The Defense of Reality

by cory. barnett

  Frank and Rosie exchanged a knowing look.

  “And you killed one of these monsters outside the church today?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. Three Mardocks,” Chris said.

  “And you were hunting one outside State’s Attorney Cleveland’s house the night he died?” Rosie asked. Her voice was sad.

  “A pack actually. Mardocks. At least three,” Chris said.

  “You sure it wasn’t two Mardocks and a small, um, what’d you call it? A small, um, Sinciput?” Rosie asked.

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” Chris said.

  “How are you sure?” Frank asked. He rubbed his eyes in exhaustion.

  “I can smell them,” Chris said.

  “You can smell them,” Rosie said.

  “Yep. Comes with the job,” Chris said.

  The look in the Chris’ eyes confirmed to Mencken that Chris was being genuine. A deep wave of pity washed over him, threating to release the dam that held his emotions in reserve. He was certain of two things: Chris was insane, and Chris was capable of killing.

  Rosie took in a long breath, leaned back in her chair, weaved her fingers together behind her head, closed her eyes, and let her breath go slowly.

  “Semper Fi?” the suspect asked.

  Rosie jolted forward. “What?”

  “Marine?” Chris said, pulling his hand against the cuffs to point at the tattoo on Rosie’s forearm.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Oh, Gunny. I know all about it.”

  “Did you serve?”

  “I was Recon.”

  “My little brother is Recon,” Rosie said.

  “Is he still in?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah,” Rosie said.

  “I was probably about five years before you if I’m guessing your age right. Why’d you get out?”

  “Took shrapnel in the leg. Did you see action?”

  It occurred to Mencken that PTSD would explain some things about Chris.

  The suspect smiled and then said softly, “I’m the Blur.”

  Rosie sat back in her chair. Her mouth hung open. She looked at Frank. He gave her a confused stare. She stared into the suspect’s eyes, watching for tells of a bluff. “You’re the Blur,” she said, stunned. “The Blur.”

  The suspect laughed to himself, seemingly embarrassed to be recognized. “Yeah. I’m the Blur.”

  “Can somebody fill me in here?” Frank said.

  But Rosie was in a world of her own thought. “That explains a lot,” she said to herself.

  “You have no idea,” Chris said.

  “Explains what? Damn it. Explain what Jimenez,” Frank said with frustration.

  Rosie stood and walked to the door. “Frank, I’m going to make a call,” she explained. “Watch him.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Frank said, but he didn’t move from his seat.

  “Any way you could take these cuffs off, Gunny?’ Chris asked.

  Rosie turned and said, “Now that I know who you are, not a chance in hell.”

  For a moment Mencken had been so lost in the conversation, he’d forgotten where he was, but when Rosie pushed open the door, he stood to face her.

  “Do you know who the fuck this is?” Rosario demanded pointed at the window. “I mean. This is insane. Do you have any idea what you’ve fucking got me into?”

  “No. I mean. No,” Mencken said, taken aback by Rosie’s abrasiveness. “I just thought he was a crazy homeless hitman living in the basement of Imani’s bar.”

  “This guy’s a fucking legend. He’s a fucking Force Recon legend. I want you to picture Rambo. Now imagine someone kicking Rambo’s fucking ass. That’s who you fucking brought in here. Do you understand? That’s who’s in cuffs right now.”

  “So, you think he’s the guy? That sounds like the guy,” Mencken said with excitement.

  Rosie sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, this guy, this fucking guy is a killer. He’s a black ops myth.”

  “So you think he’s capable.”

  “Listen, Mencken,” Rosie said, pulling herself together. “If he is who he says he is, and I don’t know how he couldn’t be, because only Recon guys would know the person he just referenced. But if he is the Blur, then fuck yeah he could be our guy.” Rosie paused. Mencken could hear her thinking. “And I think he’s gone insane,” she continued. “I mean, really insane. Which would make sense, because the shit this guy’s seen. I don’t know how he could be anything but insane.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what now?”

  “Well, I’m going to call the VA and see if I can get a shrink down here to make the declaration official and get this guy some help.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I don’t know. Go report something. Or go and find his nephew, if that’s who that kid really is. If I can get him committed, we’ll need social services in on this too. This is a complete shit storm.”

  Chapter 21

  Flinging the two heavy doors open with both hands, Mencken entered Imani’s with a renewed swagger. Chris was in custody, they knew who he was, and the case against him was building. Mencken was sure Chris’ walls would only hold up so long, then he’d crack and bring the whole Cabal down around him.

  Mencken scanned the room. Abby was working the register. Four tables were filled with regulars. Spencer, the local bum, was at his usual spot in the corner, sipping coffee. In the far corner sat Rothman. His giant arms were crossed across his chest and his eyes were closed. He didn’t seem to be sleeping though, more like meditating. Imani was behind the griddle, grilling sandwiches. She was humming and dancing to the Bill Withers tune playing softly through the speakers.

  Watching Imani made Mencken wonder why he’d come inside. What was he doing here? Did he really want to rub it in Imani’s face? Maybe he could find Jose and leave without having to talk to Imani.

  Abby waved. He had to go over now. He smiled and walked to the register. “Hey Abby,” he said.

  “What can I get you?” she asked with a smile.

  “Coffee, to go,” he said. “And um, have you seen Jose?”

  “Nope. He left with his uncle early this morning. They don’t really hang around here during the day.”

  “Oh,” Mencken replied. “Alright. Any guess where I might find him?”

  “What scoop are you chasing today, Hon?” Imani said with a big smile as she put two plates down on the counter in front of Abby. Both contained beautifully grilled, flatbread sandwiches stuffed with various meats and cheeses.

  Mencken winced at the sound of her voice. To his frustration, Abby announced, “He’s looking for Jose.” She then picked up the plates and left the conversation to deliver them.

  “He’s out with Chris,” Imani said. “They’ll probably be back sometime after dinner. What are you having?”

  Mencken swallowed and clenched his fists, trying to muster his courage. The last thing he wanted to do was confront Imani about her homicidal family. He hadn’t thought about how all of this might impact her. It wouldn’t have stopped him from taking Chris down, but he would have stayed away until everything blew over.

  “I, um. I need to talk to him about something he and Chris might have seen? I’m chasing a story about a new gang in town.”

  “What are you having?” she asked again, only half paying attention, reading through the small stack of mail.

  “A coffee to go.”

  She turned, grabbed a cup, and began to fill it. “They’re kind of all over the place. We usually meet for lunch, but I don’t know where they go before and after.” She passed him the cup and a smile. “They’ll be back tonight if you want to check back in.”

  Mencken fished two dollars out of his wallet and passed them over. “I’ll try to figure something else out. Thanks anyway,” he said.

  As Mencken turned to leave a deep base voice filled the room. “You haven’t inquired of me.” Rothman’s voice was so commanding, the whole room
turned toward the giant man. His posture hadn’t changed. His eyes were still closed. It was as if the voice had come from nowhere.

  “You better go over, baby,” Imani said. “I haven’t heard him speak all day. He’s just been sitting there. He must know something.”

  Mencken watched the huge man, wondering if he knew, wondering if he was upset, wondering if he would kill Mencken right there. Mencken choked down a swallow as he remembered Rothman’s powerful hand around his neck. He remembered the helpless sensation of his feet dangling inches above the ground. He remembered panicking for air.

  Mencken look around the room again. There were too many witnesses. That wasn’t Chris’ style, and Rothman was Chris and Jose’s guest. Surely Mencken was safe at Imani’s. He took the walk across the room, forcing every step to look normal and confident. He pulled out the chair across from the mountain, took a seat, and sipped his coffee.

  Rothman didn’t move.

  “So?” Mencken said.

  With his eyes still closed, he replied, “You are the story writer which removed the Lead Gracanjo of Baltimore from his duty?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You squander my time in your verbal jousting. Precious time that I value much too greatly to engage in games of juvenile nonsense.”

  “Great then. Let’s get to it,” Mencken said sitting forward. “Why don’t you treat me like a man then and look at me when you speak with me.”

  Rothman smiled. He stretched his neck to the left and right. At the pinnacle of each move, there was a loud pop. He then rolled his shoulders and opened his eyes. The man’s deep, dark eyes sent chills down Mencken’s spine. The lines in Rothman’s forehead were valleys of experience, and the dark worn circles under his eyes looked as though they had been hammered into the man’s face by endless scenes of horror.

  “I will grant you the modicum of respect, due a man of your questionable profession that has had minor success. Many have tried to remove the Baltimore Gracanjo. Many more powerful than you. And there is something we should discuss.” His voice was a low rumble, like a slow train passing through a residential neighborhood in the middle of the night.

  “Tell me where I can find Jose?” Mencken demanded.

  “This is not what we need to discuss. We need to discuss your behavior in this establishment.”

  “My behavior?”

  “Inquiring after the whereabouts of the young Gracanjo from their benefactor, but not owning your part in the matter, that is a disrespect I could not let pass.”

  “This is nonsense. You need to tell me where Jose is. It’s important that I find him. He’s out there all alone. We need to bring him in. Find him a proper home.”

  “Tell me. Do you understand your part in this? Or are you simply a blind man relieving himself in the road, who accidently pissed on the king?”

  Mencken smacked the table in anger and leaned forward. “I know exactly what I’m doing. You and your Cabal, you’re going to face justice for what you’ve done to this city.”

  Rothman smiled again. “A pissing blind man it is then,” he said as he closed his eyes, returning to his previous statuesque state.

  Mencken stood. “Are you going to tell me where to find the boy or not?”

  “Boy?” Rothman grunted with amusement. “Rest assured in your simple existence, and respect those that carry the heavier burden,” Rothman replied. “When there is need of you, you are the one who will be found.”

  Mencken pointed a threatening finger at the giant. “You’re all going down. I’ll see you all behind bars.” Then he turned and stormed out.

  Back on the street, Mencken felt strong again. “That guy deserves to be in jail,” he mumbled to himself as he checked his phone. Nothing exciting from Twitter. “Probably sitting in there because he’s afraid I was going to catch him too,” he grumbled again. Nothing of note in his email either. He thought about texting Rosie but decided against it. She’d seemed scared. No need to add pressure. “She’ll call when she’s got something,” he assured himself. Looking up and down the street, he sucked in the crisp air, letting it fill his cheeks. He pushed it out in a fast rush. Unsure what else to do, he crossed the street to where he’d parked his bike.

  “Hey,” a high pitched voice called, stopping Mencken before he started the engine. Mencken looked up but saw no one.

  “Hey, you. On the wheely thingy,” the voice called again.

  Mencken found its source this time. Peeking out from an alley between two rowhomes was the small man from the fire. As at the fire, he was dressed to the hilt. He wore shiny, expensive looking black and white leather shoes, a perfectly pressed, pin-striped, three-piece suit, and a small monocle on a gold chain that led to his left breast pocket.

  “Come here. Come closer,” the tiny man called, waving Mencken forward.

  Mencken couldn’t pass up a story like this. Who was this tiny man, and what did he want? Mencken dismounted his bike and stepped forward.

  The man giggled with excitement. “Yes, yes. It comes. Come here. Come here.”

  Mencken cocked his head slightly to the side. “What’d you want?” he said.

  “I want you to come. I want you to come here,” the man said with irritation. His words shot faster than they should have, firing from his mouth like a machine gun.

  Mencken shook his head in disbelief. “Alright,” he said, thinking there wasn’t anything a man so small could do to him.

  Mencken took another two steps forward, when, from the alley to his right, powerful hands grabbed him and lifted him off the ground, yanking him off the street and into the shadows of the alley.

  Mencken stared with horror into the face of his captor. The hands held him so tightly, he thought his arms might snap like twigs. The powerful arms belong to a powerful man, unlike any that Mencken had ever seen. The man was hairless. His skin was as white as typing paper. His razor sharp teeth would have been perfectly at home in a shark’s mouth, but most terrifying were his eyes. Where the pupil, iris, and sclera should have been, there was a slowly rotating pool of black ooze.

  “Don’t kill it until I’ve interrogated it,” squeaked the high-pitched voice. It was right behind Mencken.

  The monster smiled, its teeth gleaming. It eased Mencken back four inches, and then pulled him forward with incredible force, delivering a powerful head butt. Mencken’s world went black.

  Chapter 22

  Mencken awoke with a gasp of terror. His body ached and his head pounded. He tried to look around, but he was unable to move his head. Everything was blurry, and there was something in his mouth. It was cushiony, absorbing all the moisture like a dry sponge. The return of his consciousness brought with it increasing panic. He tried to move his legs and arms, but they were restrained. He jerked his neck left and right, but his forehead was strapped to something.

  Mencken’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for an explanation. Slowly, the room came into focus. There were two boarded-up windows across from him. Beams of dust covered light sprang from cracks in the plywood. The air reeked of rot and mold. The walls were bare and dirty. The floor was covered with dirty, yellow carpet. There was no furniture of any kind. He could make out graffiti in his peripheral vision to the right. The tumblers of his mind fell into place. It was an abandoned rowhome. He was on the second or third floor of an abandoned rowhome.

  He fought to move his arms and legs again. He could feel the strain of the chair he was in. Forcing his glance as low as his eyes would allow, he could make out the color of duct tape around his wrists. He tried to scream, but whatever was in his mouth stole the sound. Tears formed in his eyes. He was lost. Helpless. Hopeless. He felt the drops slide down his cheeks. He moaned and wept. He knew that no one was coming for him. No one would even begin to look for him for days. He was alone.

  There was pounding on the stairs to his right. He strained to look, but whatever was restraining his head refused to give. He tried to scream, but only muffled moans came
through.

  A door opened. People were coming into the room. He heard deep, low voices muttering to each other. They sounded joyful, entertained. He thrashed against his restraints, trying to scream.

  A figure appeared in Mencken’s peripheral vision on the left. It was the small man from the fire. Mencken watched in terror as the man removed his coat, folded it gently, and then handed it to someone out of his line of sight.

  “Hello,” the small man said, stepping in front of Mencken.

  Up close, Mencken saw the man for what he was. He wore a large smile, revealing jagged, uneven teeth. His eyes were bigger than they should have been, too large and round for his small head. The monocle looked comically small in comparison. His button down was white. All four buttons of his tightly fitting vest were fastened. His skin was pale and oily. His black, stringy hair was parted down the middle.

  Mencken felt a crowd of people behind him. He wasn’t sure who or how many, but there was more than one. His instincts told him they were crammed into the back of the room like concert goers in a small space, waiting for a popular band.

  “Well, well, well,” the small man chimed in a sharp, high pitched voice. His hands were behind his back. He rocked on the heels of his shoes. “You almost had me. I was confused for a moment. Why? Why would you remove the nasty Gracanjo from the field of play? Very trickster of you. Very, wery, nary trickiness, tricksters. You is unknown. Unaccounted for. We haves you now though. Now you will be forthcomings of an account to me, here, on the eve of the moment.”

  Fresh tears of terror flowed from Mencken’s eyes. He thrashed left and right to no avail. He tried to explain, to say he didn’t know what the man was talking about, but all that came out was a jumbled, mumble of mushed sound.