by Peter Cry
That was it. Soon her story with the strange vagrant, which she had got into because of her own sensitive, caring nature, would end. It would be possible to return to normal life without fearing that she was doing something wrong.
Jessica walked down the corridor, approaching the gray doors with a golden sign with the words “Pantry.” Fumbling for the keys in her pocket, she found the 20-dollar bill she was going to give to the handsome homeless stranger in addition to all the good she had already got for him. As she grasped the handle of the door, Jordan suddenly appeared from nowhere.
Jessica stood like a scarecrow, nearly dropping the bag of food and medicine from her hands.
“Well, did you save your homeless bum?” Jordan asked slyly.
Jessica was a little confused but was also irritated by her colleague's insensitivity and rudeness.
“Yes, I did,” she frowned. “At least someone in this hospital saves people.”
“Err... As usual, you’re not happy with something,” he smiled indifferently. “And where are you hurrying, by the way?”
“It's none of your business, step back.”
The smile faded from Jordan's face, but his cold expression remained.
“Are you an idiot to drag this drunkard here and hide him, not even in the reception area, but on the second floor among the doctors' offices?”
Jessica was dumbstruck by the fact that someone had become aware of her concealed actions.
“None of your business... Get out.”
“I'll let the management know right now,” her treacherous colleague hissed.
Suddenly a caustic expression appeared on Jessica's face, indicating that she was in fact as tough as nails.
“Then I will let them know that you trade prescriptions. Prescribing drugs that don’t correspond to the medical needs of your patients.”
“What?” suppressing his fright, Jordan tried to seem confident.
“After all those chemicals, they come to me with pancreatitis and a bloated liver. Perhaps we should carry out blood tests to identify the drugs that you put them on? I wonder, who will be more trustworthy, you or me?”
If this war of words had taken place somewhere on a deserted street, highway, in an endless field, or in an abandoned house, the angry Jordan would not have had to resort to primitive insults but would simply have killed her. For a split second, he imagined how he would put a belt around her neck and strangle her, and with what pleasure.
Angry and at the same time frightened, Jordan was stunned. His eyes turned dark and very expressive. Arrogantly he looked at the black woman standing next to him, who seemed indestructible.
“Nigger!” he hissed.
After these words, Jordan, reeking of excrement on a mental level, turned and disappeared.
Watching him retreat, Jessica thought of spitting in his face. She knew that sooner or later she would do it.
The fuming doctor entered the pantry. The lonely fugitive inside shuddered a little, not expecting his savior to return so soon.
Jason noticed that she was upset. Almost nothing remained of her sensitivity and kindness. Probably, he was to blame for this. Who would want to mess with a battered homeless person, especially if it might affect their work adversely?
“Did something happen?” he inquired boldly.
Jessica was in no hurry to answer, she found a strong box and, placing it in front of the vagabond, sat by him. Looking into the hazel bright eyes of the poor fellow, she began to calm down.
“Don’t worry. I just don’t like bad, rotten, people, and especially those in whom it’s all combined.”
Jessica put the paper bag on her lap and took out the contents, neatly laying out bottles with antiseptic, bandages, water, and food on the shelf of a nearby metal cabinet that was within reach.
“I'm sorry, I’ve been such a pain.”
She recalled Jordan's expression and what he had said. Her anger boiled up again.
“No, no... It's not because of you.”
The doctor took out a large bacon sandwich with fresh tomato, lettuce, and several layers of cheese, as well as a delicious sauce, the enticing aroma burst through the cellophane packaging.
“Here you go,” she said, smiling, handing him the meal. “First, you eat, and then I’ll fix you.”
The battered drifter, who never knew when he would eat again, understood that it was an offer he could not refuse. He took what seemed to him a culinary piece of art, tore off the sticky plastic wrap, and bit off a huge piece. He hurried, chewing and enjoying his food.
“You do not look like a derelict,” Jessica thought out loud. “There is something in you that is very subtle, which suggests that you are not one of them.”
“The same seemed to me, just recently.”
“By the way, what's your name?”
The stranger stopped eating his sandwich and withdrew into himself for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he decided to tell the whole truth about himself. Or almost all.
“I don't know,” he smiled sadly. “I mean, I don’t remember exactly. Everything’s a daze. I only recall the moment I woke up with terrible pains inside, on the banks of a river in a dense forest.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jessica did not believe her ears. “Is that possible? I’ve heard about similar stories, but I’ve never came across one of them.”
Chewing, the stranger nodded his head, agreeing with the bewilderment expressed by his savior.
“I would also like to know how and why. I was only able to remember the feeling of fear and persecution, as if I wanted to run away from something.”
“Wait,” the worried doctor interrupted him. “Did you go to the police? Someone must have been looking for you, your relatives, friends?”
The stranger smiled.
“There was no need to contact them, they found me after the first time I stole food from a supermarket. I told them my story, they did not believe me, but still, after taking a few photos, they sent them to all the states and districts. Nobody is looking for me, and thank God, I have not committed any crimes either.”
“But I remember, then, on the street, you said that the police know you?”
“Yes, ma'am, that's right,” the stranger hurried to answer, eating the rest of the sandwich. “It just happens that I’m a petty, a very petty, thief. But harmless. I take what’s left for the taking or steal some food. I’ve been caught several times. Almost always they’ve released me without formalities. As a preventive measure, they sometimes might hit me with a truncheon a couple of times, coloring my gloomy existence with a new magical and beautiful glow.”
The eyes of the down-and-out man were suddenly filled with incredible pain and seemed to be moist.
“It’s nothing to be proud of, ma'am, and I'm ashamed. I would love to find a job if only I remembered what I was doing and who I was.”
“Oh my god, it's incredible. You’re not lying,” Jessica was amazed. “How did you end up in Seattle?”
“Err... It’s not interesting, but I’ll tell you. Freight trains took me wherever my eyes looked. I have climbed into passing trucks, no matter where they were headed, only to be away from people. They don’t love me, you know. And it’s mutual.”
“And you don’t remember where the river was where you woke up in the forest?”
The stranger shrugged.
“I don’t... Everything is blurry, like in a dream. I only remember the piercing feeling of nausea and headache.”
“So, there must have been a severe head injury. You had all the symptoms. Which means you have retrograde amnesia. Not my profile, of course, but I read a little about it in college.”
Shaking off crumbs of bread from his knees, the stranger reached for the shelf where the water stood.
“May I?”
“Of course, you can. I brought it for you,” Jessica passed him the bottle.
She thought for a second and continued to question the stranger.
“How long have you b
een like this? Can you remember?”
After taking a couple of sips, he reflected. Diving into his memories, the stranger squinted his eyes.
“I remember the fall, and now it’s winter.”
Jessica grabbed her head. She looked with curiosity and bewilderment at the stranger, realizing that he used to have a proper haircut, was shaved, and with a full mouth of teeth, an unbroken nose, and without bruises. He had looked completely different. Surely, judging by the condition of his skin, he had been an attractive man and, who knew, maybe quite a successful person.
“What shall I do with you now?”
“Nothing,” the stranger smiled. “Perhaps you could treat the wounds and let me go. You have already done so much for me. I can’t give you anything in return.”
The man who had just recounted his incredible story reached for the young woman and took her hand.
“You are a wonderful person. Surely, I used to be the same. I'm feeling it. Sometimes at night, shaking from the cold under a bridge, lying in a cardboard box, I ask myself why fate suddenly hit me so cruelly.”
“And?” Jessica asked directly, feeling the gentle hand of the stranger.
“I can’t answer. Although I try to evade the gaze of people, my attitude towards them is not harsh. They are not evil at all, although they try to come across as such. Unhappy, but decent. When I understand and feel that it makes my life a bit easier. It’s then that I realize that I also used to do a lot of good things... I am certain of it…”
Chapter 8
About a dozen people worked at the Hampton Police Department, including the sheriff. The small town, where the most notorious crimes were rare drunken fights and petty theft from a lot of law enforcement officers. It seemed that even those few cops who patrolled the city, removing kittens from the trees, were sufficient for tranquil Hampton. The staff of the police station could be cut by half, freeing up the budget for some little improvements, like the renovation of an old cinema, or enhancing the life of the residents in the local nursing home.
The only obstacle to solving these problems was the gloomy sheriff Thomson. Several years ago, he had convinced the mayor to allocate money for additional employees. After the kidnapping of the city’s favorite, Lily Stodge, such a decision had seemed reasonable to the town’s authorities, and to all its residents. The sheriff’s fiery speech in the city hall had conveyed a sense of threat. Dozens of his arguments hit personally, making people worry about everything at the same time – their children, their savings, and their own lives.
“The city must be strong, alert, ready to defend itself at any moment,” Sheriff Thompson said.
As it had seemed then, within a few weeks the town had become like that. After Lily’s kidnapping, there was not a single serious incident. It was as if divine forces had kept further troubles away. Had it not been for the terrifying abduction of the girl, the crime curve would have remained flat.
Peaceful silence reigned inside the small, modest police station with its several offices and a couple of cells. It constantly smelled stale even though it was regularly cleaned, and every three years all the furniture and other equipment were replaced. It was impossible to get rid of that air of calm and serenity. Even air fresheners, which automatically emitted some strange aroma that was supposed to remind people of the sea, were not up to the task. The atmosphere was produced by something non-material, for example, the routine predicament of the employees, on the one hand, pleased with the tranquility in the city, and on the other, dreaming of a more challenging regime leaving less time to relax.
Helen Escamilla sighed every few minutes without even noticing it. She dug in her computer, trying to force herself to find at least something useful to do for her town. However, a gaping chasm called the Internet did not allow her to do that, constantly offering new useless stuff that perfectly killed time before patrolling the streets. Sometimes, there was a telephone ringing somewhere in the corridor. During those moments, Helen was distracted and looked hopefully at the white door of her office, hoping that the dispatcher would open it and say that she was urgently needed to investigate something. It was the seventh call of the day, and once again it did not apply to Helen or her colleagues. She sighed and returned to the nonsense on the Internet.
She decided to check her email.
The door opened and Steve came in. Putting a cup of coffee on the table, he sat down opposite his colleague and stared at his monitor just like she was doing.
Steve could see Helen's eyes and figure out what mood she was in, whether she was busy with something serious or not.
“Uh,” he thought, seeing the look of his partner staring at something on the screen.
Sipping his coffee, the young policeman looked around with a sour expression on his face. Gray concrete walls, which at first had seemed like an interesting design decision, hemmed in on the officers from all sides. The cubic space around him could have been friendlier. The cold walls had been plastered with photos and alerts concerning criminals who might be creeping around, and information posters, all of which made the office even tackier. It was good that there was a window beyond which there was a wooden church covered with snow. The church was also completely gray, but for some reason, it always seemed warm and bright, not like Steve and Helen's office.
“I should have become a farmer,” the policeman said quietly.
“What?” his colleague mumbled, not distracting herself from her emails.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Helen nodded indifferently. But after just a couple of minutes, she came to life again.
“Want some news?” she smiled.
Steve got up.
“Come on, make my day!” He was interested in finding out what had been preoccupying his partner.
“Do you remember when we were chasing a red pickup truck a few months ago? Silverado, I believe.”
“I don’t. Did we get him?”
“Nope. He escaped to Minnesota. We also had to bring his forgotten credit card to his house.”
Steve narrowed his eyes.
“Yes, I recall. His white house was ten miles away from Hampton. And wasn’t his uncle there.”
“He certainly was...”
Helen got up from her seat and, raised her monitor and turned it towards Steve. There was a photograph of an overweight man with a flimsy beard and mustache.
“Yeah,” taking a sip of coffee, he nodded.
“Just a couple of days ago, my neighbor said that this man is a cousin of Jason Frost, the guy whom we had been chasing. And this little chubby fellow told us that he was Jason’s cousin-uncle.”
“And?” Steve did not understand.
“Well, I was confused by his lies and decided to find out more about these guys. It turns out they are not relatives at all.”
Her partner stood silently and listened. He did not understand how Helen expected him to react.
“Forgive me,” he said awkwardly. “And please, don't think that I'm a complete idiot. So?”
“Doesn't it seem suspicious to you? Two obscure guys deceive everyone around them that they are relatives!”
“Why? Perhaps they are gay?”
Helen flopped back into her chair, putting the monitor back in place.
“Today, no one hides that they are gay. Especially in that way. They could just say they are friends. Anyway, have you seen this Howard? Gay? And Jason Frost, according to my neighbor, is handsome, which means he could have found someone better.”
“Is there anything on them?” Steve tried to show he was somehow interested in that conversation.
“No,” his partner shrugged. “Well, or, let's say, there’s nothing special. A couple of fines for parking in the wrong place, and speeding. That’s all.”
“I see,” Steve was upset.
“But there is something else...”
Helen’s colleague encouraged her to continue.
“Out with it.”
Helen calmly shared with him
the essence of her concern.
“That uncle Howard, whom we met on the farm near the cornfield… He used to work in Chicago, in one of the schools, as a simple janitor. Nothing wrong with that. The only thing is – once he was questioned as a witness to the murder of a student.”
“Go on.”
“They just talked to him, asked him whether he saw something strange or someone suspicious, where he was on the day of the murder. In general, everything that we usually ask as a routine preliminary. He had an alibi, at least that’s what’s stated in the report.”
“Well, finally you dug up something interesting to preoccupy you with,” Steve acknowledged ironically.
“Ha-ha. Well said. Well, I may have been wasting my time, but I'm the only one in this uniform who is doing their best to do our job properly and not just twiddle my thumbs.”
She decided to stop there and was about to return to the Internet.
“What happened to the student, by the way?” Steve continued.
“What student?”
“Well, the one who was killed in that school in Chicago.”
For some reason, Helen hesitated. She felt bad just thinking about it. Pictures from the report sent by her colleagues from Chicago still flashed before her eyes.
“His eyes were gouged out, then he was raped several times, and then killed with something like a screwdriver, leaving 73 stab wounds. The case has not been closed yet.”
The irony on Steve's deceptive face vanished. He remembered lectures he had attended while studying at the police academy and the eerie black-and-white photographs of victims of legendary murders he had been shown. They had shocked him so much that he had even doubted whether he’d chosen the right career. Sometimes these photographs depicted underage victims. When such slides appeared, the audience experienced a special shock containing not just disgust or horror, but complete incomprehension about what kind of a monster would commit such crimes. Surely such people would have something wrong about their appearance, maybe even some slight mutation of the body, indicating that a human was turning into a monster.
