Purpose

by Andrew Q. Gordon

  Gar pressed tighter against Ryan. So why did he hesitate? Why did the thought make him recoil in guilt? Guilt had never bothered him before….

  Yes, it has. But that was before he detached himself from human contact. Before the Purpose.

  He slowly unwound himself from Ryan and moved to the window. How many times had he seen the sun rise without having slept? And even when he did sleep, his dreams were violent or confusing. Often, he’d relive memories of his “past lives,” seeing events as if he were personally involved.

  Yet he couldn’t remember dreaming last night. His chest clenched. Had the Purpose left? He closed his eyes and felt for its presence. It was there, just quiet. Relaxing, a sense of relief momentarily filled him before it drowned in a swell of hot anger.

  For much of the first decade, he hated It for ruining his life. He spent countless hours trying to rid himself of the unwanted presence. Finally, he made peace with his lot and accepted his fate. So why didn’t he feel relief? Wouldn’t he be happier without It?

  Stretching, he flexed his naked body, feeling… what exactly was he feeling?

  “Looks good.” Ryan’s voice curled the edges of Gar’s lips up slightly.

  “You should go back to sleep.” He kept his eyes fixed on the city rousing itself to life. “I’ll be gone most of the day.”

  “Come back to bed?”

  “No, I have things to take care of.” He dragged himself from the view and returned to the side of the bed. “You should rest. I’ll leave you a spare key. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

  “You don’t have anything, Gar.” Ryan extended his hand, running it over Gar’s back.

  “I have what I need.” His eyes turned toward the dresser. “If you need some, help yourself.”

  “Gar….”

  He twisted and laced his fingers with Ryan’s. “Go back to sleep. You had a rough night.”

  “Actually, I had a wonderful night.” The cheeky grin turned Gar’s amused half smile into a real one.

  “I’ll be back. Try to stay out of trouble.” Ryan gently pulled Gar’s hand to his lips.

  “I’ll be here.”

  STANDING across from the police station, Gar sipped absently on black coffee. The news conference was supposed to have started two minutes ago. Typical.

  Years of practice keeping his focus helped him clear his thoughts of Ryan and all the odd behaviors that seemed to flow from him. The kid’s arrival created more problems than just the disruption to his routine.

  Last night he’d been sloppy. Careless like he couldn’t remember. The five dead bodies in Northeast were shoved to page two. Four would-be robbers beaten by what was being reported as a Metro Transit cop was more unique, more sensational. Sold more papers. Brought more witnesses forward.

  Even the whiff of police brutality was bad, but this was worse. The transit authority promptly announced the suspect was not one of theirs. They provided a complete roster of officers and accounted for them all.

  Publishing an alibi for all its white officers in less than twelve hours was no small feat. No one wanted a rogue cop, least of all the transit system. Gar was not surprised when he learned the Metropolitan Police Department had assumed control of the investigation.

  Way too messy. Not caring made it easier to keep hidden. A small group descended the steps toward the podium and the tightly packed reporters and cameras. The chief, in her white officer’s uniform, took the lead. Behind her, a haggard Metro Transit chief looked on.

  While she spoke, the mayor and others looked on, pretending to care. Gar disliked politicians and their “get elected” mentality. A cursory scan of their minds told him they didn’t care about the four thugs. It was the disruption to the night life and its paying customers that concerned them.

  Fifteen minutes of mind-numbing speeches later, they got to the part he needed: the lead detective. Danny Griffin said a few prepared words, asked for the community’s patience and help. He ended by urging anyone with information to come forward. Quickly, he retreated into the crowd without answering questions.

  Ignoring the rest of the speakers, Gar probed the detective’s thoughts. Tossing his coffee in a bin, he scowled. Griffin was going to be a problem. Inching closer, he selected a target.

  “Chief?” a thirtysomething reporter from a news service called out. Traffic moved along Indiana Avenue, breaking the eerie silence.

  “Yes, you have a question?”

  Gar spoke, using the man’s voice. “Last night, five bodies turned up dead in Clay Terrace. After you arrived, fourteen guns and dozens of vials of PCP were found on the hood of your car with no witnesses to how they got there. How does that not warrant more attention than four injured, but alive, would-be robbers beaten during an attempted robbery?”

  Sort that out.

  Danny Griffin worked out of the Violent Crimes Branch. Gar decided they needed to talk.

  PAYING the cab driver, Gar stared at the run-down, poor excuse of a shopping center. A dry cleaner, a CVS and a liquor store. That was the best they could find? He walked to the left and made his way to the back of the building. Built into a hill, the basement was ground level in the rear.

  The lot was full, and there was considerable foot traffic in and out of the far end of the building. Who builds the DMV next to the homicide branch?

  Shaking his head, he found a quiet perch to watch the doors. Nothing marked the place as home to the Violent Crimes office. Even the parade of officers was mostly plainclothes. The occasional uniformed officer used an entrance to the far left that was marked “Regional Operations Center—North.”

  Although Griffin wanted to come right back after the news conference, Gar wasn’t counting on it happening that fast. The detective’s expectations might not be the same as his commanding officer’s. Watching closely, Gar soon figured out that the keypad to the left of the door let in those with a badge. Without a keycard, someone needed to unlock the door from the inside.

  Bypassing the keypad was simple enough, making his way to Griffin’s office unnoticed, a bit more difficult. Gar pulled a black cigarette-size box from his inner pocket and flicked a switch on the side. He replaced it, took a card from his wallet, and slowly walked toward the nondescript door.

  Entering unseen had taken years to perfect. Technology kept making it harder. Cameras, keypads, microchips—all required special attention beyond clouding people’s minds. The fewer obstacles, the better.

  He extended his hearing and searched for people close to the door. If he could slip in behind someone, so much the better. Opening the door when the video showed no one there usually raised an alert. Better to wait for someone leaving than to do that.

  The black box kept his image off the video monitor and he could make sure anyone outside didn’t “see” him standing by the door. Making someone do his bidding, like getting the reporter to ask about the five dead bodies, was much harder than telling people he wasn’t there. But it required a lot of effort to maintain his focus for long, so he kept the key card override handy in case he didn’t get a chance to sneak in.

  After three minutes of waiting and listening, he heard two sets of shoes approach the door. Perfect. Before the second detective cleared the doorframe, Gar slipped inside.

  Gliding down the hall, he hugged the standard government beige walls. Gar used the hard, grayish tile floor to his advantage. With a practiced ease, his tread made the barest of sounds, unlike the others, whose steps rang out like a hammer pounding an anvil to his heightened senses. Their movements completely masked what little sound his passing made.

  The heavy plodding of two sets of feet approaching caught his attention. Tuning out other sounds, he let them come closer. One male, one female, walking slowly. From their conversation, they were heading outside. Probably down the hallway where he stood. Didn’t matter, they were coming from the left. He needed to go right.

  Staring them both in the eye, he walked by, following the path he’d seen in Griffin’s thoughts.
Second door on the left, not closed, rows of gray cubicles. The image was etched into the man’s thoughts. So easy to read.

  Pausing by the door, the only sounds he heard were not close enough to keep him out. Despite the number of desks, the office was nearly deserted. Those who were there sat well away from his destination.

  Gliding over to Griffin’s desk, he took inventory. A large photo of a woman, two boys, not quite teens, standing in front of a blue Ford pickup, a group photo of him and four others—likely other officers—on a fishing boat, as well as various “office memos.”

  On the left side of the desk, pressed against a cubicle divider, Gar saw his prize: a stack of six reddish-brown files. Sifting through these, he found the one he wanted.

  Turning the pages, he scanned for the details he needed. Could they identify him? Four witnesses, three different descriptions, and one “didn’t get a good look.” Nothing of interest. Bland, boring, and mechanical. The file begged to be buried in the “unsolved and who cares” cabinet. Pleased, he almost missed a notation, seemingly tossed in as an afterthought, at the bottom of the second to last page, that stopped his heart for a beat. It didn’t make sense. Three times he read it, but the mystery remained.

  A chair sliding across tile snapped his attention from the paper. Minding the activity in the room, he quickly used his phone to photograph each page. He returned it to the stack and checked the neighboring cubicles for Griffin’s cell phone number. The second one thoughtfully had a list of numbers tacked to the fabric wall. He added it to his contact list and had what he wanted.

  Glancing around, he took note of the mismatched chairs to the right of Griffin’s cubicle. Extra details in case he needed to convince the man he’d been in his space.

  He retraced his steps and stood by the exit, waiting. When a buzz of the keypad alerted him to someone’s imminent entrance, he prepared to dart through when the chance arose.

  “How’d you get so lucky, Grif?”

  “Lucky?” Detective Griffin’s voice froze Gar in place. “Chief is already up my ass about proving this wasn’t a rogue cop. And she’s pissed that the details of the Clay Terrace incident got out. Like I have anything to do with that case.”

  Gar decided not to confront the man here—too many minds to manipulate. Instead, he slipped out before the door shut. Cool air on his face, he took out his phone. Punching the contact, he walked away from the building. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

  “Griffin.”

  “Good morning, Detective Griffin.”

  “Who is this?” Annoyance? No, more like uncertainty.

  “My name is not important, but I have information about the four who got beat up in Dupont last night.” That would get his attention.

  “How’d you get this number?”

  Hooked him. Gar smiled. The man wouldn’t hang up now.

  “From your coworker‘s cubicle. It’s on his wall.” He let the silence linger. “I left a moment ago, just as you and your partner entered. I was standing inside the hallway by the door. You didn’t see me because I didn’t want you to.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for games….”

  “As you entered the building you said, and I quote, ‘Chief is already up my ass about proving this wasn’t a rogue cop. And she’s pissed that the details of the Clay Terrace incident got out. Like I have anything to do with that case.’ Do I have your attention yet?”

  Following the sidewalk up the hill, Gar let the silence linger. Griffin’s ragged breathing warned Gar he was communicating with someone inside. “Who are you?”

  “How many times will you ask that before you realize I’m not going to tell you?”

  Gar crossed the side street, walking west when he reached Pennsylvania Avenue. Rapid footsteps filled the silence of the phone. “I’ve left, Detective. Rushing out of the building will do you no good.”

  A door opened, followed by running. Gar smiled. Would the man turn the right way? There were so many options.

  “What’s your game?” The voice was rushed, out of breath.

  “This is no game.” He stopped at the corner, still invisible to everyone. Griffin was staring right at him from the entrance to the parking lot. “You’re on the sidewalk looking for me. I’m in plain view, but you will not see me unless I want you to. Right now, I do not. So you can listen to me, or I’ll end this call and we won’t speak again.”

  “Fine, I’m listening.”

  Doubling back, Gar moved closer to where Griffin stood searching the area for his caller.

  “Go back inside. You might want to write this down.” A car drove past, blocking his view. When it was gone, Griffin was heading inside. “I beat those four when they asked an innocent if he knew what time it was. We both understand what that means. They were guilty. I merely rescued the boy.”

  “If that’s true, come forward and we won’t prosecute.” Griffin disappeared behind the wall.

  Time to go home.

  “There is no danger of me being prosecuted. You have no idea who I am or what I look like. You’ve got three different descriptions. Not a strong case, is it?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Detective….” Gar heard the sound of a car door closing on the other end. “I see you decided to get in your vehicle. This call is at an end. Next time, if you want my help, you’d do well to listen to my directions.”

  “Wait! I’ll get out.” The door slammed shut. “Don’t hang up. Hello?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m going to my desk. Just don’t hang up.” The buzz of the keypad confirmed his statement. “So what did you want to tell me?”

  “No doubt you found a gun in the alley. It belongs to the one who hit his head against the wall. I’m sure you will find his prints on it. I only punish the guilty.”

  More silence. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “We should meet. I’ll be in touch.” He disconnected the call and hailed a cab. He was too distracted to do this right now. Better to think it through.

  6

  GAR had the cab drop him off several blocks from his apartment. A rueful smile twisted his lips as he realized what he’d done. No one knew to follow him, but old habits proved hard to break. Besides, he needed some time alone. He found an empty stone bench and sat down.

  Reviewing the photos of the police reports on his phone, he confirmed what he knew: no two witnesses gave the same description of the “Metro Transit cop.” As he had intended, there was also no mention of him, no man in a trench coat, nothing. He’d forget the incident if it wasn’t for the notation at the bottom of the next-to-last report.

  He flipped screens back to the nettlesome report and stared a hole in his phone. Why was the FBI involved in a local investigation? Sure, the rogue cop angle was a potential civil rights violation, but no one really believed it was an off-duty police officer.

  Reading it again, it appeared Agent Barrington was seeking information for a multi-city investigation. Could they be tracking him? Possibly. Wherever he went, the number of dead thugs certainly spiked.

  More likely they were tracking the pattern, searching for a profile. Despite his attempts to make it look like something else happened, his missions must have created too many similarities. That said, beating up four robbers wasn’t typical for him. Normal meant dead bodies. In fact, the guilty always died when he avenged the innocent. So why this case? Griffin would know, but would he tell Gar?

  Something else to dwell on when he had a chance, but not today. Whatever was happening with Ryan, he needed some perspective. That meant checking his past “lives.” Memories of dead hosts were hard to make sense of at first. It was only after It enhanced his brain functions that he learned to wall them off, calling on them as needed.

  Even now it was difficult to find something useful. Often, the memories that were most accessible were the strongest. Those were emotionally charged, snippets of events fueled by love, hate, rage, sorrow. The more useful
ones were hard to sift out.

  What he needed today, however, was tied to the stronger feelings. Wading into the cesspool of dark images, he searched for the diamond in a mound of coal. One image followed the next in rapid succession as he discarded them as fast as they appeared. The circumstances had to be precisely the same. Most never came close and were shunted away almost immediately. Even as fast as he searched, he settled in for a long session.

  He had no good answers when he emerged from the jumble of memories. From the position of the sun, he’d been “lost” in his thoughts for better than an hour. Several hosts had experienced a premonition similar to the ones he’d had with David and Ryan, but none of them understood what it meant. Not even after someone close to them died.

  Frustrated, he stretched his legs before standing. Time to go home. He wasn’t going to find the answer by himself. Ryan was part of the mystery and held the answers needed to solve it. He just didn’t know it.

  THE key slid into the lock, but he stopped before turning it. Should he knock first? Ryan might want some warning. That he didn’t know the right response rankled him. Once he had known. How could he be so awkward now?

  Ryan wouldn’t be expecting him, but neither could he miss the sound of the door opening. Assuming he was still here, he reminded himself. Hearing nothing inside, he went in. Scanning his apartment, everything was in its place. Not that he expected anything different. He ditched the overcoat in the closet before continuing.

  They both had so little, it was hard to tell if he’d left for good or just gone out. Much as he wanted to shrug and pretend he didn’t care, he wanted the kid to stay. Wanted or needed? The question caught him as he approached his bedroom.

  Both. He did need to figure out what Ryan did to affect him, but he also wanted to see him. Wants unnerved him, and this time was no different. It was easier to carry out his purpose without getting attached to someone.