“You okay, Honey?” Lisa asked, still unable to find her daughter’s face past the milky fog, and small fluttering wings of the glowing eyeball gnats.
“Blood,” Christina gasped, though with more child-like curiosity than with the expected fear.
“It’s okay,” Lisa said, patting her daughter’s hand. “Mommy just fell and hit her head. I’m okay, Baby.”
“I know,” Christina said, almost curtly. “You’re okay. We fixed you.”
So much for reassurance, Lisa said to herself.
It’s late, honey,” Lisa said, having no real sense of time. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
* * *
The jail sat cattycorner to the police station, separated by a covered walkway some six feet wide, stretching almost one hundred between doorways. It was a huge complex, even for a town the size of Longview. Made of classic brick and mortar, reinforced by a frame of welded metal rods. In contrast to the small, dilapidated buildings surrounding it – old rundown garages, ancient fast food places no one had ever heard of and several outdated department stores no one ever visited – the complex was imposing to say the least. Except for the huge windows on either side of the entrance, and the windows provided to the various administrative offices, there was little glass in the building, but what glass existed was bulletproof and double paned and coated in between panes of glass with clear fire-resistant gel. The doors themselves were a combination of lightweight, but sturdy ash-gray carbonized steel, aluminum and bullet-resistant glass almost two inches thick. Security cameras and motion detectors monitored every corner of the jail’s outer lobby area. Much of the building’s structure was coated, on the inside, with fire-retardant foam. For a small town, the building’s security features seemed dramatically like an overzealous attempt at subtle intimidation. Or an overreaction to a post-September 11th world.
To everyone that entered, it seemed like overkill. To him, it was child’s play.
The doors exploded off the hinges with greater force than had the holding cell door. Shards of glass went everywhere, exploding as if hit by the shockwave of a nuclear blast. The metal frames bent, melted, subject to properties of the Otherworldly science of which he was a student himself. From student to teacher in an instant. Power had been granted him. Power to do wonderful things. Great and wondrous things. He hadn’t exercised caution in the use of that power and he knew it. He didn’t need to. He felt so alive! Despite his craggy appearance, he had been blessed with deceptive physical prowess, the likes of which he’d never known before. He was more nimble than a bat in flight. Reflexes more finely tuned than those of a jungle cat accompanied by a lion’s share of strength. He had never been given such a gift. In his entire life, no man had ever given him anything close to this.
He’d made his way quickly across the parking lot, turning back for the briefest of moments to bask in his own speed, agility and strength. To revel in the destruction left in his wake. This was freedom. The universe was within his grasp and he had reached for another piece of it. His name, the name he had been born into this world with anyway, was Wendel Wallace. A funny name. An odd name. One not given to fear by any means. But no one had called him that name in more than thirty years. He’d been Jack, dirt bag, moron, bum, filthy mess and even, occasionally, Sir. He’d left behind a life of material comfort and social status for a life that had led him to true power.
He was born Wendel Wallace, heir to the Wallace construction company his father had built. He’d found himself – found out who he really was – in the rice patties of Vietnam, and in the flurry of acid trips accompanying it. The Marine Corps had tried to give him discipline. All they had accomplished was waking a need inside him. A need for blood. A need for destruction. His family had offered him the world. It was his to make. He did not want – never had wanted – to make it. He wanted to unmake it. Power, he believed, was in the destruction, not construction. Empires take centuries to build. Most, if not all, are destroyed in seconds. Villages that took weeks, maybe even months, to build and establish in Nam were destroyed often by a couple of Gung-ho soldiers or a Pilot with an extra bomb or two to spare. Construction was work. It took effort. Destruction was art. Effortless by design, powerful in its principle. Wendel Wallace was his name at birth. In death, he was known only by his master’s incoherent whisper, drowned out by the sudden and loud snapping of his all too human neck.
He had served his master in life. Now his death served an even greater master. Even in death, he lay smiling, as if oblivious to his own mortality. He had not seen Death approaching, but he had welcomed it in warmly, with willing, open arms. Finally his curse had been lifted and he was free.
* * *
He grimaced as the old stale-smelling bum fell limp before Him. The thought of touching one so unclean repulsed Him, but it was necessary. Even He was required to get His hands dirty every now and then. It was not always so unpleasant. Occasionally, it had even proven an unexpectedly attractive pleasure. The tactile contact could provide an intimate connection with His prey He would otherwise be denied. It was an admittedly human aspect, with which He always wrestled, but there was truth in it. In His hands dwelled the power of Death. To hold His victims so close, to see their expressions as they realize the inevitable, embrace it. Feel their breath as it leaves their body for the last time. That was a moment unlike any other. A moment reserved for special occasions like this. He savored in the flavors embracing him. The flavors only Death could appreciate. His palette was finely tuned and the sweet bitterness of Wendel Wallace was better than the finest wines, the freshest chocolates or the ripest peach. Freedom was His to provide. Wendel Wallace was free.
He had been easy to persuade. Like most humans, Wendel Wallace was a seeker. He was searching for something. Had spent his entire life searching for something. Something that could only be found in the welcome embrace Death provided. Power, strength, completeness. Wendel Wallace had found them all. Seduced them and been seduced by them. In the end, Wendel Wallace had proven weaker than He had needed. He had been buried under the weight of the powers granted him. Given to delusions of immortality, fostering an inability to stay mindful of the powers he possessed and the source from which they had risen. He’d been granted the key to ultimate power and had, in the process, forgotten his place. Now he remembered. Now, Wendel Wallace would never again forget to whom he belonged. Inside, He felt the young one squirming. Fighting for control. Stumbling, He felt His legs going weak. The young one was strong, but his body had been a very frail choice. He had to struggle to overcome the human limitations the young one placed on Him. What had initially been a near orgasmic proposition now revealed itself for the burdensome limitations to which He would remain subject.
He’d fought to get around the limitations in the beginning and He’d won. Now, He fought to hang on to control. It wasn’t as difficult as He’d thought it was going to be. The young one put up surprisingly very little fight. Control belonged quickly to Him. Behind Him, footsteps. Quick. Running. Policemen. Leaving the remains of Wendel Wallace, He casually jogged back toward the Bonneville, which was parked around the corner from where Wendel Wallace had fallen. Rounding the corner, He knew He had been spotted. Perhaps not seen clearly, but definitely glimpsed. It was as if Power had gone out of Him by the mere touch of human eyes upon Him. Angered, He started the Bonneville and inched forward around the corner of the building. He saw two cops running his way. One was dark-haired and wore the uniform of a street cop. The other was in a shirt, tie and sport coat. A police badge hung from his jacket pocket. A big man, with a slight pudge around the middle and thick gray hair with pronounced sideburns, the suited man reminded Him of country music singer George Jones, in his younger years.
He raised His hand in the air and pointed the palm toward the sky. A small blue sphere borne itself above His palm. The radio, which had been off, switched on and emitted a high-pitched howling sound. The entire dashboard rattled, gauges went haywire, gave false readings, pulsing wit
h fear under the power to which they were unwittingly subject.
“Death!” he growled, His voice suddenly deeper than the deepest chasms of the Realm that spawned His existence. The uniformed cop fell hard. He simply dropped like a sack of potatoes falling from a treetop. The other man, the George Jones wannabe, seemed almost to fall with grace, style – at least as much grace and style as a pudgy white-haired man in lax physical condition can possess. As if he were acting out a death scene on the stage in some Broadway production. This, however, was not a play. Death was not imagined. Death was a revelation. And now their eyes were opened to the true power possessed within Death’s hands. They were His. Two more were free. Soon, The Curse would be lifted. Soon, the rightful heir would sit upon The Throne. Soon, the Earth would be His footstool. As He pulled away from the police station, He glimpsed more people exiting the trashed building. They scanned the area, stunned silent by their fallen comrades. Drawing their weapons in fear of unknown dangers. Typical humans, He laughed. Behind them two patrol cars exploded into huge fireballs, sending shards of metal, rubber and glass flying in all directions. The group of policemen – some in uniform, others in plain clothes – all hit the ground. He thought that He had gotten lucky, but realized all had survived, few getting more than a scratch. Either way, his exit would be unabated.
“Oh well,” He whispered, still chuckling to himself, “There’s always later.”
Chapter 12 ~
Something about being at the hospital changed Danny’s demeanor. He couldn’t explain the sudden calm solemnity with which he quietly proceeded. It wasn’t that Danny suffered any profound loss connected to this or any other hospital. He’d been very lucky during his life as a policeman – the events of tonight aside – though it was hard to put the soreness in his neck aside – he hadn’t really had any serious injuries. He’d never had so much as the threat of a painful procedure. He swore to punch the first doctor to ever speak the words “prostate exam” in his presence. Luckily he’d never had to make good on that threat.
He looked like he’d faced down hell and pretty much felt like it too, but had refused medical attention. He had a few scratches on his face and the ringing in his ears was still a minor inconvenience, but he was stubborn. He had things on his mind. He was heading to the hospital tonight, but it had nothing to do with medical treatment. It had to do with Alex Mendez and the case involving him that was solved over three body bags just about an hour ago.
Understandably, Danny was uneasy as he approached Alex’s room. His mind was flooded with images of the boy Alex was when they’d first met and the man he’d become through the years. He wasn’t terribly young back then. Not that much younger than Danny anyway. Still finishing college, beginning his term as a police cadet. In a lot of ways, life had taught Alex some very difficult lessons early on. In some ways, Alex seemed to be older than Danny back then. In most ways, however, it was soon obvious that Alex had a lot of maturing to do.
The stories of his brother had been promoted to near legend status in the Mendez clan. Ted’s death, and the sudden rush of responsibility thrust upon Alex, had no doubt been daunting. For years, Alex had been driven by anger. By the insatiable lust for revenge which would only be cured over the lifeless body of Ted’s killer. His entire reason for becoming a cop had been no secret to anyone. He wanted it to be legal when he put the bullet in the head of Ted’s murderer, thereby exacting revenge sworn upon his mother’s grieving tears. Amid all the other cases, he’d worked through the years, there was Ted’s face spurring Alex onward. Time had matured Alex’s savage heart. Time and Lisa Warner.
It had been years since Alex had spoken of his brother with more than a passive longing, but suddenly Danny understood the younger Alex’s motives all too well. Danny’s pensive calm did not dissuade the anger that burned inside his own heart tonight. It merely acted as a buffer through which temporary control could be achieved. If it took forever, Danny swore to payback every idiot he arrested from now until retirement. He’d make them all sorry. He’d make them all pay for Danny being denied the opportunity to make Wendel Wallace’s death a long, suffering affair. He’d make everyone pay for Danny being denied revenge for his brother-in-arms, Alex Mendez. Cops were not the playthings of the criminal world, and Danny was finished being their whipping boy. He couldn’t bring back Ted. Nor could his premeditated plans cure Alex, but that wasn’t his goal if the truth be told. Alex’s attacker had been killed. Danny had asked him why he had attacked Alex and gotten no answer from the whacked out smelly hunk of flesh – at least no answer that made any sense. Maybe the files from the medical examiner will tell Danny what the dirt bag had been high on, but for now his only answer was that Alex’s attacker was no longer of this world.
Sure, he’d never hurt Alex or anyone again. But Danny couldn’t help but feel cheated out of his opportunity to exact a little revenge for the friend laying there in the hospital bed, half the man he used to be. If Danny had his way, no criminal would ever hurt a cop again. Earlier, he’d admonished Steve Christie that cops should not be forgotten. Shortly before identifying Detective Alan Stanley’s body, Danny had promised Steve Christie’s lifeless corpse that neither of them would be forgotten. Simply, if a little rumored brutality could dissuade a couple of prospective punks from going all-out-jack-monkey, Danny’s purpose would be served. If, in the meantime, a few hardened criminals had their testicles force-fed to them, he considered it a small service to the lifeguards who had obviously fallen asleep while supervising the gene pool through the years.
Danny spoke to no one. Alex’s name was on a small wooden board beside the entrance to his room so it wasn’t necessary to ask for help.
Lightly tapping a finger on Alex’s door, Danny proceeded without waiting for a reply. If Alex was sleeping, he didn’t want to disturb his rest, but he wanted to give any other guests ample consideration of his presence. Just as he had opened the door wide enough to enter, a small redheaded nurse approached him. She was not even five feet tall. Were it not for her ample figure, Danny would have thought her to be a twelve-year-old girl playing dress up. She sported more makeup than was necessary to accentuate her natural beauty, but by no means flirted with a trashy appearance. She wore glasses that were too big for her face. They looked like something that might have been seen on a 1980’s teen sitcom star.
“Sir,” she whispered, “I’m afraid visiting hours are over.” Her voice was a bit nasally, given to cuteness that almost denigrated the authority with which she spoke.
Without a word, he removed his badge, showed it to the nurse, and entered Alex’s room without further incident.
A large man in scrubs and a doctor’s coat sat beside Alex’s bed watching television. Turning his attention toward Danny, the man spoke.
“You must be Officer Peterson.” This was definitely the Purple Dinosaur voice he’d spoken with earlier. Still, Danny was struck by the contrast the hulking man’s presence presented when his Mr. Rogers voice made itself known.
“If I must,” Danny said sarcastically, “And you must be the person I talked to earlier.”
“Mike,” the big man confirmed. “Dr. Michael St. James. But please call me Mike.”
“Lt. Danny Peterson,” Danny said. “You can call me Lieutenant.”
The big man laughed. Danny’s expression was blank.
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” Mike chuckled.
“How’s Alex?” Danny whispered, giving his attention to his sleeping friend.
“Better,” Mike said. His voice seemed to change almost instantly from the jovial door greeter to that of professional. His expression, too, lost its child-like quality. Settling, rather, for a solemnity characteristic of the medical profession. “He is going to pull through just fine.”
“When will he get to go home?” Danny asked.
“I’m not sure. A few days most likely. Couple weeks, tops, I’d say. He’s made great progress with his physical therapy here. He’s strong.”
“You h
ave no idea.”
“I’d like to get him into some outpatient therapy. Maybe some passive exercises or something. Something outside the hospital where he’s not surrounded by an atmosphere of sickness. Somewhere he can heal his mind as well as his body, but—”
Alex stirred, moving his left leg ever so slightly as if running in a slow motion dream world. He woke suddenly, popping his eyes open, focusing weakly on Danny who had turned to greet his friend. Alex smiled at Danny.
“Hey guy,” Danny whispered, giving Alex’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “What’s new?” He smiled at Alex, just happy to see him awake and alert.
“Da-” Alex was trying to speak. He sounded like he was gargling as he spoke. He stopped, took a deep breath, cleared his throat a couple of times and tried again. “Dan-ny.” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t clear. It didn’t sound much at all like the Alex Danny had come to know. It was as if someone’s voice had been surgically implanted into him. Just the fact that he was talking was a shock to Danny. Last he’d heard Alex was barely able to make gurgling sounds, much less form words. He’d almost felt ashamed that he’d bore witness to it before Lisa. Surprised, he turned his attention back to Mike.
“How long has he been able to talk? Does Lisa know?”
Mike smiled, again returning to the child-like figure “Your guess is as good as mine. First sound I’ve heard out of him that made any sense.”
Turning back toward Alex, Danny decided to ease the uncomfortable tension he suddenly felt.
“Geez man! How’s this for a story to tell the grandkids? You lose your voice and when you get it back, you can’t think of anything better to say than my name. If I wasn’t such a angry old coot I’d be honored.” Looking around, Alex’s face showed great concern.
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