by Peter Parkin
In the second alley a dark figure jumped out of a doorway, quickly followed by two from behind and two from the front. All from concealed doorways. Coordinated, lurking. Two grabbed Alan, and two grabbed Dennis. The fifth man, the one apparently in charge, sneered at them, spit on their expensive suits. He calmly withdrew the wallets from their jackets and emptied the contents. He salivated over the cash, and got really excited about the credit cards.
Alan looked over at Dennis and said, "Stay calm, son. Just let them have whatever they want." Dennis grimaced—his father had just innocently let them know they were father and son. As a cop, he knew that was always the wrong thing to do.
The leader smiled. "Ain't that cute. Daddy and his little boy." He pinched Dennis' cheek and said, "You do what your daddy say now, got that boy?"
Then the punk's demeanor changed. He found a card in Dennis' wallet that changed everything. "You're a cop!"
Dennis struggled with the two men holding him and just managed to slide his gun out of his hip holster. But not enough time to cock and aim it. The gun was ripped out of his hand before he had time to even think about who he would shoot first.
The leader changed the tempo. He pointed over to a doorway, and the four followers dragged Dennis and Alan through the opening, into a dark and damp warehouse. Abandoned for years. But apparently still useful for some things.
Two chairs were pulled over, facing each other. Dennis was thrust into one, Alan in the other. The leader was animated now, excited, angry. "Last year, you pigs shot my father dead like he were a dog! He weren't no dog. He was my dad. I don't got a father no more because of you pigs."
Dennis didn't say a word. He glanced up at his father—they were now face to face in the old wooden chairs. There was no fear on Alan's face—just calm reassurance.
The leader was playing with Dennis' pistol, spinning it, twirling it. He yanked a large knife out of a sheath at his waist, and without warning, thrust it into Alan's chest. Alan lurched and let out a gasp. Dennis lunged forward only to be clotheslined from behind and yanked back into his chair.
The thug pulled the knife out and admired his handiwork. "See how good I am? I shanked him away from his heart. He be okay."
Dennis glared at the punk. "You've got our money and our credit cards. Just tie us up and you'll have plenty of time to go on a shopping spree before someone finds us. Please—wrap my dad's chest. He's going to bleed to death."
"I don't give a shit, man! You killed my father—maybe I kill yours, huh?" "Please don't—don't make this worse than it needs to be." Dennis was starting to feel panic. The crazed man was talking serious shit. Probably drug-laced. And he had a serious hate on for cops, understandably if he had indeed lost his father in the way that he said. Even if that shooting was justified, these street punks just wanted to hate and never accepted blame upon themselves or their families. You couldn't reason with them. They just wanted to hate.
"Better yet, maybe I get you to kill your own father—whaddaya think about that, huh?"
Dennis glanced at his dad. He was starting to lose color as the blood drained out over his shirt. He was losing it fast. Tears started to drip from Dennis' eyes—his father managed a smile despite his pain, making the image worse for Dennis. This was his father, who only minutes before he had been laughing and talking trash with. This was his birthday.
"I wanna recreate the Deer Hunter. Remember that movie, copper?" The man spun Dennis' revolver and expertly discarded five of the six bullets. Then he laughed. "This gonna be fun, eh boys?" The other four just laughed along with their leader. He gestured to his partners and two of them pulled pistols out of their waistbands.
The leader shoved Dennis' chair to within a foot of his dad's. Then he put Dennis' gun back into his hand. At the same time he brandished his knife once again, and poised with it over the area of Alan's heart. "I may be a punk, but I true to my word. I give you a possible five chances to save your papa's life. Put that gun up 'gainst his forehead and start pullin the trigger. If you have five blankies, I let you guys go free."
Dennis looked up at the maniac. "You can't do this. It's barbaric. We've done nothing to you. Take our money and go—now, before it's too late!"
"Do it! You see this knife, bud? If you don't start pullin that fuckin trigger, I gonna plunge this into daddy's heart. You got no choice here. You have to start pullin the trigger. He surely die if you don't. And don't even think bout shootin me with that thing. My boys will shred you and your daddy to pieces."
Dennis retched. His entire dinner came up in one choke. The punks laughed.
He wiped his mouth and looked up at his dad. His own eyes were teary, but he could see that Alan's were worse. Not only teary, but weary. Alan nodded at him, and mouthed, "Do it, son. It's okay."
Dennis brought his gun-hand up to his dear father's forehead and placed the cold steel against his furrowed brow. He thought for a second how bizarre this was, that it must be a dream, that he couldn't possibly be holding a gun to his father's head.
The maniac with the knife was getting excited. He started laughing and breathing hard, pumping his knife hand up and down simulating the stab that would surely come if Dennis didn't pull the trigger.
Dennis pulled it. Click. A deep breath. He pulled it again. Click again. Three more clicks and they'd be free.
Dennis took a deep breath and pulled the trigger again. He had fired his gun many times in the past, but the sound he remembered was nothing like the roar that he heard at that moment. In slow motion, he saw his dad's kindly eyes forgiving him as his head burst open into a sickeningly unreal chasm.
As Dennis retched again, he heard the cackle of laughter from the animals who had devised this horror. This was the highlight of their night—and the end of Dennis' world.
Dennis lurched up in bed, sweating, panting, crying. Uncontrollably. The horror was too much to bear. He had shot his own father dead. Sure, it was the only option he had, but it was still his finger that pulled the trigger. And the memory of that was too much to bear.
He stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He glanced into the mirror and his eyes moved to his forehead. The image of his wonderful father came back to him. Alan's wise eyes, at once forgiving, then lifeless, at the very moment his head was being blasted wide open by the index finger of Dennis' right hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dennis sat on the couch watching his mother rock. Incessant, annoying, non-stop rocking. He wished he'd thrown the damn chair out after all.
Felicity came into the drawing room with a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to Dennis, along with the flash of her sweet smile. Dennis smiled back. She turned her back to him and went over to Lucy. "Well, Mrs. Chambers, it's time once again for me to take your blood pressure. I'm just going to inflate this little balloon here, okay?"
Lucy looked up at her and scowled as Felicity wrapped the rubber band around her forearm and began to pump. "That thing looks dangerous to me—what is it for again?"
"Blood pressure, Mrs. Chambers. I just need to check to make sure that strong old heart of yours is beating properly." She studied the gauge. "And sure enough it is! You're as good as gold."
Lucy scowled again. "I don't have any more gold. My children stole it from me!"
Felicity patted her shoulder. "I'm sure that's not true, ma'am. Your children love you, I know that. Do you remember their names, Lucy?" The nurse turned her head and winked back at Dennis, who was taking the entire scene in with a grim smile on his face.
"No, I don't remember them—they don't remember me, so why should I remember them?"
Felicity knelt down to be at eye level with her. "You have a son and a daughter. And you have two grandsons. Your son's name is Dennis and your daughter is Melissa."
Lucy shook her head in disgust. "All you nurses do is lie, just to keep us old folks calm and under control."
Felicity stood up again, and then bent over to adjust the blanket around Lucy's chest and shoulder
s. Dennis couldn't help but notice the shape of Felicity's bottom—nice, round and tight. She was shapely, no doubt—not an ounce of unwanted weight anywhere on her body—from what he could tell. For a brief moment he remembered the warning words from Barb Jenkins, and in that same moment he pondered that Felicity did seem to be dragging out the bending over exercise a little longer than necessary. Was she doing it for him? He shook his head—need a clear mind--and she's too young.
Felicity turned back to face him. "Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Chambers?"
"No, Felicity—I'm just fine, thanks." Coffee, tea, or me? "I have to go out later, by the way. Are you planning to be in all day today?"
"Yes, no problem. I'll be here. You go do what you have to do." "Okay, great. I'm working from home today, but I may have to drop into the office for a little bit. I'll let you know when I'm leaving."
She smiled her wonderful smile, and winked her wonderful wink. "I'll take good care of her, don't you worry. By the way, have you noticed that Lucy seems to react well to music? Every time I put the stereo on, she seems to rock herself slightly and she actually hums occasionally—just a little bit, but it's kind of nice to see."
"Yes, I have noticed that. She always loved music. Always used to sing around the house."
Felicity sat down on the chair across from Dennis. "I've also noticed that she seems to like the 'oldies,' you know, songs from the 50s and 60s."
"Makes sense. That was her era—she was young and vital then."
"Mr. Chambers, deep down inside, your mom is still vital—you know that."
Dennis grimaced. "I know. Forgive me, I must sound heartless sometimes. I'm not. I'm just cynical and this disease just sucks the life out of everyone, not just the person who has it. It's an insidious thing and I hate it."
Felicity got up slowly and walked over to him. She knelt down on her knees again and made eye contact with him. She raised her hand and rubbed his shoulder. "I don't think you're heartless at all. I think you're a kind man who cares about his mother. That's why this is so upsetting for you at times. If you didn't care, you wouldn't be upset."
Dennis squirmed. "Thanks, Felicity." He avoided eye contact with her, but she stayed on her knees and continued to rub his shoulder.
"This disease does affect everyone, you're right. And one of the benefits of having a nurse living in to look after the patient, is that the family members can be taken care of too. Don't hesitate to ask me for any care that you might need from time to time, Mr. Chambers. Sleeping pills, tea, hot water bottle— anything at all that might calm your nerves." She paused. Pregnant silence. Dennis gulped. "I know this is hard on you, and those of us who work at the Casper Agency are taught to treat the entire family, not just the patient." He was still avoiding her eyes. She moved her face over in front of his, and cocked her head. "Okay?" A big smile.
Dennis rose from his chair and she rose with him. "Okay, Felicity. I understand. And thanks for caring."
He was leaving the room when she called after him. "Mr. Chambers, do you mind if I put the music on in here for Lucy again?"
Dennis mumbled under his breath. "No...no...that's fine. She'll enjoy it." He moved at warp speed down the hall toward the kitchen. He needed a cold drink of water, fast.
*****
Case files were always boring—because they had to be read over and over again, in the faint hope that something would pop out. And that 'something' usually did. But for that to happen detectives had to read the files again and again and again...with the full knowledge that the human brain never absorbs everything the first time around. Clues abound, but only dogged perseverance unlocked them.
In Dennis' position, he wasn't obligated to review case files anymore. He had dozens of detectives who did that for him. All he needed for his job were the executive summaries. However, the bigger, more controversial cases, needed his personal attention. The potentially explosive ones. He had to be on top of those and give day-to-day direction to the lead detectives. Any case that had the chance of blowing up needed his highly paid experienced brain.
He was embroiled right now in a real mysterious one. It hadn't been announced to the city yet, but it appeared as if a serial killer was on the loose. There had been six murders in the last five years plus one man who had simply disappeared. There was no evidence to necessarily tie that one in, but there were similarities to the others—all of the victims, including the one who had just simply gone missing, were the scum of the earth.
The man who had gone missing was his own secretary's ex-husband. Dennis was having difficulty with the premise of this missing person being labeled as the work of a serial killer. He'd had numerous debates with his detectives as well as a few of his superiors on that. There was a tidal wave of support from many in the department to lump them all in together. In one respect Dennis was a bit relieved—it took attention away from Nancy as being a possible suspect in her ex's disappearance. On the other hand, he didn't like the connection to a member of his staff. He wanted the man's disappearance to just be forgotten.
Serial killers were always true to a certain modus operandi, a signature. The actual murder victims were left to be discovered, not hidden, with specific wounds that made them differentiated from 'run of the mill' murders. The missing man was simply...missing. The only thing they all had in common was that they had criminal records, were bad dudes, and had been on the loose in the big city—most likely ready to offend again. Someone may have wanted to rectify that. A vigilante. For that reason, he had been reluctant to release anything to the public, despite pressure from above. Vigilantes were romantic figures, heroes who were cheered and revered. They always led to copycats as well, and he didn't want his city infested with copycat heroes who were incapable of carrying it off safely. Innocent people would no doubt die.
Dennis rubbed his tired eyes and laid the files on the coffee table. He'd tackle the cases again later, maybe after dinner. He laid his head back and closed his eyes to the sound of the radio announcer on the stereo in the drawing room. He was doing the lead-in to yet another oldie but goldie. The next song was by a one-hit wonder named Jonathan King. A song from 1965, titled "Everyone's Gone to the Moon." Dennis loved this old song—an eerily romantic tune. Dreamy. But eerie. And right now he felt like dreaming. And he had always been a student of the moon.
Streets full of people, all alone,
Roads full of houses, never home,
Church full of singing, out of tune,
Everyone's gone to the moon.
Dennis opened his eyes and listened more closely. There was a pronounced creaking sound coming from the drawing room. Felicity, who was in the kitchen, heard it too. She called out, "Mr. Chambers, what's that noise?'
They both walked up the hall toward the drawing room, and stopped dead in their tracks in the doorway. Lucy was rocking in rapid motion in her chair, head in her hands. Felicity put her hand on Dennis' arm to stop him from going to her. They watched, and listened.
Eyes full of sorrow, never wet,
Hands full of money, all in debt,
Sun coming out in the middle of June,
Everyone's gone to the moon.
Lucy was groaning now, and her tiny feet were pushing furiously at the floor, rocking the chair beyond what it was designed for. Yet Dennis couldn't move. He just watched. Felicity was beside him with her hand still on his arm, gently restraining him. Neither of them wanted to disturb what they were witnessing.
Long time ago, life had begun,
Everyone went to the sun.
Lucy removed her hands, and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Then she joined Jonathan King in her own karaoke version of the last verse of the song.
Hearts full of motors, painted green,
Mouths full of chocolate-covered cream,
Arms that can only lift a spoon,
Everyone's gone to the moon.
Everyone's gone to the moon.
Everyone's gone to the moon.
Lucy lowered
her head and covered her eyes once again with her hands.
Then she started to cry. Her frail little body was trembling.
Dennis ran over to her and knelt down beside the rocking chair. He put his arms around her slender shoulders and squeezed her gently. "It's okay, mom. That song just brought back some memories of your younger years, didn't it?"
She raised her head, and looked right into Dennis' eyes. "Denny, I'm not that sentimental. You know that. That song is just so sad. Because it's so true."
Dennis wasn't prepared to be shocked again so soon after the last episode. She was back. He needed to talk fast—she could be gone again in a matter of seconds.
"It's just a song, mom. What's true about it?"
"Apollo 19."
Dennis could barely contain his astonishment. "What?"
"You don't know. Very few know. I know."
Dennis could feel the blood surging through his veins. "What do you know, mom?"
She looked away, through the window at nothing in particular. "It's snowing outside. You're going to have to shovel soon."
It was a bright, warm, spring day.
Dennis sighed, rose to his feet, and walked back to Felicity who was standing quietly in the doorway.
"What was that all about?"
Dennis glanced back at his mother again. "I don't know, Felicity. Except that it doesn't make any sense."
"Well, she seemed to make sense. She was talking about the moon missions, wasn't she? That song seemed to remind her of them."
Dennis folded his arms over his chest. "On the face of it, yes, she was talking about the Apollo moon missions." He paused and took a deep breath.
"Okay, so why do you look so concerned?"
Dennis exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Felicity, there was no Apollo 19. There wasn't even an Apollo 18. The last mission to the moon was in December, 1972, Apollo 17. We haven't been back to the moon since."
