Carolina Rain

by Rick Murcer

  “Show me.”

  “Really? I figured Sophie would be the first to ask.”

  “Oh, she will,” he breathed.

  The look of doubt and near embarrassment on Alex’s face as he removed the black glove didn’t surprise Manny. His empathy for Alex shot up another level.

  The flesh-colored attachment looked like a hand, almost, and Alex wiggled a finger with his other hand.

  “Not like the old one, but also not like the special robotic model that I’ve got coming in a few weeks. Dean was right. It might be the coolest thing ever besides the real thing.” Alex’s tone was genuine. "It’ll work.”

  “What about the mental part? How are you doing with that?”

  Sliding the chair closer, Alex put his right hand on Manny’s shoulder. “Listen, like I said before, it was a small price to pay to keep you and Chloe on this planet together. I’d do it again, and again. So just know I’m okay with it and I don’t want to hear you doing some guilt trip over it, clear?”

  “Clear. And Alex . . . thanks.”

  His friend stood up and moved to the door. “You’re welcome. Now get some rest. You can figure out how to make this up to me when you’re walking around like you should be.”

  Then Alex was gone.

  “Good man, Alex Downs,” he said out loud.

  The brightening daylight emanating from the large, blinded window drew his attention. He suddenly felt as grateful as he could remember. No one had to tell him that his chances of surviving the surgery had been at best fifty-fifty, at least in human estimations. However, that wasn’t all there was to consider, was it? Destiny, fate, God’s will? Pick one, but they all boiled down to one thing; Manny was apparently still part of an earthly plan.

  The Plan. What did that mean exactly? He wasn’t sure but, for the second time in a minute, he felt deep gratitude. He was alive and Garity wasn’t. The man who’d stabbed him had been reduced to crab and seagull fricassee on a sandy beach in North Carolina, and they hadn’t even discovered why the man had done what he did. And why was Garity dead? Remorse? An accident? A bad date? A heart attack? Manny instinctively knew it wasn’t any of those situations. So, what then?

  Reaching down, he ran his finger gently along the three-inch incision covered with a light bandage smack dab in the middle of his chest. He winced, but did it again. The pain somehow brought him more back to the moment; this moment, his moment, and his life.

  Death was not a new concept in his line of work, especially for cops who worked the kind of crimes he and his unit did. Death was a dark companion that brought with it a sense of balance. Life, truly living, could never be appreciated without death. He supposed most cops knew that deep down and accepted it for what it was: an ultimate truth that overshadowed every doubt and drained the streams of denial. He also knew that most cops longed to be free of that damned companion. But that was like planting flowers and expecting tomatoes.

  The sunlight’s jagged fingers stretched for the bed and he felt their warmth touch his exposed ankle. He reached up with his right hand and, with more effort than he thought he would need, ran his hand through his blond hair. It had grown long.

  This life-and-death line of thinking always brought him back to why he did what he did. There were over six and a half billion people on the planet and they all had the right to live their lives until nature took them, but there were so many who thought differently. Kings, armies, politics, and even religion seemed to justify the death of many to further each pseudo-noble cause. He was sure the men and women who made decisions that cost millions of lives each year would eventually have to answer for those decisions. And part of him wanted to be there when the explaining began.

  But those weren't situations over which he had control. His calling had to do with protecting folks, mostly from each other. He couldn’t recall how many times failing to do that had brought him to tears accompanied by a fist against the wall. He had endured sleepless nights, dangerous situations, and the loss of one of life’s most wonderful gifts; his late wife, Louise. Her face flashed across his mind and, despite her instructions, he suddenly missed her more than he had in months. He and Jen had moved on—in part, thanks to Chloe and her truly incredible heart—but Louise would always have a part of him that no one else could. Manny shook off the comparison game. Living in the past and dwelling on it was a true recipe for madness. He knew that one firsthand.

  As the door opened and the Recovery nurse entered—an older woman with a strong, handsome face—one more image skittered across his mind: Doctor Fredrick Argyle and his scattered brains on the deck of that boat in Ireland. Argyle had left this world directly because of Manny. For a second, he could feel the gun jump in his hand as he’d pulled the trigger. He closed his eyes.

  In that moment, had he been any different in taking a man’s life than anyone else? Was his purpose, his reason, any more noble than some maniacal politician in some third-world military coup? At his age, Manny thought epiphanies were probably out of the question, but this time his answer came fast and sure.

  It had been the right thing to do. Men—people—like Argyle had no moral boundaries, contributing only woe and fear to the world, killing seemingly without worry or care of what fell in their wake. They didn’t protect anyone or anything except whatever sick agenda they deemed relevant. How many more people would have died if he hadn’t ended Argyle’s life? And no matter where that instinct came from, Manny would never let anyone hurt his family, as long as he could help it. On that particular day on that boat in Ireland, at that moment, he could help it. And he had sent Argyle to his eternal destiny.

  Manny did an emotional inventory and found no guilt. Maybe remorse born from what Argyle could have been. But ridding the world of a man that would steal lives at a whim, especially anyone belonging to the Williams clan, was always the right thing to do.

  Manny sighed. He could live with that.

  “You ready for this, Mr. Williams?” asked the nurse.

  Glancing at her name tag, he smiled. “I think not, Susan, but you’ll motivate me, right?”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. Then frowned. “You okay?”

  Manny sat up slowly, groaned, and nodded. “I’ve been thinking too much. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “We get that a lot up here in the recovery rooms. The thinking, I mean. Don’t go too deep. The hard part’s over. You made it, now you just have to get better. And after looking you over, I don’t think that’ll take too long, at least on the outside.”

  “Good advice. Life’s too short to worry about what I can’t control, yes?”

  “That’s it.”

  Her shampoo floated to his nose as she bent underneath him, putting his arm over her shoulder. Nurse Susan helped Manny to his feet. They stood together without moving. His knees were unsteady, but he was upright. He took a small slide-step toward the door and then another. Then another. Each wobbly scuffle hurt like hell. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. He’d almost checked out and now he was on the way back. It might take some time to run like he used to run. But with Chloe, Jen, and his extended family, he'd get there.

  They moved through Manny’s door and stood in the quiet hallway. The waxed floor reflected the fluorescent lights dancing in tiny patterns. He smiled to himself. The little things.

  They took three more steps together.

  “How far do you want to go?” asked Susan.

  “How far do you want me to go?”

  “Thataboy. Right answer.”

  As they moved forward another few steps, a short, roly-poly woman in a security guard uniform stepped out from an adjoining room. This wouldn’t have been such a shock except she had a revolver in her hand, pointed at Manny, hatred smeared on her face.

  “Let me tell you where I’d like you to go. Straight to hell, Williams. Straight to hell.”

  “What are you doing? Put that gun away before you hurt somebody!” barked Susan, seemingly unfazed by the fact that the guard was intent on
shooting someone—him. Still, Manny was impressed with the nurse’s courage.

  The guard said nothing. She simply strolled up to them, pointed the gun at Manny’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER-12

  The tower standing watch over the Kalamazoo Psychiatric Facility remained still against the dying afternoon sunlight like it had every March for the last one hundred and ten years. It had been refurbished, and every effort was spent on keeping it as close to the original construction as possible, at least that’s what he’d read. And God knew there was nothing else to do in the damned place, his isle of exile, his own personal Devil’s Island. Max Tucker’s room—barred, locked, and yes, white-padded—directly faced the green iron gate that led to the top of the giant brick penis.

  Wringing his ebony hands together, he watched each turn and twist of muscle and bone as he fought to control the elemental scream that lurked somewhere just underneath the thin film of sanity he called his own. He hated seeing the tower every moment he glanced out his eight-inch window. Yet, on the other hand, the tower was something he could count on, which was rare over the last seventeen months inside this hole. The nerve-racking screams emitting from some of the other patients, mostly in response to a reality that was specific to them; the violent encounters with staff and anyone who disagreed with the choice of treatments; and even entertainment in the social rooms . . . they all took a toll.

  When he’d been outside, he thought no more of places like this than scratching his balls. But, now that he was here, now that his life revolved around the heartbeat of this “healing” hospital, his perspective had changed. There was no healing here, just stupid-ass treatments that consisted mostly of mind-numbing drugs and laughable counseling sessions that accomplished nothing, especially to men like him who were a galaxy away from crazy. Not to mention far brighter than the doctors who directed this pitiful facility. He’d been a man of science and logic longer than many staff members had been out of elementary school and he’d seen things that would send most of them running home to mommy. Did they really think they could trick him into whatever path they thought was best for him? Damn fools.

  Standing, he moved closer to the window. Light snow whipped across his view and he shook his head. He’d have to stay patient and continue to answer the therapy questions from Doctor Emma Holton with proper emotional responses that reeked of remorse, repentance, and even sorrow for doing what he’d done. Even then, it could be years before he was released as cured.

  He touched his forehead to the reinforced glass, which felt cold and soothing at the same time.

  At first he’d bought into the whole “the world comes first” concept, which Josh Corner, and the rest of them were in the betterment-of-mankind profession together. It had even felt right to him for a while. But the harder he’d worked, the more credit the others had received. He felt like a fifth wheel, totally unnoticed until that wheel went flat, and then the shit storm that followed was always aimed at him. He’d always been able to shrug it off, even found other professionals like him, who understood his scientific talents and appreciated his skills. He missed one or two of those people, in his own way. The pang of emotion that raced across his heart was impossible to ignore. Even after he’d embraced the complete truth that Argyle was dealing, it had been difficult to reconcile that his friends were no better than the rest of the morons he’d grown to despise. They were simply another step that led to what he’d wanted. He’d come to understand that. Now, the only thing that mattered was getting out of this hell-hole and finishing what he’d started. He knew what that would take, the price it demanded, and he’d pay it like he always had: in full.

  Reaching over to the tiny, wooded nightstand beside his bed, he scooped up his inhaler and took a hit. His asthma always kicked in when he turned emotional. More precisely, angry.

  They’d given him the nightstand when they realized that he wasn’t suicidal. They’d been right in doing so. Suicide was the last thing on his mind. Men like him knew how to survive, to do what it took to get what they wanted, what they deserved.

  The images of the two men he hated the most danced across his mind. He took another quick hit on the inhaler. They would both pay, at the right time. They would discover just what truth was: his truth. And if things went well, sooner rather than later.

  As much as he wanted to stare into their eyes when they checked out, that might not be possible. Especially if things went the way he hoped they would. With any luck, he’d get news of their gruesome, untimely deaths. After all, there was more than one way to accomplish a dream. One just had to be persistent. Money—of which he had plenty—the right people, and proper opportunity went a long way on the road to payback land.

  Lying back on the flat mattress, he released his interpretation of a smile. Revenge is a meal best served cold, went the old saying.

  “To hell with that,” he whispered.

  Vengeance served is sweet by any definition. And soon, very soon, Max Tucker’s tormenters would understand . . . completely.

  CHAPTER-13

  It took a second for Manny to realize there was no explosion. The loud click of the hammer dropping on the gun’s firing pin echoed through that end of the empty hallway. That was it. No smell of spent powder and, more importantly, his head was still intact. Manny dropped to his knees, then to his side as Susan screamed, released him, and turned, sprinting down the hall. The pain was excruciating, not only in his chest. He also felt a certain tingling and discomfort as the blood rushed to parts of his legs he’d not used much over the last month-and-a-half, as testified by the swirls of black and purple dancing across his eyes. Somehow, he managed to stay conscious. The rapid pounding of his heart helped. He wondered if it might pop out through the eight-hour-old incision.

  Turning to find his would-be killer, he saw the incredulous look on the guard’s face. For some reason, there hadn’t been a cartridge in the first chamber of the Smith and Wesson .38. The term dodging a bullet flashed across his mind.

  The chubby woman seemed to gather her composure and cocked the hammer back again, pointing with purpose directly toward him. Manny wasn’t going to wait to see what she had in mind.

  As she came within his reach, he drew his left leg back and then flexed with all of his diminished strength, striking her square on the right knee. The loud crack, and accompanying screech of pain, surprised them both. Maybe it was adrenaline—or the most potent of all instincts: survival—that helped him deliver the blow or maybe even God’s providence. Whatever the reason, his wannabe killer now writhed on the tiled floor, screaming in agony. Her focus was on her tibia which now protruded through the side of her bloodstained uniform pants. As she’d reached for her leg, the gun had skittered a few feet from her hand and, as luck would have it, just an arm’s length from him.

  Closing his eyes in anticipation of the intense pain that was coming next, Manny twisted his body to the left, arm stretched. He heard another yell and then realized it had come from him. His desperate reach had sent his pain to a new height. He gave his best effort to shut it out and continued stretching for the gun. Two inches, then one. He began to lose count of the little colored dots which tangoed in front of his eyes as his strength suddenly disappeared. He wasn’t going to make it.

  Like hell I’m not.

  Opening his eyes, he gave one last thrust forward and felt the cold steel of the .38 caress his fingers and then climb into his hand. The coolness of the weapon felt virtuous and seemed to stimulate the rest of him as his strength rejoined him.

  Manny turned over on his back, sweat dripping from his face and running into his eyes, but he clutched the weapon like a new toy at Christmas. It felt serene and smooth to his touch; he liked it. It dawned on him that he’d missed the feel of his own Glock in his hand. He gripped the gun a little tighter. Hell would freeze over before he gave it up.

  Footsteps clattered down the hall and his sense of relief was just short of enormous. Susan must have gone for h
elp. Right now, there was nothing he wanted more.

  Manny frowned. While he adored the sound of the cavalry, he realized that the screaming from the security guard had stopped. She was crawling just a few feet away, a jagged blade held tightly in her bloodied hand.

  “I’m . . . I’m still going to kill you, Williams. You don’t deserve . . . deserve to live for what you . . . did,” she hissed through her clenched jaw.

  The look on her face said that she was crazy and her intentions were even more insane. But good God, he had a gun, and by the sound of the voices echoing from down the hall, help would be here any second.

  “Don’t be stupid. This will only end badly for you. Put down the knife.”

  Then he pointed the gun in the direction of her face.

  Her smile was unnerving. “That didn’t shoot, remember?”

  “Do you want to take a chance it won’t this time?” he said, breathing hard. He suddenly felt lightheaded. His hand began to quiver and the .38 felt like a five-hundred-pound weight. His sight had become blurry. He knew he’d never be able to pull the trigger. The next second, the gun and his arm hit the floor. His attacker crawled even closer. He tried to raise the gun again, but it only came halfway up, then hit the floor again.

  “You’re a dead man.”

  The swoosh was noticeable as something sped by his ear. Close. Far too close. There was another scream that brought him back to the world of the conscious. He glanced at his assailant and saw a pink throwing star buried deep in her chunky bicep. He smiled a tired smile. Damn, the girl is good at that.

  Sophie sprinted past him, cuffed the would-be guard, and then kneeled down to Manny’s left. Chloe showed up on his right.