“I’ll be back in an hour,” I tell him, leaving Steve on the bed with a look of pain and fierce struggle on his face.
When I reach the Russian arms dealer, he’s bent over and shuffling his merchandise, which is stuffed into a series of boxes in the back of a black van. He doesn’t act as if he notices me but, turning around, I notice him tucking a tiny pistol up his sleeve in preparation of an attack.
“My good friend!” he says, laughing before he’s even looked at me; it’s as if he recognizes my presence. He turns and pulls the tiny pistol from out of his sleeve and stuffs it back into a box, returning to smile with an outstretched arm. He shakes my hand vigorously – his jet black hair has grown longer, well past his shoulders, and his face is covered in a neatly shaped, thick black beard. His mouth is hard to see under it but his voice is boisterous, every word a proclamation.
We haven’t seen each other in many years but I used to visit him once a week, often perusing his line of mostly illegal weaponry. He had a knack for talking me into buying highly illegal and dangerous weapons, culminating with a trunk of Russian incendiary grenades that I eventually used to tear down an apartment building.
“What brings you back to this Philadelphia city!” he exclaims in a thick Russian accent.
“I’m just looking for a gun. Semi-automatic, something small and easy to hide but something that has weight.”
“Oh-ho-ho. You, my good friend – I have just gun for you!” he chortles heartily, seemingly overjoyed at my appearance. “Walther P22 – 15 ounce weight,” and he removes the tiny black firearm from out of a box, cradling it in his hand, “2.4 inch barrel, 10 round magazine.”
He hands me the gun and I hold it in my hand…it’s been quite a long time since I’ve held a firearm with the expectation of using it to end a life. The metal feels warm and my fingers clasp the handle like they would a breast in the heat of passion. I pull back the slide, eject the magazine, and find the gun is unloaded; twice I click the slide in place and fire a CLICK at the ground. With guns, there’s a mutual attraction, where the gun feels as if it were made for you and your hand feels as if every curve and line developed just to fit this one object.
“I’ll take it,” I say; it feels right. “Give me a box of hollow point bullets and…what is that?” I ask, motioning toward a toppled-over box half sticking-out.
“That?” the Russian asks, slyly. “You don’t want that.”
“Um, I do. Give me two.”
And I remove the cash, well over the amount it should be – but with that money comes a filed serial number and a set of sealed lips. The Russian shakes my hand vigorously once more, and I head back to the hotel. Halfway there, my prepaid cell phone rings and it’s Steve:
“They killed him, the guys. They’re in dark clothes. Like jumpers. Full body.” He’s half out of breath and running down stairs as he talks. “Opened the door. Sneaked, nothin’ loud. Came in. Killed Augustus—God, he couldn’t defend himself—they killed with some inhaler thingie – prolly blew out his lungs like they did with whoever replaced Pasquale. I’m following them to the—they were in an’ out so quick, I’m runnin’ the stairs to follow them on the street. Over.”
And he hangs up.
The cab pulls up to the hotel not two minutes later.
As I casually walk toward the grand front entrance, a growing silence half a block down catches my attention. There’s an invisible sphere on the sidewalk, one that people can’t seem to enter. There’s a crowd gathered in almost a perfect circle. I run at the same time as I gasp with sad realization, causing my first few steps to stagger a bit. Pushing harder the closer I get to the shield blocking the gawkers, I make it to the front and I find Steve convulsing on the sidewalk. Foam comes out of his mouth like a soap dispenser and I bend near him, wide-eyed and frightened; seldom does my fear stem from something other than police, the only formidable enemy I’ve known. I feel fear for family, too, especially Lizzy. The fear inside my chest as I bend down to Steve is the fear that my friend is leaving me forever…it’s a harrowing feeling, one I’m not accustomed with. It sucks the voice from my lungs, along with the air. I crouch and support his head but I know he has only moments – though he appears to be having a seizure, I know that only moments before I got there a man caught him in some way unaware and gave him a dose of that lethal air, injected it right into his lungs, which were now disintegrating.
The look on his face is of exquisite pain.
“No, don’t…” I whisper to him as he moves, until I notice that he’s handing me Augustus’ phone.
I take the phone and look into Steve’s eyes but, well…Steve’s eyes move through me and I feel him leave.
And I shake it off – it’s an emotionless center I can resort to that nobody else ever seems to have. After the amount of people I’ve murdered – the amount of eyes I’ve felt move through me on their way to whatever else it was that came next (probably nothingness) – all of that death, it left a hidden corner behind my heart where I could tuck whatever emotion I didn’t want to feel, whatever pain or anger or sadness that surged, I could just tuck it away, just hide it behind my heart and move on with my business until I felt the need to remove the bookmarker, the stain.
And I stand, focusing on the phone and merging back into the crowd. Not a single person goes to help, or tries to stop me from what looks like a quick phone robbery – nope, they just stare.
The phone has a map, and the map has a blip that’s two blocks ahead of me.
And I run full sprint, passing businesses and in-between people of the 7:00 a.m. traffic. The streets are busy and there’s a line of people piling down into the subway system. The blip didn’t move much from their spot – just standing in one position – and I close in on the location.
Nothing. No one in jumpers. People crossing the street and, where it seemed to be the middle of the street, there’s no one standing still.
“Fuck!” I slap my head at being so stupid and return full force to the line down into the subway system, pushing past people who shout obscenities, until I reach the dank bottom and run along the white tiled walls – there’s a toll and I pay the man, who hits a button and lets me pass to the yellow line along the edge of the tracks, everyone waiting for the train.
At the end of the platform, I see three men in jumpers.
They don’t notice me and I keep my face down.
There’s the rush of wind and the unmistakable sound of an oncoming train.
I remain still and watch them from next to a pillar.
The train pulls up to the station.
People begin to pile into the train, everyone moving at a snail’s pace as the train’s already a bit crowded. One by one and in doves, everyone moves – and I, with everyone, stand in a line to board the train. Inch by inch by inch until I get to the door and check to find…the men in jumpers haven’t moved. They’re still standing side-by-side near the end of the platform. It took the platform emptying of people before I had a clear vision of the metal briefcase in one of the men’s hand.
And, after a moment, everyone had boarded the train…
Except the three men in dark jumpers…
And me.
They may not have noticed me before but the train doors close and the three men turn to look at me; faced with no other option, and nearly an entire train platform (maybe twenty feet) between us, I turn and face the three men.
Even at a distance, I recognize the face of Mans el-Ray Pasquale.
It’s in the center, with a man at either side.
We stare at each other, three men facing one, while the train ramps up and departs down the track. It’s an awkward moment, as several people on the train have a clear sight of us – we have to wait for them to leave. Then again, Mans el-Ray Pasquale must know I’m the fly in his ointment, and I personally blame this one man—no matter who did it or how—this man, Mans el-Ray Pasquale, is responsible for the deaths of Travis and Steve and Augustus.
And I’m g
oing to be sure to hold him responsible.
Before the train is clear out of view, I throw a disk-like object at the men, pulling my gun and ducking behind the same column I had been peeking around moments earlier. Mans el-Ray Pasquale and one of the men react quickly by rushing to the edge and hopping onto the track; the third man is close to the disk I threw, which begins shooting aluminum powder into the air.
I’m glad I bought two.
My eyes are shielded and facing the opposite direction.
The other men are on the tracks and running the opposite direction.
The man that hadn’t made the tracks in time has his gun drawn. People on the adjacent platform of the station, waiting for the trains heading in the opposite direction, curse and ask questions and holler from the other side—until the blinded man screams and fires his pistols, blind from the flash bang grenade that went off only a few feet from him – BAM BAM BAM – the shots are loud, deafening, and they echo endlessly down the tunnel, reverberating for miles.
Quick, I duck from behind the pillar as the wild shots hit nothing but air and concrete. Two shots from my new Walther P22 and the man twists, falling just shy of the tracks.
I’m already down between the thin iron tracks, running toward the next station a few blocks up – and deadly careful not to touch the electrified third track, which is imminent death. When I look at the phone, I find the tracking device had been planted on the man that had already fallen; the other two were ahead of me somewhere, and I toss the phone to focus in the darkness of the tunnels. Every fifteen feet there’s a red light in-between the oppositional tracks; it keeps a good barometer of distance but it’s still near impossible to see.
As I run, half-crouched, a gunshot – then a bullet ricochets against the tunnel walls. First thinking I’m lucky, it actually served as a warning and a man comes from behind and grabs me by the throat. He knocks the gun from my hand and holds my arms down at either side as the shooter – and I see it’s Mans el-Ray Pasquale – quickly comes close enough to fire a bullet into my body without missing.
The man holding me from behind grips hard and did successfully knock the gun from my hand, but he’s not bigger – and I make him well aware of that fact. A quick stomp, and I bash the front of his face in with the back of my skull. He wobbles and I circle. Mans el-Ray Pasquale is close enough to shoot me and he tries to aim, but I’m behind his friend before he can fire.
There isn’t much hesitation before I toss his friend face-first using his own momentum – and the man lands with a sizzle on the third track, his body convulsing with the electricity coursing it. Smoke and the stale, acrid scent of burnt hair and flesh fills the air. I’m down to the ground, my gun illuminated in the sparks of the electrifying man.
When I stand, Pasquale is already seeking cover and firing—BAM BAM BAM—wildly at me, well aware that I am now armed again. He has the briefcase and I circle to the opposite track, firing while not running but walking succinctly, forcefully, with passion.
This wasn’t going to be a fight, and he was well out-matched.
I toss the second flash bang past Pasquale and onto the opposing track, firing to keep him pinned. Turned, face down, the soft thump of ammonium powder being shot in the air with blinding ferocity, and I pause only long enough until the area is once again in swallowed darkness before firing again, each of my gunshots keep him pinned until I’m close enough to reach him. He’s surprised at my proximity as I near him—he lifts his gun but I hit him three times before he’s even level. The gun drops. Next, I relieve him of the briefcase. We move back onto the adjacent track as I hear an oncoming train headed the opposite direction. The suitcase lies between each of the tracks and I grip Mans el-Ray Pasquale by the scruff of his shirt.
Face to face at last.
He has stubble, I notice. He’s half-Mexican, which I knew from his file, and his skin is a very soft, gently tan shade. His eyebrows are bushy but it may be made more apparent by his wide, frantic eyes. He goes to speak – the rushing wind of the oncoming train making it hard for him to be audible – but I don’t especially care to hear anything he has to say. With a slight jump, I let go and stick a knee in his chest dead-center, causing him to back several steps, trip, and fall onto the opposing tracks, directly in the path of—there’s a rush of wind and metal and speed, the sound of gushing momentum and weight, and once it’s passed, nothing remains of Mans el-Ray Pasquale.
the siege on philadelphia
(part three – the epilogue)
HENRY FOX AT THE PENINSULA CHICAGO
A cab takes me to yet another hotel - the Peninsula Chicago.
At this point, if I never see another hotel it’ll be too soon.
It’s Wednesday near 10:00 p.m. when I pass through yet another polished lobby to yet another golden elevator; up to the 33 floor; and out to the ubiquitous dark-and-swirling-flower-pattern present on the carpet of every hotel hallway. There’s two burly men standing cross-armed outside the door to the Desmond Suite and they stop me roughly.
“I would like to speak with your boss. He’ll know who I am.”
One of the men snaps a photo of me with his camera phone and walks into the Desmond Suite; a moment later, he returns. They frisk me and find I have nothing on me except the stench of travel. They escort me into the suite and everything’s dark except one closed room with a thin white light shining along the gap between the frame and the door; it looks almost as if there’s a massive source of pure, burning white light behind the wood, waiting to burst out.
The first man opens the door while the second follows in behind me; the first remains outside.
The overhead light is bright enough to increase the temperature. The fixture hangs from the ceiling and it looks as if someone installed it specially. The rest of the room is cramped, with bookcases and side tables filled with books and knickknacks and enough tiny plants (mainly cactuses) that I begin to think the overhead light is a heat lamp; once I notice that there’s anoles and geckos roaming the room freely do I believe the overhead light is without a doubt a heat lamp for the terrarium/office.
There’s a silver, metal-framed chair with a black plastic seat in front of a tiny clustered desk. Henry Fox sits behind the desk, bifocals on the end of his nose while he looks down carefully at something in his hand. He makes no acknowledgement of me until I swipe at an anole that tries to steal my seat.
“I see you didn’t bring the man I asked for,” he says without lifting his eyes. He’s got a tiny screwdriver and he’s twisting it into something miniature cradled in the palm of his hand.
I notice a book on the bookshelf next to me.
Captain Rivet & the Fantastic Ambruister.
“Open it,” he says.
I do.
Inside is a blood red inscription:
Henry Fox
Looking forward to meeting you.
David Henry Ridley
He finally puts down the tiny screw driver and, from the palm of his hand, drops the dead carcass of a small lizard as if it were a toy. His face is lined but tough, grey hair and a boxer’s chin.
My lip quivers for a fraction of a second, the anger flushing me with boiling blood. There’s a slight ringing in my ears. The room feels closed a bit tighter. My throat dries and the first bead of sweat drips from my forehead.
“You’re here for one of two reasons…let’s see: Either you’re here to plead for your safety; or, you need money to help fund your faggot school and you’re looking for a handout.”
“I came to tell you something.”
He looks down at me with a scowl.
“Voicemail would’ve sufficed.”
“I wanted to see your face,” I tell him.
There’s a thump-thump from outside the door.
The big man behind me opens the door and finds the room empty. He pulls a gun out and proceeds into the dark suite. Henry Fox watches the doorway while I watch Henry Fox.
“This is over,” I tell him.
T
here’s another, louder thump from just outside the room.
A moment passes and a large figure takes shape outside the door.
Dingane enters the terrarium/office, a bead of blood dripping from the piano wire clutched between his hands.
The last I see of Henry Fox, his face is shrunken in terror.
Dingane approaches as I leave.
The office door slightly closes with Henry Fox’s frantic attempt to flee or find a weapon…
There’s the gurgling noise of a struggle.
And I exit out the front door, careful not to leave prints.
PRINCESS APRIL MAE JUNEBUG & PRINCE ELEE
It’s early morning when Lizzy wakes in the passenger seat.
Chris drove all night and she looks out the window to find roads familiar in their miles and miles of uniform landscape – red clay dirt roads, forests, creeks, and flat land. Same as before, Chris turns the car onto one of the dirt back roads, following along an embankment until he reaches a sign that says Road Closed.
He parks the car.
Lizzy opens the car door and rushes full speed down the path without closing it. She keeps her eyes open on the ground but her main goal is the post with the stuffed animal, the marker signifying a left turn to the campground.
Chris follows behind but at half the pace and, within minutes, she’s out of eyesight. He picks up speed, panicking that Lizzy may possibly get lost. After he doesn’t see her soon, he begins to run faster and faster. His heart beats heavy in his chest, terrified that Lizzy may end up lost in the woods looking for her hairclip. Breaking into a sprint, his adrenaline pumping, Chris finally hears voices in the distance.
Seven Devils Page 27
