Phoenix Fire

by Chitwood, Billy

  Jason would leave it at talking to Carlton. He told Grandma Myrena that he would try. Through his pessimism he would try. First thing in the morning he would call Carlton. No, he would not call him. He would go to Carlton's office. There would be no hiding behind the telephone. Jason needed to be in front of Carlton when he tried to reason with him. He owed his Grandma Myrena, Carlton, and himself that much.

  He walked along the winding park path, feeling oddly relieved that he had reached a decision about Carlton. Of course, it was not a monumental thing. He had known all along that he would talk to Carlton. Still, he felt better now that he had done his rationalizing and decided the time of his meeting with Carlton.

  Jason was unmindful of the night sounds and smells all around him. Now, they assaulted his senses. Damp from a recent irrigation, the freshly mowed grass smelled like a field of cut watermelons. The steady drone of crickets made the night seem safe and predictable. Staggered lighting along the path provided ample illumination and increased security. When he reached a bench on the edge of a municipal golf course, he sat again … and thought.

  He thought about Jenny, how they had met, their first evening together, the dinner at Grandma Myrena's, their trip to 'Apple Brown Betty.' He knew that he was in love with her, and it remotely bothered him that he had fallen so quickly. That was the way of romance novels and syrupy movies. Yet, he knew. He believed, too, that Jenny was in love with him. If she was not, she was a superb actress or was easily moved to wearing her heart on her sleeve.

  Jason had to admit that Carlton's words had bothered him. Despite himself, he had felt a semblance of jealousy when Carlton had told him of lunch with Jenny. He did not want to think of himself as a jealous man. Jealousy was another wasted emotion, serving only to complicate an otherwise orderly life. But, even acknowledging Carlton's propensity for mind games, it had bothered him to think that Jenny would have lunch with him.

  He had wanted to see her earlier tonight after leaving Grandma Myrena's house. Although it was late he had tried reaching her, but her phone was busy each time he called. He had tried several times again for an hour and had concluded that her phone was out of order or off the hook. Then, his mind had done some oblique maneuvers on him, building possible scenarios: maybe she was out on a date; maybe she was with Carlton; maybe someone was at her apartment and she had disabled the phone so as not to be disturbed.

  Jason had indulged these capricious thoughts until he became angry with himself. It was not at all like him to impair his mind with adolescent and stupid thought behavior. Again, he had reminded himself, there was no commitments made. Jenny was free to see anyone she wished and to do whatever pleased her. So, he was able to replace those unseemly mind matters with other equally disturbing ones.

  Now, seated on a park bench in the wee hours of the morning, he accepted without reluctance the fact that he was in love with Jenny. He smiled into the magnificent sky, looking for the moon, finding it full and clear on the western horizon, and silently whispered words that mildly shocked him by their spontaneity: “Will you marry me, Jenny Anne Mason?”

  He stood and began walking again. Then he jogged, a simple and serene night's glow upon his face, mixing with a sheen of salty sweat. He conjured up two wispy images, two angelic faces, to hover in front of him on either side of the path. Jenny and Grandma Myrena, smiling at him, conveying their love, converging, merging, becoming one blithely caring beacon to lead him home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carlton was not at all sleepy. In fact, he was keyed up, alert and abuzz with Jack Daniels.

  The knowledge of his considerable poker losses for the evening had found a convenient and obscure depth in his consciousness. Money for Carlton was merely a necessary commodity to have, to do the things he wished to do. Money, or the lack of it, however, was not something that intimidated him. At the moment of losing there was some distress, but, with the lapse of a relatively short span of time, he could void his mind of worry. He did not agonize on his loss of money because he could always manage and manipulate to get more.

  For Carlton there was a certain antipathy regarding money, precious little in the way of respect for it. Money had come to him too easily in life. Maybe his aversion to money was psychological and subliminal. In any event it appeared to be a paradox of his nature, like, in some grotesque way, but not totally, the man who must climb a mountain, swim the English Channel, wrestle a grizzly bear, or surf a fifty foot wave on the north shore of Hawaii. He wanted to win the big poker hand, his mountain, but it could never bother him too much if he lost. A paradox, and, unlike the lofty and noble aspiration of a Sir Edmund Hillary, Carlton's motives were rooted in some maniacal, self-annihilation crusade.

  The poker game and the money losses were not on his mind as he tried to locate his car, having forgotten where he had parked it. While he felt alert and keyed up, the Jack Daniels had fogged his memory banks. The bourbon had also affected his motor skills. He was aware that there was some imbalance in his walking, but he knew where he was and what he wanted to do. He was sitting for hours. That fact and the bourbon would naturally make him feel a little out of sync, if not a whole lot out of sync.

  He finally remembered where he parked the car. It sat all alone on the near deserted street. An occasional car passed, tire rubber slapping the pavement in an eerie reverberating beat.

  Behind the steering wheel he contemplated his course of action. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. The epiphany had come at the small bar in the gambling suite. Now, though, he was losing some of his resolve. Looking for the car had wearied him. His quick transition of moods did not surprise him. He could understand, rationalize, how and why his mood had changed. He was without rest and sleep for too long the past several days. Mood shifts came easily to an abused body.

  Still at the curb, key in the ignition, he leaned his head back against the headrest for a moment and closed his eyes. He thought of Jenny Mason and his brother. He knew what he had wanted to do tonight. His foggy mind was playing tricks on him, changing the priority of only seconds ago, his brain throwing images at him, loving images, family images, making him feel a remote and shadowy guilt. He was sinking, his will abrogated by some wispy power. Then, a soporific cloud passed over his mind and his body went limp.

  His first awareness was of the car's rocking motion. He next felt rough hands on his arms and shoulders. Carlton's eyes snapped open as he felt his body being pulled from the car. He twisted his head from side to side, his body stiffened in protest. His lips moved in slurred denial, “Hey, what's going on? Stop! You can't ...”

  His words were cut short when a fist caught him flush on the left temple and ear. A great roaring sound filled his head, like a mighty swoosh of wind driven surf hitting the beach. The sound was tinged with a burning, throbbing pain. Light flashed at the back of his eyes like a rhythmic cymbal clash, muted and distant.

  His dulled mind tried to make sense of it all. This was all too real to be a nightmare. It was like scenes from old gangster movies. He felt weightless and ineffective, unable to muster energy. He was being taken somewhere in this black night by malicious vice-like hands.

  Were there three of them? Carlton's fuzzy awareness made it difficult to tell. From the dim light of the predawn sky and a distant street lamp, Carlton was able to see only two of them. While he did not have time to assimilate much, he could see the dirty stubble faces and could smell the awful stench of their bodies. He was being carried, dragged, and pummeled with imprecise blows to his face and body. The faces Carlton dimly saw were young white faces, coarse and shiny with sweat, angular like Dick Tracy comic characters.

  They were in turn saying things to him and to themselves in quiet mumblings: “Don't make a sound, mofo. Don't kick, you drunk bastard. Over there! Take him over there, in the alley, dammit!”

  One of the young thugs kept hitting him, hard angry shots to the mouth and gut. Carlton saw the fists coming at him and turned, twisted, and howled. One blow split h
is lower lip, and he felt a dull aching in his gums where his teeth felt numb and loose. The rustling sounds, the voices, the tumbling night sky all seemed surreal. Finally, there came a blow to the back of Carlton's head with something very hard.

  In the milliseconds just before total blackness merged with the night, he heard far off voices … he heard his brother and Grandmother Wimsley calling to him from some safe place near a dam in the high desert. There were tears in their eyes and they spoke softly of love and family.

  Carlton could not feel the other blows that fell on his body. When his attackers had fled, his world was void of feeling and thought. Blood flowed from his head and face. One twisted arm extended along the pavement of the alleyway. Several fingers of his right hand lay at awkward angles across his abdomen. His splayed body twitched to some inner command. The night gave up harsh sounds of tires screeching, rubber burning, and a car engine revving.

  An early morning street cleaner noticed the unconscious body of Carlton Prince in the short narrow alleyway and called the police. The police found no wallet on or around Carlton's body. There was only a folded piece of paper in the pocket of his blood stained shirt. The piece of paper had a name, an address, and a telephone number.

  Carlton was taken to the emergency room at St. Joseph's Hospital.

  It was 5:15 AM.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The telephone persisted in its ringing.

  Jenny slowly left the misty depth of her sleep, making soft mumbling sounds of protest. She pushed herself to an upright position against the bed's headboard, cleared her throat, and reached for the pesky phone.

  “Hello.” Jenny glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. It was 5:50 AM.

  “Is this Jenny Mason?” the officious voice asked.

  “Yes, I'm Jenny Mason. Are you aware of the time?” As soon as she asked the question she began to consider a menu of horrible possibilities. Had something happened to her father? To her mother? Oh, please, she thought, don't let anything be wrong with them.

  “Yes, Ms. Mason, I'm aware of the time and I'm sorry to be calling so early, but we have a problem and you may be the only person at the moment who can help us out.”

  “Who is 'we’?” she asked, now more awake and attentive.

  “Sorry again. 'We' are the Phoenix Police Department, and we have an injured and unidentified male Caucasian in the emergency room of St. Joseph's Hospital. The man's been badly beaten, and we can find no identification. The only thing we found on his body was a slip of paper with your name, address, and phone number. We were hoping you might be able to identify the man. He's a tall man, six feet plus, probably in his thirties.”

  Jenny's first thought was of Jason. Fear gripped her. “Oh, my God! It might be Jason.”

  “Jason? What's his last name?”

  “Prince, Jason Prince. I can come to the hospital.”

  “That would be most helpful, Ms. Mason.”

  Jenny did a quick water splash, combed the sleep knots out of her hair, dressed in faded jeans and a light blue sweater. As she left her apartment she tried not to think of what she might find at St. Joseph's Hospital.

  The streets were not yet busy with heavy traffic. A slight incipient line of light appeared on the eastern horizon. Jenny was now fully awake but she could still feel the lethargy that came with an earlier wake-up time. The lingering lethargy was offset by the frenetic sense of fear. As she sped along the route to the hospital, she spoke aloud, “Oh, God, please let him be okay.” She lowered the window and inhaled the cool early morning air as so many darkly edged thoughts assailed her.

  A uniformed police officer came up to her as she entered the emergency room, a bulky, older man with a thick gray mustache. “Are you Jenny Mason?” the policeman asked in a subdued voice, that kind of whispered utterance common in hospitals.

  “Yes, I'm Jenny. How is he?” she asked with anxious urgency.

  “About the same. They believe he's stable. Follow me, please. We'd like you to make sure our victim is the man you mentioned over the phone.” The officer's name on the name tag was Bret Donahue.

  Jenny followed officer Donahue down the hallway, through two heavy double doors, past yet another spacious treatment room with curtained cubicles, and into a long corridor. The smells grew more pungent as they turned left into an isolated room filled with sounds of monitors beeping, shuffling feet, low barely audible voices speaking in quick staccato crispness.

  The three people in the IC room, an intern and two nurses, were introduced to Jenny by officer Donahue as Dr. McNulty, and nurses Bingham and Coulter. Jenny was maneuvered by Donahue into a position by the still form lying on a hospital gurney.

  Tubes ran from the nose of the victim. There were abrasions and blood spots over most of his face, and the top of his head was covered with a bloated white cap of gauze and tape. His left arm was in a cast and connected to some sort of pulley apparatus. His right hand was also bandaged.

  It took Jenny only a second to recognize the supine body of Carlton Prince. Except for a mild gurgling sound coming from the nasal tube, his body gave no sign of life.

  “Is this the man you mentioned on the phone, Ms. Mason?” officer Donahue asked.

  Jenny's eyes were locked on the face of Carlton Prince, preoccupied and seemingly unaware that the question was asked. Without changing her gaze she answered without hesitation. “No, this is not Jason Prince. This is his brother, Carlton Prince.” She finally broke her trance-like stare and hastily added, “Will he live? He looks so pale and still.” She stepped back from the gurney.

  No one answered for a moment. Then, Dr. McNulty, his hands inside the pockets of his white smock, looked directly at Jenny and spoke. “His vital signs have improved over the past hour. We can't be absolutely certain but we believe that he is stable and out of danger. We believe he will live. It is too early yet for any kind of positive prognosis.”

  The doctor paused, suddenly occupied with a thought, stepped forward to Carlton's side, noted something on the chart, and spoke to nurse Bingham.

  Officer Donahue led Jenny out of the room and back to the emergency room. On the way, the officer asked, “Is there a wife we should be in touch with?”

  “No, there's just his grandmother and his brother.”

  They now sat in a small room just off the general waiting area. Jenny was supplying officer Donahue with information about the Prince family.

  “You won't be contacting the grandmother at this hour, I hope? She's a strong lady but I don't know how she would handle this.” Jenny's words were sad in their delivery.

  “We don't need to contact her at the moment, Ms. Mason. We should talk to the brother, though. Do you wish to call him first, to maybe dampen the blow of this?”

  “Yes, I think perhaps I should. Do you have any idea who could have done this to Carlton?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Our investigators are working the case as we speak. Lab people were at the site when we brought Mr. Prince to St. Joseph's. Hopefully, they will come up with something useful. I was the first officer on the scene and I'm responsible for writing up the report. Can you tell me anymore about Carlton Prince? Where does he live? Where does he work? Anything you can think of that might help?”

  “I don't know his home address. He works, I believe, at the Heritage Tool and Manufacturing Company. He is vice president and controller there.”

  “Is there anyone you know who might have had a hand in this? A disgruntled acquaintance? A fired and angry business associate? A relative? Anyone?”

  “A relative?” Jenny repeated with surprise. “There is only his brother and his grandmother, that I know of, and I can assure you that they had nothing to do with this. It would be preposterous to think so.”

  “Yes, I'm sure, Ms. Mason. It's just that I must ask the questions, follow every conceivable avenue. You'd be surprised, the hate that is harbored in some families. A substantial percentage of violent crime can be traced to family disputes, sibling riv
alries, and so forth. I see it all. At least, I see enough that nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “I don't doubt you, officer Donahue. That's just not the case here.”

  “How well do you know the victim?”

  “Not very. I date his brother, Jason.”

  Jenny felt the first subtle signs of irritation with the police officer. Then, she dismissed the unproductive impulse The man was only doing his job.

  “Do you know why he would be carrying your name, address, and telephone number around in his shirt pocket, Ms. Mason?”

  Jenny inwardly winced. Why, indeed, did Carlton have her address? Of course, she was listed in the telephone directory. That information was common knowledge. Still, it unsettled her.

  “I don't really know,” she answered. “He had called me a couple of times.” Her expression showed some discomfort, and officer Donahue appeared to notice.

  “Were you on friendly terms with Carlton Prince?”

  Jenny hesitated before answering, not sure exactly what to say, or, whether she should say anything. “Well, yes, for heaven's sake. He was the brother of the man I date. Is this all really standard operational procedure, officer Donahue? Is all of this really necessary? I assure you that I am unable to help you find the 'perps' in this awful attack --- if 'perps' is what you call them.” Her body language said that she wanted to be dismissed.

  “That's what we call them,” the officer smiled with his words. “I don't believe I need to keep you any longer, Ms. Mason. If you will, please, just give me phone numbers and addresses of Carlton Prince's brother and grandmother. I will give you time to talk to Jason Prince before I talk to him, say a couple of hours?” Jenny nodded in the affirmative. “And, I promise, I'll try to minimize the grandmother's involvement. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough, officer Donahue.”

  Their conversation over, Jenny left the room and went to one of three public telephones on the far wall of the waiting room. She dialed Jason's number. It was now nearly 6:30 AM, and another cloudless sky was covering the valley of the sun.