Looking up from the sofa, Danny scanned the living room. It had such a homey feel to it. Behind Lisa, in the corner of the room, sat an old antique cabinet. Though it was currently closed, Danny knew all too well that its contents included, among other things. Various photos from the lives of the family Mendez. Of Lisa when she was still Warner. Of Christina when she was a baby. Of Alex when— When he was still Alex.
“You should have seen this guy, Lisa,” Danny sighed, “He was nothing. Five foot nothing. A hundred and nothing. He looked like he’d blow away if he breathed too hard. But I swear he—” Danny couldn’t even finish. He choked on the words. He suffocated on the images that filled his mind. Images of being tossed through a metal door. Images of pain flashing through his body. The eyes of Wendel Wallace, so inhuman. So…wrong.
Danny looked to his left, focusing on the beautiful brick fireplace which the Mendez family hardly ever used. The brick was tan, darkened slightly by some sort of brick staining. Danny was no decorating guru, but the blackness of the mortar that connected the bricks in the fireplace was in stark contrast to the cement-colored mortar found elsewhere in the house’s frame. The fireplace, with its darkened brick and mortar setting, complimented the hardwood floors and deep wood paneling very well, Danny thought.
Lisa sat with a look of consternation. Silent, it was her gaze that brought him back to reality.
“When I hit this guy, I was not holding back. I wanted to break him in half. All I could see was Alex. It would have taken half the police force to get me off him but he threw me aside like I was nothing. He threw me like a rag doll. And then somebody – God only knows who – snaps his neck like he was a baby, kills two cops without leaving a mark on any of them and gets away without being seen?”
“If he was that strong, maybe he did kill those guys. Then maybe himself,” Lisa offered.
“Snapped his own neck?” Danny asked. Impossible.
“What about the security cameras?”
“Nothing,” Danny said, exasperated. “They catch the front doors exploding off the building and that’s it. They go static.”
* * *
A chill met Lisa’s spine with driving force. Doors exploding off the police station. Some small, insignificant, dirty, filthy street rat causing such chaos and then dying so mysteriously? What’d he do, Lisa thought to herself, break his own neck? Danny’s question had echoed her thoughts. Impossible. As if her night needed to get any stranger.
A shiver rocked her body and she rubbed her arms trying to remove the chill from her bones.
“This is some weird stuff, Danny,” Lisa finally said.
She was stricken by images from her past. Images from her former life. Her life as Lisa Warner. Her life before marriage, before being Mrs. Alex Mendez. Before being Christina’s Mom. She’d known some unconventional things in her life. She’d seen killers shave the skin off their victims. She’d seen bodies cut to pieces and left in different dumpsters on different streets in different parts of town. She’d seen refrigerators full of half-eaten dog brains and babies burned alive, strapped to backyard barbeque grills. But nothing had the effect on her that Tina Miles had had on her, some four years ago. Until now.
When Christina was born, Lisa and Alex had paid homage to their unsung hero by naming their daughter after the girl who had saved a world unaware of the peril it faced. Over the years, their homage had periodically gotten lost amid busy schedules and life’s inevitable moments of uncertainty. People just don’t die without explanation, she told herself. Being a cop had taught her to be suspicious but she had not truly understood the concept until four years ago. There’s always a reason. Even if, four years later, the explanation was just as much a mystery as it was back then. Suddenly, her mind was flooded with scenes from her bathroom escapade earlier that evening. She remembered the scaly face. The rotted, smelly body covered in its gray reptilian-dry skin. She remembered the tattered, dirt-covered clothes and it hit her.
“Tina!” she said aloud, alarming even herself at the misplaced spoken name.
Danny looked around behind him, startled by Lisa’s exclamation. “Christina’s in bed,” he noted.
Flushed, flustered and, admittedly confused herself, Lisa said nothing. Sighed. Finally, she broke her silence.
“Promise me something, Danny.” Her face was stern, serious. She was desperate.
“What is it ya want, Mary?” Danny said, feigning his best Jimmy Stewart, “Ya want the moon? Why just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it—”
“Danny,” Lisa insisted, “I’m serious. I need you to promise me something. You’re not going to understand but if it ever comes to this, you’ll know what I’m talking about, I promise.”
“Anything for you, Kid. You know that.”
“Promise me you’ll let me know if you get any weird cases. Things you can’t explain. Things that just don’t add up. Promise me.”
“Lisa, I—”
“Promise me, Danny.”
“You have my word.”
“Good boy,” she said, smiling and reaching over to pat him on the head. Returning the gesture, Danny reached up to scuff Lisa’s hair. His hand, though gently stroking her hair touched a very sore spot and, once again, reminded Lisa of the evening’s events.
The searing pain went through her skull like an ice pick. Instinctively she jerked backwards, wincing and favoring her scalp. Danny looked nervous, ashamed. He began to apologize more profusely than Lisa was accustomed from him. It wasn’t Danny Peterson’s nature to apologize, at least not with such a small, defeated countenance about him. Sure, he’d say “sorry” and mean every syllable, but he wasn’t one to make a production out of it. From what Lisa had come to know, Danny hated productions. He hated hassle, hated uncomfortable situations. He’d buy flowers or bring a stuffed animal to work or simply shove it all under the rug behind a bevy of sarcastic charm that was irresistible to all that knew him.
Lisa yawned. It was getting late enough that it was no longer late at night but early in the morning. She had come home to get some rest but, despite what could have been a forced rest in Christina’s room, had yet to be able to accomplish her goal. Not that Danny wasn’t a welcome distraction.
“Well,” he said, lifting himself off the couch, “I think that’s my cue to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” Lisa said, half yawning again, “Really, Danny, you don’t have to go.” She rose from the couch, walking with him toward the door, despite her honest declaration.
“I better get going,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. We’re a bit shorthanded lately, what with two of our best being on the sidelines.”
Though she smiled, it was half-hearted. Lisa felt bad for being so selfish lately. She’d spent so much time thinking about her situation, her problems, her life that she didn’t see the big picture. Alex’s accident was affecting everyone. Everyone including Danny. Walking him to the door, she gently grabbed his shoulder. He turned toward her and she hugged him tightly. Not with a half-hearted, one-armed hug like before. This was a genuine attempt to smother Danny in the gratitude and honest love he’d so richly deserved. With a small peck on the cheek, she let go her hug.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Just,” she sighed. “Thank you, Danny. For everything. For all you do. For being my friend. For, just for everything. Just, thank you, Danny.” She was tired, she was hurting and she was sad, so when a tear swelled in her eye, neither she nor Danny was surprised. She wiped her eyes as Danny opened the door to leave. The sun was starting to come up. It had gotten exceptionally late.
“You need anything, I’m there,” Danny said, his voice full of conviction. Lisa nodded at his gesture. “And Lisa?” He said softly.
“Hmm?”
“Get your butt back to work. I need some help!”
She laughed when she saw his Cheshire grin.
“I promise,” she said, sniffling. “This week.”
With a wink, Danny left
, closing the door behind him.
Locking the door, Lisa turned out the lights and crashed on the sofa. Just a couple hours sleep, she told herself, and I’ll be fine.
“I’ll wake up and this whole stinkin’ thing will be a dream,” she whispered, drifting off into the most-needed sleep of her entire life.
Chapter 14 ~
It was early in the morning for Alex. After ten, but early given the sleep schedule to which he’d grown accustomed in the last several weeks. Whatever drugs they’d been slipping him, they’d worked pretty well. On the radio – one of few soft noises, the only thing keeping Alex company – Buddy Jewell sang about southern comforts. Alex tried to relate to the twangy lament, a near impossible feat given his sudden propensity to mentally migrate toward the pessimistic side of his situation. The old Alex loved this song, and all the meaning he’d found living in the warm, friendly community environment of East Texas. The new Alex was not so positive. Pain, anger, distress and depression, had robbed Alex of his sense of home. Alex found himself alone with his thoughts for the first time in a long time. Mike was seeing about his rounds. Lisa was…wherever. He wasn’t really sure. Danny probably wouldn’t ever come back and who could blame him? Physical therapy had drained Alex’s body, zapping him of any reserve strength he might have built up. But even buried under fatigue’s iron quilt, nothing could empty his mind. Nothing could satisfy his thirst for justice; his hunger for revenge. Nothing could quell the somber realization that Wendel Wallace was no more. Disappointment, anger and bitter resentment fixed itself in Alex’s embattled heart. He didn’t even know who he was angry with. According to Danny, no one knew the identity of Wendel Wallace’s killer.
Alex wanted to find out, if for no other reason than to enable him to decide if he needed to thank them or punch them. He’d used the anger to push himself at therapy. To bend just a little farther, ride the stationary bike just a little longer. He’d stretched himself as far as the physical therapists were willing to let him go and, despite feeling physically spent, Alex knew his emotions were fuel enough for another go at the routine. He could have ridden coast to coast and back again on pure emotion alone, but emotion did not provide his body with all the key ingredients to pull off such a feat. While it may have provided fuel, it lent no strength to the effort – determination, confidence but no concrete ability. His mind wanted to get up. His heart screamed for his body to once again stride with power and confidence. His body had been pushed, prodded onward beyond what should have been physically possible for him at this stage. Anger had sparked progress, but now Alex was paying the price for his rage. The wall of fatigue stood firm and Alex knew anger would provide nothing more than futile efforts from a weak, damaged and spent body. Badly in need of rest, unable to quiet his raging mind, Alex closed his eyes.
Fighting mental chaos, anger, sorrow, and disappointment, Alex drifted away. Drifted into a quiet place with waving seas of grass and flowers of various colors. A place bordered by strong oak trees, waving powerful limbs amid the warm fantastic breeze. A place where Christina’s sweet grin looked up at him standing on his strong legs, arms outstretched. The bitter sweetness of reality faded into the tender nightmare from which Alex would soon awaken. In his soul, quietly just outside the reach of his conscious mind, Alex prayed. His body cried out for strength. His heart begged for courage. His entire being beseeched the very Existence of Good to give him comfort. In his dream world, Alex was normal. For now, he was whole again. In this world, Alex Mendez truly lived. In his world, Alex Mendez lay helpless, scared, angry. He’d been denied so much. So much had been stolen from him. Why? Drifting into a sleep that was anything but peaceful, Alex wept, praying more steadily the deeper he sank into the world of slumber. Praying for answers.
* * *
Scott Bryan sat in his room brooding, sulking. The loss of his cousin, Rachel, and best friend, Paul, was still fresh in his heart and mind. Not even the flashing pixels and stereo sound of his personal computer seemed to work its usual mind-numbing magic. Over the years, he’d learned to utilize the computer as a form of escape from the realities of his teenage angst. When parents didn’t understand and friends seemed to lack compassion, there was his computer. His gateway to emotional release. It had been the way in which he’d met two people he considered dear friends, even though one lived in Virginia and the other just south of Waco. They understood him. They liked him. They tolerated him.
Today, though, it wasn’t the Internet that had his attention. It was his other computerized passion. He’d long ago turned his speakers off, preferring instead to further his imaginary world dominance in silence. The sounds of swords clanging, grunting electronic soldiers, tank engines and bombers flying secret missions filled his head, despite the bitter absence of sound in which he sat. His desk was wooden, with brass knobs, and stained a rich brown hue. He had inherited it when his grandfather had died the year before. It was the only thing he had been allowed to keep and, though he was grateful, the decision to keep the desk was his Dad’s, not Scott’s. Based more on economic necessity than on any attached sentimentality. Scott was getting a new computer. A new computer meant a new desk. Grandpa Joe just happened to have, in Scott’s father’s mind, a well-timed heart attack. Scott preferred to think of it in the sense of his grandpa looking out for him. Grandpa Joe had always been that way. Generous to a fault, but bordering on violently against any recognition of said generosity.
It wouldn’t have surprised Scott for his grandpa to be quietly sitting in some corner of Heaven staring down at the computer bought with the birthday money Grandpa Joe had given him sitting atop the very desk whereupon he’d signed the birthday check in question and thinking “I did that.” But, Scott chuckled to himself, woe unto the first angel that gave him a pat on the back. Scott’s cat, Rocki – a solid black female, slender and sleek with a shiny coat – paced back and forth on the back of the thick, cushioned easy chair Scott used as a computer chair. Rocki was paper-thin. Though she was almost two years old, she hadn’t grown much since she was six months. With every lap across the back of the chair Rocki flipped her tail against the back of Scott’s head. As always, she hated anything or anyone else getting the attention of her boy.
“Quit it, ya bony little fart!” Scott said, reaching behind and removing his beloved pest from her ruling perch. Holding her bony frame in his right hand, he kissed Rocki on the head and put her down on the floor. It wouldn’t last and Scott knew it. She’d stay down just long enough for Scott to get lost in something else, in this case the game, before returning to her flip-flip begging for his attention. Her boy, she was saying with each flip of the tail. The only real competition for Scott’s affection was Maggie. She was an English bulldog. She was old and she was a lady. Though prone to the occasional fit of excitement, Maggie was not an excitable mutt. When she wanted Scott’s attention, she had no problem, however, letting him know that now was the time she had designated to be petted. It was always the same. If he was sitting in the soft easy chair, conquering the world or surfing the web, She would simply walk up, usually cough or hack to announce her entrance into Scott’s room, lift her body high enough so as to appear almost regal in posture before calmly laying her gentle under-biting chin on Scott’s lap and peering up at him with that sour-mug sad expression. As if on some canine time clock that only she understood, Maggie would recognize mere seconds of inaction on Scott’s part by chuffing her jowls, expelling air almost as if she were sighing in pouted frustration.
Today, though, Maggie was not yet in the mood to be petted. Wherever she was, chances are she was dreaming of hotdogs and her favorite game of all – one she played with Rocki whenever they both were allowed into the back yard – chase. With Rocki at least temporarily removed from Scott’s room, he found himself in the company of no one but the pixilated armies vying for his make-believe destruction.
It was Friday, but school was out for some kind of teacher workday. He didn’t know what the deal was, but he didn’t really
care. Whatever got him out of school was all right with him. So long as he didn’t have to deal with reality right now, he was fine. Reality had lost its allure long before Paul and Rachel had fallen victim to it. Losing them, however, only added to the list of reasons to avoid reality at all costs. Both of his parents worked long hours. His mother was a vice president at a nearby bank and his father was a successful Dean at the local Junior College. He usually worked half a day on Friday, so Scott had awoken planning on being at home by himself most of the day. He’d already turned down two invitations from friends last night. They had wanted to do something today. Probably just wanted to get him out of the house. Get him away from himself. He had told them no. Now, with his father opting not to go into work today, Scott was starting to regret the decision.
His father wasn’t a mean man, really. Typical for most teens, Scott guessed, they just did not get along. Scott remembered maybe twice that his father had said he was proud of him. He couldn’t remember a single time being told of his father’s love. Perhaps that’s because Scott’s father had no love for him. Truth was, Scott didn’t really know. Scott had never lived up to his father’s plans. Being born crippled meant that Scott would never be the captain of the football team the way his dad had been. He’d never play basketball or even baseball. Mentally, Scott surpassed his father’s achievements a hundred fold. He was one of the top kids in his class, while his father had been a middle-of-the-road typical “dumb jock” student. He’d scored perfect on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery exam, an exam his father once admitted to have failed. Though he would never physically be Armed Forces material, he took the test for the same reason he did anything else in life. To prove that he could. He wasn’t even out of high school yet, and he still had members of the Marine Corps, Army, and Navy calling him at least once a week, asking if he’d given any thought to his future. Sure, he’d given it thought. And, like he always told them, as soon as they developed a division for people in wheelchairs or on crutches, they could sign him up.
Mendez Genesis Page 28
