Untold Damage

by Robert K. Lewis

  “Inside that,” the Commish said in a flat, almost monotone voice, “is your severance package. You did good for us, and we have to honor that, even if”—he glanced at Stevens—“some of us think you shouldn’t get shit.”

  The Commish leaned forward. Rested his elbows on the edge of his desk. Outside it was a sunny spring day. In here? In here is was the end of the road for a cop’s career. But instead of talking, the Commish only glanced over again at Stevens. Nodded, then sat back … like he would not be dirtied any further.

  Stevens stared at him, disgust more than evident in his eyes. “You,” the man said, “go away. Mark? You hear me? We never, ever hear of you again. And we’re doing you a favor. You understand that much, right? We could’ve sent you away … could’ve made an example of you. But we didn’t. And only because, well, you had been so damn fucking good, you prick. Now though? Now you’re one of them.” He pushed himself out of his chair. Went to the window, hands in pockets. Kept his gaze focused on the street below as he said, “Stay off the radar. You no longer exist to this department. That’s all, citizen.”

  There was nothing to say. Mallen could smell his sweat, the sweat that ran hard down his ribs. All he’d wanted was to fight crime, right wrongs; all he’d done was blow it the fuck up. He deserved this though, he reflected as he grabbed up the envelope and went to the door, part of his mind already wondering how much money they’d given him and would it be enough to keep buying dope to keep away the agony and The Need.

  And it all came down to this. A note on the front door. At first he was angry; who the hell was she to do this to him? He’d done the homework! Had done the talks with the suits at the bank. He’d been the one that had gotten the down payment financed, along with all that other bullshit that goes with building it all up.

  He’d gotten them here.

  And now his home was no longer his home? What kind of fucked-up bullshit was that?

  Ripped the note off the door. Read it again, still not fully comprehending what it meant, but that would be because the drug still wormed its last tendrils through his body, coaxing and smoothing before the machine reset itself.

  “Mark,” Chris had written, “I’ve changed the locks on the doors. I’m doing this because you’re an addict. Yes, Mark, you are. I’ve talked with a lawyer, and he’ll be talking to you. IF you clean up, THEN you and I will talk, but I can’t have you around our daughter anymore, not in your present state. You know, I was so relieved when they took your job away from you, and made you ‘a citizen,’ as you loved to call us mere mortals. You shouldn’t be out there, armed. Not like you are. Not now. I’ll put your things on the street the day after I find this note gone, knowing that you’ve seen it. You can collect your things then, if you still care enough to do so. We can work out some visitation schedule, but only under supervision, and only if you’re not high at those times.

  YOU brought us here, Mark. Not me. YOU.”

  He read the note a second time. It was like everything had stopped, and was quiet. How could she say that it was him that brought them here? Hell, he’d been the one who had put his life on the line for his family. The one who …

  … but then there was that voice. It sounded a lot like his father’s. Ol’ Monster Mallen’s. The voice that told him the hard truth, usually when he wasn’t looking, maybe even only told him in dreams.

  It had been him. He had crashed this out.

  He had blown it all to hell.

  Mallen crumpled the piece of paper and shoved it into his coat pocket. Turned and walked back down the street. Toward the park. Toward the northern windmill where he had Eric had drunk oh so much beer. He could think there.

  God, but he needed to shoot.

  And it all came down to this. He walked up the sagging stairs, behind the landlord. The man must’ve been over seventy years old, and strangely he carried a live rabbit nestled in the crook of his right arm. Cooed and murmured at it as they went. Took Mallen a moment to realize that it was actually a live fucking bunny. He had to work to suppress his laugh.

  Never rent an apartment high, he figured. Whatever. This was his new life, and fuck it all, this was where he should be now. Anonymous. Derelict like a lost ship in the fog. Fuck it. It would be fine. Sail away to the horizon and hope that one day maybe there would actually be a lip you’d sail over, like in the old drawings of what the world might be like.

  The old man had to fight with the lock. Awesome. The door opened and he led Mallen inside. One room. “Bachelor’s apartment” was the old phrase, back from like the post–World War II era. Maybe before? One room. Two doorways in the far wall on either side of what had been the Murphy bed closet. Now it was just an empty void used for a clothes closet, judging from the four left-behind bent wire hangers. One of the doorways led to a kitchen, the other to the toilet. Thank fuck at least there was a door to that room, he thought as he made his way into the bathroom. Checked out the water pressure in the old clawfoot tub. It would do. Went and made sure the gas stove and oven worked. A cockroach crawled out of a crevice in the stove, between the stove door and the body. It leapt to the floor like it was leaping for its life.

  Yeah. This would do. Seemed fitting. Turned to the doddering manager who stood there, whispering to his rabbit. Cooing to it like a loved one.

  “It’s perfect,” Mallen said as he pulled out his checkbook. Used his last check on the security deposit and first month’s rent.

  Thirty-Nine

  All he had left was Gato. He didn’t want to intrude in another person’s life this way, but he felt there was nothing else he could do. He had no where else to go. Had no idea what had happened since he’d left Jas dead on the floor of his pad. He’d thought about calling Chris again, but then he remembered her answering that phone call. The one he’d overheard. Remembered her voice, the way it sounded as she’d talked. The guy on the other side of that phone was someone she either cared about, or was someone she was thinking about caring about. He couldn’t do it to her, involve her more.

  Gato, of course, had been welcoming. Had even offered to pick him up, but he couldn’t go that far. Told Gato he’d find his way to his place. Gato’s voice had gone quiet then as he told him, “Vato, my madre? Not feeling so good, okay?”

  “She’s not sick, is she? Hey, I can find another roof, G. No worries. If your mother is sick—”

  “No, man,” Gato replied. “She’s just … tired. Her soul is tired today, is all. I’ll see you when I see you, bro.” And with that, the call went dead.

  He took the bus from the Richmond to the Mission. Took him about an hour, but strangely felt good. Like how the normal struggling people lived … not the addicted struggling people.

  Gato had been waiting for him. Pulled him aside before letting him go through the door. “Mallen,” he said, “my madre is asleep, okay? We can’t wake her.”

  Mallen nodded as he went into the apartment. “If this isn’t okay,” he told Gato, “I can split. I don’t want give your mother any worries or problems, man.”

  But Gato only shook his head at that. “No … we just gotta be quiet. The couch is yours. There’s some food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  They raided the refrigerator and then sat at the table eating. The only sound was the ticking of the mantel clock over the fireplace that didn’t work anymore. Gato then excused himself to his room. Said he had some calls to make. He’d thrown a blanket at Mallen, nodded, then went down the hall. Mallen heard him check on his mother, then go to his room. He glanced around the living room for a moment. It was peaceful here, but he felt an underlying tension in the air. What was up with Gato? He figured that at some point, he’d find out. With that, he went to the couch and lay down, trying to forget, if only for a little while, about Eric dying, needles filled with heroin, and what had happened back at his apartment with Jas. About Hal.

  And that was when Mallen’s phone ra
ng. He looked at the number. The Russes’ number. “Phoebe?” he said.

  “He’s gone,” came the strangled voice. It was Phoebe, but she sounded like she’d been crying. “I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t.”

  “Do it? Do what, Phoebe?” he said.

  “He’s gone. Gone after the last one,” she told him. Almost a whisper.

  “How long ago?”

  “Thirty minutes ago. I should’ve called you sooner, but …”

  He got it. He knew what a struggle she must’ve gone through. “Phoebe,” he told her, trying to be as clear as he knew how to be, “You wait one hour, okay? One hour. And if you don’t hear back from me or Hal, you call the police and you tell them everything, okay? Everything.”

  A pause. “Okay, Mark. I will.”

  “I got this, okay?” he told her. “I’ll do my best for you and him, trust me.”

  Another pause. “Thank you,” came the strangled voice, and then the call was ended.

  He looked up to find Gato standing there in the doorway, car keys in hand. Without a word, they left quickly. “I hope this won’t fuck you up with your mother,” he told Gato as they ran down the stairs.

  “It’s cool,” Gato said. “She thinks we’re trying to save another junkie.”

  They went to Jenks’s place first. Found the lobby door open. Ran up the stairs. Jenks’s door was closed, but it opened with a turn of the knob.

  A battle had taken place here. A big one. It was one big Rage Against Rage Fest, for sure. New blood. But who had won? Hal, Mallen figured. Hal would have nothing left to lose. And Jenks? Well, he would still figure he had everything to lose.

  “What now, bro?” Gato asked.

  It took only a second, and then he knew. He took off back out the door, saying, “Come on! I’ll tell you where!”

  The Falcon came to a quiet stop at the front of the small access road off of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. The husk of the north windmill could be seen looming up ahead of them in the darkness. This would be where Hal would end it.

  Mallen reached into his coat pocket. Jas’s gun rested there, but he kept the safety on. “You armed?” he asked Gato. His friend nodded his head. “You shoot only if Hal looks to get killed, okay? Only then.”

  “Got it, vato.”

  “Patrol-level movements,” he whispered as he quietly opened the Falcon’s door. They stalked off into the darkness, heading west. The crashing of the waves a quarter mile away thrummed in Mallen’s head. The air was heavy and wet with fog.

  A man’s voice then cut through it all, raised in fear, then abruptly chopped off. They headed in that direction.

  They found Hal and Jenks on the northeast side of the hulking windmill, in a small grove of trees. There’d been a slight glint of refracted light off of Hal’s gun that had led them there. Jenks was on his knees, wrists tied behind him. Fresh bruises on his face. Had something shoved in his mouth to keep him quiet. In the darkness, it took Mallen a moment to realize that it was one of Jenks’s brochures for Phoenix Today. Hal looked over as they approached.

  “Don’t either of you make a fucking move, or I’ll shoot,” Hal said, pointing the gun at them.

  Mallen could feel Gato tense at his side. He stepped forward, hands where they could be seen. “Easy. I just want to talk, okay?”

  Hal didn’t seem like he wanted to talk, except maybe in a face-to-face with God. “Go away,” he said finally. There wasn’t much spirit in it.

  Mallen went over to Jenks and removed the gag. Jenks coughed, hard and ragged, as he fought for breath. “Mallen,” he finally managed to say, “thank God! Help me. Please! This guy is crazy!”

  “I am not!” Hal raged, and before Mallen could stop him, he whipped Jenks across the face with the pistol. Jenks spit out some more blood. Hal brought the gun back for another shot, ready to slap him again.

  “Okay, okay! You’re not!” Jenks panicked in reply. His eyes went to Mallen. Pleading. Begging.

  “You killed your girlfriend, didn’t you?” Mallen said to Jenks. It took Jenks off guard.

  “No! I didn’t. It was a break-in. There was a man—”

  “Yeah, there was a man. And that man was you.” He got it the rest of it now. Someone building his life back up based on overcoming the evils of prison. Over what prison meant. No one would forgive him for being a rapist. No excuse for that. There was never an excuse for that. “She found out. How, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter now, does it? But she did. Maybe it was something you let slip. Maybe one of the others contacted you, and she overheard the conversation.” He paused then, working out another thing that had nagged at him. “And that explains why you broke into Jenna’s place, and mine, yeah? Looking for Eric’s notes. He had my address in his pocket, because he was coming to see me, maybe wanting to help me, or needing help, who knows. But you’d found out he was thinking about writing a book, about his time inside. Yeah, Jenna told me that. Maybe you got him to tell you? Or maybe he told you out of defiance, that he had something on you. Told you that when you tried to coerce him into staying quiet, right? But your ego overplayed it all. Eric probably told you to go to hell, so you had to kill him. You thought your girlfriend would be in your corner, but no woman, no sane woman, could ever forgive her man raping somebody. Killing somebody. She threatened to talk, yeah?”

  Jenks looked at him then, and there was hate there. Hate mixed with the fear. He was thinking, thinking fast on how to work it. “You need to take me in,” he said. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

  “I’m not a cop, man. Just an ex-junkie on vacation.”

  “But you’re human.”

  “I have been, at times, yeah.”

  “Then you need to bring me in.”

  “Mallen,” Hal said from behind him, “back away. Please. I beg you. It was all for nothing if I don’t do this.”

  He turned around, facing Hal, keeping himself between the two men. Gato kept off to the side, hands in his pockets. His friend would follow any lead he laid down, he knew that. He was blessed that way.

  “Will it?” he said to Hal. “Eric is still dead. And Phoebe needs you. You’ve gotten three of them.”

  “You said he killed his girlfriend. That’s wrong.”

  “It is. People who do wrong have to pay. That’s the law. And really, that’s just what’s fucking right with this world, you know? People who do wrong have to pay. Sure, they don’t always do that. Sometimes they get away with murder. But the concept still applies. Still overlays our world.”

  As he spoke, he thought of Anna and Chris and how frail society’s hold was on normalcy. Chaos was the monster under the sheets. The boogeyman man outside at the window, trying to scratch its way in. This normalcy was the delicate balance that everyone worked toward, consciously or unconsciously. Maybe that was why societies were as psychotic as they were: they possessed the collective knowledge that it could all go to hell with just one more murder, one more disaster. It could all come globally crashing down on their heads with just one more flood, one more earthquake … just one more death. Justice was the thing that corrected the imbalance in the scales. That was what he’d been taught. That was what he’d always believed, even now. Even after all his years breaking the law in order to feed The Need.

  In the end, the scales had to balance.

  He stepped away from Jenks. “See you back at the house, Hal.”

  “What?!?!” Jenks cried. He tried to yell, but Gato ran over and shoved the gag back in his mouth.

  Hal stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “Mallen?”

  “You do this thing if you have to. If you need to. But tomorrow? After one last night with your wife? You turn yourself in. I’m sure I know what Eric would’ve wanted you to do when that sun comes up tomorrow.” He took one last look at Jenks, who tried to get to his feet but failed, tried to break his bonds as Hal came and pushed him to the
ground.

  Mallen walked back the way he’d come, Gato following.

  His hand was on the door handle when he heard a small-

  caliber gunshot. Gato looked back at the windmill, then over at him. Mallen stared at his friend over the roof of the car, giving him the chance to speak. To say anything he wanted to say.

  Anything at all.

  In the end, Gato only nodded. They then got in the car and drove away.

  Forty

  Hal turned himself in the next day.

  It was all over the news, the man who’d taken revenge for his son. The morality of it was bandied about in the news for days. Public opinion was mainly with Hal, so they moved the case to another jurisdiction. How it would all come out, Mallen had no idea.

  He’d told Phoebe he’d just not gotten there in time. She’d gone silent when he told her, and he wondered if she’d guessed what had really gone down. He then called Jenna, to see how she was doing. She sounded okay.

  Like her universe had been righted, at least a little.

  “Marko, man, you’re not really leavin’, are you?” Bill had never called him anything close to his first name. Ever. Made him smile. The afternoon sun shone in through the open door of the Cornerstone, like the promise of better days. The bartender put a scotch on the bar in front of him. Mallen noticed that he’d given him a double, gratis.

  “For me I guess this is almost a going-away party,” Mallen said as he picked up his drink.

  Bill chuckled. “Don’t expect a lei.”

  “Not from you, that’s for sure.”

  “Seriously, where you goin’?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe up to Mendocino for a couple weeks.” Months, he was really thinking. Wanted to be far away from the city for a while, and that was a fact. He glanced over at the hallway leading to Dreamo’s office. “How’s Justin doing?”