Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  Scott bit the inside of his bottom lip. He did not think he could join the military. He didn’t want more people bossing him around, yelling at him, telling him what he could and couldn’t do. Berating him. But he still had four years. Maybe by the time he turned eighteen, he would feel differently. “Does Nick know?”

  “Was his idea. He wanted to serve in Vietnam but he broke his leg in a car accident the day before he was supposed to report. Didn’t heal good. That’s where he got his limp.”

  Scott did not know this story, but he had always wondered about the limp.

  “His ankle doesn’t work right. Army wouldn’t take him.”

  “But why do you want to go?”

  “I think it’d be bitchin’. Defending the flag. Standing up for democracy.”

  Scott thought about that. “You not afraid of dying?”

  Phillip stopped in front of the large bronze sphere. The jets were off and the black surface of the water surrounding the sculpture was slick and glasslike, reflecting the blue sky.

  “Everybody’s gonna die at some time. Hopefully my day will be later. But if it’s sooner, and it’s doing somethin’ I love, then that’s what was meant to be. Besides, it’s in our family. Grandpa Manny?”

  “What about him?”

  “He fought in World War II, battle of Normandy. He’s buried at that big military cemetery in Hawaii. You should be very proud.”

  “Didn’t know him.”

  “You just don’t remember. You were young when he died. He had this scratchy beard and was very proud of his time serving. Said America was the greatest nation on earth. Something like that. Didn’t really want to talk about the war, though. Said war was bad but there was nothing you could do about it because it was just the way people were. Always gonna be arguments. Sometimes war was the only way to solve it.”

  Scott thought about that for a while as they walked toward the subway.

  “You’re not happy I’m leaving you. You’ll be alone with Mom and Nick.”

  Scott did not answer.

  “You need to stand up for yourself. I’m turning eighteen, bro. You knew I was going to leave sooner or later.”

  Scott nodded that he understood, but he didn’t really want to think about it. Things were bad enough with Phil around, but with his brother no longer living at home … what would happen?

  He never did have the courage to confide in Phil about the things Nick did to him. The bad things. Maybe that was a mistake, but he just could not face what Phil would say. Would he call him a coward, as Nick did? No. Phil loved him. He would never insult him like that. But still. He could not bring himself to tell him.

  With Phil headed off to better things, Scott knew he had a problem. He was not big enough to fight off Nick—unless he grew a foot in the next few years and gained a hundred and fifty pounds.

  His mother was still mean to him, but he no longer cared when she hit him.

  His sole coping mechanism was going to another place in his mind when Nick bothered him. It worked because it had to, but how much longer he could continue like that, he didn’t know. Sooner or later he wouldn’t be able to take it anymore.

  Could he last another four years until he was old enough to move out, like Phil?

  He did not look forward to finding out.

  25

  August 2, 1990

  Scott unfurled the camouflage uniform top, then started to drape it over a hanger. He stopped and held it up in front of his chest, looking in the adjacent mirror.

  He liked the idea of blending into the background, of not standing out. If only he could do that at home so he could avoid being the object of abuse for his mother and Nick. That was his motivation for getting this job in the surplus store. But it was not the only reason.

  It made him feel closer to Phillip, who had done exceptionally well during his first year in the army. His last letter mentioned that Phillip had his eyes on the Rangers, an elite unit of the military tasked with special operations.

  As a Ranger, he would secure strategic locations and reconnoiter enemy positions prior to a military offensive. Scott had no doubt Phillip would make the grade: he had both the physical and mental toughness to compete with others vying for the position. As Phillip described it, the Rangers comprised one of the finest special operations units in the world.

  Scott wished he had those qualities.

  But as Nick was fond of pointing out, he did not. A few months ago, while Scott was sitting in the kitchen fingering an arm patch Phil sent him, Nick walked in.

  “What’re you doin’ with that?”

  The muscles in Scott’s jaw flexed repeatedly—but he did not answer.

  Nick placed both hands on the table, getting close to Scott’s face. Too close. “Thinking of enlisting like your brother?”

  Scott lifted his gaze, reluctantly making eye contact. “And what if I was?”

  “I’d laugh. Because you’re too much of a fuckin’ coward to carry a gun, let alone fire it against someone trying to kill you.”

  Scott put his head down and leaned back in the chair, shoving the embroidered logo into his pocket.

  He was not really thinking about following his brother into the military. He would like to—if nothing else, to get back at Nick. He would shove his written orders into the bastard’s face. Then who would be laughing?

  But Scott knew that was not going to happen. Instead, he toiled in the dusty storefront of a military surplus shop, holding up uniform tops and playing soldier in the mirror.

  He shook his head, breaking his reverie. He grabbed another camo shirt and placed it on the rack.

  The job gave him another important advantage, however: it kept him out of the house and away from Nick and his mother. Nick took the money he earned. Luckily, Scott anticipated that would be the case, so he asked the owner to pay him in cash. The guy probably thought he was ducking taxes—which he was—but it afforded him the ability to skim off some money to stash under his bed.

  Scott had entertained thoughts of running away, of escaping his life—but he was surprisingly pragmatic about it. He knew he would need to be able to care for himself, to earn money and buy food—and pay rent.

  The retail and customer service experience he gained working in the shop would look good on his resume and, hopefully, provide him with the skills necessary to find a job in whatever city he ran away to.

  Would he tell Phillip of his plans? Could he trust his brother not to disclose what he intended to do? Yes—unless Phillip thought it was too dangerous for a sixteen-year-old to be living on the streets alone. In that case, he might think that telling Nick and their mother would be the lesser of two evils.

  Evil was the operative word. He hated his mother. Hate was a strong word, but it was truly how he felt. Intuitively he thought he should have some love, buried somewhere, deep down, for the woman who gave him life. But he experienced none of those emotions. He would just as soon push her out the sixth-floor window as stab her between the left fourth and fifth ribs.

  Yes, he had looked it up in the library. That was where the heart resided. Physically, at least. He did not believe his mother had an emotional heart. She did not care about him. She did not have any feelings for him.

  Worse than that, she embodied evil.

  Mary was why Nick lived with them. Mary was why Nick abused him. Mary knew what Nick was doing to him. And she said nothing.

  “Hey, kid.”

  Scott spun around. The store owner was there, cash in his hand. He counted off some bills and slapped them into Scott’s palm.

  “You’re doin’ good work. See you tomorrow afternoon?”

  Scott nodded, dividing the stack and shoving half the money into his left pocket. That was Nick’s cut.

  The rest of it—which Nick would never know about—he stuffed into his right.

  2
6

  March 23, 1992

  Scott was exhausted from work. He had turned off the light when he realized he had not read the new letter from Phillip. He turned on the dim night table bulb and angled it so he could make out his brother’s scrawl.

  Hey bro. I’ve got some exciting news. I’ve done real good here and got promoted a few times since I wrote last. Sorry it’s been so long but the days are so fucking long that when training’s over I crawl into my bunk and go to sleep. But I had to write to tell you I’m now a corporal and score! I made a really cool unit I’d been trying out for. It’s called the Rangers. I think I told you about it. That’s the Special Forces part of the army. We do shit no one else can because we’re better than all the other soldiers. We get better training and they send us on more dangerous missions because they know we can handle it.

  That’s why we train so hard. If we’re sent somewhere, it’s to make sure things are ready for the rest of the army to come in. Stuff behind the scenes, make targets softer, that kind of thing.

  I can’t really tell you where I’m going but they’re getting ready to ship us out to a fucked up place they like to call a hot zone. Some kind of civil war and we got to play the cops. America to the rescue!

  Am I the shit or what?

  You hang in there. I want you to follow me here. You’re better than most of the guys who sign up. You can do it! I know you can. I believe in you.

  Take care. Fist bump. Phil.

  Scott had just finished the letter and was about to start rereading it when he fell asleep.

  Suddenly his bedroom door swung open. He startled awake and noticed the clock as he lifted his head from the pillow: 2:00 am. His light was off, but he didn’t remember shutting it. Phil’s letter. Where was it?

  The door swung open further. A large figure was silhouetted against the dimly lit hallway.

  Scott knew that shape anywhere.

  “Whaddya want, Nick?”

  “Shut up and turn over.”

  “No.”

  Scott never saw it, but he sure felt it: the solid fist of Nick’s right hand smashed into his eye socket. Everything went black.

  But only for a moment. Or maybe two. Because the next thing he felt was the familiar lancinating pain in his rectum.

  Scott was now seventeen, and although short for his age, he was no longer a small boy. He was not going to take it, not anymore.

  He pushed up and swung his right elbow back, striking Nick in the face. Nick’s head recoiled and blood spurted in Scott’s eye. He tried to get off the bed, but Nick groaned loudly and punched Scott in the right kidney.

  Pain gripped him and took his breath away. His body went limp.

  Nick forced his face into the mattress and as Scott started to recover from the blow to his back, his rectum was on fire.

  “Fight back.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t give in to it, Scotty.”

  Scott shook his head. “Dad?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be here for you. I’m sorry I died.”

  “Dad, I need you. Phil’s in the army and—”

  “You can’t let people push you around. Take control and show them who’s in charge. That’s what Phillip is doing.”

  He turned his head and saw his father standing in his room. He nodded at Scott, urging him on.

  Scott whipped his head back and slammed it into Nick’s nose. He squirmed out from his grasp and grabbed a baseball bat he kept by the bed. A well-worn Louisville Slugger. He swung it hard and smashed Nick in the head. His stepfather stood upright, stunned. Scott hit him again and again.

  Nick started to cry, the tears smearing the blood that covered his left cheek. He held his hands up, fending off additional blows, as he backed—and stumbled—out of the room.

  “I did it,” Scott said. He turned to his father and grinned.

  “Yes you did, Scotty. I knew you could.”

  27

  October 6, 1993

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Scott!” Mary said from the kitchen. “Get it. I’m busy.”

  Scott gritted his teeth. Yeah, she was busy watching TV. He tossed the dishrag down and headed into the foyer. He grabbed the knob and pulled it open. Two uniformed men stood there, hats under their arms.

  “Is Mary Meece at home?”

  “I’m Scott Meece. Who are you?”

  “We’re from the army. Is your mother here?”

  “I’m Mary.”

  Scott turned around and saw her standing about a dozen feet behind him.

  “May we come in, Mrs. Meece?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Important government business. Information about Phillip. Better if we talk inside.”

  Scott felt sick to his stomach. He knew this was not going to be good news.

  They walked into the kitchen and took seats. The men were stiff and formal and wore solemn expressions. “Mrs. Meece, I’m Captain Wenke. Your son Phillip was involved in a US Army offensive and we’re very sorry to report that he was killed in action. I can’t disclose the details of what happened because he was on a classified mission. But I can tell you he exhibited extreme bravery, bravery that made his unit, and the US military, very proud. I realize that’s of little solace. This is Father Mulrose and he—”

  “I saw it on the news,” Scott said. “It was Somalia. The battle of Mogadishu. Wasn’t it?”

  The officer cleared his throat. “I can’t say one way or another. But …” He shrugged, then nodded.

  Scott fought back tears. He walked out of the kitchen, out of the apartment, and found himself wandering the street. It was sunset and although he had the day off, he ended up at work. He stepped inside and surprised the owner.

  “What’re you doin’ here today?”

  “I, uh … I just found out my brother was killed in action.”

  The man’s face sagged in sadness. “C’mere, son. Have a seat.” He grabbed a folding chair from behind the register and set it in front of Scott. Then he flipped the sign on the door to closed and took a seat opposite Scott. “Very sorry for your loss. Bullshit words, but I honestly mean it. I know what that’s like. I served in Nam and lots of my buddies were killed.”

  Scott nodded.

  “Tell me about him. Your brother.”

  Scott took a deep breath. He did not know where to start. One thing he did know was that he could no longer stay at home. He was moving out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that.

  How, he didn’t know. But he felt alone now. All alone. And although nothing had changed in his day-to-day life—Phillip had been away for years now—he felt different.

  Responsible. A man.

  It was time to take control. Sooner or later he was going to show them who was in charge.

  28

  The helicopter set down in a clearing—no helipad in the largest small town that Kauai had to offer—and Vail and Russell deplaned, or dechoppered, or whatever the hell it was called.

  As long as she did not have to jump out tethered to a cable, Vail was happy.

  She removed the sweaty, bulky headset and fluffed her curly red hair—but a gust of wind struck her from behind and sent it flying in all directions. Glad I bothered with the pomade. Should’ve used rubber cement.

  She and Russell turned in a circle, taking in the terrain. Single family homes surrounded them.

  A Kauai PD cruiser sat idling off to their left. The driver’s door opened and a uniformed officer unfolded his tall body. “Detective Adam Russell?”

  “That’s me,” Vail said, extending her right hand.

  “You’re Adam Russell?” the cop asked.

  “I’m Russell.” He bumped Vail aside with a not-so-gentle brush of his left shoulder. “She’s … a pain in the ass.”

  The of
ficer nodded at Vail but withdrew his hand. He clearly was not sure what to call her—but concluded that Ms. Ass was not a good option.

  “Is Detective Opunui on scene?” Russell asked.

  “Follow me.”

  They strolled through the streets of the neighborhood. Teens were on bicycles, gawking at the Black Hawk, whose rotors were still whipping around, competing with the violence of Nature’s wind.

  As they turned a corner, they saw a group of people—residents, no doubt—and an area sectioned off by crime scene tape. The officer whistled and asked for a clear path. The men and women parted and Russell and Vail soon saw the sides of a modest-size tent. They entered and saw the center of attraction: a woman in her sixties lying on her side, her face having been lacerated and abraded against the asphalt when she collapsed.

  Vail and Russell introduced themselves to Opunui, a grizzled, graying man who had to be past common retirement age. They knelt and looked over the victim, then stood up.

  “What’s her name?” Vail asked.

  “Mary Kelleher. Sixty-nine. Worked at the airport as a ticket agent.”

  “And why do you think this wasn’t a natural death?” Russell asked.

  “For one, she just had a physical two days ago. Doc said it was great—she was in really good condition. She worked out four days a week. Never smoked a day in her life. Vegetarian. No family history of stroke or heart attacks according to her internist. Hiked four days a week.”

  “Four days a week?”

  “Kauai’s gorgeous, Agent Vail. Very little development or tourist contamination. Hiking trails here are full of Nature’s beauty. They cleanse the soul, balance out the anger, and straighten the moral compass.”

  “Whoa. Guess I could use some of that soul cleansing.”

  Opunui looked at Russell, who shrugged.

  “Shoulda kept that to myself,” Vail said. “Sorry.”

  “The doc spoke to you without a court order?” Russell asked.