Rubble and the Wreckage

by Rodd Clark

  God this is fucked up!

  It brought to mind the image of him sitting on the floor of his living room as a child, where he first learned there had never been a Santa Clause—nobody but his parents had ever brought gifts to rest under the tree. It was sad when you lost innocence, that much was certain, however necessary it was to growing up. However, it was difficult looking at his friend with adoration, or something akin to love, whenever he pushed the images of the victim’s faces from his mind, just so he could look longingly across a room or feel comfort in his embrace.

  Forty . . . the number couldn’t be ignored or shelved aside in dusty recesses. It was there already, and it demanded to be heard and acknowledged. Christian glowered over his lunch plate, wondering if he could ever continue with the book after hearing Gabriel carelessly mention the number that was now screaming in his head over and over.

  Forty murders. Forty murders!

  Whether it was bravery or some version of compassion, Gabriel tenderly reached his hand over to graze his forefinger along Christian’s resting hand. The gesture shattered his concentration, and he pulled away more quickly than he would have preferred, as if brushing too close to a hot branding iron.

  “You look freaked out. I am sure I preferred the other look. You know, the one where your face was buried in the pillow. You looked happier then . . . at least from behind.”

  Christian seemed pulled from murky waters with Church’s comment; he even allowed a half smile to break the darkness. He needed to shake it off. He raised his head and forced a deep examination of Gabriel’s eyes. They were the one feature the man possessed that could drag one down like a siren’s song. It could be the melody that licked at your center yet drained you of drive and stamina. It could be a fatal feature to some, and one Christian would have to be wary of. Driving his mood back, he decided not to think lest he allow Church to see him open like a night blooming jasmine for just being in his company. His face lightened, his chest expanded, and he opened his posture invitingly. He had been enrapt with the killer’s gaze, but he shoved those thoughts aside; he would have to disregard the siren’s lament just to continue on.

  “Sorry about all this. I guess I wasn’t prepared for it, but I’m coping . . . at least, as well as I can.”

  “No worries, my buddy, I guess I raced when I should’ve idled.” Gabriel attempted reparations by allowing his fingers to crawl along the table toward Christian in silly spider-like fashion, creeping closer and begging a smile from the writer. It appeared to work, and Christian finally let loose a tiny chortle from under his breath and smiled, opening petals even more.

  YEARS BEFORE this moment, somewhere between Gabe’s first killing in Texas and his last one to date, he had met a man he thought was a stranger. By chance, the man was actually Gabe’s own neighbor, even though he didn’t know that at the time. Gabe had been holed up in Flagstaff in a ramshackle boarding house. He had been living the gypsy existence for so long that he had forgotten the creature comforts of a steady address. If you asked him today the name of the shithole he once lived at in Arizona, he would’ve said he didn’t remember. He had forgotten it for good reason. The floor was dirty and stained; one could almost see the vomit and blood the super had failed to eradicate. There were roaches and termites under every counter, and the sink had deteriorated to a rust-colored chasm where dirty dishes always seemed to dwell.

  His name was Stuart Hennessey, and he’d arrived in Flagstaff only a month before Gabe. He’d found the same boarding house by the sign sitting on its tiny patchy grassed front lawn: ROOMS FOR RENT – REASONABLE RATES. They were more micro-apartments than traditional boarding house rooms, but they were, as promised, reasonably rated. Of course, the sign neglected to mention the infestation of creepy-crawlies and rotted terrazzo, equally failing to note leaky faucets and sickly tenants who would be sharing the same floor. Each room did possess a bathroom, with a shower so confining Church had to crouch extremely low just to fit under the nozzle and allow poorly pressured water to fall on his shoulders. But at least it was the type of place that didn’t ask questions, require legal documentation, or hold one to a lengthy lease term. A rental contract would be a waste of paper for the transient types who chose to live there—it quickly became a pay as you live residence.

  Gabe never bumped into Hennessy at any point during his two-month stay. It was merely a twist of irony that sanctioned both men to live so close in proximity yet never have an occasion to meet. Had Gabe ever spotted him in the halls, possibly carrying an armload of groceries in small paper bags, at any juncture during his residence, things might have gone drastically different.

  Stuart Hennessy had his own story, and his own demons. He had recently been released from the Arizona State Prison Complex in Yuma, and that rat hole of a boarding house was all he could afford with the wages he earned from a local grocery store while working as a stocker. He had his own dreams and aspirations, stemming from his two-year stint in a correctional facility. He had not been a bad man when he was arrested then later convicted of petty larceny, but he’d had to work hard to shake the corrupt side of his nature; the same trait he’d learned to acclimate to while suffering prison. He was rebuilding his relationships, working on his character, still oblivious to the white light that surrounded him like a ghostly brilliance. The one only Gabe could see.

  Gabe might not have encountered Hennessy at the rooming house, but he did at a bar, never recognizing him as a neighbor or as being in the same timeworn and frayed circumstance as he. Gabe had stopped at a dive called The Cheyenne and ordered a draft to quash the Arizona heat from his throat. It was only a glance over Gabe’s right shoulder that would change both men’s destinies. Hennessy exited the men’s room slathered in a white, hot shine that needed to be addressed by the killer’s bent perception.

  The tidal wave of crashing light that overtook Gabriel was not unexpected; he had been witness to this experience many times before. Stuart Hennessey wasn’t the first of Gabe’s victims, nor would he be the last. This pudgy little man may have been overlooked by most of the strangers he passed, but to Gabe he was the epitome of something life altering, a pristine opportunity to answer some unknown call.

  Each time Gabe took a life, he watched the radiance dissipate; it washed over him as it slipped away, leaving him feeling sated and clean. It was as if he could almost reach out and grasp the tangible glow as it left the host body then seeped through him as the universe took it, pulling every dark nugget from his soul and taking it along for the ride. Gabe wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to the lasting effects, the origin, or the meaning behind it all, and it would be years before he would even try. Sitting in a Seattle hotel room with a man he barely knew, he voluntarily attempted an explanation for his deeds. But Gabe didn’t have true words to express himself or get his damaged point across to Christian. He knew how it sounded—it sounded that way to him as well. But he couldn’t discount the feeling, or negate those emotions. So with, or without justification and clarity from others, he would be compelled to relive the moment, over and over again.

  Gabe had sat stunned for a moment, watching Hennessy return to his table. By his reckoning the man was enjoying a happy-hour beer with a coworker or some close associate, but the other man didn’t matter to Gabe, he was incidental in the grander scheme and would be forgotten quickly, as soon as he was able to murder again and allow his personal sins to be absorbed . . . then ultimately released into a forgiving cosmos.

  Stuart Hennessey had ambled out to his car after only a couple of beers. He waved to his friend Shawn and watched as his coworker pulled from the parking lot. He didn’t notice the stranger come up from behind, as many others had failed to do. One large hand wrapped Stuart’s mouth while another massive arm circled his body and produced a tight hold around his neck. Movement was restricted and a victim stifled by one quick action of an experienced predator. Forced off his feet, Stuart was dragged by his heels to a spot behind the Cheyenne’s dumpster, an alley where
many bartenders had tossed boxes of empties and college aged boys had taken many a drunken piss at the back door.

  The surprise on Stuart’s face was surpassed by instant fear as he saw the glint of a blade being raised high. He never knew his attacker, and gratefully free from seeing any motivation for such a violent assault, he was dumbfounded, fortunately oblivious to any circumstance that might have caused his death. Had he known his attacker, had he been privy to his rationale, it wouldn’t have made any more sense as he watched helplessly, filled with shock, as the a blade came down hard and pierced his lungs.

  The powerless feeling of such an event wasn’t lost on Stuart. In the minutes before he stopped breathing, he observed the knife being pulled out and then brought down again and again with amazing force. He felt every penetration, witnessed the blood fly out in bright red spurts from his body. But the pain was something more removed, because his mind was already locked on the abstract notion of how alone he was in those seconds, how weak and vulnerable the human body truly was. Before he knew it, he found himself rising above the melee and staring down in astonishment at the eeriness of it all. He didn’t know the man. He didn’t have enemies, didn’t carry any cash, and had too many things to do before his clock was punched. There was no reason here, no sanity, and before he could pull some foundation for what was occurring in that moment . . . he was gone.

  Gabe felt the man slump lifeless in his arms, and he released his grip sufficient to raise both arms to the heavens and throw back his head. It was a look of crucifixion, but it was more. Gabe became a sponge, soaking in every drop before it vaporized back into stardust, drinking in whatever balanced the scales of our souls. He would appropriate whatever essence existed before it was gone forever . . . because he was a thief in that way. The fading brilliance had been always been his meter. Once the light was gone it was too late to lap up what was left. Hennessy’s glow didn’t last long, but Gabe had taken every portion he could before it left that dirty alley adjacent to the Cheyenne Bar.

  BACK AT the Mayflower, Gabriel had assumed his spot on that salon chair, just as before. Christian occupied his hands by fixing them a drink from a bottle they’d purchased when headed back from their misspent time looking for a walking tour. Christian’s efforts to remove the dark mood had been only slightly successful. It still weighed him down like a magnet hold, dragging him to the earth. He couldn’t help but picture the expression on Gabriel’s face as he killed—he hadn’t seen it thankfully, but he imagined it twisted and grimacing as if he were a skilled predator who enjoyed sadistic games. He couldn’t balance the scales from killer to the man he’d made love with hours earlier. It seemed incalculable he could be both men.

  Gabriel rose from the chair and grabbed the bourbon and cola that Christian handed him. With his free hand, he unsnapped the top button of his jeans and then placed his drink on the table so that he could pull off his shirt.

  “Put it out of your mind, Church. Your moment’s been infected.”

  “Don’t embarrass yourself, junior, I’m just getting comfortable. I’m not an animal. Even I see sex is not always the best cure-all remedy.” He yanked his pullover over his head and discarded it casually on the floor. “I’m just a little warm is all?” Gabe plopped down and Christian could see his damp chest hair indicating he’d been telling the truth. He absently strolled over and turned the air conditioning down, starting an immediate breeze through the suite. He turned and faced Gabriel, sipping his drink with a methodic deliberation.

  “You know, when I was born I had a hole in my heart.” Gabriel sat staring at the writer with cool detachment as he began his story. “It’s called Atrial septal defect.” He let the words hang for a minute before continuing, “Poor ole Sissy Church was the first to notice her little baby boy had blue, swollen legs and suffered occasionally with shortness of breath. She wrapped her baby up and headed into town, but doctors are a stupid lot, and they calmed her fears sending her home with a consolatory pat on her back and a promise that all was well. Later she decided her doctor was fucked in the head and took me to another specialist who diagnosed me with this ASD crap.” Church took a long sip of his drink, and Christian took a chair at the table concentrating too much on Gabe’s wet, full lips as he told his tale.

  “It’s nothing major, you understand, it just means eventually I might need surgery, but the likelihood is that it will someday just give me a stroke. Alcohol exacerbates the problem, but I do enjoy a stiff one now and again . . . as apparently you do as well.” His smirking grin was back and that twinkle of seduction flashed again in those pale blue-gray eyes. A recent memory came back; it hit Christian’s consciousness where it had previously gone unnoticed. He remembered lying with his head on Church’s chest after they’d completed a rousing sexual bout, both had been breathing hard and languishing in a recent satisfying climax. He remembered listening to Church’s heartbeat and feeling an odd sensation that something sounded strange. He wrote it off, discarded it and allowed it to blank from his head. But the awareness came back as Gabriel told him about his condition.

  It had been the heartbeat . . . it had sounded different, louder than it should have, straining arteries aching to pound closed.

  “You didn’t mention this before. Why?” he asked?

  “Wasn’t an issue actually. I’m only telling you now because I want you to understand me.” Gabriel leaned back, and Christian had to take note of how sexy he was, sipping bourbon, his shirt off, jeans seductively open at the waist showing that hint of hair beckoning to be touched.

  “Understand you . . . meaning what?”

  “Meaning, I have always lived with an hourglass over my head. The sand was tipped from the moment of my birth, and although I’m super fine at the moment, I think that ever-present ticking clock has affected how I look at life.”

  “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that sounds like something bordering on an excuse. Maybe even a fish for pity.” The words came out more severe than he’d intended, and he immediately wished he could jerk the words back. To be accurate, he did pity Gabriel. He also felt a wave of depression hit him. The man of his obsession was even more greatly flawed, and he’d become human once again. Looking across the room at the man he was exploring, he didn’t want him to die, didn’t relish seeing him after a stroke or finding him blue and cold on the bathroom floor. Am I losing my friggin’ mind? he asked himself.

  “I wanted you to know about this. Not sure why I needed to tell you, ’cause if you think it’s pity I want from your sweet ass then you haven’t learned anything about the real me during our time together.”

  Christian bowed his head, a shamed child who’d been admonished for doing something he knew had been wrong. “Sorry.”

  Gabriel nodded his head, his eyes staring at the floor. Was it derision or forgiveness?

  “I was hoping you’d know me better by now. Didn’t our fucking so well mean anything?”

  He didn’t wait long enough for Christian to answer, standing up and heading back to the dry bar to refill his drained drink. He seemed disgusted in the moment, but as Christian watched him from behind, he couldn’t help but feel something close to adoration. His mother may have just made a shitty remark, but had she been right? For someone who’d never felt these types of emotions, they were wholly unfamiliar to him. He realized it did make a difference knowing about Gabriel’s condition. It seemed appropriate that a killer would have a hole in his heart . . . that it would be congenital. Like some predestined gift that would make him unique to those around him . . . lacking something everyone else seemed to take for granted. Maybe the void where heart tissue should have been was the exact cavity where the human soul sat? Maybe this was another reason Gabriel had become a killer, a loner, and fated to some gruesome end.

  He was glad to know he’d at least been as attuned as the young Sissy Church. He’d noticed something unique about Gabe’s heartbeat early on. He just hadn’t enough experience resting on the man’s chest. But he did want to
rectify that. Being in Gabriel’s presence made his insides unsteady. He found himself flooded with strange emotions and kept noticing how blood coursed more southerly than it usually did. His desire demanded his attention. He positively needed to lie intimately beside Gabriel one more time, or risk feeling incomplete. The killer had broken his friend’s mood by his quiet confession to a normal deficiency, making him appear mortal and imperfect. Forgetting his more deadly defects for the moment, this news was something he could grab onto, something he could understand. He walked over to Gabriel, who stood pouting like a little boy, his back to the writer. Wrapping his arms around him, Christian rested his head on the big man’s shoulder.

  “I only know one way to break tension,” he said, and then Gabriel turned and accepted his friend’s embrace. They walked silently to the bedroom, and even though they were alone in the suite, Gabriel closed the bedroom door behind them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  YOU PRAY FOR time to crawl, to have those moments you can waste away inside those meaningful seconds . . . a chance to lie undisturbed and be present for everything around you. Gabriel had not lied. There was a missing beat that echoed louder because of its absence. The missing follow-through one expected and labored to hear. But as you anticipated it, the pause became deafening in your ear. The following thumping noise was the crash of atrial flaps being closed with an unusually greater force than other hearts. His defect was real indeed. Lying breathless, Christian tried to match his heart against Gabriel’s, but the strain was evident, even after sex it sounded rough and anomalous.

  Perspiration glazed Gabriel’s broad ribcage, strange smells of testosterone and energy wafted to the writer’s nose. They were both panting from a fresh climax, spilled semen still crusting their stomachs and drying. Neither wanted those minutes to end, wanting to bask in them before they would be invariably forced to dislodge.