Jury of Peers

by Troy L Brodsky

  “Ray?” Tonic called.

  “Yeah,” came the reply, still inside, still on the floor.

  Tonic scanned the street. He could no longer clearly see the shooters, only their dark forms in the retreating red glow. The BMW flew down the street in a straight line, accelerating to a mere dot in a matter of moments. One of the shooters moved just as the car made a turn and left them in the dark.

  He jammed his hand up under Finn’s vest even as he groaned in pain. It came away dry. "Okay, we’ve gotta go. You’re good enough.” He pushed Finn into his seat and crawled over him, eliciting a string of profanity that was reassuring.

  “You alright Ray?” Tonic asked as he slammed the car into drive and punched it hard. Both doors slammed shut as they accelerated through fifty.

  “Think so,” came the reply.

  “Check again, right now. Make sure,” Tonic had seen some miraculous shit in the midst of a firefight.

  “I’m good,” Ray said a few seconds later as they tore down the street, putting distance between themselves and the kill zone.

  “I thought that was going pretty well,” Finn gasped still clutching his side.

  “Sorry,” Tonic said. "Man, I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” Finn groaned. "Did he get away?”

  "Not yet." Tonic braked and turned. For several seconds they just drifted through the turn without any traction, but then found purchase in the leeward side of a building where the snow had not yet adhered to the street. The tires stuttered and chirped, making the corner just before hopping the curb. "He kept a real straight line out of there, I don't think he took a round, but we're already way behind. I dunno if we can make it up before he turns out to hit the Beltway."

  "Try. So we…can hug him before we arrest him."

  "Maybe you should have done that in the first place," came Ray's voice from the floorboards of the backseat.

  Tonic nodded, agreeing much to his own chagrin. He was racing through the streets now, the engine roaring as the car lifted a swirl of snow. The farther they got from the scene, the more street lights seemed to be in working order and it began to feel as if they were fleeing toward civilization. He swallowed hard and fought the tremors in his arms. He'd always found it easier to deal with fear in the present. Death would rush up at you like a mean dog, all teeth and hackles and snarls trying to get you to back down and cower. If you did, it could get its teeth in you and then you were profoundly fucked. That was the lesson that he'd been taught long ago: Fear was all that death could bring to a fight. Control that fear, control death. He'd forced his mind to behave when it mattered most, which was easier than making it settle back down into the seemingly mundane things of life. Like driving on ice. He slapped the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

  Finn was finally catching his breath. He opened his shirt and reached up under his vest, massaging the spot where he’d been dropped by an honest to god bullet.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Tonic asked. He tried to smile.

  Finn did smile, feeling a pure, disarming relief at being alive. "Fuckin’ A.”

  He sat up in his seat, groaning, and struggled to put on his seatbelt. "Raymond, get your belt on back there."

  "I'm better on the floor," came the muffled reply.

  "Don't make me stop this car," Finn said, finally getting the thing clicked.

  Tonic followed suit. He was trying to do the math in his mind as he approached the next intersection. It was an effort to think instead of just react, and a tangible way of making a decision that would soon amount to a coin flip if they didn't get a line of sight before the BMW turned out to the Beltway. Two blocks. He figured two blocks and then a turn. And if the guy did what was logical–just burning a straight line, using the big BMW's speed against them….

  Finn's voice seemed soft in the silent moment before the two cars hit, "Oh nice."

  The two vehicles converged in the intersection in an instant, their closure so rapid that neither driver had time to do much more than jerk the wheel and curse. They impacted side to side and suddenly James Finny and Seth Meek were staring at one another from a cumulative distance of twelve inches as their vehicles attempted a violent, screeching, mating ritual at fifty miles per hour. Finn could smell the pepper spray.

  The vicious momentum held them together through a half–rotation, the BMW's mass forcing them up and over the curb with a terrific lurch–and for one terrifying moment Tonic watched in the mirror as Ray levitated off of the floor like a startled cat, hanging in the air as the world spun. His face was a mask of pure open–mouthed mordancy.

  Now helplessly backwards, the police car began to grind down the length of a brick building. Tonic's mirror went first with a clap, and then the entire driver's side of the car began to sheer away into the rough bricks with a disorienting shriek and a shower of sparks that left a glowing trail down the building's side. Tonic's window exploded into fragments, and the spray of sparks flowed into the car, filling it momentarily with thousands of angry fireflies. Finn looked past them, still just inches from Seth Meek who was now trying to disengage from the tangle, having entirely lost interest in the police officer. Finn could see every detail: the shirt tail mask now around Meek's neck, the sutures in his face, his hands jerking the steering wheel about… and then suddenly he was gone. The back corner of the police car dipped into a shallow alleyway and struck the oncoming corner of the next building with a dull whump that sent a shockwave through the frame and wrenched the entire vehicle into a wicked half–turn through the air. Again Ray came up off of the floor, this time sticking to the ceiling and meeting Tonic's glance with the same incredulous look. There were two long seconds of pure silence–no engine noise, no horrific grinding, seemingly nothing at all as the car pirouetted through the air, leaving the sparks behind. Tonic, his arms locked against the steering wheel, was pushing himself back into his seat as they returned to earth, all four tires slamming down at once. Ray vanished from the ceiling, driven down into the backseat so fiercely that he rebounded momentarily back into the air, arms and legs akimbo.

  Finn's hands were on the dash when the airbags finally decided to deploy. They flew back into his face–two quick jabs, followed by the airbag's uppercut to his chin. His head jerked back, and then came forward off of the headrest, only to find that the bag had just as quickly deflated. His belt held him in place, even as he heard the car's engine roar to life once again and drop him back into his seat.

  Seth Meek was right in front of them, still sliding backwards. Tonic gunned the engine to close the gap, as they watched Meek's vehicle ease to a stop with a shudder. The BMW's headlights recalibrated, moving back and forth, up and down, making the big sedan look like it was trying to shake off the last few moments of chaos. Tonic braked a little too hard and their car slid to within inches of the BMW's front bumper. He wrenched at his door, but it was all but welded shut from the power grinder that they'd been exposed to just seconds earlier. Finn, too, was fairly quick to respond, despite the nitrogen–driven assault from the airbag, but he wasn't able to physically turn himself far enough to get at his seatbelt before Meek too, reacted.

  "Oh shit," Finn said.

  It was suddenly clear that Meek assumed that the cops were moments away from leaping out of the car and ending things right there and now. The BMW came forward, making contact with surprising tenderness and then began to drive the police car backwards once again.

  "Oh fuck no you don't," Tonic yelled, smashing the petal to the floor.

  The cars hesitated for just a moment as RPMs raced upward and tires began to spin–the acrid smell of burning rubber roiled up around them. It filled the police car with a white haze, but still Tonic didn't back down. He just ground the accelerator into the floor with the ball of his foot, unwilling to relent…. But the BMW weighed more than five thousand pounds, and the torque produced by the massive V12 tipped the scales with typical German efficiency.

  In a cloud of billowing white smoke, the two cars r
etraced their way back toward the intersection from whence they had come. With the headlights of both cars fully masked, all of the participants could make one another out through the smog. Finny had just enough time to flip Meek the bird just before the police car was brushed to the side.

  They spun to a stop, once again with a splendid view of the BMW's taillights receding into the distance. Spencer restarted the car, and ignored its overheated plea for rest, even as Finn lit up the radio and tried to explain the situation.

  Three blocks later their car surrendered and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. Silence descended again.

  "Let it cool down, Spence," Finn said even as Tonic cranked the starter. "We don't want to have to walk home from here… right Ray?" Finn tried to look over the seat, but was stopped by his tender ribs.

  A hand came up, and Ray pulled himself off of the floor, "You guys don't… like do this shit all of the time do you?"

  Finn sat back in his seat, surveying the carnage. The deflated airbags, shattered windows, a frame that was so thoroughly bent that they had to turn left to go straight, a half dozen bullet holes (one nearly in his spleen), and the stench that hung in the air burning their eyes. "No. Not very often."

  "That's the first time I've ever been dry humped by a BMW. So there's that," Tonic said. “We’re sure that no one’s leaking right?”

  “I think I'm good,” Ray said.

  Finn just grunted and lifted the radio to repeat the night’s activities to a very confused dispatcher, then pushed his door open, dropped to a knee on the sidewalk, and puked until he imagined that he could see cherry donuts.

  When he finally pulled himself upright, Tonic was standing over him, “You all good?” he asked.

  Finn wiped his mouth. "Golden. You're doing all the paperwork. I got shot."

  Part II: The Beginning

  “Justice is conscience, not a personal conscience but the conscience of the whole of humanity. Those who clearly recognize the voice of their own conscience usually recognize also the voice of justice.”

  Alexander Solzhenitsyn

  Chapter Thirty–Three

  Turbid

  The backseat of the BMW was completely uninhabitable because of the pepper residue left in the trunk, but Seth managed to find a comfortable corner of the garage floor upon which to curl up like a cat for a few hours. He dreamed of knots and woke wondering how the rough hemp cord must have felt cutting into their wrists and ankles. The morning light was held at bay by the paper that Seth had taped up on the windows, and he resisted the urge to peek outside at what appeared to be the first sunny day in a week. Certainly in the basement it was not… nor would it be, a sunny day.

  Beside him was the pistol that one of the kids had been carrying, as well as the wicked looking knife the other had stashed in his sock. He stared at the weapons for a moment, feeling the natural confusion of the first waking minutes of the day drain away – it left him with the same reality that he’d simmered in for… how long now? He couldn't remember. Still, it was better now. Life was moving forward. A great unknown was behind him, and inside of him rage was lusting for a chance to prove its worth. It warmed him, made his fingers tingle, and churned the butterflies in his stomach until he stood and paced around the room a half dozen times.

  It was nearly time to begin, to really begin.

  The pistol, he believed, would only be necessary at the end, and overall, probably represented far more danger to him than it was worth. He examined it anyway, carefully extracting the magazine to see that it was indeed loaded and then working the action. A single bullet was ejected unto the floor. He stared, realizing that this… was this the gun? His eyes tracked down to the bullet. If this was the gun, that was his bullet.

  He'd been out shooting with Emily's father on two different occasions. Then it had seemed liberating and even fun shooting at man shaped targets. Now the revulsion was so acute that he had to fight back his nausea. He managed to replace the bullet in the magazine after the fourth try.

  He flipped on all of the downstairs lights and lifted the carpet–covered door. They were there, immobile, bound to the chairs just where he’d left them. Seth eased down the stairs and took a look at his new guests.

  Both were unconscious. Their labored breathing was at once reassuring and irritating. Crimson splotches covered the white kid’s face, circling his eyes and streaking off down his neck. The gel Seth had used had been left in place, ground into their skin by their own hands, and it had continued to sear without interruption. Really, Seth didn’t care if they went blind or if it peeled their skin away like sun–baked paint. The black kid had been bleeding from his scalp, but the long lines had dried in place where they had dripped from his chin all night long. Both had been left with only their t–shirts and underwear, the later not so much for modesty’s sake, but to keep either of them from doing anything untoward like spraying urine all over the place. It was going to be messy enough as it was.

  The black kid had a roll of bills and the pistol in his coat, but other than that there was little more in his pockets than lint. In his shoes, however, there was some additional cash, about two grand by the looks of it, and a picture of a young woman who Seth decided might be his mother.

  The white kid, on the other hand, had a little bit of everything. Tiny zip lock bags that contained what Seth imagined to be crack cocaine, a bigger baggie of pot, and an assortment of nondescript pills. Two little knives, one in his sock, one in his pocket. Three different kinds of bullets–one of each–bubble gum, cigarettes, two lighters, a cheap cell phone, and a couple of pages of newsprint torn into four inch squares. The list went on, and Seth emptied it all into a box near the stairs. Some of it was just pure mystery, but some of it would probably prove to be useful. He stared into the box, feeling a revulsion that seemed logical, but clawed at his growing sense of unease none–the–less. His eyes flitted over everything; it felt contaminated to be sure, but there was more. Something in there was echoing in his mind.

  Finally, he rose and returned their clothing to the BMW’s trunk as it had absorbed the gel and within the confined space was far too vexing to have near.

  To a first inspection, the both kids were simply duct taped to the chairs upon which they sat, but in fact, beneath all of the tape were quarter inch hemp ropes, looped and tightened until Seth was certain that there was no slack to be found. The duct tape was pure insurance – nothing would slip. Even the chairs were taped to the floor just over the drain. He’d left their mouths uncovered because he didn’t know just what the pepper gel would do to their breathing; and while he didn’t particularly care if they suffocated or not, they would be much more useful to him alive for the next few days.

  Seth sat down on the stairs and surveyed the scene as dispassionately as possible. He’d placed them against the wall, farthest from the stairs. They were isolated at that end against a dull grey background. Two banks of high intensity lights stood ready, dormant but waiting for power, and the array of computers and neatly bound bundles of cords sat nearest Seth beside the stairs. In the middle of the room stood a lone video camera on a tripod. There was nothing within six feet of the hostages. It was time.

  “Wake up.”

  No one stirred and this was, Seth thought, probably not unreasonable. They’d had a pretty rough evening. Who knew what else was in their systems at any rate. He reached to the makeshift shelf that he’d created using the computers and the left over shelving from upstairs, and picked up what looked to be a little walkie–talkie. He adjusted the “stimulation” level to 1 out of 8, and pushed the button.

  It had the desired effect.

  The white kid was instantly awake, jolted up straight with wide eyes. Seth smiled at him, “Good morning.”

  The kid blinked in the bright light and tried to speak but no words came. There was a dry rasp, and then he was silent. His eyes went visibly in and out of focus, searching the room, and eventually settling upon Seth. And then something connected. Agai
n his body went rigid and another sound leaked from his throat, probably some sort of scream on the inside, but again it emerged as only a dry hiss.

  Seth just watched him panic, jerking again and again at his restraints with the same effect. His whole body lurched up and down, side to side as he searched his senses for an escape. It was chilling in a way, knowing that if the kid got loose, his one and only desire would be to kill, but at the very same moment, it brought Seth a pleasure that he couldn’t quite identify.

  “Won’t help.”

  The kid said something, and Seth twisted his lips, “Huckoo?” He smiled again, the broken toothed smile that this kid had arranged for him a few days ago in his own living room, “That sounds a lot like fuck you, which is a marginally unhealthy thing to say at this point.”

  “Fuck… you,” the kid struggled.

  “Uh huh. Let’s wake your friend up shall we?” Seth snatched up a second radio unit, adjusted the setting to 1 as well, and pressed the button. The effect was just as gratifying as the first time around.

  “Morning,” Seth repeated as the black kid came to life like a startled puppet. He went through the same process, waking, recognizing, panicking, and then trying to understand how this had all happened. There was fear in his eyes.

  “You guys thirsty?” Seth asked from the stairs. Both just stared. Their bodies were screaming to fight, screaming for flight, and yet there was absolutely nothing that could be done. Instead they stared, twitching and struggling as the ropes cut into their joints.

  “The silence thing will only last so long. But, until we have something to talk about, I’ll call you Salt, and you Pepper. Fair enough?”

  “Fuck you,” Salt spat again. His voice was becoming clearer, though now his eyes were running again and it made him sniffle.

  “I’m going to give you two a little while to get oriented and cool off, and then I’ll be back to talk over your options.” Seth rose, grabbed the box full of their personal effects, and walked up the stairs. He made himself a sandwich of roughly torn bread and salami, grabbed a six–pack of warm colas, and then sat amongst the computer boxes and trash against the back wall. He broke off small pieces and worked to chew without further abusing his jagged front teeth. The box of goodies liberated from the two kids he left a few feet away as if it might somehow be leprous, but he peered down at it with the same morbid curiosity that he might have reserved for just such an affliction. His mind poured over each item, struggling with something: The gun was troubling to the point of his not even being able to consider it, but it wasn't that… not just that. He stopped chewing, pulled the box over between his legs, and scoured it with his eyes. Something. Something.