“I feel like I need to be giving some sort of inspirational speech. Something about the law, or freedom, or fighting for our city, or something. But here’s the thing: it’s just one man. It’s extremely unlikely that he has any sort of help, and this is in no way a war. This case is open and shut as far as I’m concerned. It may be getting a little dirty, and it may be putting some of you in danger, but we need to focus on what’s really important. We know, for an absolute fact, this guy is going down today. Either in handcuffs or a body bag, he’s never gonna hurt anyone else again. Just remember that this is the guy that has terrorized an innocent woman for the better part of three weeks, and killed at least two more innocents, including one of our own. An officer of the law. A man about to retire, and live out the rest of his life in peace. He took that away from us, from Gene, and from his family. So, we’re doing this for Gene.”
He stopped and panned the room again. Many of the officers, sweating now more than ever, were locked into attention. They were hanging on the edge of their seats, leaning forward, visibly terrified.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Sergeant Davis, Detective Moretti, y’all are with me. Lieutenant, stay here with Officers Jackson and Johnson to cover the station. All the rest of you, we’re rolling out together. I’ll take the lead and the rest of you follow behind. Let’s go.”
Captain Cole disappeared from his center stage and exited the room in a hurry. The rest of the officers, which there were twenty of in total in attendance, also filed out of the room. Jackson and Johnson were safe for another day, but the other eighteen of them had unsure futures. This time, all of them were silent. There was no quiet roar of whispers, no talking and gossiping, no making plans for the bar after work, no weekend discussions, no nothing. Pure silence and footsteps, and that was all.
As Marco followed the rest of the men, he felt the sullen heaviness of it all. Never had he heard the station so silent, and never would he again, he thought. They weren’t looking at each other, just their own feet as they walked. The crowd dispersed as they made it through the doorway, and the herd split apart back into individuals: each of which feared death, not ready for it. Each of these different souls returned to their own desks, strapped on their own holsters, and sat in silence. Some stared at a blank computer monitor, and some looked at the wall, or the ceiling, or the ground, or their own hands resting gently on the desk tops. Each of them thought of their own families, their beautiful or not-so-beautiful wives, their wonderful children if they had any, their lovable family pets. They thought of the homes they owned or rented, the cars they leased or financed, and they wondered if this morning would have been the last morning to see them. Perhaps the night before would be the last time they tuck their children into bed, or pray with them, or read them a story. Then, seemingly all at once, they all looked around the room at each other, thinking but not verbalizing, how this could indeed be someone’s last day on Earth. One of these men may very well not return to this station, or to his leased car, or to the home he rents with his wife and children. They each thought how entirely possible it was that they could be the officer assigned to inform a friend’s family of a tragedy.
None of them thought of Zoey or Terry Edmund, or of Gene, or the egregious nature of Alexander’s actions. None of them thought of revenge, or saving Dallas from a menace, or anything deeper than their own lives.
Except for Marco. Marco thought not for his family back in Italy. He thought not of his new apartment, or his new car. He thought not of the wife he doesn’t have, or the children he may never conceive. Marco only thought of Zoey and Terry Edmund, and of Gene, and of the egregious nature of Alexander’s actions. Marco thought only of revenge, and saving Dallas from a menace. But mostly he thought of revenge.
ELEVEN
6:21 p.m.
Each of the three people in the truck wore ballistic vests. Marco sat in the back seat, strapped in tight, thinking all the way how hot and stuffy it was. The Captain was driving and as he was hunched back in his own seat, the vest bulged out, protruding from his chest. He wore nothing over it - just his tight dress shirt and ballistic vest. Marco thought about how much of a badass Captain Cole was. Sergeant Davis rode shotgun. Everyone was silent. The only sounds that accompanied them were the ones of sirens from nearly a dozen squad cars, and the rushing wind through the open windows. Marco’s slicked back hair was not so slicked back anymore, as the wind defiled it.
In his stomach, there was a pit, and he assumed that Captain Cole had the same pit and that Sergeant Davis was just as ready to piss his pants. In the movies, the hero never looks scared. He never feels like sticking his head out of the open window and vomiting into the traffic behind. The hero never openly admits how terrified of death he is. In the movies, he’s just a hero.
Marco never thought of himself as a hero, or even the protagonist. In his own story, he was just Marco. He only existed to be Marco, and nothing more.
But from anyone else’s perspective, he was decorated for his age. Top of his class in college and in the police academy. He excelled in all academic and athletic aspects of the job, and was already years ahead of men much older than himself. Everyone else saw a brave young man, fighting for his city and for his fallen friend. Everyone else saw a warrior rushing headfirst into battle, not thinking of consequences beyond victory. Everyone else saw a hero.
---
6:33
The Captain’s truck was the first to arrive. They led the charge in front of a legion of officers. As they passed all of the cars on the highway, Marco couldn’t help but admire all the looks of intrigue and concern on the faces of people inside them.
The county road connected with the service road, just about a half of a mile from the exit of the interstate. Roughly three quarters of a mile down this road was the driveway. The turn-in was paved and the gate was open, but beyond the gate, the road became gravel. The wind died as their speed decreased, and as they drove along the gravel driveway, Marco noted the sounds of gravel crunching underneath the weight of the tires. Dust kicked up slightly, but less than it would if they were going faster. The legion turned in behind them, following their general into the unknown. One car, two cars, three cars, four. Then five, then eight, then ten.
The gravel road continued for ages, and all the while, the pit grew inside of Marco’s stomach, branching out and expanding into his chest and testicles. He was going to be sick, but he was ready.
Finally, after the moment that seemed to never end, they arrived in front of the tiny, but quaint wooden cottage. It was placed in a random spot with nothing around, and certainly not visible from the road. There was no sort of parking area carved out, no garage, no yard or fences, nothing. Just a wooden hut surrounded by poorly kept and overgrown grass. The Captain pulled up and parked about twenty yards from the front door. Soon, all of the officers followed, circling around and parking bumper to bumper, in uniform formation.
Marco, Captain Cole, and Sergeant Davis all opened their doors and exited the truck, stepping down onto the running boards, and then into the shin-high grass. In no time, they were surrounded in a huddle of officers.
Above them, day turned into night as the sun settled. Just in the distance, a hill divided the sun in half, depriving the sleepy countryside of daylight. The stillness became rustled and a cool, but not cold, breeze formed. Off a bit of a way, cars could still be heard on the highway, but it was a low rumble and instead, silence fell over them.
---
“Zoey, they’re here. Just on time, too. Are you ready?” he asks me, through the slit of the closed door.
“Just a minute. I’m finishing up!”
I don’t know his plan for this, but I trust him. I’m excited to look pretty for once, and I’m even more excited for him to see me a way other than he has for the last few weeks. I’m finally almost pretty. I could still stand to lose weight, but I’m almost there. I’m finally almost pretty. I’m finally almost acceptable.
I finish
the final details of my eyeliner, and open the door up. I’m wearing the white dress he picked out and bought for me. It’s gorgeous without being too revealing, but I don’t look like a nun either. It rides the line of sexy and modest perfectly, while complimenting my new physique.
When he sees me, he grins a certain way that Terry never had. He never appreciated my body, or when I dressed up for him. He never cared whether I did makeup or not, because to him I was ugly either way.
“My God, Zoey. You look fantastic.”
---
“Alright, fellas,” the Captain began, “I need two volunteers to go up to the door and knock. If you make the arrest, you’ll be credited in all the papers and your face will be in the news. Who wants to go?”
Officer Jacobs, being the man that he is, was delighted to have his heroic mug plastered all over Dallas media. He was the first to raise his hand, along with another officer in the middle of the huddle that wasn’t quite as enthused.
“It’s the two of you then. Just walk on up, introduce yourselves through the door, and make the arrest. You’ve got the entire fucking homicide department backing you up.”
Guns drawn, the two officers crept slowly toward the direction of the cabin.
---
“Go to the bed,” he said.
I listen and turn from the door to lie down. I sprawl out across the soft sheets, taking in the luxury of a fine mattress.
I know what’s next. It’s finally happening! I slip the strap off my shoulder, the white lace so thin that it feels like it may just tear.
“No, stop. Keep your dress on.”
It’s not happening after all.
“I need you to look completely decent. Just lie down, and close your eyes.”
I obey, and close my eyes. I stay above the covers, perfectly still, as if I was being shown off in an open casket.
As my eyes are closed, I can sense him come closer. As he approaches, some light is blocked out from the light in the hallway, and it casts a shadow over me. Closer and closer he comes, I can feel the warmth of his skin, the heat of his breath. He sits on the edge of the bed, his face just inches from mine, breathing me in.
“I want you to think of what our lives will be like. Picture us together, happily ever after.”
I do it. I see a quiet life in this quiet house, with well-behaved children. I see happiness and the return of my self-esteem. I see marriage and friendship.
In the midst of my distraction, a sharp sting swells in my neck, near my throat. It’s hot and painful, and it cuts deep. I can feel the dripping and spurting of hot liquid releasing from me before I open my eyes.
It’s blood.
---
Officer Jacobs and Officer Mahone crept closer and closer still as Marco watched in the distance, now camped behind the Captain’s truck. He was tucked safely behind the oversized tire, gun drawn and ready for chaos.
Closer they crept.
Another moment that seemed to never end.
---
“Zoey, I’m sorry it has to be this way. We have to go together!”
He’s sobbing. His tears drop onto my arm.
Even after seeing the blood, it takes a second for me to realize what he has done. In my peripheral, the deep red liquid gushed, occasionally spitting outwards, but mostly pouring straight out, covering me. It layers my neck in no time, and then drenches my beautiful white dress. It spreads to the sheets, quickly soaking into the thick comforter, and when it becomes too full, it drips onto the floor below.
My vision is fading.
It’s going white, and his sobbing is becoming faint.
I can hear nothing, and then darkness falls.
I slip, and it pulls me in.
---
Through the breeze from twenty or so yards away, Marco could only hear the faint trailing sounds of Jacobs’s knocks on the door and subsequent shouting. Then seconds of silence followed. And then more seconds, followed by an eternity.
In reality, this eternity only lasted about twenty seconds, but to every officer there, it was an eternity.
Jacobs pounded again, shouting again, but by the time it reached Marco, again it was faint and distant.
The Captain gave the signal and four more officers hurried up in a scooting fashion towards the door, to help break it in and rush the place. But by the time they reached the halfway mark, loud thunderous pops sounded and echoed through the calm landscape. Glass shattered and screams followed. A bright red mist shrouded the area in front of the door, and covered Officer Mahone. The other four that were headed that way stumbled in retreat, one dropping his weapon, and crawled like dogs back to safety.
The blood-covered officer sprinted backwards and jumped over the hood of a police vehicle, leaving the lifeless corpse of Jacobs at the doorstep. His head was gone almost entirely, leaving only chunks of remains scattered nearby, his torso entirely intact.
In the drawn-out seconds that followed the first shots, there was mostly quiet. But in unison, every officer in attendance opened fire into the side of the home, aiming primarily for the window that the shots originated from. Each officer emptied magazines, reloaded, and emptied again. Marco himself did not pull the trigger one time. Rather, he stood and watched his comrades in action.
The entire world enveloped itself into a blurry and muffled haze of pops and yelling. Yelling, yelling, yelling. Marco realized the yelling was directly in his ear, and it was directed at him.
“Marco, wake the fuck up!”
The Captain was in his ear.
“There’s an AR under the backseat of my pickup. It’s not police issue, but grab it anyway, and lay into that motherfucker! We’re gonna be dragging out a sack of meat by the time we’re done with him!”
As the faint smoke of repeated gunfire circled in the air above him, Marco left his area behind the truck’s tire and opened the driver’s side rear door, and found the rifle sitting under the seat, tucked comfortably under a blanket. Next to it, he found several magazines loaded and ready.
A bird above might be able to give a better picture of the scene, but it wasn’t a pretty one. A line of vehicles gave cover for more than twenty men, all of which were opening fire with everything they had, blindly into the side of a house. One man lay dead, whose face would be unrecognizable as it mostly consisted of torn skin, brain matter, and blood. A pickup truck in the back gave cover for three more men, one of which was unloading from behind the stock of a semi-automatic assault rifle. Any bird that may have been flying overhead to describe the scene would be long gone by this time.
All that remained were the warriors below and their weapons of choice. That, and blind hope.
In the same unison as they began, they ended together somewhat abruptly. One officer gave in first, and his giving in caused a chain reaction of others to halt. Then each followed, until only one or two men were left shooting, and they too ceased quickly. Then another brutal silence.
No more firing came from inside the home. It was possible that any one of the officers had struck and killed Alexander Hart, but Marco refused to take that chance.
Instead, he decided to make up for all of his mistakes. He decided to make up for shoddy police work that led to a slowly-developing case; he decided to make up for his friend that now rests in another world, whether that be heaven, hell, or something in between, or nothing at all. He decided to make up for the young girl who now will never feel her father’s touch again. He decided to make up for the woman who has been abused and tormented for three weeks. If there was any chance that the sick filth was still alive inside, or waiting, or squirming, or spitting out his last remaining breaths, Marco would make sure to see it through. He rushed.
In an almost slow motion, almost dramatic sort of way, he rushed head first into the eye of the storm, or what could be a storm itself. Baby tears blurred in his eyes as he thought of everything leading to this moment, but the chance for vengeance quickly dispersed them.
Marco reached the door
and kicked it in in one motion, as every one of the men watched from afar. Some rushed with him, and some gazed in wonderment, but he was there first and he was there alone.
Alexander was on the inside, alive and unwounded, taking cover behind a barricade made up of doors taken from their hinges, couches, chairs, and a bookshelf. It was clear that his intent was just to go out, guns blazing, and kill as many as he could. But he stopped at one, probably not anticipating the army that arrived at his doorstep.
Before Alexander could raise his gun to Marco, Marco put a bullet in his head. And three or four in his chest, and another in his head. Alexander’s shotgun dropped to the floor, and life left his body immediately. Blood covered the wall and floor behind him, and was pooling quickly from all of the holes. And all the sudden, Marco was a hero.
Officers joined up behind him, congratulating him, patting him on the shoulder, praising him, thanking him. Marco was the protagonist in his own story and now in the story of millions of others who would eventually know it.
The sick son of a bitch who killed and terrorized who knows how many, lied dead before him. Then he began stinking to all hell. The iron smell of blood poured thickly into the room and as his bowels and bladder evacuated, so did piss and shit.
But Zoey. Marco first ran through the living room where he shot Alexander, and she wasn’t there. Then the adjoining kitchen, and she wasn’t there. Then across the hall to the bedroom, and there she was.
In perfect serenity, she was already gone. Her arms were folded over her chest, over the white dress she was wrapped in. Her eyes were closed and her hair was brushed back. She was still warm, only minutes dead, but she was dead. And he was too late. And now she joined Terry and Gene as casualties he could have - should have - prevented.
Decay Page 28
