The Forging

by Jeffrey Hancock

  “Let’s hear it,” said Houser.

  So, I gave them the Dragnet version. Just the facts. “Mark Galos ambushed me at my crossing-guard job. He pulled a gun on a woman who made a comment to him. My daughter yelled out my name. The bastard turned the gun toward her. I wrestled him for the gun. It went off and struck my wife in the heart. End of story.”

  “Tell us again,” Hawkins said.

  Over and over, they had me repeat this same story. The cops kept asking for details with different words. They tried to trip me up by saying I told it differently last time. These guys are like a bad rerun of Law and Order. This went on for hours.

  My phone chimed with a text message, but before I could even read it, Hawkins grabbed the phone out of my hands. “When we’re done, you can answer.”

  I boiled and stood up in a jolt. “NO! You WILL return my property right now, and I WILL answer it. My wife is in the hospital. Maybe dying. Maybe they need me to consent to something. If you do not return to me what is mine right now, I will…” I could swear I heard a voice telling me to take it easy. It told me they are only doing their jobs. I took a breath, waited for a beat, and sat back down. “I am sorry.” The anger drained out of my body down through my legs. “Would you at least read the text so I can have some peace of mind? I’ll die the death of a thousand cuts to my soul if I have to worry.”

  Hawkins looked at the text and told me it said, “Goodnight, Daddy, love you. I think mommy likes my picture.”

  “Thank you.” I turned my eyes down to my hands. In a humble voice, I said, “Can I go? I think we finished here.”

  “Frank, I am going to get some coffee. Want some?” Houser said as he stood. He took off his jacket and placed it on his chair back. He also loosened his tie. Houser walked to the door. He waited for a moment.

  Hawkins replied with a non-committal grunt. He also stood and took off his jacket and loosened his tie.

  “I’ll take an extra hot double latte stirred clockwise with nonfat whip swirled counterclockwise and drizzled with caramel. Oh yes, and a scone.”

  “Take your time, Joe. Take ten, guys.” Frank said to the air. He turned toward the camera and made universal gesture we all know and love. He pulled his thumb across his neck. The little red light went out on the camera. Oh crap. Frank moved quickly. He flipped the table out of the way and started reaching for me. “I am tired of your smart-ass.” As he reached for me, I fell back in the chair and lifted my feet. With my feet braced in his gut, I let his momentum carry him up and over me. I rose to my feet faster than I thought I could. It was faster than Frank did. I did a mental double-take. Frank scrambled up and reached for me again. I took hold of his hand and twisted his wrist in a direction which made him pivot and lose his balance. How the hell did I do that? The door burst open, and all the cops in the world came rushing in. I let go of Frank’s hand. I am immediately subdued and cuffed, I offered no resistance.

  “Officers, officers, you have it all wrong. Frank here stood to stretch his legs and got a debilitating cramp. He fell to the floor. I was only helping the detective up.” I looked Frank right in the eyes.

  “Yeah, it’s what happened alright. It hurts like hell.” He started rubbing at his right calf.

  I could feel the officers holding me down relax a bit. Someone entered the room. His voice boomed out with “What’s going on? Frank?” I could only guess the voice came from Frank’s superior.

  “Nothing, Captain. Guys, you can let him go.” I could feel my cuffs being unlocked. I craned my neck, but I could only get a glimpse of the Captain’s back as he went out of the room.

  I heard the captain yelling, “I want to see the playback of this room, and I want to see it now!” There was a pause and some mumbling then even louder, “What do you mean there is no playback? Oh, the camera was off, was it?” The Captain came back into the interrogation room. He is a big man with a barrel chest. His hands are firmly planted on what I guess are his hips. His figure is straight up and down from the waist. By his manner, there is no doubt he leads these men. He started looking at each cop in turn, and each left with no comment. The strain of many years in a stressful job showed on his face. It is cracked with deep lines like a piece of well-used leather. Once it was only the Cap, Hawkins, and me in the interrogation room, the captain broke the silence. “Mr. Embers, I am Captain Wayne Sergeant. No jokes, please. I’ve heard about you.” He stretched out his hand and offered it to me. Oh, I like this guy. We shook hands. He had a firm, steady grip. He squeezed hard enough but not too gentle and not so hard he broke bones. The “Goldilocks” of handshakes. I returned the handshake in kind. “Mr. Embers, I think I know what happened here. Do you wish to file a complaint?”

  I started thinking. Both men are looking intently at me. What had Frank Hawkins done? Did he injure me in any way other than waste my time? In fact, I had gotten the best of him in the tussle. Imagine, I kicked his ass. In a purely testosterone chest-thumping Neanderthal way, I am proud of myself. I had mouthed off at him. Do I need anything else on my plate? “Captain Sergeant, nothing happened. Detective Hawkins here only got a leg cramp as I said.”

  “Are you sure this is how you want to play it?”

  “There is nothing to play,” I said with conviction. Maybe we can put this interrogation in the past.

  “Very well, Frank, make sure you don’t have any more leg cramps. I mean, it no more. Let Mr. Embers go on his way unless you have something other than your gut to go on?” Captain Sergeant said in a way which conveyed he expected to be obeyed without question.

  “No, Captain. I’ve nothing to hold him on.” Frank spoke meekly like a beaten man. The captain left without further comment. As soon as the captain left the room, Frank Hawkins demeanor changed. Anger flashed across his face. “Don’t think this changes anything. I know you’re dirty and I don’t owe you anything for my leg cramp. Stay here while I do the paperwork to release you.” He stomped out and slammed the door shut.

  I righted the chairs and table and sat down. I closed my eyes and tried to relax.

  “Don’t let him rattle you, kid. You don’t know why he’s acting like a prick,” was said by a familiar gravelly rough voice.

  I opened my eyes in startled surprise. I pushed back in the chair and stumbled to my feet. “Detective Ralph Daves, aren’t you dead?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Yeah, kid. It surprised the hell out of me too when I found out.”

  Detective Ralph Daves is standing in front of me, big as life. Well, big as death. He stood about five-foot-ten inches tall. He is a man well past his prime. Grey hair covered his head cut in a short businessman style. He is easily sixty pounds overweight. Jowls hung on the sides of his face, and he has a bit of a turkey wattle under his chin. His breathing sounded labored, and it has a hint of a rattle to it. His cane, ever-present in his left hand, helped steady the man from a knee injury received in the line of duty. Ralph did not look well, but considering he is dead…

  I must have snapped. All the stress has finally gotten to me. They’ll lock me away with Nurse Ratchet somewhere. What’s going to happen to Moiraine? Her mother is knocking on death’s door. Charlene’s father is too old to raise Mo. She’ll become a ward of the state. Ever since that damn trial, my life has been FUBAR. I wish Mark Galos had put two slugs in my head. At least it would have been quick, and my wife and daughter would not be in jeopardy.

  My face must have shown shock because Ralph spoke, “Calm down, Nate. You’re not crazy. Think about it. We talked the night you were robbed.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were dead?” Now there’s a sentence nobody expects to say. “I would have kept my mouth shut about talking to you.” Look at me talking with a ghost. No wait, maybe Mark did put a couple holes in my brain. Maybe I’m dead, and all this is my personal Hell. It feels like Hell.

  “I didn’t know I was dead. Things were a little foggy around me. Talking to you that night started to clear away the cobwebs. When the trial came up
I was in the courtroom with you, but you didn’t see or hear me.”

  I am scratching my head with this bit of information. Can I see ghosts or not? I had two paths I could follow as I see it. I could deny what is happening to me. I could treat it like an oxygen-starved slow death spiral of my brain before my ultimate demise. Any moment now all this would end. My life would fade to black. Based on what has been happening lately, the idea had a certain appeal.

  The other path I could follow is what I perceive as reality. My wife is in the hospital. The cops think I have something to do with it, and I have some drug craving jerk who has had a psychotic break stalking my family. Which is real? What is the truth? Inquiring minds want to know.

  I thought of the talk John, and I shared. The words and feeling of our conversation came back to me with the clarity my memory affords. I thought of the look in Blossom’s eyes. The trust those eyes conveyed. The comfort I felt at sleeping with her in my lap. I thought of my daughter’s laugh, it is so infectious and genuine. I thought of the warmth of her hand in mine as we walk to and from school. The joy I experience at each of her victories in life like her first step, her letting go of her favorite pacifier, and so many others. I’ve experienced the heartache that would stab at me every time she fell. The agony I feel holding myself back from picking her up and brushing her off. I remembered the pride I felt when she learned she could pick herself up and brush herself off. And finally, I thought of the love my wife and I share. I remember the ecstasy of being one flesh. The slow dragging sorrow at being apart, the wondrous joy of being reunited, the arguments she always wins, the other arguments I always lose, and the creeping fear which filled me. The fear I would lose them both when she carried Moiraine to term. Those things are the truth. They are real.

  If talking to ghosts is only a fantasy which makes the nightmares of Mark Galos easier to handle, then better the illusion which exalts me.

  “Okay Ralph, what’s with Detective Hawkins.” Oh, my God I realized I’ve turned into Jennifer Love Hewitt.

  “Nathan, you have to understand why he is coming down so hard on you. When he was still a rookie, I had asked him why he became a cop. He told me this story.” A look came over Ralph Daves as he began it is a look of mourning, a look of helplessness.

  “When Frank was twelve, he was walking home from school with his kid sister. They were approached by a stranger. The kid had good instincts. He told his sister to run. Frank tried to fight him off. The son-of-a-bitch beat Frank bloody and left him for dead. His sister ran, but she wasn’t fast enough. They found her body a few days later. That animal did unspeakable things to her.” Ralph remained silent for a few moments. “They never found the bastard. His father blamed him for his sister’s death.” Ralph let it sit in the air for a moment. “He said some even more harsh things to the boy. It scarred him something fierce. I don’t think Frank has ever been the same since. When something endangers children, he sees nothing but his sister. It’s like he’s fighting the drifter all over again. It ties him up in knots. It also fires his blood. There is no better bloodhound if a child has been hurt or is endangered. All he needs is the whiff of a clue. Then we’ll follow the trail to the perp.”

  “And now for some twisted reason, I’ve become his white whale.”

  “Looks like it, son. Best to give Frank a wide berth at least until he learns you had nothing to do with Mark Galos.”

  I think I’ve begun to understand Hawkins a little better. I’ll still kick his ass if he tries to touch me again, but I understand. “Tell me, Ralph, how do you know I had nothing to do with the psychopath?”

  “Over the years as a detective, you develop a gut instinct about those things. Besides anyone who saw the way you reacted to those lowlifes robbing the dead in North Park that dark day would know you couldn’t have been on the take with Mark Galos. Also, you’re no liar, kid. I can see it in your eyes.”

  The door to the interrogation room opened with both Detectives Hawkins and Houser filing in. They walked right through Ralph’s apparition. It was creepy. Ralph didn’t seem to mind, and the detectives didn’t notice.

  Frank Hawkins slammed a file folder and pen down onto the table. He opened the file to reveal a form with some small print. “Sign it,” Detective Hawkins commanded.

  “What does it say?” I picked up the form and started to read.

  “It’s not a confession if it’s what you are worried about,” Frank said.

  “No, it only state’s you are declining to file a complaint,” Detective Houser said. He sounds pretty reasonable, not at all like he did during the bad cop/bad cop routine.

  Ralph Daves moved around behind me. “Yeah, kid. It’s the form alright.” I picked up the techno quill and signed the form. I tried to hand it back to Detective Hawkins.

  “Leave it on the table.” Hawkins groused, turned his back on me, and left the room. Detective Houser slightly shook his head no, accepted the form from me, and left the room behind his partner.

  As I turned to Ralph, I started to say, “I’m glad …” Ralph is gone. He disappeared in the ether as it were. “Rest in peace, Detective Ralph Daves.”

  I thought I heard a whisper of “Thanks, kid,” in Ralph’s voice but, I wasn’t sure. After a moment to contemplate the day’s events, I made a beeline out of there to my car. I could see someone had left a note on my car. Oh great, someone had bent my fender or scratched my car’s paint. My heart sank as I grew closer. It is not exactly a message from an honest driver who had tapped my car. The note is the distinctive yellow color of a parking violation. I had parked longer than is allowed. I grabbed the ticket and stuffed it into my pocket. I started to laugh. First, it was an amused chuckle, and it built up from there. Next, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. “Okay, what’s next; a flat tire?” I questioned the universe. I started laughing anew. While still trying to catch my breath, I walked around my car to make sure my luck isn’t running that bad.

  As it is getting late and I am bone tired, I headed home. My stomach growled as I realized I haven't had anything to eat since this morning. I hit the drive-thru of some fast-food chain. I am not even sure which one. I am only filling the hole in my gut, and I didn’t care with what.

  I returned home to Blossom and The Animal Planet channel. I took care of Blossom’s needs and set myself up for another night in the recliner. I feel so alone.

  All my life, I have had a running battle against depression. Before I had met Charlene, I fought the battle with Cognitive Therapy. I wouldn’t try to feel happy. I tried not to feel down. If a depressing thought or a painful memory invaded my consciousness, I would not fight it straight out. I ignored it. After a time, I noticed I was not getting depressing thoughts quite as often. The whole strategy is based on the chemistry of the brain. Somehow the balance gets out-of-whack. The chemicals start to propagate themselves, and you spiral down and down until you are drowned in a cesspool of depression. But if you can break the cycle of chemical production by stopping yourself from feeling down, you can give yourself a chance to one day feel better and then eventually feel happy. I always related the process to trying to escape a riptide. When you are caught in a riptide, and you try to swim directly to shore you will tire yourself out, get nowhere, and eventually be pulled out to sea and drown. The whole trick to escaping a riptide is to swim parallel to shore. You are carried a little further out to sea, but you can move past the danger and eventually make it back to shore. I need a shore. I am so tired of swimming.

  I am weary, but I guess Morpheus is not stopping by my house tonight. I need to distract myself. I searched through the files of my memory. I want to call up a time before all these nightmares in my life. I want a memory from before Charlene came into my life. I know my happiest memories are of her and my daughter, but if I remember happy times with them, I don’t think I can stand the pain. Instead of picking a memory, I decided to let my mind wander.

  We pulled up to my school. “There you go, kiddo.” My mother
would sometimes call me that.

  “I don’t want to go to school today.”

  “What’s wrong? Do you have a headache?” My mom always understands about my migraines. She gets them too. She turned and looked at me. She reached up and played a little bit with my hair. It always makes me feel so safe.

  “No, Mom. That’s not why” I looked down; I feel ashamed.

  “Tell me what’s wrong. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.” Her voice sounded so good. Sometimes it feels so comforting to hear her talk.

  “Nobody likes me. Dave, I hate him, pushes me, and calls me names. The teachers never see him being mean to me. I want to go back to my old school.”

  “I’m sorry, Honey. We moved, and you can’t go to your old school. Tell you what you can stay home today. I’ll call the school and talk to them.” My mom started the car, and we drove home. We were quiet the whole drive home. My mom unlocked the door to the apartment and let me in. “Okay, there you go. Stay out of trouble. Don’t make a mess. You can watch TV. I won’t bother asking you to clean your room, but it would be a great surprise if you did. You know the number of the shop. Call me if you need me. And don’t open the door for anyone. Okay, I’ll see you at dinner time.”

  “Do you have to go to work today, Mom? I don’t want to stay by myself.”

  “Nathan, we’ve talked about this before. I don’t have a choice. I have to work to pay the bills around here like the rent for this apartment, the lights, and the food we eat.”

  “Doesn’t dad give you money?” I knew I shouldn’t have said it the second it came out of my mouth.

  “I’ll give it to you straight. When your father is here, he gives me the money, but your dad isn’t here. He loves us. He just doesn’t care enough to be here all the time. I’m sorry I didn’t pick a better man to be your father. I have to go. I’ll see you tonight,” she closed and locked the door.