Their gift-giving habits had quickly proved true to form: Julie the patient stealth shopper, secreting presents in mid-July for December deployment; Paul the eleventh hour impulse buyer, madly venturing forth with mere days or hours to spare. But whether any given year found them strapped or flush, they showered their daughter with every dream they could make come true, spoiling her horribly and rendering every other holiday in the Kelly household a pale warm-up act by comparison. Their home at Christmas was like a Frank Capra fantasy made flesh.

  And now?

  Now it was It’s a Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart jumping the bridge and slipping beneath the inky waves, no Clarence in sight; it was Miracle on 34th Street with Kris Kringle consigned to Bellevue and Natalie Wood on Prozac. The very thought of it made him ill.

  Stranger still, was the knowledge that the only miracle in his world was the one now happening in the basement on Marley Street.

  ~ * ~

  The transformation had been as stark as it was sudden. His last session with Will had left the boy shattered; for all its bitter victory, Paul had wondered what he might find upo
n his return. He had awakened Friday morning feeling uneasy and restless; as the day progressed he vowed to be prepared for whatever may come, bracing himself for the possibility of an even more violent Round Two.

  But, far from the defiant creature he had come to expect, Paul had stopped back on Friday to find Will quiet, depleted, oddly compliant. The deadened black hole stare and sullen sneer were gone; in its place, an expression that Paul could not at first fathom. And when Paul had ordered him to stand, the boy had complied instantly, mumbling something so shocking it took Paul a full ten seconds to fully register.

  Yessir, Will had said. Paul handed him his meager rations. Will uttered a quiet but unmistakable thank you.

  Paul could not believe his ears. Had the boy looked up, he would have seen his captor do a fleeting but literal double-take. But Will had quietly accepted the food and stood, eyes down and head slightly bowed, until Paul had bade him sit. And then he did that, too.

  Paul didn’t know what to think. Conditioned to resistance, he was unaccustomed to success. His innate reaction was suspicion - was this a trick? But the next day, the transformation continued. Will was quiet and complacent, obedient and passive. His lexicon was limited... please, thank you, yes sir, no sir... but no more. He spoke only when spoken to. And Paul responded cautiously, like an ice fisherman venturing onto an unknown floe, searching for cracks with every tentative step. But as he was leaving, Will ventured a question: could he please be allowed to bathe?

  Paul was taken aback. Weeks of captivity had rendered the confines of the box dank and dirty; even with the fan circulating, the stench of sweat, excreta and adrenaline permeated the boy’s skin. Paul looked away, and nodded. Maybe tomorrow.

  It was less torture than test: to see how the boy would react, if his newfound attitude would sunder. But Will had merely nodded, and again murmurmed quiet thanks.

  That night, at the firehouse, it was dead, oddly quiet for a weekend, as though all of Glendon had declared a fleeting holiday truce. The Rescue One crew did scut work and chilled, watching videos and playing cards; Paul kept to himself, hanging in the bay under the guise of doing maintenance, generally keeping his distance. In the ready room, the movie Seven played on the VCR, Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman en route to their final, inexorable showdown with the maniacal Kevin Spacey. Pitt’s voice echoed, filtering through the open door to the bay.

  "I’ve been trying to figure something in my head," Pitt said smugly to Spacey, "and maybe you can help me out. When a person is insane, as you clearly are, do you know that you’re insane? Maybe you’re just sitting around, reading Guns & Ammo, masturbating in your own feces… do you just stop and go: Wow, it’s amazing how fucking crazy I really am?"

  Paul stayed up long after Dondi and the others retired, wrestling with the issue, and his own inner conflict. In the end, he had to admit, it only made sense to allow Wells this one thing. In as much as defiance demanded punishment, obedience by necessity required reward. Alone in the still deep of the night, Paul resolved that yes, he would.

  Which brought him to this day. Paul had arrived after shift with a bucket, soap, assorted toiletries, clean sweat pants and a t-shirt. He allowed Will to bathe and dress and brush his teeth, even granting him a measure of dignity by exiting the box as he did so. When Will called out that he was done, Paul entered.

  The change was subtle but startling; clad and cleaned, the boy looked slight and unimposing, baggy clothes hanging from his wirey frame, the sparse stubble crowning his head making him look forlorn, even younger than he was. The boy’s sudden, spartan cleanliness only heightened Paul’s awareness of the fouled condition of the box. He glanced at the grimed walls, the threadbare blanket, the stinking toilet, then told Will he would return with cleaning supplies in the morning, and allow him to clean the space. Will nodded gratefully. It was weird.

  For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Will’s sociopathic façade had been stripped away; in its place, Paul found something oddly vulnerable, something ...human.

  It was almost like a miracle. His plan was actually working.

  God damn it.

  ~ * ~

  Paul gripped the steering wheel, rumbling down the home stretch. He felt torn. He should be pleased, but something gnawed at him. Like some bent form of karmic jujitsu, the sudden emergence of Will’s fledgling humanity had left Paul in sudden and serious question of his own. It was one thing to imprison and subjugate the inhuman monster who had caused so much pain, quite another to do so to a human being. And something else entirely to enjoy it.

  And that was the scary part; the part that both fueled and frayed him. In as much as Paul had begun the journey in pain, he now felt the cold and ravenous edge of something far darker uncoiling in his gut, snaking up his spine until his nerve endings buzzed. The thing that had let him go as far as he needed to crack Will’s sociopathic veneer suddenly told him - if he dared admit it - that the real cause of his unease was not that he had gone too far, but that he had not gone far enough. It was a primal, sub-rational thing, equal parts adrenaline, rage, and simple hate.

  Yes, hate, he realized, little hairs on the back of his neck prickling at the very thought of it. He hated the little fucker -- part of him did, anyway. The base part, the animal part. The part that presaged all thought and reason. It had a mind all it own.

  And it did not want to stop. Not at a toe or finger or hand or foot. Not if his skin were flayed with dull razor blades, an inch at a time, until he was reduced to raw wet red.

  It did not want to stop at all.

  No, Paul thought, then aloud, "No." He shuddered again, beating back the lurid impulse to vengeance or fury. He was still in control -- of himself, of his feelings, of the situation.

  But driving down these well-worn streets, through the festive, fictive backdrop of peace on earth and goodwill toward men, it suddenly struck him: he had known these roads most all his life. But he was in uncharted territory now.

  It made it all that much harder for him to contemplate how much farther this would go.

  Or to consider its inevitable end.

  ~ * ~

  The telephone was ringing as he reached the back door. Paul had arrived home hoping to find the lights on and Julie already there, desperate to seek solace in her arms even as he apologized for being such a prick.

  The phone rang again as he dumped his bag and scrambled to reach it in time, only to have it stop a heartbeat before he got there.

  "Shit!" he muttered. "Shit! Shit!" He picked it up, heard only a dial tone. He punched *69.

  "Your custom calling feature is working," a recorded voice smugly informed him. "However, it cannot be used with the number you have dialed..."

  "Shit!" Paul growled, racking the receiver. He checked the answering machine. The little red LCD registered zero. No calls. Weird. She should be back by now. The scanner atop the refrigerator sat silent.

  Paul went to the fridge and grabbed a beer, visions of breakdowns and MVAs dancing in his head. He took a swig and suppressed them, thinking of more mundane explanations. A late start. Traffic. The post holiday migration back to the city.

  Paul looked at his watch. They hadn’t spoken all weekend, which felt strange, but perhaps it was for the best. A little space, some think time. A weekend with her folks. A good thing.

  The phone rang again. Paul’s heart skipped a beat, and he lurched to grab it.

  "Julie?" he said, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

  "Paul," she replied, as if surprised to hear him. "You’re there..."

  "I just got in," he explained. "Where are you, hon? Is there a problem?"

  "I’m here," she said.

  "Where? Your folks?"

  "Yes." Tense.

  "Babe, it’s almost nine," he said. "Don’t you have school tomorrow?"

  From the other end, a pause. Hesitant. Palpable. Paul felt confused. "Julie?"

  "I’m here," she said, voice small and distant.

  "I’m just asking...
I mean, traffic’s probably a bitch by now..."

  Another pause. "Paul," she began, "I’m gonna stay here..."

  "Oh..." Paul sighed, his hopes of restoration deflating. But it made sense; it was already late, and as much as he wanted to be with her he didn’t feature her alone on the road at midnight. "That’s good," he offered gamely. "I mean, not like the world’ll end if you miss a day or anything. Want me to call you in sick in the morning?"

  No answer. Suddenly he felt very odd, like something was up. What was the sound of one shoe dropping?

  "Jule?" he said.

  From the other end, a sigh: tremulous. Pained. "What I meant is, I’m gonna stay a while..." she said. The words hung ominous in fiberoptic limbo.

  "What are you saying?" he asked. "I don’t understand..."

  "I need some time," she explained, sounding wooden and rehearsed, like she was reading prepared text. "I need to sort some things out..."

  Paul winced; in its own way it was weird turnabout to his own bullshit of the other day. She was hedging and dodging, using trite catch phrases as emotional roadblocks; it was both alarming, and pissing him off.

  "Things?" He said. "What things?" His own tone ratcheted up inadvertently. "Julie, what’s the hell’s going on?"

  "I don’t know ... " she blurted, then faltered. "I just need... shit... I don’t want..."

  "Don’t want what...?" Paul could hear from the rhythm of her breath that she was trying not to cry.

  "I just really need to be alone right now," she said finally.

  Paul’s heart pounded, stomach dropping like an elevator with its cables cut. "Julie, please..." he murmured. "Everything will be all right, I swear," he vowed desperately.