by Mark Zubro
“I need a lot of sleep and then a month to absorb all that’s happened.” Or a lifetime, Mike thought.
As the teenager crawled into bed, Mike sat on the edge of the mattress. He said, “I love you, Jack.”
“Thanks, Uncle Mike.”
Within five minutes the teenager was fast asleep. Mike smoothed the folds in the boys covers then added an afghan Mike’s grandmother had made.
Mike found Joe in their bedroom dressed for venturing out into the cold. “I’m going to sleep,” Mike said.
“Good,” Joe said.
“You’re not?”
“I feel fine. I’ve have work to do that’s got to be done as soon as possible.”
“Can I help?” Mike asked.
“You’re falling asleep on your feet. You need rest. You need to stay close to Jack.”
“I’ve got to contact his school whenever they reopen so they’re aware of his father’s threat.” He shook his head. “I could use some sleep. If you need me, let me know.”
“I will. Right now, I’ve got to get to the lab and start working on the probe. I did some brief work on the ship so I can set it up in our analysis lab here, and I set the instruments on the ship so I could activate them to help from there. I don’t know how much time we’ve got before the next probe arrives or what we need to do to stop it. I think we have time, but I want to know.”
“You want to take the car?”
“I’ll never find a place to park.” An Earthling frustration added to an intergalactic complication. Joe stuffed the sphere into his gym bag.
Mike embraced and kissed Joe. This time they only got their clothes half off before they finished.
From the very first time, their love making had been the best Mike had ever had: tender, lengthy, and unbelievably satisfying. At this moment fierceness and closeness made up for any lack of duration. Joe redressed, gave Mike a brief kiss, and left. Wearing only his white boxer briefs, Mike crawled between the flannel sheets.
He was awakened by thunderous pounding on the front door. He glanced at the clock. Seven P.M. Dark outside. He threw on some faded jeans and hurried to the front door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In white socks, plaid boxer shorts, and a Bullwinkle sweatshirt, Jack stood next to the couch, his fists clenched, neck muscles straining. He stared at the front door. He said “It’s my dad.”
Kazakel bellowed, “Let me in, you fucking queers.” He began pounding on the door again then resumed shouting.
As the uproar continued, Mike stood between Jack and the door. Mike’s landlady, Mrs. Benson, was in Mexico for her annual month-long vacation, or she would have long since called the cops. She’d renovated the building years ago with an eye to security. The door was thick oak; the hinges, lock and dead bolt, solid steel. Unless Kazakel had a battering ram, he couldn’t get in.
Mike picked up the phone and dialed 911 and reported the attack. After Mike hung up he said. “Because of the storm, it’s going to be a while before the cops get here.”
Jack nodded. Kazakel’s uproar continued while they talked.
“We could leave by the back way,” Mike said.
“I checked the back door,” Jack said. “There’s a three foot drift blocking that exit.”
“We could always scramble out a window,” Mike said, “although I’d rather not drop that far to the ground, even if it is snow-covered.”
The words being bawled from the other side of the door began to be punctuated with shrieks of feral animal intensity. Mike imagined the only sound that could equal it might be a wounded grizzly bear at full battle roar.
“Maybe he’ll destroy his vocal cords,” Mike said.
“Or hurt his hand,” Jack said. “Or I could break his other arm. Then he couldn’t pound at all.”
“He gives meaning to the words ‘inchoate rage’.”
The pounding stopped but not the shouting.
Shots rang out. Splinters of wood flew from the door. Mike and Jack stepped sideways and backed away as fast as they could. The knob and lock blew off on the fourth round. At the seventh shot, the door flew open. A leap out a window, even if it was ten feet up, all of a sudden looked like a great idea. Mike grabbed for Jack and turned toward the back window. A second later he realized Jack wasn’t with him. He swiveled around.
The teenager was in the middle of the living room. His father held the gun six inches from Jack’s chest. The boy remained motionless and silent, eyeing his father. The gun wobbled.
Kazakel’s gaze flicked at Mike. He backed away a few feet so they couldn’t come at him from different directions. His left arm was tied to his chest and neck with a frayed bungee cord.
“I wonder which of you I should kill first,” Kazakel said. His eyes looked like they were just short of spinning in their sockets. He snarled, “I called the cops and the FBI, but you guys will be dead before they get here.”
Mike wished he knew more about guns, specifically the kind being aimed at them, and how many bullets, if any, were left. He knew he’d never heard of a seven-shooter, or maybe Kazakel had paused to reload. He reached into his pocket and brought out his communicator.
Kazakel saw the movement. He aimed the gun in Mike’s direction. “Give me that,” he ordered.
Instead, Mike tapped the face for a few seconds and tried performing the exercises Joe had taught him for entering another person’s mind. Kazakel’s arm moved, and the gun was six inches from Jack’s head. He said, “You die first.”
A blue flash leaped from Mike’s communicator and struck Kazakel full in the head. The other man collapsed. His gun fired as he fell. The bullet thumped into a baseball poster of Greg Maddox, hitting him in his left thigh. As Kazakel hit the floor, his head thunked, and the gun skittered away.
The silence was comforting. The room smelled of gunpowder. Mike kicked the gun into the kitchen.
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“I tried to get into his mind to alter him. I couldn’t control what I was doing. My emotions always get in the way of my training, and I’m not very good at it anyway.”
Mike approached the body.
“I don’t think he’s breathing,” Jack said.
Mike tried checking for a pulse. He didn’t know if it was his lack of professional competence or not, but he didn’t find one. He turned Kazakel over. The chest did not rise and fall.
Mike picked up the phone and called paramedics, then his lawyer, and the police.
His lawyer, David Smith, asked, “What happened?”
Mike knew he would face this question numerous times. The truth was impossible. He said, “The guy broke in here blasting away. He held me at gun point, and then he just collapsed.”
“Was Jack or Joe there?”
“No.”
Mike was uncertain about the lie. It felt awkward when he said it. He didn’t know if Jack would go along.
“Sit tight,” his lawyer said. “I’ll be over as fast as I can.” He hung up.
Mike said, “I told my lawyer you weren’t here. Maybe I shouldn’t have lied.”
Jack said, “I’m glad he’s dead.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good line for the police to hear.”
“I don’t care.” Jack shook himself. “We can’t tell the truth, can we?”
“I don’t see how. I wish Joe was here. I think you should go to Meganvilia’s. I’ll call him. I think it would be good if you stayed until I call and tell you it’s all right to come home.”
“Okay.” The boy dressed in a warm parka and put together a small overnight bag.
Mike called Meganvilia. “Jack needs a place to stay for a little while. His dad is dead. The police are coming.”
Meganvilia said, “I know nothing. Send him.”
Mike hugged Jack. The boy hurried downstairs. Five minutes after he heard the front door slam, the bell rang. Mike called down on the intercom. It was the paramedics. He buzzed them in.
Three paramedics hustled into the ap
artment. The first through the door knelt next to the body. With a trained touch, he shook Kazakel to check for responsiveness. “Hey, buddy,” he called. He took his index and middle fingers and placed them against the carotid artery. “No pulse.” He put his head to Kazakel’s chest and listened for breathing. As he performed each movement, he gave a brief oral summary of his findings and actions, meanwhile one of the standing paramedics talked to a hospital on his radio. They ripped off Kazakel’s coat and shirt to begin CPR. They had an automatic defibrillator with them. The paramedic popped open the top of the ten-inch-by-ten-inch orange case. He placed the pads on the side and chest. He looked at the other paramedics. “You’re clear. I’m clear. We’re all clear.” He pushed a little green button. The readout on the machine said ‘charge,’ then he shocked Kazakel. The machine made a little rising note noise. They shocked him three times.
Mike’s thoughts ranged from fury to relief to fear to uncertainty to guilt to astonishment that he would be able to do what he did.
In the middle of all this, two cops showed up. When they saw the paramedics, they holstered their guns. A young, skinny blond cop said, “We had a report of shots fired. The downstairs entrance is all busted open.” He stared at the shattered remnants of Mike’s front door. “What the hell happened here?”
The paramedics had little to do. The cops had a lot of questions. Early on Mike pointed out the gun on the kitchen floor. The cops wanted to know who else lived in the apartment and where they were.
David Smith, his lawyer, arrived. He was bundled under layers of top-of-the-line winter clothes: full-length, navy blue Burberry overcoat covering a very dark gray business suit, white shirt, and gray tie. David listened to Mike give a straight-forward account of the incident to a detective. When an older, heavy-set cop tried to make him go over it again, Smith said, “He told you the story. What more do you need?”
The detective grumbled a little then said, “We got a complaint from this Kazakel about you guys, his son and a fella living with you, having some kind of blue aura magic and were sailing out on Lake Michigan without any boat.”
“Today?” Smith asked.
“Yesterday,” the cop replied.
Smith said, “You took that seriously?”
“Not at the time.”
Mike said, “The guy was a child molester. He repeatedly raped his own son. He was convicted. You’re going to believe him? And how were we sailing on the lake in a raging blizzard? How was this blue aura supposed to work?”
“We didn’t and still don’t give it much credence, but he was calling about you, and now he’s dead. Makes us curious.”
“Check the nine-one-one records. I called in. He started in Champaign yesterday. You could talk to the state police. They’ll have records. We are not the violent ones here. We did everything we could to protect the son from the father.”
“Where’s the son?”
“He wasn’t here. Because of the earlier threats, we sent him to a friend’s.”
“Who else lives here?”
“My husband was out working. He’s not due back until much later.”
The interrogation and investigation took hours. The door and its fragments were taken away. Crime scene technicians took photographs, dusted for fingerprints, picked up shell casings, and the gun.
“Where am I going to get a door?” Mike asked.
A cop gave him a name of a place that did emergency boarding up. Before taking the body away, none of the paramedics voiced an opinion on how he died. They said a medical examiner would have to perform an autopsy to make that kind of determination. The cops said they’d get back to Mike after the autopsy. The detective said, “From what I can see, he was attacking you. With his history, there shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got no evidence that you attacked him, and some nasty bullet holes that it doesn’t take a forensic expert to tell came from outside going in.”
Mike followed the last of the cops downstairs. Kazakel had shattered the glass in the door to gain entrance. Bitterly cold air whistled in. Outside the streets were deserted. It was at least twenty below zero.
Two women were slogging through the drifts of snow. Mike recognized them as agents Henry and Hynes from the FBI. He remembered them from years ago. They had questioned him the night he first met Joe. He stood in the doorway. Heat from the apartment house entryway couldn’t compete with the blasts of cold that flooded in.
They introduced themselves.
“I remember you,” Mike said.
“We need to talk.”
David was still upstairs. He led them in.
Under their heavy winter overcoats, the women wore gray skirts, gray blazers, and white blouses; Hynes taller, Henry shorter.
Upstairs Mike introduced them to David. His lawyer said, “I remember them.” Mike did not offer them seats.
“From four years ago?” agent Henry said.
“I don’t get a lot of clients who deal with the FBI.”
Hynes said, “We heard you had an incident.”
“And why does the FBI care about a domestic incident?”
“Murder.”
“It was a home invasion. The man was a known menace, a convicted child abuser. Why does the FBI care?”
“We got a report about blue lights and auras. We’re always curious.”
David said, “You’re giving credence to a report from a drunk?”
Mike knew his role when his lawyer was working on his behalf - keep his mouth shut.
“We’d like to ask your client some questions.”
“About what?”
“Blue auras.”
David said, “He’s against them.”
The lawyer and the FBI went round and round for only a few minutes. The two officials left in frustration.
David said, “What have you gotten yourself into, Michael?”
Mike shook his head, “A man died here tonight.” He couldn’t tell David what really happened.
“An evil man will no longer plague the rest of us. Be grateful.” With a few other cautionary words about calling him before dealing with any law enforcement personnel, David left.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mike wondered how much longer Joe would be. Normally, he would have called in by now to report progress or give an estimated time on when he would be home. Mike tried calling the warehouse. There was no answer.
Even though it was after midnight, Mike called Meganvilia. He was up. He reported that Jack was asleep.
“The kid was very quiet,” Meganvilia said.
“He has a lot of negative emotions connected with his dad, but no matter how he felt about him, the death will take a while to get used to.”
“What happened?”
“The guy showed up, blasting away with his gun, then he keeled over.”
“Just like that?”
Mike described the noise and pounding.
To his description and explanation Meganvilia said, “And then he just collapsed. As a sainted comedian once said, ‘how convenient.’”
“Didn’t Jack tell you what happened?” Mike asked.
“His story was remarkably like yours in every detail.”
Mike felt that Meganvilia was suspicious, but there was nothing he could do about it.
After Mike hung up, he punched in Joe’s cell phone number. No answer. Mike’s worry increased. He wanted to talk to Joe about what just happened, but even more, he wanted to be sure his husband was safe.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mike walked down the middle of still unplowed Fletcher Street. The few cars had trampled enough ruts to make paths to walk on. He turned up Lakewood and walked to Lincoln Avenue. Plows had been at work on Lincoln Avenue, and it was reasonably passable. He had to wait nearly a half hour for a bus. He didn’t dare use his communicator to create warmth for himself. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together in attempts to keep warm. He took the bus to Irving Park and then walked west to their warehouse/lab.
It was
a one-story, former bakery that covered two lots. A small portion of the original bakery in front off the street was a computer repair office. Joe made a fabulous income from his mostly by-appointment business.
Mike stomped through the snow-covered sidewalk, unlocked the front door, relocked it behind him, went through the office, and unlocked the door to the rear. He had to use his communicator to complete the code for the lock to the cramped interior.
