Becca considered the idea. “Hmm. Well, look at the way you figured out I am being abused. Your training and experience allowed you to see the signs.”
“True, but I saw bruises and other tangible clues. I checked out your husband and found the complaints for excessive force. I didn’t just look at you and know.”
“Yes, but you picked up on traits and signs. You’re a cop. You see a person acting suspicious, it piques your interest. You watch them and determine they’re a threat of some kind. You’ve seen it enough times to know what constitutes suspicious.”
“I think I see where you’re going.”
“Me, I deal with emotional issues. A person comes into my office, and in seconds, by their expressions and body language, I have a good idea of where they are emotionally. I know a therapist who deals with substance abuse, she can tell an addict almost immediately by their physical tics and traits.”
“So, it’s possible this guy could be attuned to some signs severely depressed people exhibit?” asked Marlowe.
“Possible, yes, I think so. Have you seen the dogs who can tell their owner is about to have a seizure and lie on top of them to protect them from hurting themselves? There are all kinds of similar stories. Some people also seem to have a naturally heightened sense of empathy. If he possesses this heightened sense, and his past placed him in constant contact with a depressed person, he very well might have honed an ability to decipher almost imperceptible signs.”
“Shit,” said Marlowe.
“What? It’s a good theory.”
“If it’s simply empathy, if that’s how he’s finding his victims, there won’t be a link between them for us to find. We’re left with praying he slips up and gets arrested for something else. His fingerprints don’t match any in our databases, so unless he’s printed and we get a hit…we need to get lucky.” Marlowe stood, his mood turning sour. “Thank you for your help. You’ve given me a lot more to consider.”
“No, thank you. You know, for sharing your story. It meant a lot. I really needed to hear it.”
Marlowe smiled and turned for the door.
“Detective…you’ll catch him,” said Becca.
“Thanks. And call me Marlowe.”
CHAPTER
19
Confusion slid downward into angst. Gabriel could not understand what he had done wrong. He felt the blessing, sought out the chosen to bestow the gods’ touch upon her, and then nothing. Her eyes held the fire of life, a desire to live. Nowhere within her did he find hopelessness, the crushing despair leading to final resignation.
He knew all the signs. Every gesture and expression spoke to him. He recognized the chosen—their downcast eyes, tears leaking behind their lids, their slow ponderous mien—unseen by all but him. In still others, he saw the quiet wringing of hands, a desperate spirit yearning for release. All were different, yet all the same.
Within his books, he searched for answers. The gods of the Greeks remained silent. Milton’s deity offered no more than Zeus or Apollo. He took his Bible from the shelf, scanning verse after verse. Finally, the story of Abraham offered a revelation.
Commanded to kill his son, Abraham took Isaac to the altar and prepared to take his life. A test of his faith—would Abraham defy God? Would he elevate his own desire to keep his son above God’s will that Isaac die? Abraham passed the test by surrendering to God’s decree.
Gabriel understood now. He did not fail. Taking the woman’s life would have been the failure. The gods teased him with the blessing, and then withdrew it to test his obedience. The message was clear. His actions must conform to their will, for in their will lay purpose. Acting in defiance of their will constituted no more than murder, a death devoid of higher meaning.
He lay on his bed, relief washing over him. In his mind, he felt Aphrodite’s hands caress his body—the only carnal pleasure he allowed himself. He pictured her face, her form—the perfection of divinity.
She kissed him. A halo of light fanned out above hair the color of brass and gold. Her breath smelled of honey, her neck held the fragrance of heaven. A body sculpted from marble, yet soft. With a tender touch on his face, she straddled him. Her body undulated, rocking, rising in passion and urgency. He moaned as his seed spread out across his belly. Gabriel slept deeply, nestled in dreams of contentment.
The following morning, he rose early, feeling his spirit renewed. Thursday, his day to meet Henry and Wanda, but not until later in the afternoon. He had time to search, to seek out the chosen. There would be no test this time. This time the blessing would not fade until bestowed.
Financial concerns at the hospital caused a cut in his hours. Less money could prove a problem soon, but for now, he welcomed the extra free time. He had other work that required no small amount of diligence.
He boarded the bus, its destination of no concern. The chosen were everywhere. They shopped in the stores and strolled the sidewalks. They worked in the tall buildings and groveled in the low alleys. All around him, their pain sought him out. He needed only open his eyes and reach out with his gifts to find them.
The bus wound through the neighborhood of Homewood and into Vestavia. Gabriel gazed out the window watching the city pass, one town giving way to the next, nothing changing except the names on the street signs. Everywhere the same, each place home to identical desires and needs.
As the bus passed over the Cahaba River, he noticed a cross at the roadside with a wreath draped over it—a marker for some poor soul who died there. It was not the tribute that caught Gabriel’s eye, however, but the man seated on a park bench near the site. The man stared at the cross, a heartrending sadness in his eyes.
Gabriel exited the bus at its next stop and walked back toward the bridge. The man remained. Like a statue, he did not seem to move. Gabriel sauntered past, never looking directly at him. Once within an arm’s reach—his fingers burned, thunder rocked his brain, his stomach constricted like the folds of a feeding python.
Practiced now at masking the blessing’s signs, Gabriel concentrated on keeping his pace and ignoring the pain. With a quick glance back, he made certain the man had not taken any special notice of him. He continued up the walk and stopped to watch from a position out of his line of sight.
After an hour or so, the man rose and proceeded along the sidewalk. A potential setback. If he had parked his car near, if he drove away, Gabriel could not follow. Yet, once again, providence watched over him. The man cut across a park area roughly a hundred yards from the bridge. Gabriel followed at a distance until the man entered a house several blocks away.
Gabriel would return tomorrow and watch the house. He now realized the necessity of learning the chosen’s movements and habits. Did he live with others? When did he leave and return? Many details he must discover before his visit. Fortune had smiled on his previous endeavors, but his mission now met with greater scrutiny. He did not believe the gods would allow interruption in their work, but they would not reward arrogance.
Gabriel returned to the bus stop and boarded the next one headed toward home. He should arrive in time to meet Wanda at Henry’s store. It would be nice to see them. With an odd work schedule and his other...responsibilities, he had not seen them since last week. He managed not to miss their weekly meetings, at least able to maintain that one bit of routine.
Henry smiled as Gabriel entered the store. Then, his face changed. His mouth turned downward, his eyes misted over. “Gabriel, I…I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. You really need to get a phone. I called Paul, he said you guys were working less…he hadn’t seen you since Monday. I even went by your apartment, but you weren’t in. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.”
“What’s wrong, Henry? What has happened? Where is Ms. Felton?”
Henry wiped a hand hard across his mouth. “Wanda…she…some thug attacked her Tuesday night.”
“Will she recover? Is she…”
“No, no. She’s not dead, but it’s bad. He grabbed for her p
urse, and you know our Wanda, she was having none of it. Held on like a snapping turtle to a finger, no letting go til the thunder cracked. He shoved her down. The fall broke her leg.” Henry slammed his fist onto the counter. “What kind of monster would do such a thing to an old woman?”
“A detestable one,” said Gabriel, anger burning in his gut.
“Worse though, a broke leg at her age is serious business. They say a blood clot caused a stroke. She’s paralyzed on the left side, and she’s…blind. They don’t know if it’s permanent yet.” Henry nodded as if forcing himself to shake his worry. “But she’s in good spirits. Tough old bird, our Wanda. She’ll pull through this.”
“She is eighty, Henry. I’m as fond of Ms. Felton as you, but…”
“No, I hear what you’re saying Gabriel. But she’ll be all right. She will.”
“I would like to visit her.”
“She’d love for you to, I know. You mean a lot to her. Her daughter’s with her most of the time, but the more folks she has in her corner the better. Wanda’s in room 611 over at the hospital. Not sure when she’ll get to come home. I’m watering her plants and seeing after her place.”
“I can do those tasks if you need assistance. Your hands are full with your duties here.”
“I appreciate that, Gabriel. But I want to do it. Makes me feel closer to her, you know?”
Henry had not stopped fidgeting since Gabriel arrived. He needed to keep his mind occupied, it seemed. Rearranging the same shelf for the third time, he appeared unaware of his own actions. The impending loss of a loved one brought his own mortality into alarming focus, Gabriel assumed.
Although several years separated Henry and Wanda in age, Henry had watched others in the neighborhood pass in recent years, and now loneliness crept toward him like an ominous shadow. Gabriel could do nothing to alleviate his fears. For he, more than most, knew death waited for everyone. A week, a year, a decade, none escaped its cold touch forever.
He left Henry to his busy work and his reflections, and headed toward the hospital. He understood Henry’s uncertainties. Growing old meant death’s shadow drew closer with each passing day. Henry’s death paled in comparison to the solitude and grief of being left behind when those he loved parted this world.
Gabriel’s view of death had changed dramatically over the years since his father died. It held little fear for him. Instead, it whispered a promise he could not quite make out, but one that stoked curiosity and excitement. Deep down, he knew with certainty that what waited beyond the veil would be wondrous.
He saw the peace on the faces of the dead—those who wished for it and welcomed it. Gabriel still had many miles to go before he slept. The undiscovered country Hamlet contemplated in his musings, yet avoided in his actions, sang to Gabriel in a sweet song. He would not fear its approach.
A middle-aged woman met him at the entrance to Wanda’s hospital room. “Excuse me. Do I know you?” she asked.
“My name is Gab—”
“Gabriel,” said Wanda in a weakened voice. “Move aside, Charlotte, and let that handsome man in here.”
Charlotte smiled and let him pass. “Sorry. Mom, I’m running down to the food court. Need anything?” she said.
“Nope, just some time with my gentleman caller.” Charlotte shook her head with a grin and left the room. “Come over here, you.”
“How are you, milady?”
“Better now that you’re here. Didn’t think you would ever show.”
“My apologies. I only learned of your condition today.”
“My condition…” Wanda rolled the word around in her mouth as if it tasted sour. “Well, get over here and take my hand. It’s a stroke, not cooties.”
Gabriel stood beside her bed, Wanda’s skeletal fingers entwined feebly with his. “Have the doctors informed you of the stroke’s severity?”
“They say it was a good one. Seemed surprised I’m still here, but it’ll take more than a little stroke to kill me.”
“Henry said much the same thing.”
“Henry’s afraid I’ll kick the bucket, and he won’t have anyone to fuss with.”
“The man who attacked you, did you see him?”
“No, he wore one of those ski masks over his head. But the size of him, I know him. The man selling drugs, the one I always try to run off. You remember?”
“I do,” said Gabriel, pure hatred seeping into his voice.
Wanda noticed. “Now, don’t go doing anything stupid. That man would kill you. Let the police handle it. They came and took a report. He’ll get his.”
Gabriel remembered Henry’s complaints about the police never catching those who robbed him. “Yes he will.”
“Anyway, I’ll be fine. Then I might box his big, fat ears myself.”
“I do not doubt it at all. I am glad you are facing your situation with such strength.”
“Oh, I’m scared. Don’t let my tone fool you. But if it’s my time, I’m ready. I’d like a few more years. I planned to marry some young stud and have him feed me grapes at a poolside some place. Fan me with one of those palm leaves like I’m Cleopatra. Know where I can find one of those?” she asked, a sly grin trying to find her lips through the discomfort.
“I am quite certain you will have your pick.”
Wanda attempted a laugh that morphed into a harsh cough. Her eyes moved in disturbing circles trying to find something, anything in her darkness. “I’ve lived a long life. Got fewer regrets than most. It’s been a good run.”
“You are the envy of the world, milady, to face the specter of death with such dignity and grace.”
“I don’t know about all that. But, no use hiding the checkbook with the taxman at the door.”
“Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?” asked Gabriel.
“No, Dear. Look after Henry for me until I get outta here. The man will fall apart without me taking care of him.”
“I promise I will.”
She reached over with her other hand and placed it atop his. “There’s one more thing. I’ve saved some money over the last several years. Not a lot, but some. Charlotte doesn’t need it. She and her husband do well enough. I want you to have it.”
“I couldn’t take your money. There are others in greater need.”
“There are, but it’s my money, and this is what I want to do with it. I want you to have it. I want you to take it and get out of Westside, like we talked about before. Go to college, do something with your life. You’re meant for big things, you hear me? You’re like a son to me, Gabriel, I’ll rest easier knowing you are on your way to a better life. Let me do what little I can. Make an old woman happy, won’t you?”
“If it is truly your wish, I will not refuse.”
“Thank you,” she said with a tired smile. “Now off with you. I need my beauty sleep.”
“I will come again soon.”
She did not reply, already asleep. Gabriel positioned her arms beside her and stood watching slow breaths lift her frail body. He waited for Charlotte to return and then left the hospital.
He could not help but believe his visit with Wanda revealed yet another proof of his calling. The contrast between her and the chosen stood so stark as to be blinding. At peace with life and the gods, death held no terror for Wanda. She did not lament a longer future among the living, but neither did she fear an end. The chosen existed in a state of perpetual anguish where the hope of death offered their only solace. He alone could guide them to the other side, allowing them to pass through the veil clean, their souls pure…and grateful.
* * *
For two days, Gabriel watched the house. The man only left for his daily sojourn to the park bench, to sit staring at the wreath. No one else departed the house, and no one visited.
While the man kept his vigil, Gabriel snuck into the house. A living room, kitchen, dining room, and master bedroom with bathroom made up the layout of the lower floor. The upper contained two more bedrooms with adjoining
bathrooms and a half-bath along the hallway.
The upper level appeared seldom trafficked, everything neatly in place, a fine film of dust covering the furniture. Gabriel decided to wait in the basement. He could hide amongst the clutter of shelves and stored boxes if the man happened that way.
He did not. Gabriel heard him enter the house and go into the kitchen, soon followed by the television in the master bedroom switching on. He would wait for the man to fall asleep.
Gabriel enjoyed this time. The long moment of anticipation—a time to reflect on the glorious endeavor. So many wandered through life like insects in the miasma of existence, going to work, watching TV programs, the yearly vacation, all the while giving only a passing notice to the greater significance of being. Only when death visited them or someone close to them did they consider meaning. Mortal instruments all, yet dulled and unused, covered in thickening rust, their utility faded, becoming obsolete.
He cracked the basement door, listening. All quiet. Gabriel lifted his bag and eased toward the bedroom. The man slept; boisterous snoring issued from his prone form. Bolt gun in hand, Gabriel stepped alongside and placed the mushroom-shaped tip against the man’s skull. The cartridge fired, a crack followed by a thud as the tip indented bone.
Gabriel dragged him to the bathroom. Stepping into the tub, he tapped along the ceiling until he found a stud. After screwing in a thick eye-bolt, he attached the hoist and retrieved the gambrel—a metal rod shaped much like a clothes hanger. He clamped it to the hoist, and lifted the man, draping a leg over each arm of the gambrel at the knee and strapping them tight with duct tape.
He cut two garbage bags apart and wrapped them around the man’s hanging inverted body. Flicking open his knife, he sliced the arteries and veins in the chosen’s neck, those he knew allowed the greatest blood flow. Once the spray slowed to mere drops, Gabriel washed the man’s hair and face clean, removed the plastic, and laid him on the tub floor facing upward.
A strip of duct tape, half on the chosen’s shirt, half on his breastbone, allowed him to retain dignity while Gabriel worked. He drew the tip of his blade downward from nape of the neck to inches below the navel. Using the tip of the knife, he made a series of holes in the loosened skin. Inserting the hooked ends of the bungee cords, he pulled the flesh open, and attached the opposite ends to the tub’s sides.
A Coin for Charon Page 20
