by Corey Brown
“Why was he there?”
“Hell if I know. Russ had just benched me, I was leaving.”
Frowning, Derek says, “Describe him.”
“Uh, not sure. Tall, kind of bulky, I guess. Nice suit. Jet black hair but I think it was colored, he was too old.”
Derek nods. “That’s him.”
Cody looks past Derek at Slater. Against Derek’s warning and against his own better judgment, Cody says, “If Russell was killed you need to be talking to this Murdock guy, because Russ was alive when I left him. The captain was my friend, why would I kill him?”
Still shaken by Derek’s threat, Slater pauses, tries to know what to do, what to say. “Well,” Slater ventures. “You tell me. Russell had just suspended you. That might be one reason. And it seems like people around you keep turning up dead. What about Eric Hansen? Got anything to say about him?”
Derek puts his hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Keep a lid on it.” He looks at Slater and says. “Where are you taking him?”
“District Five.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s on Claiborne,” Cody says, “At the intersection of Alvar Street.”
“On my way north,” Derek says, “I’ll call that lawyer but keep quiet until you meet with him.”
Chapter 31
“Suzanne? Are you there?”
She opens her eyes then sits up, looks around. Did I fall asleep? What time is it? Suzanne rubs her face and scans the walls for a clock. She looks at her wristwatch. Her nap was brief because only a few minutes have passed since she had last checked. She massages her neck.
“Is that you?”
Startled, Suzanne lets out a muffled cry. Just as quickly, she stifles the sound. Tenuously, she stands and takes a hesitant step toward the bed.
“David, are you talking to me? You can speak?”
The sheet ruffles, David nods. “My tongue has grown back, my lips, too.
Suzanne takes a few more steps.
“Don’t come near me,” David says. “Don’t take the sheet off.”
“Why not?”
“I am not completely healed, I’ll frighten you.”
Suzanne hesitates, not sure what to do. “Are you in pain?” She says. “Do you need anything?”
“Thanks, but I don’t need anything.”
“Are you sure? I can get a nurse.”
“No, don’t. I’m not certain what I feel is even physical. It’s strange, this is the most intense pain I’ve ever experienced and at the same time, I feel nothing.” David moves, the sheet shifting with him. “It doesn’t make sense, but I think the pain I feel in my body is a reflection of my soul or conscious energy or something.”
“Oh, David----” Emotion chokes off Suzanne’s words as her eyes well with tears. “What is happening to you?”
“I can’t explain it,” David says. “All I really know is that I was three, now I am two.”
Suzanne shakes her head. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
David does not answer immediately. Suzanne wonders if he has slipped away again, but then David stirs, his hand momentarily coming out from under the sheet. Suzanne gasps, David’s skin looks as though it had been burned.
“I don’t know what it means,” David says. “But I’m scared. I’m scared shitless.” David swallows. “Uh sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.”
“It’s okay, I’m just thankful you’re alive.” Suzanne hesitates. “You really are alive, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh, I’m really alive. But I wish I wasn’t.”
“Don’t say that.” Suzanne moves closer. “I can’t imagine how you feel or why this is happening or…or anything, but I’m grateful you’re not dead.”
“Sorry,” David says, softly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Suzanne pushes down another swell of tears, collects herself, draws a long, slow lungful of air. David needs strength, courage.
“I’ll be with you every moment,” she says, “I won’t leave your side. Now, let me look at you.”
“Please, just wait a little longer.”
“No, I want to see you. I want to understand what you’ve been through.”
David does not reply.
Suzanne reaches for the sheet covering David. She hesitates, considers what David’s silence means, wonders if she is going too far. Then carefully but in a swift single motion, Suzanne peels back the sheet.
At the sight of him, Suzanne turns her head, fights a sudden wave of dizziness. She wants to yank the sheet back over his face but does not. Resisting the urge to run out into the bathroom and vomit, fighting the urge to run away, Suzanne stiffens her shoulders and mouths a prayer for strength.
This is David, Suzanne reminds herself, this is my brother, not some hideous creature. She forces herself to look again, closes her eyes, curses, and prays again. She draws a breath and expels one more prayer. After a moment she steadies her nerves and looks again, takes him in.
The entire front side of his body is almost completely stripped of skin, only raw and knotted tissue remains. Running the whole length of his body, where front had split from back, is an almost perfect line where undamaged skin meets sinewy muscle. On David’s face, one cheek still shows gray and bloody, a thin layer of tissue stretching down over his jawbone and a small ridge of cartilage forms what should have been his nose. Where David’s friendly brown eyes should have been are dark, bottomless sockets.
Suzanne draws a breath, tries to relax. “Oh Heavenly Father, David what happened?”
“I was being literal,” David says, “I was three, now I am only two. Something inside split away, taking part of me with him.”
His voice is thick and dry. Suzanne looks again at David’s mouth. Blood crusts over his raw, bloated lips.
“I don’t understand,” Suzanne says. “You were three what?”
David attempts a short laugh. “You don’t understand, try being me. I don’t know, I was three now I am two…beings.”
“What does that mean?” Suzanne says. “You are you, not anyone else.”
“Apparently, that is not quite true.”
David’s words carry weight, have impact, and Suzanne struggles to understand.
“But if you are two now,” Suzanne says. “What about the other, uh, being? Is it still in there? Will that one tear itself out of you, too?”
“I’m not positive,” David says. “But I don’t think so. The remaining one is different, not as foreign as the one that left. I think it’s more me than not me, if that makes any sense.” Without the advantage of sight, David manages to point at a large hole in his thigh where the bone is exposed. “But look,” he says. “I’m healing even as we speak.”
Suzanne does look. She blinks, unsure of her eyes in the dim lighting. She stares harder. The wound is, in fact, healing. After a few seconds, the bone is no longer visible.
“That’s incredible,” Suzanne says. “How are you doing that?”
“I don’t know how it’s happening, but it’s not me. Actually, I think the one that came out of me is causing it. He’s out there, I can feel him and, every once in a while, I see flashes of what he sees.” David sighs. “You notice he took my eyes.”
Suzanne starts to ask David what he means, but she waits, looks him over again. Slowly, it all begins to make sense.
“Is he raw in back?” Suzanne asked. “I mean, like the opposite of you?”
“Yes.” David shivers. “Would you cover me? I’m cold.”
Gently, Suzanne replaces the sheet, pausing momentarily before covering David’s head, the sight of him now less grotesque, more like the memory of her brother.
“Your ears,” Suzanne says. “They look okay. You didn’t lose them?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The other being, can he hear us?”
“I think so,” David says from beneath the sheet. “But I don’t know for sure. In some way I can’t understand, he and I are still linked to each other. I
don’t know why or how, but we are still connected.”
Suzanne shifts her weight. “You said sometimes you can see what he sees,” Suzanne says. “What do you see?”
David swallows again, his mouth is so dry. “Messed up things,” he says. “Things that are not of this world, ugly creatures, I think the other me came from… ”
Suzanne allows time for David to finish his sentence, she waits, but he says nothing.
“David?” Suzanne says. “What were you going to say? The other you came from where?”
David still doesn’t answer but Suzanne can tell he is working up to it.
“He came from…” David’s voice falters. “He came from hell.”
«»
On the edge of the lower bunk, Cody sits alone in his cell, brooding. Upon arrival, Slater and his new partner, Ian Ruxlind—what kind of name is that? Who names their kid Ian with a last name like Ruxlind? The two of them had taken Cody to an interrogation room but after thirty minutes of silence, they’d given up and tossed him into a holding cell.
Now, locked away in the same kind of cage he had put dozens of other people into, Cody’s emotions and thoughts pair off like bookends. Anger matches up with resignation, confusion with understanding. Cody is frustrated with his arrest and at the same time, since the moment he had learned of Nick Wheaton’s death, he had known it would come to this. How he’d known isn’t clear, but he’d known—or at least had felt it.
Slater had not given away much during their time in the interrogation room. Which meant Cody knew almost nothing about the case against him. Slater had, however, let one bit of information slip out: Russell Laroche had been found dead, late in the afternoon and, like Hansen, he had taken it in the head, execution style.
The question in Cody’s mind is why they concluded he was the one who pulled the trigger. What would make them think he had killed Russell? Cody assumes Russell’s time of death is close to the time of their meeting. But if that is the case, Murdock had to be the triggerman.
Cody thinks about this, thinks someone must have seen him leaving Russell’s office near the time of the shooting, but what about Murdock? Didn’t anyone see Murdock, didn’t anyone see him go into Russell’s office? Someone must have heard the gunshot.
And what about the meeting between Murdock and Russell? Did Murdock have an appointment, was Russell expecting this guy? Or did he just show up? Cody tries to remember details, but he cannot recall anything specific. The whole thing had lasted about five seconds; Cody had pulled the door open and Murdock introduced himself, extended a hand, mistook Cody for Russell. But Cody had been out of earshot in a moment. All he heard was a snippet of Murdock’s voice then the door had closed.
“Hey Briggs, you got a visitor.”
Cody looks up. The cop on guard duty is standing outside the cell.
“Who is it?” Cody says.
“Beats me, your lawyer I think.”
Frowning, Cody wonders how the attorney could have arrived so quickly. He tries to review the timeline, can’t quite draw it clearly. Maybe he has been in jail longer than he knows.
“I hate to do this,” the cop says. “But you know the drill.”
Cody nods. “Yeah, okay.”
Exiting the cell means physical restraint. Cody stands, walks over to the cell door and shoves his hands through the bars. As the guard starts to clip a pair of handcuffs over Cody’s wrists someone says, “Officer, that won’t be necessary.”
Both men look in the direction of the sound. Walking toward them is a young-looking man dressed in a black silk suit, white shirt and burnt red tie. And sunglasses, for Christ’s sake he is wearing sunglasses indoors. His walk, his posture, his manner is brisk, in charge.
“My client poses no threat,” the man says. “You don’t need to shackle him.”
The officer struggles to remember protocol, he tries to recall the specifics of whatever regulation he needed to enforce. Handcuffing a prisoner is required, he is pretty certain of that. More importantly, why the hell is this lawyer in the cellblock?
“Prisoners must be restrained,” the officer says, with less authority than he had intended. “It’s policy.”
“I understand. Now, unlock the door.”
The guard does as he is instructed. He inserts the key, turns it, pulls the cell door open.
“Very good,” the lawyer says. “You can leave.”
The guard turns away, pauses, looks back then exits.
Cody watches, knowing he has seen this before. But where, when? Then it comes to him: T’biah. T’biah had pulled this same trick on Eric Hansen over on Dauphine street, in Nick’s apartment building. But this guy isn’t T’biah. This guy is just a lawyer. Or is he?
Like stepping out of a patch fog, clarity sweeps into Cody’s mind. He watches the officer shuffle away, knows some un-earthly thing is in play. Slowly, the lawyer turns toward Cody.
“That was easy,” The lawyer says. His tone of voice carries a sense of uncertainty, even surprise.
“Yeah, okay, fine it was easy. Now, who are you?”
The man scratches his chin and the corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile.
“Don’t tell me you’re no one.” Cody says. “Or worse, don’t tell me you’re a friend,” Cody makes a face. “I got better friends than you in hell.”
The lawyer looks at Cody, his half smile growing wide. The man is smiling but his expression is not friendly. On the surface he seems genial, affable, but his true emotion telegraphs rottenness, genuine evil.
“Is that so?” The lawyer says. “Do you have any idea what hell is really like?” He holds up a hand to stop Cody from replying. “Never mind, you will know someday. But wouldn’t a friend release you from your bonds?”
“Fuck you. I’m staying.”
An eyebrow rises, the man cocks his head. “Oh? What makes you think you have a choice?”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey man,” some inmate calls out, “You can take me, I’ll go.”
The lawyer turns slowly, stares at the other prisoner.
The inmate stares back, tries to hold the lawyer’s gaze then sees who is really looking at him. The skin on the inmate’s face seems to shrink back, pulling tight against his skull. His eyes go wide and he sucks in a sharp, surprised breath. Then he loses control of his bladder.
“Oh Jesus, oh man,” the inmate says, looking down at the wet spot growing between his legs. “I’m sorry. I won’t be no trouble, just leave me alone.”
The lawyer turns back to face Cody.
“Cute,” Cody says. “Very cute.”
The lawyer shrugs. “He’s annoying.” The lawyer beckons Cody. “All right, come on, let’s go.”
“I told you----”
The lawyer takes Cody by the shirt and starts to drag him out.
“Back off,” Cody says, struggling against the man’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”
The man stops pulling, looks hard at Cody then leans in close and says, “You really don’t get it, do you?” His breath is hot, almost putrid. Strangely, the man seems familiar, as if Cody knows him. “This is so much bigger than you know,” the man says. “We’re talking end of the world, here. You have absolutely no choice, no control.” He straightens, a wry smile drifted onto his face. “I’m just giving you the opportunity to die trying.”
Cody has never actually met David Carlson or even seen a picture of him. And what was left of the face on the man back in Saint Charles Hospital could have been anybody, might have been nobody. But this guy seems like David Carlson, feels like David Carlson.
Cody looks intently at the lawyer. But what he had said, all that crap about the end of the world and having the opportunity to die, none of that seems like things Carlson would say.
And Cody knows that David Carlson is lying in a hospital bed, ripped to pieces. This ‘lawyer’ cannot be David Carlson. This man in the black suit created conflicting impressions, he might be David Carlson, might not be. Who is really ben
eath the silk?
Cody feels himself slipping into that same kind of mental darkness he’s been struggling against for the last few days. Bits and pieces of thoughts swirl about, almost coming together. Maybe the pieces touch, maybe they form complete ideas but just as quickly they spin away into nothing.
In his mind, Cody sees a line or maybe he just feels it, either way the line presents itself as a point of demarcation: the one thing that separates this life from something else. Cross the line and all the pieces will come together, he will understand everything. But the line is also a point of separation, the one thing that separates his life from death. Cross the line and his life will be ruined.
For a flash, for an instant, the lawyer is naked. Cody blinks, looks again. The man is disfigured and bleeding, full of bullet holes. But the image is not like a still photograph, it is living, animated. The man stands upright, his look, his posture seems indifferent to his condition.
Now, the bleeding stops, the wounds are healing, his skin becoming whole, his skin is turning black. Another heartbeat and the man is clothed again, white shirt still pressed, the suit jacket buttoned at the waist. Cody rubs his face, rubs his eyes trying to clear or, perhaps, recall the image. He tries to find that point of demarcation but it is gone.
Cody draws an index finger across his lower lip and says, “Are you David Carlson?”
In a third floor hospital room, David Carlson sits bolt upright and screams, “No! Not him, me. I’m David Carlson.”
Suzanne flinches, steps back. “David?” she says, “What’s wrong? Oh God, look at you. You’re almost---- except for your eyes, you’re almost healed.”
“Briggs, don’t listen to him!” David shouts, ignoring his sister.
