by Ethan Cross
Now, standing at the plate, staring down Benny Stockman, a man who was at least five years younger than him, Marcus Williams thought of how outmatched he was in this duel.
Sure, both Benny and Marcus had once been above-average players who could have gone somewhere if fate had dealt them different hands, but what everyone seemed to be forgetting was that both Marcus and Benny were pitchers. Just because Marcus could throw one hell of a fastball didn’t mean he could hit one.
Benny wound up and released the ball, and Marcus struck nothing but air. The umpire announced the strike, and Marcus felt a bit lightheaded. Probably just the adrenaline.
Then, before he really knew what was happening, another pitch was coming down the pipe. He swung and connected. He pushed through and pivoted and drove it deep but foul.
He held the aluminum bat up to his nose out of habit. As a boy, he had always loved the smell of a bat after a long foul ball, right after the lace’s of the ball and the bat had rubbed together to create a little friction. The smell reminded Marcus of campfires and camping trips with his real dad.
Unfortunately, aluminum bats always smelled like dirt and metal.
Marcus stepped back out of the batter’s box and gave Benny a nod of respect and a smile. He tried to maintain his macho bravado in front of everyone but, on the inside, he was feeling the weight of this moment.
He wasn’t necessarily scared. It took a lot more than a baseball game to scare a man who hunted serial killers for a living.
He was just worried that he would never live up to his son’s expectations or deserve his adoration. Most fathers were rewarded with that bond because they had always been there, had always been that protector and role model in their kid’s life, but he’d missed out on that opportunity. And now he had to build that from scratch.
No one’s life was in danger. No killer was on the loose. But Marcus felt the same rush as when he hunted a man.
He made up his mind that he couldn’t fail Dylan in this moment. He needed to be the kind of father his son deserved. A man his son could be proud of.
Lately, he feared that he hadn’t been doing a very good job of that. He had missed over half the practices for Dylan’s team because of work. He suspected that he had missed over half of the rest of his time with Dylan during the past year as well.
It had always been a struggle to find time between his job—his calling—and his personal life, but now Dylan made the idea of finding balance a near impossibility.
Maybe this moment, this pitch, was his opportunity to gain back some ground.
He stepped up to the plate and cleared his mind. He analyzed Benny’s previous pitches. He made what were probably hundreds of other small calculations and adjustments. All felt more than worked out. Variables quantified by experience and intuition.
He was ready.
The pitch came.
He swung.
He threw every ounce of grace and power in his body into that swing. He poured in all his hopes for a bond with his boy. Every dream of a family. He dumped them all in and converted them into the momentum of his bat.
He felt the weight of the ball strike the sweet spot.
Scooping up the weight and letting it ride the wave of his swing, he pivoted and drove it home.
The ball left his bat and soared over the left field wall.
Marcus rounded the bases to the cheers of the crowd and high fives of his teammates. The other team’s first baseman even laughed and gave Marcus a fist bump.
But when he looked to the group of his teammates waiting to celebrate with him at home plate, he didn’t see Dylan.
He scanned the faces again and then looked to the dugout. Dylan was standing inside, batting helmet cockeyed on his head, a baseball bat dangling limply from his left fist.
Marcus locked gazes with his son as he rounded third, but what he read in the boy’s expression was not adoration or pride. In Dylan’s eyes, Marcus saw only anger and accusation.
*
Demon took a seat in front of Sheriff Travis Hall’s dark cherry desk. Through his eyes, the desk appeared to be made of rotting meat and writhing and pulsing with worms. There was a time in his life when he may have even asked someone what they saw, but now he had rooted himself within the real world by following social cues and considering the context of the people and things surrounding him. If it didn’t make sense, then it probably wasn’t real. And if it was real, then someone else in the room would notice too.
The problem came when Demon was alone, when he had nothing to occupy him, nothing to keep the Legion quiet and appeased. Those were the moments when he could never be quite sure what was real and what wasn’t. Those were the moments when he couldn’t maintain control and then usually the dark man would take over.
Now, however, sitting in front of the sheriff’s desk, he knew that if the desk had been made of pulsing dead flesh, then the sheriff wouldn’t have been working behind it. He grounded himself with the sheriff’s opinion of reality and used that as an anchor.
Demon sat on the edge of the chair like a coiled snake. The scars on his face didn’t seem to bother Sheriff Hall, who had the look of a man who had seen the face of death before. Hall looked him straight in the eyes and said, “So how can I help?”
Demon tried to remember what excuse his assistant would have given to set up this meeting. Probably something to do with charity; that usually worked best. The sheriff was an elected official after all. Police officers helping charities looked great in the press. Demon supposed the reason given didn’t really matter. He had no plans for pleasantries or subterfuge.
He was there for one reason only, a reason Sheriff Hall was not going to like. Especially after he saw the photos held in the file folder beneath Demon’s left arm.
He let an awkward and pregnant silence fall over the room. The weight of it reminded him of a storm cloud just before the first drops of rain burst forth into the world.
At this thought, rain began to fall inside of the sheriff’s office. Demon hated when that happened. He hoped that it would only be rain and not thunder. It was so hard to carry on a conversation during a raging thunderstorm—a storm that only one of the people in the conversation could see and hear.
When Demon spoke, the words were warm and smooth and dripped with a deep baritone and a heavy Scottish accent. “Sheriff, I need you to put me in prison.”
*
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Dad said.
Dylan didn’t look up. He didn’t want his dad to see the tears that had forced their way into his eyes.
He wiped his face on his sleeve and said, “Nothing. Good hit.”
Dylan couldn’t really explain why he was so upset, even to himself. It wasn’t his dad’s fault that he was good at everything while Dylan felt like he was good at nothing. It wasn’t his dad’s fault that his mom had died.
But he still blamed his dad for all of those things. One day, he had a good life. Then his dad had come around and ruined it all.
Well, maybe not directly. It was really more his grandpa’s fault, but it was because of his dad, and that was close enough.
Some part of him associated his dad with everything that had gone wrong. Everything in his life that was once good and now sucked.
It felt like all of that was Dad’s fault.
And now, Dad had completely ruined baseball too by hitting a home run and probably winning the game for them. He already had no friends at school, and now, thanks to Dad, he was probably not going to make friends with anyone on the team either.
That was fine. He preferred to be alone anyway.
He already had to hear them talk behind his back about how awesome his dad was and how bad he sucked. They would never say anything to his face. Not after what Dylan had done to the kid who had smirked at him and asked if he was adopted.
Still, he couldn’t just go around beating up every kid on the playground who gave him a funny look. And after today, and what his dad had just done, he would
be the butt of even more jokes. He could almost hear them giggling.
As he took a couple of practice swings and stepped up to the plate, Dylan considered that he needed to do something big. Something to make everyone forget what his dad had done.
He could, of course, knock out a home run of his own. But Dylan knew there was about zero chance of that.
He needed to do something big. Something that would show the other boys. His dad. The coach. He would show them all.
*
Maggie was glad she was there to see Marcus shine, glad she was able to share in that moment with him. Marcus had always thrived under pressure, and this had been no different. He had crushed that ball and put their team up by one on the scoreboard.
She started making her way to the dugout. Marcus would have to leave the rest of the game in someone else’s hands. They had a case and were booked on the next flight out of DC.
As she wove around the cheering parents and grandparents, she kept glancing out at Marcus as he rounded the bases. He didn’t smile like that very often anymore. No sarcasm. No worry. Just pure joy. It was etched onto his features.
But then she noticed his smile falter. She followed his gaze and saw the anger on Dylan’s face.
The look of sorrow and rage grew even more pronounced as Dylan went to the plate. She couldn’t understand that boy most of the time, and she wondered if he might have something wrong with him. Something that went even deeper than the loss of his mother. Something chemical or physical. Something that Dylan couldn’t control, and they shouldn’t ignore.
It was more than his reaction here at the game. He had been getting in trouble at school. His teachers called him a bully and an instigator. His artwork was dark and disturbing. And another telltale sign, he was a bed-wetter. Throw in a little animal torture, and he’d have all the signs. All the early warnings.
Maybe she was just being too hard on him.
The kid had been through a lot. Lord only knew what kind of mental landmines the boy’s grandpa had laid in his brain, what the old man had done to him, said to him.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, Marcus had been allowing Dylan to visit his psychotic Uncle Frank. She knew Ackerman was a master manipulator and, if it had been her call, the boy would never have had an opportunity to be infected by the madness of another sick mind.
But it wasn’t her call.
Hell, if it were up to her, Ackerman would have been dead a long time ago. He deserved it. She didn’t care that he was repentant or that he had helped rescue Marcus. Ackerman was a destroyer through and through, and there was no way to atone for his sins.
She watched Dylan take his first swing and not even come close to the ball. The boy had the ferocity and power down, but his timing was way off.
Dylan stepped out of the batter’s box and took another practice swing. She could see the muscles in his neck and face bulging as he ground his teeth.
Glancing around the crowd to see if anyone else found Dylan’s behavior disturbing, Maggie realized that she was one of the only people still watching. To everyone else, the show was already over, and now it was time to check your Facebook feed and grab a hot dog.
She glanced back at the game in time to see Dylan miss the next pitch so badly that he almost fell down from swinging so hard. Marcus ran out on the field to give Dylan some pointers and tips. The boy barely acknowledged him.
Dylan took his position for the next pitch. And then Maggie watched him swing his bat as hard as she had ever seen. The only problem was that the pitcher hadn’t even started his windup, hadn’t even considered throwing the ball yet.
Just as Dylan had approached the plate, the other team’s catcher made some comment to Dylan. Maggie couldn’t hear what had been said, but whatever it was had apparently made Dylan decide to use the catcher’s head for batting practice.
The whole scene seemed to play out in slow motion. Dylan turning to the catcher, that terrible look of rage and hatred in his young eyes. Dylan swinging the bat as a weapon. The metal connecting with catcher’s facemask with a metallic ping and crunch.
She heard one of the mother’s scream.
Before the umpire or coaches could even realize what had happened, Dylan had pounced on the other boy like a wild animal.
Dylan pulled off the catcher’s facemask and started pounding his fists into the other boy’s already bloody face.
Chaos broke out, with parents and coaches flooding the field. Marcus was the first to reach home plate, and he immediately pulled Dylan off the unconscious catcher.
Maggie remained at the fence, thinking of the way Dylan had moved. It had reminded her of the night she first met Francis Ackerman Jr. The night good old Uncle Frank had murdered a close friend of hers. Ackerman had moved with that same kind of ferocity that night. He had pounced on her just as Dylan had pounced on the catcher.
Maggie didn’t even try to help. She just turned her back on the field and pulled out her cell phone. She surfed to the airline’s website and dialed the 1-800 number. They were going to need to take a later flight.
*
Two delays and a nearly missed connecting flight later, and Maggie was on the ground at Tucson International Airport. And she was not only accompanied by Marcus, but also by the new addition of Dylan.
The boy should have been at their office and barracks back in Rose Hill, Virginia. They should have left him with Stan. Dylan and Stan had formed an instant bond, and the boy had probably spent more time in the past year with Stan than he had his own father.
She supposed that was one of the reasons Marcus had insisted on bringing Dylan. Another was probably that he wanted to help Dylan escape the scene of the crime.
They had barely spoken on the plane ride. Maggie had been separated from Marcus and Dylan by the last minute bookings and flight changes, but she was glad for the space.
She tried to sleep but kept replaying the incident in her mind when her eyelids fell.
Dylan. The baseball bat. The gasps of the mothers. The look on the boy’s face. The anger in his eyes. The brutality. Vicious and graceful. The way Dylan had moved and changed, as if a switch had been flipped from person to animal.
She found herself constantly watching the boy now, wondering what he might do next. She followed this pattern as they wordlessly moved through the airport and retrieved their luggage. Andrew was waiting outside with the rental car.
Andrew Garrison, the third field agent on their team, looked them up and down. She had overheard Marcus tell Andrew about “an incident” at Dylan’s game over the phone, but she could tell by the look on Andrew’s face that he had a lot of burning questions. To his credit, he knew that now wasn’t the time to ask.
Andrew had another man with him, an older man with kind eyes and a big pink scar on his neck. The pair of them stood beside the open door of a gold minivan in the curbside pickup area. Passenger cars and hotel vans were pulling in and out, picking up loved ones and fares, and zooming off again. Andrew had a prime parking spot and every van driver who maneuvered around him gave him a nasty look. Some even honked. She saw a crowd of airport workers smoking nearby. The combined smell of the nicotine addicts and the exhaust from the constant caravan of cars made Maggie feel nauseous.
Marcus said to the older man, “You must be the driver.”
The man said, “Yes, sir. Arthur Jones. Your friend has already explained the details to me. I’ll get your luggage.”
Arthur took their small go-bags—emergency travel kits containing everything they needed for quick trips.
Marcus said, “One second, Arthur. I need to speak with Maggie before you go.”
Arthur flashed a sincere smile and said, “Take your time, sir. I’ll just put your bags in the car. That’s me down there. Third on the left. The black Lincoln.”
“Thanks, Arthur,” Marcus said and then motioned for her to accompany him to the side, away from Dylan.
Before he could speak, she said, “You had better not be thinking w
hat I think you’re thinking.”
“It’s just for—”
“Hell no.”
“Let me finish,” Marcus said, hands raised in surrender. “Dylan’s Grandpa Cassidy has been wanting to see him. He lives in Sedona. He’s on his way down to stay with Dylan for a few days. He’s probably already at the hotel. The driver will wait with you, and once Dylan is set, Arthur will bring you out to the prison.”
She waited a moment and said, “Are you done? Can I speak now?”
“What?”
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“Yes, please speak. Let’s get it over with.”
“Okay, here’s my rebuttal to your proposal—hell and no. You go with your son in the town car. I shouldn’t be sidelined just because your kid can’t keep his bat to himself.”
“I’m not sidelining you. You’ll be right behind us.”
“You mean that you will be right behind Andrew and I.”
“Maggie,” Marcus said through clenched teeth. “This is not a democracy. It’s an order.”
“Really? You’re pulling rank on this? I told you to leave him back with Stan. That he’d just be in the way. Plus, who knows what’s going on in that boy’s head. He’s obviously pissed off about something.”
“I spoke to him about it on the plane.”
“And? What was his reason for sending that other kid to the hospital. You know, you’re lucky he isn’t a few years older. If he was, they would have charged him with something. If it was up to that other kid’s mom, I know they would have.”
“You gonna let me tell it?” Marcus said, his Brooklyn accent growing more obvious as he became upset.
“Go ahead.”
“The catcher from the other team—”
“The one Dylan nearly killed?”
“He told Dylan that his dad was pretty awesome, but that it was too bad that Dylan sucked so bad. Then he added that if he were Dylan’s mom, he would have run away from him, too. Apparently, the kid had heard that Dylan’s mom ran off with another guy, a rumor that had gotten started somehow.”
