Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

I bump a display and bottles smash at my feet. I hear other shoppers gasping, some idiot is filming me with his cell phone.

  I break loose from Leo’s grasp and head for the guy with the cell phone.

  "You want a picture! What, you never seen a homeless drunk before...? Look at your father."

  I haul my left arm back swing at him.

  "Nice, jerk. Keep talking, you’re gonna be famous," he says to me. "I'll make you famous! Come here." He runs, putting a display between us. "You'll be all over the news... let me at him, Leo!"

  Good! At least my aim is still dead-on. I threw the bottle. Got him right in the head.

  "I'm gonna sue you!" he says, dropping the cell phone, holding his head like a sap. Tony's got a good grip on one arm. He's stronger than he looks.

  "Joke’s on you, Jack." I throw my arms open. "I got nothing to sue for."

  I grab another bottle on the way out the door. I can't help but laugh at that one. Finally free from his grip, Leo follows me onto the sidewalk.

  "I'm leaving, I'm leaving."

  "Caleb. What's going on?" asks Leo.

  Looking over his destroyed displays and customers walking out shaking their heads. Lou would not be proud. Now I hurt Leo too. The wind just came out of me. I look at the large bottle still in my clutch.

  "Sorry."

  I can trust Leo to do what is necessary. I know his next move. I count on it.

  I got the idiot’s wallet. The streets taught me one thing, how to pick a pocket. His wallet feels flat in my palm but you never know.

  It didn't take long. I got a few steps away and downed the bottle, shut my eyes and let the alcohol have full control. Flashes of riding in a worn out police car, down a desolate dirt road replace the dark wet Manhattan sidewalk. Meadows for as far as the eye could see. An arched rugged wooden gate, then the monastery. Tall wooden doors with black metal locks and hinges with two circle rings in the center on each side for door knobs.

  A red-haired lady. The police car pulls up in front of the doors. I'm in the back. I see my reflection in the car window. I'm young. One hand grips the police door handle tightly. The other holds my father’s dog tags. I'm scared. I can feel it.

  I'm finished thinking in my dream. Let it roll. I'm in the monastery hall, being wrestled to the ground. Someone is trying to open my hand. My fist is tight. I feel my blood drip down my wrist.

  "Can't he just keep them?" says the Police Officer that drove me there to the Monk trying to pry the dog tags from my sealed fist.

  "Against policy," replies the Monk.

  They won. In my imagination, the tags fall from my cut hand. I open my hand hoping to see the dog tags but only see a bloody disappointment. The broken liquor bottle falls from my palm and is soon sprinkled with the fresh falling snow.

  Something broke in me. I can't fix it. Alcohol can't fix it either. I hear myself groan uncontrollably, bitterly, guttural. I don't exist. I'm invisible. I matter to no one. I have no money.

  What will happen when the sun comes up? Dig in the garbage? Run from the police? No. I can't do that again. It is time. It is now or never. I'm losing myself. My past is clouding my present and the line is so blurred I can't see it anymore.

  I can hear the traffic. I step off of the curb. I probably won't feel it. Not for long anyway. A few more steps. There. Headlights. A car. The one I have been waiting for.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NEW YORK

  Jason Jones Hotel Room

  I can't help but pace. My glasses are sliding down and I instinctively flick them into place right above the nose. I never did go for those thin flimsy eye glass frames. I like the durability of thick black ones.

  I almost forgot Sam was on the phone in my hand. Deep breath.

  "Jason? Are you listening to me?" Sort of. "Director White wants you back in D.C. by morning."

  "Why?" I ask.

  That is curious. It makes me stop pacing the floor. I still have my suit jacket on. I can hear her chewing.

  "You weren't answering your phone so she called me. She hates me. I can feel it. She didn't tell me anything except that," says Sam.

  "It's in your mind, Sam. Who wouldn't like lovable little you?" I say, seeing her smiling in my mind.

  "Where were you? How much coffee have you had?" she asks.

  I wish she would stop chewing. I go through my bag and pull out that cheap burner phone I used earlier and check for calls.

  "Lost count," I reply, still pacing the floor.

  "The police sent the report here," she says.

  I stop pacing and sit on the foot of the bed facing the television that is playing the news.

  "What does it say?" I ask. Now, she has my full attention.

  "What is the likelihood? They did a search on Caleb Promise," she says.

  I inhale.

  "And?"

  "Inconclusive."

  I exhale.

  "So, he's got the same last name of the Officer that served with Wilkes. I am a pessimist but there no record of him, we don't even know Officer Promise’s child was a he and not a she. Did the orphanage mess up?" she asks.

  "No, the orphanage had a fire that burned everything just months after this kid turned eighteen, along with every monk that worked there at the time. They died trying to get all of the orphans out."

  "But his employer wouldn't he have a file on this guy?" Sam asks.

  "Nothing. I checked. He lived in a dive, where no one kept records, for obvious reasons."

  "Let me guess, no friends either."

  "Yes."

  She's smart. That's why I hired her. Caleb is on the street, a ghost. I can feel her thinking while picking over her second serving of Christmas dinner.

  "I want every shelter searched in the NY metro area. They sign in. With this storm, he can't be on the streets, hopefully. He's wanted for murder, I highly doubt he'll go anywhere that may ask for I.D.," I tell her.

  "No problem. But you know the Police have probably already done that. May just be a waste of time."

  I need time right now. She'll understand later.

  "We have to try," I reply. "Wilkes is on a flight to Brazil. Something is brewing. I can feel it."

  "Jason, how does the murder of Elizabeth Harvard tie to the murder of Officer Promise and his wife? I mean, accident. The old Police report states a drunk driver hit them in a rain storm. They went off a bridge into an embankment and died from their injuries," Sam says, clearly having read the file.

  "Who autopsied the bodies?" I ask her, already knowing the answer.

  "Locals? I'm guessing."

  "Exactly. Locals from a small town that can't afford to lose residents for fear some murderer is on a spree. Request that search for me. As soon as you’re done, spend some time with your family."

  "Will do. Jason, do yourself a favor, in the future, don't ride the subway based on the lyrics of a rap song."

  "It worked, didn't it?"

  I hear her laugh and then the click of her hanging up. Why did she want him fired? Why would they kill her for wanting him fired? Where are you, Caleb? I look at the little black phone. The hard wind slams snow onto my window. Coffee. I need more coffee.

  Caleb Promise

  A lulling rumbling. I can't see but I can hear muffled voices as if I'm under water. I'm floating on my back. It's warm and cozy. I can't remember the last time I felt warm. I feel perfect. No pain. No hunger or cravings. All past anguishes are gone. For once, I don't have a single care. I am not afraid. Wherever I am, I don't feel like anything bad is going to happen. My body feels renewed. It is just as I expected heaven would be. I didn't think I'd make it here though.

  I'm rising, I can tell. An effortless lifting sensation. I must be being taken to see God. I didn't pay much attention in Sunday school. Now, I wish I did. I can think and have consciousness. I like it here.

  The rising stops. More mumbles and jumbles of faint voices. They are comforting because I know I'm not alone. Everything is soft. The floating continues then
comes to an abrupt stop, a slight jostle. Not bad. A hand rests gently on my shoulder, a murmur of words and a warmth sweeps through me. I'm falling into deep sleep. I let it take over.

  "Good Morning."

  A male voice. God? I need to repent. That much I know.

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  "What?" he replies.

  I still can't see. The veil seems to be lifted from my ears and every sound is clear, sharp and concise. Maybe they're bringing me in slowly, letting me work in little by little. That's kind. A gentle wipe over one eye. A soft cloth and caring slow touch.

  "Good morning," the voice says again a little louder.

  "You'll be here all day with that."

  A harsh female voice?

  (BAM,BAM,BAM!)

  "RISE AND SHINE!" yells a nurse.

  I jump from the shock of it. What is going on? I need to see. One eye works. Where am I? I force myself to open the eye that works. No!

  A hospital. I.V., something clamped onto my pointer finger. Pain killers. No wonder I felt so good. I don't want to be here. Just like the orphanage but worse.

  There is a television mounted on the wall directly in front of the bed. A bed, that's what I was on. The news showing the grand retirement banquet for Defence Secretary Wilkes. The reporter's words typing in close caption across the bottom of the screen. The nurse’s voice is really loud.

  "Doc, you gotta call him out from under that white lighting. Need anything else?"

  She pulls on her gloves and adjusts her scarf around her neck.

  "No thank you, nurse," says the soft-spoken middle aged doctor. "No one knows what you're talking about half the time. You are aware of that?"

  The doctor chuckles. The nurse smacks the wall one last time, winks her eye, adjusts her purse strap on her top coat and leaves. She's noisy. Everything about her is noisy, even her quiet nurse shoes squeak.

  I can only lift one hand. Handcuffs. I just shut my eye. Earth. Why couldn't I have succeeded? I'm going to prison. I want the euphoria back. The floating, the muffled sounds. Life was better that way.

  "Good Morning... Austin, is it?" the doctor asks, flipping virtual pages on his chart on the tablet. Austin? The wallet. I'm so glad I'm a thief.

  "Can you hear me? You were injured in a car accident. You were hit by a car. Austin, you are in Mt. Sinai Hospital and I am Dr. Gordon. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  I nod but keep my eyes shut.

  "Good. It's a miracle you are alive. One eye is swollen shut, you had salve on the other so if that feels funny, that's all it is. Can you move your legs for me?"

  I turn to the window. I don't want people. Not now. Not ever.

  "Okay, can you lift your right arm for me, Mr. Austin Douglas? That's your name, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  I feel sweat beading on my forehead. I hate lying.

  "We ran a battery of tests on you last night and aside from some bruises and a slight concussion, you are fine. It's a miracle really if you saw what you looked like when they brought you in. Tell me, what happened?"

  I feel him sit on the foot of the bed. Moving in for the kill. I can't be bothered.

  "Sir. This is how it works. If you don't cooperate with me, they are going to send in the house psychologist. He'll ask you the same questions I'm asking you now. If you don't respond to him, they are going to send in the psychiatrist who will gladly give you an injection that will have you staring into space, wetting your own pants for about three days. Now, you are not seriously injured enough to take up this bed much longer so by the time I walk out of this room the ball will begin rolling. Do you understand?"

  A nod.

  "Now we're getting somewhere. Did you step in front of that taxi on purpose?"

  I shake my head 'no' slowly knowing that yes will cost me a trip to the psych ward.

  "Alright. That's good for now. Your breakfast should be coming in soon. Please eat. Rest. Your pain medication is in there (he points to the I.V.). It'll make you comfortable. I'll tell the nurse to bring you something to help you sleep."

  I drift back to the television. I recognize that scene. It's the bridge. The caption reads...

  "BREAKING NEWS... A call to the N.Y.P.D. of shots fired led to the discovery of the body of a man just beneath this bridge. A location well known for its homeless presence. Police urge anyone with information to call the precinct. The man, Caucasian, late forties was gunned down in what the police are calling a professional hit. The man was shot once in the head at close range."

  Investigators are all over the scene. It looks familiar. They roll the body past the camera. The body is covered by a sheet. The arm falls out from beneath the sheet. That's my jacket. The one the guy stole from me. I didn't kill him. Who did? Oh, the doctor is still talking.

  "...and I'll send the nurse to get the handcuff off. My apologies but you were very intoxicated when we brought you in. You tried to bite an orderly. The handcuff was for your own protection. Your personal belongings are in that cabinet. Any question?"

  I exhale. No prison. I close my eye. God is real.

  "No."

  I just want to look at the television. Nothing stops in this City. Die or not.

  "Oh, Mr. Douglas, I got one contact out, but the other must still be in the other eye. When the swelling goes down, I will help you get it out," the doctor says as he taps the door post twice and walks out of the room. I feel adrenaline pump through my body so strong it supersedes my pain killers. My breathing increases.

  "Thanks, Doctor."

  I don't wear contacts.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Caleb Promise

  I can smell a new beginning on the horizon. I wasn't crazy. I didn't imagine it. Something happened to me, but what? I was abducted and carefully replaced like a fine piece of China in a shop.

  I've heard people complain about hospital beds not being comfortable. This is my first time and I have no complaints. A great improvement to my old bed. I feel the reason to keep going slipping back into my veins.

  For a while, it felt as if everything was in vain. I press the head incline button on the bed. That's better, sitting up. I hate the sound of the handcuffs clanking. I want to get to the bathroom. Two knocks on the door.

  "Breakfast."

  I wish I could take a picture of his face when he sees the handcuffs.

  "Breakfast."

  He is staring at me and then the handcuffs as if fascinated.

  "Triple murder," I say to him. He turns and leaves as fast as possible.

  "Mr. Douglas."

  A nurse walks in dangling some keys.

  "Yes," I reply. I'm getting used to the name.

  "Your freedom draweth nigh." She dangles the handcuff keys in the air.

  "Thanks."

  I rub my wrist.

  "And, your medication. This will help with pain, and help you sleep."

  I want to stay awake. Finally, I want to be clear minded. I have to stop her before she pushes the plunger into the I.V.

  "Umm, can you...not." Grabbing her arm. "Sorry."

  "We don't go in for that stuff here. Do I need to restrain you or are we clear."

  "No, I'm good. It's just I have to use the bathroom."

  "Oh."

  She drops her defences. The hospital cell phone rings in her pocket and she answers it.

  "Yes? I'll be right there."

  I scoot to a seated position and aches return like a bad dream.

  "I'll be right back. Remember, call don't fall. Don't move.” She pushes the plunger into the I. V. Nipple. “Stuff makes you feel wonky? Food helps. Eat. I will be right back."

  The pain killers act fast. Oh that's great. Immediately the pain is gone but I am feeling a little foggy. The more I sit up, the more the room spins. My legs feel numb. Rest would be the best thing but I don't want to sleep. I need to see. I need to know for certain that I'm not crazy. If the contact is in my eye, I was abducted. I was thrown into a van and put back into my room as if nothing
happened. If that is the case, I truly have something to live for.

  I can't see clearly. Annoying. Wiping the eye helps a little. The room is clearer but not perfect. My hands and knuckles have minor cuts and bruises. There's a gauze bandage around my right wrist.

  After not eating in days, the food smells good. I'm glad no one was in the room. I scoop the soft scrambled eggs with my fingers and shove it into my mouth and follow with the roll. Runny eggs and oatmeal. A treat.

  Out of the bed, I grab the I.V. pole and stand. I'm starting to feel foggy. If I go slowly, I can make it to the bathroom. I shuffle along. Awkward droopy hospital socks sag around my ankles but do keep me from sliding. The wheels on the tall steel pole holding my I.V. is awkward to maneuver and bumps something on the way to the bathroom just a few feet away. Another hospital bed. With a man in it. He's asleep. Snoring. He won't mind that I borrow his shaving kit. I slip it under my arm and scoot into the large bathroom and lock the door behind me.