Ben nodded. “Yeah, sounds about right. Whatever’s wrong with him, he wasn’t coherent. Probably drugs,” he said, but something deep down told him it was not drugs. It was something else, but he had no idea how to explain it.
“Thanks for responding so quickly,” Richardson said.
Ben shrugged. “Duty and all that. Besides, I was right here anyway.” He paused as he felt his vision give a little lurch, and he sucked in his breath quietly. “I have espresso in my car getting cold, I should take off. I'll email you my report this afternoon of the incident.”
“You okay?” Richardson called out as Ben started towards his car. “You look really pale.”
“Yeah, I'm fine. Long day already,” Ben said, forced a smile, and hurried into the car before he was asked any other questions. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message to his boss.
Need to take the rest of the day off. Will work at home. Thx.
He didn't wait for a response and instead turned his car on, drove straight to his apartment, popped one of the sleeping pills his doctor had given him, and hoped that the oblivion of drug-induced sleep would help him feel right again.
Four
Mark stood facing the wall in his room. Normally there would be a mirror there, but a mirror was useless for a blind man, even one who was only pretending to be blind. On the little table sat his secret box of contacts and contact liquid he used to complete the illusion.
Mark had found them years before, the milky-white contacts that movie producers used to feign blindness in their actors. They effectively made Mark blind, and at first the discomfort was almost too much to bear, but now when he took them out, his eyes felt small and naked, and the world was too bright.
He was washing them when the knock on his door came, and he called out, “Just a moment,” in his accented English. Mark was just getting used to the English language again. He'd spent longer than he cared to remember in the deep recesses of freezing cold Siberia, and it had taken him quite some time to remember the guttural, Germanic tongue of the modern western country.
With haste, Mark shoved the contacts back into his eyes, sending his vision into a pale white blur. He'd spent so long in this state he had learned to live blind, and had no trouble finding the door and opening it.
“You busy?” It was the rather light, pretty voice of Abby. Mark had only seen her without the contacts a few times, and had trouble remembering the fine details about her. He knew she was short, her hair a honey color, and long. She smiled a lot, which was clear in her voice, and it was refreshing in the dreary teaching environment where everyone seemed constantly miserable and frustrated.
“No, please come in,” Mark said, standing aside. He smelled a rush of the herb garden as Abby breezed past him and walked into his small sitting room.
Mark followed the girl and took a seat in his customary chair, folding his hands over his crooked knee. On the sofa, Abby was shuffling around the newspaper she’d brought in with her.
“Okay so,” she said in a rush, the deep roots of the United States west coast imbedded deeply in her accent, “this morning I went out and picked up the paper, which you know, I never do, and on the front page was an article about a guy in a church yesterday who was taken to a hospital because of stigmata wounds!” Her voice rose at the end with excitement and thrill. “We haven't had a case in the US with stigmata or anything like that in... well... a long time, right?”
“There are reports, from time to time. I hear them, rumors and such. I haven’t been here long, so I'm not entirely sure.” Mark’s voice was sharper than he had intended, mainly due to lack of sleep the night before as he searched for some sign of his missing companion.
There was an uncomfortable silence and then Abby said, “You seem a little distracted, I must have interrupted something. Would you like me to go?”
Mark smiled and shook his head. “No, no, please, tell me more about this article.” The truth was, he did want her to go. He was tired, he was feeling old and worn out and it seemed no matter where he was, as quiet as he attempted to be, people were drawn to him. Abby, however, was a sweet girl, young and good, and it wasn't often Mark met people who were simply good.
She spoke again, her voice colored with excitement, and she shook the newspaper article as she told the story. “Well it says here that a homeless man wandered into Grace Chapel. The man was staring up at the crucifix and when one of the younger parishioners tried to help him, he threw the guy twenty feet across the room and then started bleeding from his wrists! By the time the paramedics got to him, he had stopped bleeding and he was unconscious. There's no way that's coincidence.”
“It definitely sounds like something for your collection,” Mark said. At one point Abby had shown Mark a large collection of newspaper articles from all over the world categorizing religious miracles and incidents. From time to time, he wasn’t sure Abby was a true believer in the Judeo-Christian faith, but something about stigmata and weeping saints fascinated her. It was something unique about her, something he appreciated.
Abby folded the paper and put it into the pocket of her ankle-length skirt. She checked her watch and grimaced. “Sorry, I gotta go. I have that late afternoon tutoring session and then I'm meeting my brother for dinner.” She paused and then added hesitantly, “You um... you want to come to dinner with us? He won’t mind, I’m sure.”
Mark smiled and shook his head slowly, “Ah thank you for inviting me, but I believe I'll stay in this evening.”
Abby rose and put her hand down on Mark's shoulder and he smiled. “You never come out with me. Someday I'll get you out into the light of day... or even the dark of evening.”
“Perhaps,” he said and gave her hand a friendly pat. He showed her to the door and when her small footsteps had faded, he locked the bolt, pulled the contacts from his eyes and gave a sigh. He really was tired. Living over two-thousand years was exhausting in itself, even without the constant need to hide or the constant worry someone would figure out his secret.
Watching people born, grow up and die, living in the world but not of it—it hurt Mark. It was terrifying some nights, as he lay there in the dark, watching the world age around him as he spent an eternity trapped in his thirty year old body.
He hadn't changed, no matter how many years he avoided looking in a mirror. He was still tall, slender, a tan face, smooth now that beards had gone out of fashion. His hair clipped short these days, curly as it had ever been, but now sitting neatly just above his ears.
Mark supposed it was good his look was rather timeless, he could slip in and out of centuries with only a change of fashion and slang. He truly was ageless, the curse had seen to that, the curse he still didn’t understand.
Beyond his exhaustion, however, was thrill. Thrill because for the first time in months, something had come up. Another incident of stigmata, something Mark knew didn’t happen often, and when it was real, it was usually his missing companion.
Mark went to his laptop and typed in the information Abby had given him. Sure enough, an article popped up, displayed by the local news of an enraged homeless man who was possibly stricken by a religious miracle.
Mark scanned the article and saw they couldn’t confirm the bleeding, as he’d stopped by the time the paramedics arrived. A detective on scene had been able to calm the man who was babbling in a strange language no one understood, however, and the detective had reported possible injuries to the wrist.
He read on that the man had gone unconscious and the last report the news station had was the man being treated at a local hospital for possible drug overdose or injury to the brain.
As the name of the detective or hospital hadn’t been given, Mark’s trail went cold there, but at least it was something. It had to be him, his Yehuda. His companion lost for so long Mark had trouble recalling the last time they’d spoken. Too much time had passed, Mark knew, too much time to be considered safe, for Yehuda to still be in his right mind.
Mark
shut his laptop and began to formulate a plan. The first thing he needed to do was find out where the man had been taken, and the moment he could, he would take Yehuda away and they would both disappear.
Five
Ben hadn’t slept for ten hours straight since he was a high school student. He’d always been an early riser, brain full of things that needed to get done, and once he became a detective, he rarely slept at all.
Rolling over, he was surprised to see the sun shining directly through his window, and when he grabbed his phone to check the time, he sat up in shock. It was well past nine, and there were four missed calls from his office with a voicemail wondering where he was and if he was okay.
Panicked, Ben jumped out of bed, raced to get dressed. He showered, shaved and gulped down coffee in less than ten minutes. He didn’t stop until he grabbed his glasses, and when his vision went cloudy after putting them on, he froze.
He blinked a little and rubbed the lenses on his shirt, making sure they looked clear in the sun, and then shoved them back on his face. It was still the same, the world fuzzy and somewhat off center, and he felt dizzy when he tried to walk with them on. When he took them off, however, the world was clear, like his vision had corrected itself, and he knew that could not be a good sign.
He remembered the doctor asking if he had any change in vision last time they talked, and he knew it was a concern regarding the tumor. Could it have grown? Gotten worse overnight? Pulling out his phone, he dialed his doctor’s number with trembling fingers and waited. He expected voicemail, but the doctor picked up.
“Doctor Burke,” came the gruff voice.
“Dr. Burke, it’s Ben Stanford,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and controlled. “I’m experiencing something… off.”
“How so?” the doctor asked matter-of-factly.
“There’s something wrong with my eyes.” Ben wasn’t entirely sure how to explain it, but simple seemed like the best way to start.
“Are you losing vision? Seeing any large black spots?” he asked.
“No,” Ben said slowly. “It’s pretty strange. When I put my glasses on, I can’t see anything, but off, my vision looks… I don’t know… normal, I guess. Like it used to be when I was a kid, before my astigmatism developed.”
There was a long pause before the doctor answered. “That is cause for concern. Any vision changes are. Are you free to come in for a second MRI? I realize your job is a busy one, but I want to make sure we don’t need to move on this more quickly.”
Ben shoved down the panic threatening to consume him and he cleared his throat. “I’m free. When do you want me in?”
“Now,” the doctor said immediately. “I’m going to clear a space for you. Try and get to the radiology lab in the next twenty minutes.”
“Alright,” Ben said and hung up. He sent another quick message to his boss, Sorry on a personal emergency, will call as soon as I can. He turned his phone to silent, went down stairs with his glasses in his pocket, and got into his car.
“Okay,” Ben said to himself as he started up the engine. “I’m okay.” He mentally checked to make sure he was feeling fine, no dizzy spells, no warning signs of a seizure, and though his body wanted to drop down into a full blown panic attack, he forced himself to stay calm and drive.
The doctor’s office was busy, but when Ben gave his name, they called him back immediately. The nurse hooked him up to an IV this time, telling him something about a dye being injected into his body to get a better reading.
Feeling exposed in his gown, Ben lay down on the table and counted to twenty as the nurse started the medication. It was a strange feeling, like heat rushing through his body. When it passed through his middle, he panicked, thinking he was going to lose control of his bladder, but a few moments later, it passed and he was fine.
The MRI took an hour, and even though he’d slept for longer than he had in years, he still dozed off, and woke startled when a loud voice through a speaker told him it was over. Groggily, he sat up and allowed the nurse to remove the needle from his arm.
“Doctor Burke asked for the results to be sent straight to his office and he’ll be in touch the moment he learns something,” she said in her nasal voice.
Mutely, Ben nodded and waited on the bed until the room was empty so he could change. He wasn’t sure what was going on, or why this was happening, but he knew that if he didn’t get some straight answers soon, he was going to go crazy.
~*~
“Surgery,” the doctor said later that evening when he called Ben. “I found something very odd on this MRI image and I need to schedule you for an exploratory surgery sooner than originally planned. I’ll be performing it with one of the state’s top neurologists, and the procedure should take about two hours. You’ll need to clear your schedule for a few weeks, mind you, to ensure proper recovery.” Simple, to the point, and absolutely no information to ease Ben’s fear. He wrote down the date on a small pad sitting on his low coffee table, and mumbled as polite a goodbye as he could muster right then.
He stood there in the middle of the living room floor when the line from the doctor’s office had gone dead. He wasn’t sure what to think or how to move forward, and his feet felt oddly rooted to the ground, like he’d been cemented there.
Worse. It could be worse than before. Maybe better, a small voice inside Ben’s head piped up, but he ignored it, too afraid to let himself have hope.
Ben wiggled his toes, testing to see if he actually could move his feet, and he felt the carpet shifting under his weight. His smaller toes went in between the little threads, down towards the plush cushioning beneath. His hand began to tingle and Ben realized he was still holding the phone so tightly he’d cut the circulation to his fingers. He slipped the phone into his pocket and wiggled his wrist a bit.
Okay, so he had to go in for surgery. That had been a must anyway, and this was just speeding up the process. This just meant they would find out whatever it was and he wouldn’t have to play that damn waiting game anymore, because really, that was driving him completely insane.
Ben realized he could no longer keep it from his boss, though, especially if they were going to bring him in for surgery earlier than originally planned. He would have to man up and make the call. Glancing out, the evening air looked appealing, and so did the sound of a cigarette. He barely felt the press of the buttons as he dialed Albert and held the phone between his shoulder and ear as it rang, his feet propelling him to his balcony door.
“Tell me this isn’t you giving notice,” came the rough, tired voice of Albert Ole. “You’ve been acting weird for the last few weeks, Stanford.”
Ben cleared his throat and went outside into the chill night air. He had his in-case-of-emergency pack of cigarettes crammed between a large gap in the brick wall and he lit one up immediately. “I’ve got some news for you, boss.”
“Lay it on me,” Albert said, his voice going softer than usual. “You’ve obviously got something going on.”
Ben looked up at the foggy sky and sighed. “I think I’m dying.”
“Very funny,” Albert snapped. “I’m not exactly in the mood for one of your little sick jokes. You have no idea how long I’ve been awake.”
“If I was joking, you’d know it,” Ben said, and felt his throat tighten and cleared it so he could continue. “The doctor found a tumor in my brain.”
“Jesus,” Albert breathed, then paused for quite some time. “You’re not shitting me, are you? This is real.”
“Very real,” Ben said slowly. “I think it got worse yesterday or something, because things were really weird when I woke up this morning. When the doctor called about the results from my second MRI, he was really concerned. They want me to come in for exploratory surgery in two days. I’m going to need some time off.”
“How long have you been keeping this from me, Stanford?”
Ben gave a small laugh. “Just a few weeks. Look, you’re lucky I told you at all, boss, because frankly
I was considering just letting the tumor eat me alive until I dropped dead.”
“That’s not funny, Ben. You’re not just a detective, to me. You’re my friend, and you’re an asshole for keeping this to yourself.” Albert’s voice sounded higher than usual, and tight. It was stress, and Ben felt like shit for being the cause of it.
“What was I supposed to say?” Ben bit. “Hey boss, I think I have cancer. If I’m lucky I’m going to be going through massive amounts of radiation and chemo and be completely useless to everyone around me. If I’m not lucky, I’m about to goddamn die. It’s not exactly a conversation I wanted to have with anyone, okay?”
“Does your sister know?” Albert demanded.
“No, and you keep your damn mouth shut, do you understand me?” Ben snapped. “I’m not about to worry her with information I don’t even have yet. I barely have the strength to deal with this on my own. I don’t have the strength to try and keep her from falling to pieces over my health.”
Albert was silent for quite some time. “Fine. But you have to open up a little more. I can’t do anything for you if you don’t bother to tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I don’t want help,” Ben said tiredly. “I just want this to be over. Anyway, I have to go, I have to get up early for some pre-op tests they want to run to make sure I don’t kick the bucket on the operating table while they’re digging in my brain. I’ll call you later, okay?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He was scared and he didn’t want to face anyone telling him ‘good luck’ or ‘be well’, and the very last thing he wanted to hear was, ‘I’ll be praying for you.’
Going back inside, he threw his phone on the couch and cracked open a bottle of scotch. If he was about to face what was likely the most frightening thing he’d ever faced in his life, he was going to do so drunk, because really, it was the only way to keep himself together.
The Awakening (The Judas Curse Book 1) Page 3
