13 Drops of Blood

by James Roy Daley

  Very nonchalantly, Martin nodded and said, “What time did your shift start?”

  George smirked, realizing only then that McKean had begun digging for information. So this is how the big boys roll, he thought. They interrogate you soft and gentle like, so you don’t know they’re doing it. This was a shocking revelation. It was so different than the cops he had seen on television that he wondered why anyone would have scripted anything different.

  George smiled. “Do I get to make a phone call? In the movies people are always getting one call and using it to phone their lawyers.”

  Martin lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have a lawyer?”

  George leaned his back against the padded wall and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking about his brother-in-law Dan.

  Dan was a lawyer; worked in real estate mostly. He was also a big mouth know-it-all that had a part-time gig as an asshole. The idea of getting Dan involved made George feel sick.

  “No,” he said, admittedly.

  “That’s what I thought,” Martin said. “Believe it or not, most people don’t have a law firm on speed-dial. If you need to make a call or two for some reason, just let us know. We’re not unreasonable. We’re trying to help you here, Mr. Lewis. Understand? Do you need to make a phone call?”

  “Not really, I suppose… but maybe later.”

  “Okay. Let us know and we’ll work something out. No problem.”

  “Thanks. Can I have a cigarette?”

  “Sorry. No smoking allowed.”

  “Come on, please?”

  “Sorry.”

  George pursed his lips together. Of course smoking was forbidden; it was a government building for crying out loud. He said, “I understand that smoking is a no-no, honest. But I’d like a cigarette anyhow, okay? You want to know why? Because I’m going to make things really easy for you guys. I’ll give you a full confession if you give me a smoke. Sound like a deal?”

  “A full confession?” Martin said. “Do you have something to confess, Mr. Lewis?”

  “My cigarette?”

  “Smoking is not allowed. We don’t make the rules, Mr. Lewis. We just follow them.”

  “Fine. Have it your way.”

  “My way is that you cooperate, so we can get this ugliness behind us.”

  George shrugged. “Whatever.”

  McKean waited a few seconds, then he hit a button on the recorder. A little red light turned dark and the tape stopped rolling.

  He said, “Off the record… let me tell you something, George. I’m telling you this, not so you’ll feel threatened, or in jeopardy, but so you’ll understand. By law we can keep you here for a long while, George. If we have reason to believe that you’re dangerous, or thinking about becoming a fugitive, we can keep you here for a very, very, long time. But if you’re smart, which I think you are, you can be out of here really soon. Helpful people tend to get along better than others, get it?”

  He switched the recorder on.

  Martin said, “Can you tell us what time you left home today, Mr. Lewis?”

  George looked at the floor. He was done talking.

  McKean, slightly swaying from character, said, “Should I remind you that we have thirty-two witnesses?”

  “Unless I can have a smoke to help calm my nerves, you’re going to need thirty-two witnesses.”

  After a bout of silence, Detective Martin stood up and knocked on the window. The door opened and Martin disappeared. A moment later he returned with a cigarette, an ashtray, and a book of matches.

  He placed the items on the padded bench and said, “I’m not giving you a cigarette, Mr. Lewis. However, you’re a grown man and you’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

  “Thank you.”

  McKean looked annoyed. He didn’t enjoy bending the rules, not even a little. It made him feel like a bad cop. “Are you going to talk to us?”

  “You bet.” George took the cigarette, leaving behind the matches and the ashtray. “I was coming into Toronto from Oshawa,” he said, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. “I was alone. I got on the six fifty five. Like usual, a thousand people got off the train and nobody got on. The train, as you might know, brings commuters from Toronto to Oshawa in the evening time, and it returns to Toronto near empty.”

  “Of course,” Detective Martin said. “Rush hour… everybody’s going home.”

  “Exactly.”

  McKean asked, “Why were you going into Toronto on a Tuesday night?”

  “I met a girl a few weeks ago.”

  “Name?”

  “Kelly something. She’s a real cutie. We hit it off and swapped digits and I wanted to see her again. My wife and I are divorced… well… separated. We’ve been apart for more than a year. If it wasn’t for my little boy I’d probably never see her again.” George looked at his knees. His eyes stayed there for the longest time. His shoulders were slumped and his hands were clasped together, almost prayer like.

  “You were alone?”

  No response.

  “Mr. Lewis? On the train, you were alone?”

  In time, George said, “I was alone, sitting near a window. My car was empty and I didn’t have anything to read. There were a few newspapers lying around, like always, but I read most of them at work. I didn’t have much to do… except look out the window. It’s a nice trip most days. The train runs along Lake Ontario and the sun shines off the water. During the summertime you can see the girls sunbathing. Well, it took about ten minutes for the train to get rolling. And I’m sitting there, not thinking about much. Just looking out the window and watching the buildings roll by.” George swallowed uneasily. His fingers tightened and the muscles beneath his shirt bulged. His eyes drifted; he was a man lost in thought. “Then I saw the strangest thing.”

  The room grew quiet and stayed that way.

  Detective Martin began feeling uneasy. “Well, Mr. Lewis… don’t keep us waiting now. What did you see?”

  George looked up, almost startled by the voice.

  “A man,” he said, with a solemn tone. “At least I thought it was a man. I don’t now. He was standing in a field, close to the tracks. He was alone, wearing a suit and a tie. Black suit, black tie, white shirt. He had a little crown of white hair wrapped around his head and his face was all wrinkled. His eyes were gray but they were brilliant, too. Just brilliant. They were so bright they seemed to be sparkling.” George almost laughed. “Now… I’m in a train, remember. I’m moving fast. So for me to notice his eyes…” George trailed off.

  McKean cleared his throat, and said, “Is the man doing something that catches your attention?”

  “Not yet.”

  McKean nods. “Okay.”

  Martin said, “How old do you think he is, roughly?”

  George looked up and grinned. “A hundred and fifty.”

  Martin’s eyes widened with shock. “A hundred and fifty years old?”

  “Yeah, he was at least that. He was older than any man I’d ever seen. I’d tell you he was two hundred but you’d think I’d lost my mind.” George put a hand to his mouth and nibbled on his nail. “I didn’t think much of the guy at first,” he said, talking through his fingers. “Why would I, right? Yeah, well, after five minutes or so the train stopped. A couple people got aboard and sat near the door.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Who, the people that got on? They were nobody, just teenagers. Two boys: sixteen, maybe seventeen. They kept to themselves. They don’t matter. Trust me, they weren’t a part of this.”

  Martin nodded his head, trying to understand. He didn’t like the sound of that last sentence: They weren’t a part of this. For some reason that sounded bad to him. It sat in the air like dialog from a bad movie.

  A part of this––

  What the hell did that mean, anyway?

  George cleared his throat. “We started rolling again. After a few minutes I’m looking out the window, watching the world roll by, and I see him again.”
<
br />   “Who did you see?” Martin asked, with his voice sounding slightly uneasy.

  McKean glanced at his partner oddly, but said nothing.

  “The old man in the black suit, of course. Who do you think? He’s standing at the shoreline, right near the water. And he’s looking at the train, watching us go.”

  McKean, holding back a grin, used a voice that was best suited for small children. “Am I missing something here?

  “Nope.”

  “It was the same man?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the train was moving.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You know that’s impossible, right Mr. Lewis?”

  “Yeah. It’s impossible, all right. I know. And that’s exactly what I tell myself. I tell myself that it’s impossible, that it’s not the same guy. That it has to be someone different. And at a hundred miles an hour I make myself believe it. I’m no fool, and I’m not getting a good look at this guy. Within seconds he’s in and out of my line of vision, so it has to be someone different, right? Some other two-hundred-year-old-man standing near the tracks in a black suit…

  “Well the train stops. I guess we’re at the Ajax station now. The two kids by the door get off; nobody gets on. I’m alone again. We start rolling and I’m looking out the window, you know? I’m watching. Part of me is hoping to see him again because… well… because it’s interesting. Another part of me––the part that’s getting worried––is praying that I don’t see anything. I know the odds are slim, but I don’t want imaginary friends standing at the edge of the tracks. I don’t want to live in the nuthouse.”

  McKean shifted his recorder from one hand to the other.

  Martin kept his eyes glued on the suspect.

  “Sure enough, the train gets rolling and I’ve got my face up to the window. I’m actually leaning my head on the glass at this point. I don’t care. I want to see what’s out there and I don’t want to miss him––if he’s there, which, of course, he’s not going to be… right? Wrong. After a few minutes I see him again. Same black suit, same black tie, same white shirt. He’s standing next to one of those old buildings with the graffiti on it. To be honest with you, I can’t believe it… I really can’t believe it. But it’s him, all right. Three times I see him. But at this point I’m still thinking it has to be three separate people because it can’t be the same guy, it just can’t be. I’m in a train, for crying out loud. There’s no way it can be the same man and I know it. Well, I watch him for as long as I can, trying to burn his image into my head just in case I see him again. But can you imagine? Jesus rode a bicycle… can you imagine seeing the old guy a forth time? He’d have to be a ghost, wouldn’t he?

  “Well, we’re moving at a good speed, not as fast as before but we’re zipping along… and I can still see him. He’s getting farther away all the time but he’s still there, standing by the tracks, and do you know what happens? Can you guess? He waves at me. The son-of-a-bitch waves, as if to say, ‘Yeah George! It’s me! You see me and I see you, now what are you going to do about it?’ Well I don’t mind telling you that I got scared. Right then and there––for the first time in years, I got scared. His eyes were glistening and his hand was swinging back and forth and he had a smile that looked more like a scream than anything else, like he was wearing the goddamn thing wrong, somehow. So why wouldn’t I be afraid? Huh? I don’t mind saying, I damn near dropped a bucket of shit in my pants.”

  The two officers didn’t speak, nor did they exchange a glance. They just listened, nodding their heads like good cops do. There would be time for talking later, plenty of time.

  George let a few seconds roll by, waiting for a response that didn’t come. Then he said, “The train stops again. This time a dozen people got aboard. I’m not looking at any of them. Oh no, I’m looking out the window. The train starts moving. It went under a bridge and along two or three subdivisions and sure enough, I see him again. Four times, now––four! Only this time we’re not racing along the track at a hundred miles an hour, we’re going slow, like… twenty miles an hour, slow. And he’s looking at me. And his eyes are sparkling, like he has little flames inside his eyelids. His eyes are huge and gray and sparkling and I know they’re focused on me! I know it. And the man’s not alone. Oh no. Not this time. This time he has a little boy with him. The boy is five or six. The old man has a hand wrapped around the kid’s wrist and he’s holding him up so his feet aren’t quite touching the ground. The kid’s arm is extended in a way that looks terrible, it has to be hurting him, and, and…”

  George squeezed his eyes together and pulled the smoke from behind his ear. He lifted the matches, lit the cigarette and inhaled the nicotine. It helped. Didn’t fix anything but it helped.

  Detective Martin said, “What about the boy?”

  “I don’t remember what he was wearing, if that’s what you’re asking me, but I remember the pain in his face. He was hurting, all right. He was in a lot of pain. The old man had a hunting knife in his free hand. It was long, like a machete. He had the boy in one hand and the knife in the other. The boy was screaming. His eyes looked like they were trying to jump out of his head and he was screaming like a baby. Now, at this point I’m thinking: What the hell am I going to do? I want to get off the train and help the kid out somehow, but every time I see the old man he’s halfway between stations. I’m not even sure which way I should go, ‘cause I know I’m going to see him again, and I know I just passed him.

  “The train stops and I think about jumping off, but I don’t do it. I don’t know why. More people climb aboard, the car is getting full now… now that we’re close to Toronto. We start moving and five minutes later I see the old man a fifth time. The boy is there, lying at the old man’s feet with his throat slashed open. There’s a huge pool of blood around him, like every ounce of fluid has been drained from his body. And the old man is laughing. He loves it, I can tell. He’s laughing and smiling and he loves it. And that’s not the worst part. The worst of it is, the old man has another kid with him. This time it’s a little girl, and she’s screaming, just like the boy. He’s holding her up by her pigtail; her feet must be three inches from the ground. I don’t know how he did it. The girl was small but she must have been heavy, too heavy to hold up like that. But he’s doing it. Somehow the old man is doing it. Her feet are kicking and her hands are grabbing at his wrists. The old man is waving his knife in the air. He’s laughing and showing me who will die next, see? I get it, but what the hell should I do, huh? Can you tell me that? Should I call 911 and tell them I LOST MY FUCKING MIND?”

  “Sir,” Detective Martin said, startled by the outburst. “Maybe you should calm down. Have a drink of water.”

  George took another drag.

  McKean bummed the smoke and snatched a drag too.

  “The train kept rolling. We stop again. We start again. I’m not looking out the window now. I’ve had enough. I figure it’s me, you know? I tell myself that it’s just my imagination, but it’s not and I know it. After a while I look out the window. I have to. I can’t help it. And as soon as I look out I see him. The boy is at his feet and the girl is next to him. Both children are lying dead in a pool of blood that’s so big it looks like the pair has gone swimming, and he’s laughing, and smiling, and holding up another child. He’s holding up my son. MY SON!!!”

  “Sir––”

  “MY SON WILL BE THE NEXT TO DIE! GET IT? DO YOU GET IT? AND HE’S JUST A BOY!”

  “Sir you need to calm down.” McKean said, wondering if there was going to be a problem. He hoped not. He tried to avoid every problem he encountered.

  “FINE,” George said, loudly. His eyes were the image of pain. “Now I’m LOSING it––and I don’t know what to do! I’m praying… praying I’ve gone insane, you know? And maybe I have, but I don’t think so. And I make a decision: I’m getting off the train and going back. I’m going to get my son because I can’t sit on the train any longer. I don’t want to see what
happens next. I don’t! I can’t take it!”

  “But then something happened,” McKean said. “Didn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Something happened all right. I see them: three dead children, lying in a pile. My son David is near the tracks with his arms and legs bent out of shape. He looks like a broken swastika. His eyes are wide open and his throat is cut from ear to ear. My heart dies right there in my chest. I looked over my shoulder and I see the old man. He’s sitting next to me, inside the train! His eyes are sparkling and he’s smiling like a lunatic. He says, ‘Did ya see something interesting there, George? Did ya? Did ya see somethin’?’ And that’s it. I jump up from my seat and I start choking him. I choke him so hard that my knuckles turn white and my fingers get sore. And the whole train is screaming now, screaming at me! They’re trying to pull me off and some crazy bitch is laughing like a witch and I’m not letting up, because I know. I know!”

  George took another drag. McKean stole a drag too.

  “It doesn’t occur to me until later that this thing isn’t human. How can it be? It has to be something else, get it? It has to be something from a different world!”

  McKean nodded, thinking the guy was a nut-job. He had seen his fair share of them. They came in all shapes and sizes.

  “Do you really think that, Mr. Lewis?” Martin said, almost mockingly. “Do you really think that you saw somebody from another planet?”

  George ignored the question, lost in his own storytelling. “I saw the sparkle fade out of the old man’s eyes and I knew that he was gone. I knew it was over. Then somebody kicked me and somebody else dragged me outside. I didn’t try to fight them. I killed the bastard that murdered my boy and that was good enough for me.”

  “You killed a forty six year old man,” McKean said. “A high school history teacher.”

  George wondered if they had been listening. “But it was him… it was the old man.”

  “No,” Martin said. “It was a man named Dean Peavey. He had a wife. He had children.”

  “Oh no! This guy’s eyes were sparkling, like he had little firecrackers inside of them or something. It was the old man. Trust me.”