Nessus

by Herb Scribner

  His eyes find the floor. She shouldn’t say it out loud. He told all the cadets and young officers this piece of information whenever they got started on the job. The first rule — never tell anyone that you’re related to a criminal. When cops are related to criminals, bad things can happen. Really bad things.

  He wants to fire her. Suspend her from the force and let her know there are consequences to all of this. But he’s too tired, and she probably forgot the protocol. So instead he offers a half-smile — one good enough to calm her feelings, but also show her that there can be worse things to come.

  “I’m going to find my son.”

  He isn’t sure if he means it, but on some levels, the idea excites him. Maybe he can bring his son back from the darkness. Maybe he can fill him with hope again, and change his life for the better.

  Or maybe he’s wrong.

  The Search

  He wouldn’t normally be in the office this early, but the sight of blood became a stimulant far more awakening than coffee could ever be. The blood’s stench wouldn’t leave him, nor would the hanging fear that something far worse than what happened had actually happened. Few deputies work inside the office this year. Just the night crew. The hard-nosed, rough and tough, rock’em sock’em type of cops. The ones who deal with the drug deal busts, the homicides, the drunk driving incidents. No frills, no niceties, no sense of empathy.

  Hughes used to be one of these cops, back before he got the promotion, of course. Late nights gave his eyes red dots, laced with heavy purple bags that turned him into a raccoon with a badge. He’d seen the worst of them. Drunk driver kills pedestrian — it’s always the sober ones who die in those crashes, he came to realize — girlfriends and wives beaten half to death by their husbands, a drug deal on the corner — a cliche, but cliches are cliches for a reason, aren’t they? — and so many other war stories.

  He’s in the bathroom. It’s eerily quiet. Just the buzzing of the florescent light above. An older bulb inside gives the light a half-glow, a splash of light not large of enough to illuminate the entire room.

  The scar that hangs like a crescent moon on his left eye reminds him everyday of all the disasters he faces in the night.

  He leans against the sink and runs his finger against that scar. His worst night, and his first night seeing his son in the thick of danger and destruction. His finger traces the thin line that digs into his skin. The first cut does run deepest, as they say. Another cliche, but cliches are cliches for a reason.

  The dam behind his subconscious shatters and the night floods him. He’s younger, still with some thin and short strand of hair on his pate. His muscles don’t sag like they do now. Neither does his stomach. He is still tight around the torso with a wide chest. He kicks ass, basically. His partner Dobbs is with him as they speed down the street, siren screaming and lights flashing. Move out of the way for us, civilians. We’re coming for the criminals. We’re about to get our Batman on. Pull over and please make our job easier. The least you can do as you head over to Taco Bell or Mickey D’s for a quick fattening late night snack.

  “Should we turn off the sirens?” Dobbs asks.

  “Yeah. Don’t want to spook the little rats.”

  Dobbs flicks the switch and the screaming quiets, the sirens lessen. Now they’re just like anyone else on the road. A stalking predator among the weeds about to capture its prey.

  They curve around the road until they’re at the high school. It’s late at night — early morning, probably — and the parking lot should be empty. Instead, a circus of cars resemble a rebellious junkyard, from which all the cars have stormed away. At least 10 vehicles sit idle in the parking lot. Hughes counts four decked out, shining Mazdas, three clean Hondas, one Buick LaSabre, a minivan and a lonely Kawasaki dirty bike leans against the bike rack.

  But it’s not the cars that grab his attention. It’s the people. A pack of miscreants huddle behind the cars by the patch of green forest that serves as a backdrop to the school.

  “Little rats,” Dobbs says.

  Hughes holds his breath. He wants to call them rats too, because they are, but he also knows the ultimate truth waits for him down the parking lot. The thought hadn’t come to him until now. His son is down there.

  He’s known for awhile Shawn is into crime. The signs hung around his house like thick, smokey air. Late nights out with friends. Tardy notices at a school. Irritable insults thrown at mother and father. Heavy eyes. Always tired. His clothes had even changed. He’d gone from an everyday teenager dressed in your run of the mills jeans and t-shirts to baggy pants that hung below his ass and sneakers so white they made snow look yellow.

  “Plan?” Dobbs asks.

  “Let’s roll up. See what’s happening.”

  “You don’t think they’ll get spooked?”

  “Nah, they’ll be scared. But that’s the point. Scare them into submission.”

  They wend around the final corner until they’re into the parking lot. Hughes watches all of the little punks poke their heads up, noticing the police car roll. The lack of sirens and flashing lights ease their nerves. They only watch, but they don’t flee. Fleeing implies guilt. Staying behind shows you’ve got nothing to hide. Funny how that works. But even when you stay, you’re still guilty. You just don’t want to admit it yet.

  It’s a cool early spring night. Humid air from a coming rain storm hangs in the air, surrounding them like a turtleneck sweater. Crickets buzz around, chirping as witnesses to the crimes being undone. The path to the punks is smooth and well-paved. Taxpayer money going to good use. If only they could improve police salaries. Way too much crime and danger for such a meager pay.

  Hughes and Dobbs reach the group, hands locked to their belt buckles. You never know how something like this is going to go. Not at all. Sometimes the criminals will compliment you and thank you for the service. They’ll do their best to hide it. In other cases, nothing works out right and chaos influences law and order.

  “Evening,” Hughes says.

  “What’s up officers? Any problems?” asks a kid who steps forward. A black du-rag covers his head, a double-wide sweatshirt flows around him like a cape. A lengthy white t-shirt stretches down past his knees.

  “Just got word of something going on down here. Lots of cars for a Tuesday night in a parking lot,” Dobbs says.

  The kid scratches his nose, but not because it itches. He thinks he looks cool. He doesn’t. He looks like a fool.

  “Well uh, listen, Mr. Officers, check this, okay? We’re just here hanging out low key. My niece has a dance recital and we’re just getting tickets early, feel me?”

  There is no dance recital. The building has gone dark. The school’s empty save for the lone janitor. It’s way too empty to be a dance recital kind of night. Those events are usually held earlier in the evening anyway, pretty much right when school gets out. No reason to have it so late at night. These kids must think that the cops are as dumb as they are.

  “Listen,” Hughes says, pulling on his belt, eyeing the crowd. He doesn’t see his son. Not yet anyway. “We can go a lot of ways with this. Either you all give up what you’re doing and go home or we treat this like an ongoing crime.”

  Hughes learned about lying back when he was a young boy. Not necessarily how to lie — that comes easy to anyone with half a brain for manipulation — but what a lie can do for you. Fibs can throw you into a world of trouble if told to the wrong person (just ask his wife) but they can also help you succeed when you’re dealing with the weak-minded, like this kid. A good lie will sit well with him. A good lie will make him cooperate.

  “What’s your name?” Dobbs asks.

  “They call be Zaps.”

  Hughes holds back his laugh. Zaps. What kind of names will the kids come up with now?

  “Clearly, Zaps, you’re the speaker for all of your buddies back there so let’s get this all straightened out. Go back and tell your friend they can leave and we won’t chase them. Otherwise we’re callin
g in backup and all of you are going to spend a long night behind bars.”

  Hughes senses the intimidation float around them. Teenagers and young adults cave to bluffs about throwing youngsters behind bars. It’s just the fact of the matter. Most kids caught up in these dangerous scenarios will give up the crime once they know there’s a possibility that they will do the time in the clink, in the drunk tank. Last thing they want is for mommy and daddy to come and bail them out.

  As Hughes saw his son drift deeper into the darkness of crime, it came to him suddenly that much of the reason well-to-do children drift that way is because of their parents. It’s either to attract attention or to defy them, to step away and gain some independence. It serves their adrenaline drive, while making their parents’ life harder. A two for one special, with money on the side.

  Zaps steps back, still trying to obtain strength and superiority. He scratches his nose again and tugs on his hoodie.

  “You think we dumb? You ain’t letting us leave.”

  Hmm. A smarter rat.

  “We will,” Hughes says, “we will let you walk away, no questions. Too tired to let this all fall apart.”

  “Nah, you ain’t. You have my name now anyway. It’s gonna be real easy for you pigs to find us now.”

  Ah, the pig insult. Hurtful, but Hughes has heard it before. The dig has almost become cliche. Not quite there, but just enough. It does make him want to punch Zaps right in the face, sure, but he’s heard it before. Heard it a bunch of times on these night rides through the criminal part of town. That’s just how it works.

  “Ayo!” he calls back to his group. Hughes forgot about the wealth of children hanging back there. “Boys! We’ve got some bacon to cook up.”

  Hughes doesn’t have time to take in the insults. At least twelve other thugs, who cleared out the big and tall section at Southpole and Zoo York before they got here, stomp their way over, all hunched over in power walks of the underground. A little army of thugs and punks looking to silence the law and order. Intimidation glides back in like a storm cloud, the after effects about to rain down on the ground.

  Hughes gives Dobbs a nod and retrieves his pistol. His partner does the same. Two guns lock onto the group of miscreants. It’s come to this. Maybe they won’t shoot anybody, but they’re definitely in immediate danger now. Nothing to do but face the coming marchers of darkness.

  “Stand down,” Hughes says.

  Zaps does the opposite. He pulls out his glock and angles it sideways toward Hughes.

  “Nah, you hold up,” he says.

  Hughes doesn’t waiver. He’s gazed down the barrel of the gun many times while on the force. It’s almost a part of your initiation, facing the end of a gun and waiting for the bullet to find you. You can’t get through a week of night shifts without being pistol whipped. That’s just how the underground works.

  Hughes holds a tight grip on his gun. He sees a way to end Zaps’ life. One clean shot will send the youngster into darkness. But taking lives isn’t the goal. And it’s possible Zaps will react with a shot of his own, killing Hughes in the process. Depends a lot on his aim and whether or not Hughes can duck out of the way in time. It’s all a matter of chance, a bet that he would have to take to end all this easily.

  But taking lives is never the goal.

  Hughes notices the crowd of youngsters approaching them. He takes a quick glance over. It’s a massive collection of 3XL shirts and 4XL pants. Glowing shoes that match the sweatshirts shine even in the darkness. Chains hang on a few of the crews, the ice a symbol of wealth and glory even though the thugs haven’t made it out of the high school parking lot. All of these young dealers think they’re Chapo. Not even close.

  Something catches his eye. It’s a pair of bugging blue eyes. Pale skin and a gray beanie surround those gleaming ocean sea eyes.

  It’s Shawn. It’s his son.

  Hughes opens his mouth to call to him, but his words are interrupted by a gun shot, the echo ripples out like an ocean wave. The shell clings as it drops to the ground, and a large thud follows. A lightning bolt slashes and thunder growls right behind. Fiery gunpowder hangs in the air.

  Dobbs lays on his side now, a river of blood trailing from his side, his eyes bugging as he sees the light at the end of the tunnel.

  The world slows. Hughes moves his leg to bend down and check on his partner, but that would only put him in harms way, wouldn’t it? His friend slowly bleeds out, the river lengthening from his body to the curb.

  A crime scene, that’s where he’s at right now. A crime scene. A deep night of investigation and reports is about to begin. No escaping it now. He’s lost a friend, a loved one, and his own life is still in danger.

  Oh, right, his own life.

  He snaps back into the present. He straightens his neck and back perfectly taut and fires a quick shot to end Zaps’ life. He collapses to the ground, his finger leaving the trigger, his gun rattling on the ground like a snake.

  Hughes already moves to his right, dipping down low so he can roll away. A gun shot echoes as someone tries to snag the mole. He leans against a block of bricks, a gate for the school. He can see his reflection in the windows of the school. He holds down his radio and screams for backup. Just long enough to hear the approval and earn a reward. Even if he doesn’t get away, he knows that the criminals won’t either.

  Sirens echo in the distance. His partners are on the way. Another shot bangs against the bricks. Terrible shots with horrible aim. No wonder these youngsters are doing deals in the parking lot. They can’t even kill one man. They are twelve — er, eleven now — and he is but one man. Pretty pathetic when you think of it.

  Shouts of protests echo throughout the parking lot. Everyone shouts to run and go and get out of here. Get home before the rest of the cops come and send them all to the clink. See. Intimidation wins out again. No one’s ready to face the very real consequences that await them.

  Hughes picks his head up. And that’s what dooms him. Another bullet comes flying and slashes the bricks. Pieces of cement spew from the corner. His eye stings. A crimson river snakes down his temple and into his eyes. The venom bites him. He bunkers down. He brushes what he can away, leans back over the wall and goes to fire a shot.

  Shawn stands there, dressed in gray. A heavy gray sweatshirt, thick overcast sweatpants and a storm cloud beanie. His bugging blue eyes glow amid his pale skin. He’s as shocked as Hughes is. His arms lay wide open, as if he expected a bullet to find him.

  “Run,” he tells his son.

  And so Shawn does. He turns on his heel and bolts it, his hands looked around his belt, trying to keep those extra large pants from falling.

  Hughes turns back around. The sirens close in around him. He’s finally safe. No longer under fire from the thugs. He checks his wound. Little does he know it will soon become a scar.

  Years later in the bathroom, the scar still serves as a reminder. He knows the true weight of the fight he’s in everyday. He knows the consequences of small decisions.

  And he knows his son isn’t an innocent man. He’s a criminal. Always will be.

  Shawn never stopped running after that night. One day after the next. He’d be home for a bit, but then he was off for the night or out working to get some extra money. Hughes never knew if it was a real job or a corner job. He didn’t ask.

  Hughes never talked about that night with his son. They didn’t want to upset Chelsea.

  But Shawn never stopped running.

  Maybe now it was finally time to catch him.

  Blank Screen

  An insolent screen stares back at him. Blank, black and broken, like his heart. He doesn’t admit to anyone that he pines for his son’s safe return, but it’s the truth. It tugs on his heart like a marionette who’s lost control of his puppet. Like a bird who’s seen their chick fall from the nest. Like a parent losing a child. He wants to open himself up, cry out a slew of tears, just because it will relax the tension that’s built up on his arms. But he
can’t. Not yet, anyway. Not until he’s finished his job. Do your job, protect and serve. It’s a motto he’s sworn to protect.

  He sighs heavily as he slams his index finger on a key. Slowly the computer screen awakes with a flash. His email inbox waits for him. Nothing noteworthy. Usually important messages filter in around the mid-morning, which is still a few hours away. He’s still waiting on some of the early witness reports from the incident to slide into his mailbox. Who knows how long that’ll take.

  A door behind him sings as it opens. It switches to tenor as it shuts. Expensive heels slap the ground. He picks up his head and sees Mareek Mathias — tan, slender and blossoming with gorgeous blue eyes — saunter into the room. She’s already dressed for work, a tight gun metal pant suit. A manilla folder hands off her fingers.

  There would have been a time, a long time ago, when Hughes would have found Mathias attractive. She’s a hard ass. Good for her to stand up to the men in the room. Good for her to act aggressively and passionately about everything she does. Still hurts when she rides him each day, screaming orders, demanding solutions to problems that can’t be fixed. Strong and confident.

  But damn she’s a pain in the ass.

  Hughes leans back in his chair. He frets he’ll fall over. Maybe his stomach is a little heavier than he thought. Time to cut back on those Cheetos.

  “Wow, you’re in early, huh, Hughes?”

  See.

  “Just working on the case.”

  “You mean, your son’s case.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  She slaps the manila folder on the table before him. Slices of paper slide out and dress his desk.

  “Still chasing the last lines of the Dobbs’ shooting, all those years ago. Even when it’s your own son who has the last link. When are you going to give it up?”

  His eyes meet hers. Cold, black, soulless. Get your job done and leave me alone. Those sort of eyes.

  “Give what up, exactly? I’m trying to keep that group from the streets,” he replies, but he already knows her retort. He just wants to stoke the fire, turn up the heat, make her fight for his subordination.