by Corey Brown
“What if I need to reach you?”
Cody looks at the doctor, hears the worry in his voice, he considers how alike they are. Regardless of heritage or education, people look to both doctors and cops for reassurance. Crisis, not Samuel Colt, is the true equalizer.
Glancing around the room, Cody searches for something to write on. Next to the bed is a nightstand. He tugs on the bottom drawer and sees a red Gideon Bible. Cody takes it, cracks it open, then strips out a page and writes a phone number in the margin.
As he gives the page to Harris, Cody catches sight of the verse next to his handwriting. He stares at the text. It is John three-sixteen, ‘for God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.’
The words hang in Cody’s mind….That whoever believes in him shall have eternal life…is this what the stranger meant when he spoke of faith, did he mean believing in God’s son? But how do you believe in a dead guy? Exactly what do you believe in, and just what does it mean to believe?
Before he can even think about the answers to these questions, Cody senses a presence, more like many presences, surrounding him. Tension fills the room, stretching from corner to corner. It wraps around Cody like a dozen steel cables and feels like the anticipation of thunder after a distant flash of lighting.
Cody’s nostrils catch the scent of decay. It seems to cut his breath short. But it is not a dead thing. Cody knows what he smells is the essence of death itself.
He feels a surge of panic and at the same time Cody finds himself thinking of the Bible verse, Cody finds he is trying to remember something. This strange, irrational fear of unseen creatures mixes together with bits and pieces of something that is important. But the important thing eludes Cody. He frowns, tries to swallow his panic. What is it he needs to remember? But the feeling is like a whisper, like the whisper of a Bible verse, maybe the whisper of John three-sixteen? The verse reminds him of some clouded memory. But which one, what memory?
Cody stands, staring at the page in his hand, his vision blurring at the edges. Without knowing it, he understands it is the same sensation he’d had with the stranger in Nick’s apartment building.
“Is something wrong?” Harris asks. “You look upset.”
Cody blinks hard then looks at Harris and shakes his head, trying to clear his foggy peripheral vision, trying to chase away the things lurking just beyond the edge of his sight.
“No, uh, everything’s fine,” Cody says. He extends his hand, holds out the Bible page to Harris.
As Harris reaches for the paper they both feel something, like a change in air pressure, like something rushing between them. The paper is torn from Cody’s fingers and flutters away. The two look at each other then at the place where the page disappeared under the bed. They look, again, at each other. Cody frowns, kneels down and looks under the bed for the sheet of paper.
After a moment, Cody stands, empty-handed, and stares at Harris, a bewildered look on his face.
“It’s….gone,” Cody says, quietly.
“What do you mean?” Harris says.
Cody shakes his head, shrugs. “It’s not there. It’s gone.”
Harris kneels and peers under the bed. With nothing to obstruct his view he can see well beyond the bed. Cody is right. The page has disappeared.
Harris stands, looks at Cody “That’s weird,” he says, then makes a face. “What the hell?”
Cody shakes his head. “Not weird, its goddamned creepy.” Cody draws a short breath, lets it out hard and says, “Okay. Let’s try this again.”
Cody reaches for the red Gideon Bible once more but then hesitates. He glances back at Harris and says, “I don’t think I should use this.”
“Here,” Harris says, producing a laundry receipt from his breast pocket. “Use this.”
“Good idea. Okay, if you have to get in touch with me….”
Cody’s voice trails off. He looks at the floor beneath the hospital bed, where John three-sixteen had been spirited away. He considers that Bible verse, wonders if it means something, worries some important thing has escaped his detection. Cody closes his eyes, swallows, drags his attention back to the immediate task and scribbles a phone number on the receipt.
“If you need me,” Cody says. “Call this number. He’s a friend, you can trust him. Tell him you need to get a message to me. He’ll know what to do. And use a pay phone. Use one that’s nowhere near your home or office.”
Harris takes the paper and looks at the phone number. His mind is exploding with questions even as his blood runs cold.
“What,” Harris says, looking back at Cody. “Should I do about Doctor Robiere? You told her I was your physician.”
“I’ll take care of Doctor Robiere. But when you leave, tell her that you were paged with an emergency and had to leave. Tell her you did nothing and she should complete the exam, if that’s necessary. Now, you’ve been here way too long. You should go.”
“Okay,” Harris says, slowly. But he makes no move to leave.
Cody puts a hand on Harris’s shoulder and says, “Trust me, you want to stay far away from me. You need to go, right now.”
Slowly, with a heart full of fear, Harris moves toward the door but he stops, looks back at Cody. “I’m sorry,” Harris says. “I’m sorry if I caused this, Cody.”
Cody sighs, shakes his head. “Believe me, you had nothing to do with any of it.”
Chapter 12
Two blocks from the Tulane parking garage a taxi rolls to a stop against the curb. Cody snaps the door handle back, climbs out and gives the cabbie a wad of singles.
“Need change?” The driver asks, counting it out.
For an instant, Cody hears Jamie’s protest in his head. She is the family’s money manager and, for her sake, he almost says yes. After all, the fare was much less than the fistful of bills he’d handed over. But it is easier to let the driver have it all. Right now, Cody just doesn’t care.
“No, keep it,” Cody says, turning away from the car.
The sun is low in the sky, gracing the world with a soft, orange glow. New Orleans seems quiet and friendly despite the oppressive heat, despite the crime and its irreverent reputation, the city seems peaceful. Stopping at a pay phone, Cody calls his friend, Derek Simmons.
“Thanks, I owe you,” Cody says, closing out the conversation.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will, catch you later.”
Gently replacing the handset back on the cradle, Cody presses his forehead against the handset and exhales, his cheeks puffing slightly. He is exhausted. It takes effort just to think and yet he still feels wired, connected to whatever is in play. Cody touches his wounded shoulder, the painkillers are retreating, he considers taking another pill. Stepping out of the phone booth Cody glances around before crossing the street.
After leaving Doctor Harris’s office, Jamie had driven Julia home in Julia’s old Nissan, leaving Jamie’s car parked anonymously downtown.
Now, with his own car impounded as part of a crime scene, Cody has decided to retrieve Jamie’s Dodge Intrepid. A hundred feet from the black car, Cody’s path drifts to a concrete support column. Surreptitiously, he drops in behind it. He crouches down, risks a glance around the post. Cody wonders if anyone knows this is Jamie’s car, wonders if anyone is watching.
Cody removes the gun, silently checks for ammunition and slips it back into his shoulder rig. Rising up to look over the trunk of a nearby Toyota, Cody scans left then right. He waits, allowing time to pass, wants to see if anything will happen. Nine minutes later, Cody cautiously strolls over to his wife’s car.
A few yards from the vehicle, Cody takes out a keychain. Amidst a handful of keys is a rectangular remote control, Cody presses the unlock button. Hearing the dull sound of the lock disengaging, Cody quickens his pace, reaches for the car’s door handle and as his fingers touch the latch, strangely, something Jamie had said pierces
Cody’s thoughts….“Why don’t you start coming to church with us?”
Before he can concentrate on that memory, it is pushed aside by the Bible verse John three-sixteen: ‘For God so loved the world…’
Only this time, unlike at the hospital, Cody doesn’t feel surrounded by something unseen. Oddly, he feels completely and utterly alone. For God so loved the world? Yeah, right. Cody sighs, he’s given up on religion, it is just good fortune he is still breathing after that shotgun attempt. It wasn’t church, not divine intervention; it was nothing more than plain, old luck.
But even as he tells himself this, Cody wonders if that is really true. Was it just luck? He shakes his head.
Of course it was, forget that religious shit.
Without realizing it, a puzzled look comes over Cody’s face. Forget that religious shit? It was as if those words had been shoved into his brain. Cody frowns. That wasn’t his thought.
The air is still, collected, but despite the calm Cody feels an unexpected rush of wind. It comes from behind and, for a moment, it makes the hot, sticky New Orleans evening seem cool. Then Cody catches the scent of something decaying, something long dead. But, before he can identify what is causing the stench, Cody is slammed against the Dodge by a force powerful enough to separate his shoulder blades and snap his head backward. The sudden impact makes Cody reel and he cries out in pain, but voice is choked off as the air is forced from Cody’s lungs.
Pinned against the car, the side of his face pressed onto the roof, Cody feels a razor-sharp blade against his neck. The foul odor of his assailant’s voice, almost overwhelming, pollutes the air.
“You got lucky once today, asshole,” the man growls. His voice is bestial and his acrid breath feels raw against Cody’s ear. The man chuckles, says, “But your life in this realm is over.”
Cody struggles, reaches for his weapon but the assailant’s strength is unlike any he has ever encountered.
“I’m a cop,” Cody says, “Think about what you’re doing, ice me and every other policeman in this city will come looking for you.”
The man grunts, the sound is something between a laugh and a curse. “Like I give a shit? No one can touch me.”
“Oh yeah?” Cody says, as defiantly as his flattened lungs will allow. “Let me loose, dickhead,” Cody sucks in air then says, “And we’ll see about that.”
“You fool,” the man says, pressing even harder against Cody’s back. “Are you so ignorant as to think you could defeat Diazolón?”
“Let me go and I’ll kick your miserable ass off this planet.”
“Even though I’d prefer it, I don’t have time to kill you slowly.”
Cody thinks about Jamie, feels his bones being crushed, wishes he could say goodbye. Each time Cody exhales it becomes that much more difficult to draw the next breath. The assailant’s blade presses harder, Cody feels it slit his skin.
So this is it? Cody imagines the blade severing his head. So this is how it ends. As he suffocates, Cody feels his limbs start to tingle, feels his heart pounding, working harder. And his mind wanders. He looks for meaning in his life, but his fleeting, miscellaneous thoughts chain back to Jamie. As he dies he finds himself thinking only of his wife.
Jamie, I’m sorry. I love you.
Then Cody’s assassin grunts and turns away. Out of instinct, Cody tries to break free, but he is held fast by the man’s immense strength.
“You?” The killer shouts, whether his tone is that of rage or fright, Cody cannot tell. “Bastard. Stay away, I will have this one.”
Blood hammers in Cody’s temples, his vision is turning black, he knows it will be only a few seconds more until he passes out. But, as he fights to maintain consciousness, Cody thinks he hears a tinkling sound, like metal on metal. Like the sound of a chain uncoiling.
“Diazolón.” The voice is calm, somehow familiar. “Even you know better than to travel alone.”
“Eat shit, T’biah. No one is afraid of you, not anymore. You are nothing but a shadow.”
“Interesting,” T’biah says. “Your cousin said exactly that, just before I gutted him.”
Cody’s eyelids flutter, his world is slipping into darkness.
“That was you?” Diazolón shouts. “You killed him? Motherf----”
There is a swooshing sound, as something heavy slices the air. Mercifully, Cody feels the bone crushing pressure lift from his spine. Thrilled by a sense of deliverance, he sucks air into his lungs. But relief has come too late. Physics and physiology are working against Cody, he is fast approaching the threshold of unconsciousness.
Cody hears several more whooshing sounds. Fighting to stay alert, he twists around, trying to find his weapon. Falling back against the car, Cody’s hand gropes at his shoulder holster. Sliding to a sitting position, his fingers wrap around the pistol’s grip. Semi-blind, Cody watches as a large, mysterious form tumbles to the ground. He closes his eyes, hears a dull thud, feels the deep resonance of impact. Cody knows something really big just hit the pavement.
Then Cody hears a bloodcurdling scream. Oddly, he wonders if the sound came from his own mouth. He struggles to stay conscious; he does not.
Coughing, making serious attempts to collect air, Cody’s chest heaves. Then he opens his eyes, closes them, he shakes his head.
Standing a few yards away is a man of medium build and height. He is wearing a brilliant white tee shirt and faded blue jeans. And he is barefoot. His shoulder-length black hair is unkempt, giving him a wild, daring look. His dark-skinned, broad face appears to be youthful, but there is something old, something timeless about him.
In the stranger’s hand is a weapon. Cody frowns, looks at the object, he tries to figure out what it might be. It has a black handle, a spiked ball dangling from its chain. Cody squints. A mace? Who the hell carries a mace?
Stillness rolls through the parking garage, but the quiet is more than just the lack of sound. The silence seems to have form, seems to express physical presence. Still, there is no one else, just the two of them, Cody and this man in a shining white tee shirt.
There is no question the stranger has come to Cody’s rescue, but where is his attacker? There should be a hulking body, presumably dead, laying somewhere nearby. Cody wants to know who had tried to kill him and he starts to ask but hesitates, unable to find his voice.
Time seems to pause. Or maybe it moves more quickly, Cody isn’t sure. But he has the sense that he is outside time, beyond it. Now, the stranger’s weapon is gone. The mace is non-existent, as if he ever had such a thing.
Ignoring Cody’s gun, the stranger steps in close, leans down and extends a hand, offering to help Cody to his feet. Despite the burning pain that stretches across his shoulders and down both arms, Cody aims the gun higher, points it at the stranger’s face.
He jabs the firearm at the man and says, “What do you want?”
The man straightens, drawing away from Cody. Arms folded across his chest, the man appraises Cody, his expression a mixture of amusement and impatience.
Still in pain, locked at the elbow, Cody stiff-arms his Smith and Wesson. Despite the apparent resolve to defend himself, Cody knows the handgun is useless. Somewhere, on a plane of thought just below the surface, Cody knows pulling the trigger will have absolutely no effect; the hammer will strike the casing, the powder will ignite, explode, and the bullet will rocket from the chamber. But nothing will happen to the stranger.
Somewhere just below the surface, Cody understands he has slipped into an alternate reality.
“Well?” Cody says.
Once more the man stoops, offers Cody his hand. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
Cody looks at the extended hand, looks up at the stranger. The man has a disarming expression on his face. Cody hesitates, considers his few remaining options then gives up, gives in and passes the gun to his left hand. It’s a neutral move and, in later years when Cody remembers these events, he recalls what a bad shot he was as a lefty.
The man
takes Cody’s right hand and pulls him to his feet. For a moment they stand face to face, staring at each other. Cody hears the man breathing, he frowns, works at a memory; Cody tries to remember something someone once said to him. Looking at the stranger, Cody wonders if whatever it is he should know was told to him by this very man.
“Do I know you?” Cody says.
“That depends.”
His brain already on overload, Cody barely understands what the man has said. Was it a question or a statement?
“Sorry, not fair,” the man says, a friendly smile working over his face. “Forget it. No, you don’t know me.”
Before Cody can react, the man cups his hand around Cody’s neck, rough fingers finding the spot where the assassin’s blade had sliced Cody’s skin. There is a sharp, searing pain, like a hot ember pressing into his neck. Cody winces, tries to speak but cannot. Then the man pulls away, his fingertips red with blood. A second later he brushes his hands together, wiping away the crimson stain.
Cody touches his neck, expecting to feel a raw wound, expecting more pain. But his skin is smooth, no cut or welt. No discomfort. Unsure of what to think, Cody looks at the man and this time the stranger’s aspect is indifferent, almost cold. The expression surprises Cody but in that instant he knows who this man is and why he has come here.
As if standing in the eye of a hurricane, Cody sees it all swirling around him, bits and pieces of the past and the future and the present. In his mind, knowledge that seems to encompass all there is to know flows like the current of a mighty river.
