by Ross Elder
"Marcus. It was Marcus," she whispered through sobs.
I looked at her mother questioningly. I had no idea who Marcus was.
"That’s the latest boyfriend," her mother offered.
Like I said, Marie was popular. It was impossible to keep track of who was just a friend and who was more than a friend. Either way, I hadn't heard the name before.
"Mom, give me back my phone!" Marie ordered when she noticed her thumb-tapping through her iPhone. "Stop it! Give it here!"
"Sorry dear. Emergency room trips and illegal drugs equal no more privacy for little miss social butterfly." She paused for a moment, reading. "MARMAR? Is that Marcus?"
The sigh and growl in reply was all I needed to hear. She looked at me with a smirk.
"He's in the lobby. What should we do?"
"Tell him to come on up," I said, staring at my little girl's tear streaked and swollen face. Her eyes widened, and she gasped before hiding her face behind her hands.
***
I met "Marmar" in the corridor about a hundred feet away from Marie's room. He had no idea who I was, but he was easy to pick out. Skinny, goofy looking, and wearing his ball cap sideways. Easy target. I looked around quickly, seeking out my next option. A door to my left was slightly ajar. It was labeled, "Soiled Linen.” Very appropriate, I thought. As I approached, I addressed him briefly.
"Marcus?" I asked smiling.
"Yeah. Sup?" he replied.
Before his, "sup" was fully spoken; I grabbed a handful of his Bob Marley T-shirt with my right hand, pushed open the Soiled Linen door with my left, and shoved his 120-pound frame into the small room. There was a distinct odor of human excrement hanging in the air. It was hard to tell if it was the room, or if Marcus had just shit his pants. He tried to protest and fight back but my hand gripping his throat calmed him down considerably. I squeezed enough to stifle any protestations, but not enough to harm the little bastard.
"You don't know me, Marcus," I growled just about an inch from his face. "If you’re the least bit intelligent, you will never see me again. Or Marie. Those are the conditions necessary to ensure you continue to live. Do you understand?"
He nodded in the affirmative as best he could. I eased up on my grip slightly.
"You will answer one question and then you will walk out of this hospital, delete my daughter’s number from your phone, and forget she exists. Do you understand?" Again, he nodded. I released his throat and moved my hand back to his ragged shirt to ensure he didn't attempt an escape. "Where did you get the ecstasy you gave my daughter? I will ask once. If I don't get an answer, I start breaking things."
"5th Street Southwest and Addison!" he immediately blurted. "Blue house with black trim! There's usually a yellow Mazda Miata parked in the driveway on the right side!"
It was as though he couldn't tell me fast enough.
"Good boy. Leave. Now." And he did. He rushed out of the room and ran down the corridor toward the lobby. I was fairly certain I would not be seeing him again. I returned to Marie's room and was greeted by questioning looks from everyone in the room, including the attending physician who had arrived during my absence.
"Is she going to be okay, doc?" I asked as a means of avoiding the questions I was sure to be asked soon enough.
"She's fine. She’ll be just fine. Medically, anyway. But I suppose there are other issues she’ll have to address," he replied. "She can be released in a couple of hours."
***
A couple of weeks went by. Marie was settled down and was sent for appropriate counseling. "Marmar" became a ghost and was never heard from again. All in all, it wasn't the worst situation a father might face with a teenage daughter. I was thankful for that. But, the anger never faded. I didn't take it out on Marie, Josh - her older brother, or my ex-wife. I just held it in and let it boil.
I drove past the drug house on week three. It looked quiet with a couple of twenty-something thugs sitting on the front porch. The chain-link fence around the side and backyard kept a lively pit-bull incarcerated. It barked at everything that drove by. After that, I drove by every night for three weeks. Just once. Nothing obvious. My desire to put the drug house out of business just kept eating at me, slowly killing me. It felt that way anyway.
It had been a couple of months since the emergency room incident. Everyone seemed to be back to their normal selves. Everyone but me, that is. I decided to take a break from work, from that neighborhood, and from my growing feelings of inadequacy. I still felt I failed my daughter and hadn't properly protected her from the evils of this world. I had to get away. I decided to visit my mother for a few days. She was still vibrant and kept herself busy even at seventy years old. She was doing her best since losing my dad the year before.
During the visit, I spent some time in dad's workshop in the backyard. He and I had spent many hours together in the workshop during his life. As a child, it was in the workshop where I learned how to handle a router, a table saw, a drill, and how to properly sharpen a knife. It was also where I learned how to clean up and dress a serious cut and play down the severity when it came time to tell mom. That was my dad. Tough, old-school, hard-working, and capable of keeping my sensitive mother from freaking out. It was also where my dad taught me about what really matters in life.
"Son," he usually started, "let me tell you a few things." Those were the best days for me. I miss him. I miss his influence in my life. I sat down in his old wooden chair. He spent hours sitting there, whittling pieces of wood into various things from baby-rattlers to jewelry charms. He was very skilled. Although he taught me what he could, I never flourished as a wood carver or craftsman. So, I just sat there and remembered him, his words, and his Oklahoma accent.
"The most important thing in life is your family. A man who can't (sounds like caint) take care of his own. Well, he ain't much of a man at all."
I heard those words repeatedly in my memory as more than a few tears dripped onto the dusty floor. Ain't much of a man at all. Take care of those who rely on you.
"It ain't easy, son. But, that's what men do. And God forbid if anyone tries to hurt one of you kids. Well…God only knows what I'd do."
I sniffed and pulled myself upright in the chair. I wiped my cheeks on my shirt sleeve, took a deep breath, and started to stand up. And that is when I saw the five-gallon gas can sitting under the workbench.
Chapter 2
My old man used to tell a joke. He would say, "Y'all better pray I never get a terminal illness because, if'n I do, I'm spending my last day's takin out all the shitheads I don't like. If'n y'all ain't careful, I may not wait til I get sick."
We would all laugh. The old man was no pushover. He was known for his strength and lack of fear. He also wasn't known for an ability to walk away from a fight. As I got older, I was never sure just how much of a joke he was telling. I felt confident he would make good on that promise if he could do so. Luckily for those he didn't like, he died suddenly and without warning.
The last time I went by the drug house, I wasn't driving. I parked four blocks away and walked the rest of the distance. It was raining softly, but hard enough that you wouldn't want to be out in it. It was 2:00am on a Wednesday. I wore my hooded raincoat to keep myself as comfortable as possible. The street was quiet. Even the pit-bull seemed to be down for the night. Dad's gas can was still full. I didn't bother to creep up to the house. My rage wouldn't let me be so stealthy.
I simply walked up the driveway and onto the porch, dousing the yellow Miata with about a gallon of the fuel along the way. Once on the porch, I doused the door, the porch, and the double window. Then, with the remaining fuel still in the can, I kicked in one of the window panes and tossed it in after removing the cap and spout. The dog started barking and snarling from somewhere in the house. I heard a metallic rattle from another room. The dog was caged. Good for me.
I took two of Dad's road flares from my coat pocket. The first followed the gas can into the living room while the second was tossed onto the porc
h as I walked away. I hadn't anticipated the car, so the best I could hope for was for the fire to spread enough to destroy it as well. Then, with my heart racing, my hands shaking, the sound of flames and a barking dog behind me, I walked back to my car and drove home. Then I waited. And waited.
I fully expected my door to come crashing in followed by several men in body armor and badges. I would not fight or resist. This was penance for my fatherly failings. I made it right. No more kids would buy drugs from that house. Sure, they would find another place to buy them, but at least I put this particular place out of business. No one else was going to do it. So I waited. I simply sat on my couch in my pajamas, eating Frosted Flakes and drinking beer, waiting to be tackled and carted off to jail. Occasionally, I would doze off sometimes for several hours before I would jerk awake and sit up, once again waiting to meet my fate.
Midway through the third day, I was starting to get pissed off. Where the fuck are the cops, I wondered, several times out loud. Talking to myself didn't seem so bad actually. Could aid in my defense perhaps. The crazy guy in his jammies babbling about a SWAT team that was late for an appointment. Nobody else was around to hear it, but in my exhausted, scared, and frustrated condition, I didn't really know it.
I got up and walked to the front door of my apartment. I stood to the doorknob side as I opened it, still expecting it to come flying open at any moment. The sunlight was blinding, and I caught a whiff of my own body odor. I hoped the first order of business at the county jail would be a hot shower. It was a beautiful day. Sunny, warm, not too humid. Three days’ worth of plastic-wrapped newspapers were in a pile near my door. I retrieved them and went back to my new criminal hideout.
It took me several minutes to find what I was looking for in the damp newspapers. The plastic bags never seem to actually keep the paper dry, another thing intent on pissing me off.
It was all the way in the back on page seven in two paragraphs.
SUSPECTED DRUG HOUSE BURNS
Police and firefighters responded to a fire at a suspected drug house in the early morning hours. Two residents were treated for smoke inhalation, but there were no serious injuries. Police were forced to shoot and kill a dog at the residence when it attacked them during the rescue of those inside the home. Investigators suspect arson but have no suspects.
A lone witness, a fourteen-year-old male who lives across the street, told this reporter that he saw a man leaving the scene at the time of the fire. The witness reports that the man was wearing a coat with reflective strips across the back. The witness described the coat as, 'Like firemen wear.' The investigation is ongoing. Fire Chief Thomas Johansson did not respond to inquiries regarding the possibility that the fire was started by a disgruntled firefighter. Firefighters in the city are still negotiating for a pay increase and more funding in order to rehire firefighters who were laid off last year due to the ongoing city budget crisis.
It was sobering news. I was relieved that murder would not be added to my list of crimes when the SWAT team arrived, but it really didn't seem like anyone was too concerned about the fire. I wondered, Is it really that easy? In this age of technology and advanced criminal investigation techniques, DNA, science, and CSI TV shows, could it really be as simple as nobody cares? I suppose if it wasn't a drug house, its residents weren't career criminals, and the city cops actually gave a shit, the SWAT team would have been in my apartment by then. I sat down on my now funky couch and realized that nobody was looking for me. I took a shower and went to bed.
Life went on. The kids came for frequent visits, I went back to work, and nobody continued to care about the burned down drug house. My apartment door was still intact, and I hadn't become acquainted with police brutality. I tried to keep track of the story, but it seemed to go nowhere. The reporter kept hounding the police chief and fire chief at press conferences, asking about the mysterious "Fireman" investigation, but she was always met with the same reply: "We have no new leads. Next question?"
***
The shooting occurred in broad daylight. A silver Ford Taurus slowly drove through the neighborhood, seemingly conscious of all the pedestrian activity associated with the high school graduation party taking place down the street. The occupants, described as four African American males between the age of seventeen and twenty-five, didn't roll down the tinted windows of the Taurus until they were close to the crowd of teenagers in the front yard where the party was taking place. No one paid attention to the slow-moving vehicle until the shooting started. It was almost a full year since the fire.
Kids and adults scattered throughout the neighborhood and dove for cover behind whatever objects they could find. The two men on the passenger side of the Taurus were just shooting indiscriminately into the crowd, one with an old Tec-9 pistol, the other, in the backseat, with an SKS rifle. Bodies fell in the yard, and other victims tripped over them as they tried to flee. It’s unknown exactly how many shots were fired, but the end result was four dead and nineteen wounded. Most of the victims were teenagers, some black, some white, one Hispanic. Among the dead was the father who arranged this party for his daughter and her classmates. Carl Jackson was a retired Navy man, an electrician, and an occasional guest preacher at his local Baptist church. His daughter, Jasmine, was Marie's best friend. Jasmine survived unharmed.
End of Sample
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The Fireman Compendium
By Ross Elder
Books by Ross Elder
The Fireman Saga
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Book 2
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Fireman Saga Compendium
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About the Author
Ross Elder is a freelance writer, blogger, op-ed writer, and author whose works can be found in a variety of print and online media outlets. A retired military man and veteran of the war in Afghanistan, Ross began his professional writing career as a columnist for a small, regional newspaper more than twenty years ago. After a long hiatus, Ross began writing about his experiences in Afghanistan as a columnist for Soldier of Fortune Magazine. Since then, Ross has authored eight books and has authored featured articles for numerous popular websites. Ross-Elder.com is the home of all things Ross on the web.
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