Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE NEW YORK

  CHAPTER TWO WASHINGTON D. C.

  CHAPTER THREE Caleb Promise

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE Jason Jones

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN NEW YORK

  CHAPTER EIGHT Caleb Promise

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Wilkes

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Chen, Head Butler & Agent

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE New Beginnings

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO BEYOND THE BOOK

  Join the Mailing List

  Read More Books

  Join the Team

  Dedication

  Heart to Heart

  Copyright-1

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW YORK

  Caleb

  The tree isn't wide enough, not nearly wide enough. It never is. Right now, being a man that is six foot two inches, isn't helping. My broad shoulders are sticking out. It's going to see me. Maybe if I crouch. It isn't finished yet. Not even close. The sound of my heart pounding seems louder than their screams and it hears everything. That's how it found them underground in that muddy tunnel covered by the Fall leaves.

  They hid for weeks. A group here, a group there. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Thin, rationing food for months. I can hear them praying as he holds them up like trophies in front of the government vehicle's lights. The agents bored now, slumped in their seats. The cold frost of their breath glows in the lights. Taller than any human, the face of a lioness and arms of a gorilla. That's all I ever see. It fades into shadows. No matter how hard I try, I never see all of it. Why am I always barefoot?

  People who don't have this think it's cool, but it's not. Consciousness in a dream used to be fun. The ability to choose which way to go, whether to fly or walk and even to wake up or not. It's not fun. I don't truly rest. Ever. Especially in this dream. Every night for weeks.

  I've got to try to make it to that rock without it hearing me. From there, I can see it. All of it. There she is, the lady with the red hair. The creature turns around right after pulling her out. This is my chance.

  I take one step. It's over. I felt it crack beneath my foot. My eyes close praying it didn't hear me. I open my eyes, it's staring right at me.

  It opens its claw and lets go of her. It's coming. The ground vibrates with each step. I can't hear anything but my heart pounding. She's falling to the ground but the drop encompasses me.

  I jolt awake sitting straight up. The room is as cold and clammy as the dream. It's over but the eeriness of the dream lingers with the feeling there was someone else in that forest. Someone watching with a disconnected heart. Alive enough, but uncaring. Unaffected by what they saw.

  A shiver runs up my back and the cheap flat coverlet in my grip lost its usefulness months ago. Now it only keeps the roaches from falling on my sheets. I had no choice. It's what the orphanage set me up in when I turned eighteen. Three years ago, wow, it seems as if I've been here much longer than that.

  I give in, flop back onto the flat dingy pillow and draw the cover up to my chin. My full beard and hair soaked from perspiration. The rubber band I used to tie my hair back for work last night, now poking me in the ear.

  It won't be long now. The shivering has begun and even with my eyes closed, the room spins violently and my head pulses.

  "Shut up!" I yell.

  The neighbors on the other side of the thin wall are always fighting. Every morning a blaring argument with their morning coffee about why he came home so late.

  "You shut up!" She yells back with two bangs on the wall making the cheap framed photo above my head jump.

  The pulsing turns into a full blown blinding headache but I have no choice, it's time to go. There it is, the chalky aspirin in the back of the night table draw, right beside my keys and an unopened Gideon Bible. Flat soda works just as well washing it down. Funny, there's no heat but the hot water in the shower works perfectly.

  One advantage to being taller than average, the loosened screws to the rusted vent in the wall are easily within reach. There it is. The dusty black sock guarding my life savings. The knot is smaller than last month. It started shrinking when my dream started shrinking. Can't help but give it a squeeze right before I put it away, sort of a mental measurement of how much I have to put back if I ever regain hope of getting out of here. Inside a fold in the sock, I feel it. The small gold-tone key. I can feel its outline between my fingers. I have a feeling I'll be needing it soon.

  I started saving money the week I started work. I started work, the day after the orphanage driver dropped me here, at the front door, a wide-eyed country boy gazing at sky scrapers. Manhattan is full of lavish apartments with doormen tipping their hats as the people walked in swinging shiny shopping bags. Fresh out of the orphanage, I honestly believed that could be me holding those bags.

  Hope. A gift from my parents. They always told me I could do and be anything. They told me I was smart and like any other kid, I believed them. I never imagined the best I could be was the one holding the door. They never got to finish me. It's not their fault. I remember the dress my mother wore to my fifteenth birthday party just three days before she and my father were killed in the accident. At least then, I thought it was an accident.

  Housekeeping is coming today. Nothing spurs change like three police raids and a threat to be shut down. They knock on the door like the police. Hard and loud. When I open, if they don't suspect anything, they hand me clean sheets and towels and if I ask nicely, they'll take the trash.

  However, if they have suspicions, they are supposed to come in and thoroughly 'clean' the room. I noticed a pattern, these were no petite house keepers wearing uniform dresses and nursing shoes. They always wore jeans and were more muscular than most men.

  The press-board dresser with sharp corners holds the residue of every meal I ate for the week. Pizza boxes, deli bags and I sweep it into the garbage can hearing her three knocks and "Housekeeping" call coming closer to my door. Mostly, it's bottles. They clank in the can and the faster I move, the more the cracked linoleum snags my socks and I can't help but look at the crack in the corner of the large rectangular dresser mirror.

  It's not supposed to be there, maybe thats why it keeps catching my eye. It's the flaw in perfection. I thought of covering it, but it's got a right to be there, just like the rest of the mirror. I'm tired. At twenty one, I'm tired. Tired of being the crack in the mirror. I've been mistaken for being in my forties. Tiredness makes you look old and feel old.

  The C outside of my window was the first one in 'Vacancy' running vertically down the building and was lit today. It wasn't lit yesterday.

  She's here.

  "Housekeeping."

  I knot the top of the full garbage bag and snatch the sheets off of the bed into a ball. She peeks into the room past me, looks me square in the face, emotionless, not taken aback by my lean undershirt-clad physique and takes my garbage bag and dirty sheets with gloved hands and pushes past me, glances into the bathroom then drops the stack of clean sheets with towels on top on the foot of the bed and walks out. I didn't mind the black work pants.

  The cleaner's crease is always stiff but the bottoms are wide enough to go over my black work boots. It's nice of Lou to pay for the cleaning but it is in his best interest.

  Out of habit, I look left and right in the hall before starting to close the door. She shoves the sheets into the d
irty clothing sack and pushes the over-sized cart. My sarcasm gets the best of me. After all, it's almost been a full five hours.

  "And Merry Christmas to you."

  As expected, she ignores me, pushing the cart straight down the hall but looks on the floor to her left. What's over there? The cart passes revealing the hall prostitute with eyes dripping in makeup, knees drawn into her chest and back pressed to the wall of her pimp's apartment wall. A labored exhale.

  I fell prey to her once. Not the way most would. One glance at those glazed eyes, bleach blond hair and it all came back. My ignorance. She's about my age. I felt bad for her. The hall was dark, hot and smelly and I still had my streak of naivete fresh off the farm. I invited her in, offered a hot pizza and cool breeze under my oscillating fan for the night. I gave her the bed and slept on the floor. I woke to a boot in my gut and watched her willingly obey him and rob me of my last forty-five dollars. I know why she did it. It wasn't for the obvious reason. I look at it as payment for what she brought with her.

  There she was, throwing those glassy eyes at me again. Slamming the door never felt so good. It even made the picture jump. Then I saw it at my feet.

  That white envelope with my name written on it in Jerry's child-like scratch. An eviction letter. I couldn't help but look at the blinking C in the vacancy sign outside of the window. Jerry knew I didn't have the rent money.

  My five-dollar analogue clock is blaring the time. I stick the white envelope in my jackets' inner breast pocket. I don't have time to read it. At least that's my excuse to avoid making it a reality. I can't be late again. The benefit of being a consistent drinker is knowing exactly what my routine is.

  Strangely, I'm neat, consistent. I always lock the door behind myself. I put my clothes over the back of the chair. Jeans first, shirt, folded in half by the length, jacket on top, the same way, every time. My keys, the night table drawer, rear, left. Makes it easy when I'm racing to get to work which is frequent.

  I can see Jerry behind the desk through the crack in the stairwell door. I don't take the elevator for two reasons, I don't like them, and well, it's broken. It's been broken since I got here over two years ago. The tape from the 'out of order' sign is bonded to the paint on the elevator door and the sign is yellowed.

  I can always spot a regular. They go straight to the stairwell. The new hopefuls drag their bags to the door and smash that button at least three times before they look up and see the sign.

  Come on, Jerry, go to the back. He's loud. Everyone in the lobby will know I got a notice if he sees me. The phone in his office rings. There, that's it.

  I'll put my sweatshirt hood on, if he's not at the desk he won't even see me. So far so good. If I can push this clunky plate quietly... palm is flat on the metal push-plate of the heavy glass door. I can feel the bitter cold air rushing in as I push it open-

  "CALEB."

  Why me.

  "Hey Jerry. Long time no-"

  "Don't gimme that. You got your notice right." He says loudly.

  He's the only person I know who asks and answers his own questions. It's not even really a question anymore.

  "Yes. I got it." I try to diffuse him.

  I approach the desk hoping it will get him to lower his naturally loud tone. I never asked him if he's hard of hearing because most people in New York seem to speak that way. No chance. He's not hard of hearing, he's just a skinny idiot.

  "By six tomorrow. I'm not playing. Or you and your bottles, out-"

  "I got it Jerry, I got it."

  "That's forty-eight hours."

  "I can count."

  "Yeah, then ya should have known ya was behind. Hey, I was gonna call you but you ain't got no cell number down."

  He slides a pen and notepad through the Plexiglas slot to me. Is it that obvious? Garbage picker.

  "I don't have a cell."

  He snatches the paper back.

  "You don't have a cell? Who are you Ralf Kramden? Get a phone cheap-o."

  I can feel the eyes on my back. Everyone in the lobby is staring over their plastic chess pieces and reading glasses.

  "I'm not cheap. Just don't need one."

  "If ya had friends you'd need one. Hermit weirdo."

  "I can hear you talking you know."

  "Good, then hear this." Pointing outside. "The sign's blinking. It won't take long to fill it. Tomorrow by six."

  He turns around. I just got the hand in the air. New Yorkers don't end conversations. It's a hand raise, or an, alright, later, or it's all good. It's a phrase that lets you know the conversation is over. An art I mastered. I actually like it. It's like me. To the point. This one is clearly over.

  I know Jerry, the more of an audience he gets the longer he will go on. Work awaits. I'll figure out what to do about the money later. Can't ask Lou, again.

  This winter is far more brutal than last year and pushing that door let it rush in. The bitter bite of that Northern frigid air shoots straight through my brown waist length jacket and the sweatshirt beneath it and I've got four blocks and a bus ride to go. There's nothing normal about a New York block. Insanely long, I learned by almost being late to my first day at work. It was a check-in not an interview. Father De'Vino arranged the job and room as soon as I turned eighteen. A gift from the old Monastery orphanage. Some gift. A bus-boy. The bottom rung. I should be grateful. I know, but I didn't want to be there. I guess no one does. No kid wants to be stamped with the title of orphan. I heard most of us were just turned loose with some pocket change and a hand shake.

  I hated it there for the obvious, it was the reality that you have no one in the world. A perpetual loneliness hangs behind every stone wall. A reclaimed old stone Monastery in the middle of nowhere. It always felt damp. Funny, it's kind of like where I am now. One day I'll feel warm.

  The only time I considered going back was when I heard Father De'Vino was sick. Seventy-eight, his heart gave out before I could buy the train ticket. When I wasn't speaking, he talked to me. His voice reminded me I actually existed and was important to someone. When he ran out of words, he read to me. Sherlock Holmes mostly.

  The day I turned eighteen, my bag was put into the trunk of the car with everything I had in the world. I could have held it on my lap. I was leaving. I climbed out of the car mid-roll and gave him a hug. He was the only one I hugged. Ever. I'm glad it was him. The car drove me to New York three years ago and I never went back to that orphanage.

  I thought I'd be further along than this but, here I am three years later, still a bus-boy. Same routine. The line is blurring. If I didn't feel it coming soon... in my bones, I don't think I could keep this up much longer.

  This cold finds every opening. Swims up my sleeve and bus-boy pants hold no heat. I watch people. Closely. The winter veterans pinch their sleeves, stick them deep into pockets, and tuck that chin to keep their noses from freezing off their faces. I learned the technique from them. It works.

  "Caleb. You're early again."

  Not work, Leo, the liquor store cashier.

  "Yeah, working late tonight. You guys close too early."

  Leo’s laugh could make anyone smile.

  "The usual?"

  He doesn't usually ask that. I put my fingers on the bottle cap third from the front, then the fourth, and decide to take it. I put it down on the counter.

  "Problem?" noticing his smile dropped.

  He puts it into a small brown paper bag holding eye contact.

  "No. Just... take it easy, okay?"

  I snatch the bag.

  "My mom's dead.” I raise my hand to him as a goodbye.

  I don't need Leo trying to 'mother' me. I just need him to bag it. I respect Leo, but I'm not in the mood. There's nothing exciting about clearing tables and I think I would have left a long time ago if it weren't for Lou.

  Work was work. The cold midnight air is refreshing after bumping around a busy hot diner kitchen all night. I'm a glorified dish washer. At least that's how it feels. Finally my shift is do
ne. I'm heading to my spot. Just a walk-away.

  Strangely, I prefer being in the kitchen to clearing tables and being around people. Lou's diner is one of the best on this side meaning lots and lots of dirty dishes.

  You get the rich post Broadway play gushing about the high points waving their little playbook. You get the drunks slash border-line high ones with the munchies. More intriguing, the rendezvous. They try to look inconspicuous which makes them more conspicuous. Then the texters. They don't even look at each other opposite the table. They don't speak and smile weirdly at their phones oblivious to the human right in front of them. Funny, if you stay out of their way, they tip better. Beth hasn't learned that yet. Probably because she's Beth.

  I unconsciously play everything back in my head. Just can't quit it. My father got me started on doing that. He said, if you don't find your mistake, you're likely to repeat it. He also told me never trust anyone. Both seem to be good pieces of advice.

  Let's see, I was late-again. Maybe I shouldn't have told Beth she looked like a Pit-Bull after that last fight. Now, she's trying to get me fired but what's new. Jessie was flirting with me again, I could have been a little nicer to her... hmm ... nope, can't play games.

  I didn't like how Lou looked tonight. His cough is back and his weight isn't helping. He really thinks he's hiding his pill bottle behind his computer screen. It's full, new prescription too, the pills were bigger. Why is he trying to hide it from me? I know that's the real reason Beth hates me. She wants to be the right hand. I'll never forget that look on her face. I know she didn't think I saw her through the ambulance window when Lou wouldn't let go of my sleeve demanding I come with him to the hospital. He shoved a little black ledger in my pocket right before he lost consciousness. I never opened it.