Hero

by Shani Greene-Dowdell

  His face contorted with his escalating rage. When he leaped to his feet, I bet Eva wouldn’t think Mr. Lowell was so gorgeous right then. Forcing myself to stay seated, I clutched the emerald resting at the base of my neck. I knew what I was dealing with and wasn’t stupid. His flashing orbs tracked the path of my hand. Then, he grinned malevolently down at me. I had just made an enemy that even the devil should be careful around.

  “You think that alarm hidden cleverly in the fake emerald will stop me from doing what I want to, to you, Dr. Johnston?”

  “No,” I retorted coolly, “but you sure as hell wouldn’t get away with it. You’re in enough trouble as it is, though. Do you really need more? Should you decide you do, security is just at the end of the hall monitoring this session and waiting for one of these to go off.” I hoped so, anyway.

  This floor’s guard, Mr. Jenkins, kept fit in his early forties and was an ex-cop. Sadly, he had a bad habit of filling up on chips and dip then dozing off in front of monitors for the cameras installed around the building as well.

  Mr. Lowell placed one foot forward, then seemed to think better of coming closer. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  Incredibly so at this point.

  “If I were, do you think I’d say yes so you could feed upon my fear? I didn’t start doing this yesterday, Mr. Lowell.” Bullies had to be faced even when sitting. Although, there was a fine line between facing them down and setting them off. Too much of challenging him would instigate the latter, so I let him keep the edge he had from hovering over me like a dark cloud.

  Instantly, his expression relaxed into a deceptive calm. “Call me Chad.”

  I didn’t know who he thought he was fooling with the sudden tranquility. “I think not, Mr. Lowell. It’s unprofessional. I will issue you a good day and ask that you look forward to a call from Dr. Lambert’s receptionist.” Mr. Lowell was a true bastard, but a bastard that needed psychological help pronto. Left to his own devices, he’d become a menace like no other on the world. “And please, for your sake, do the work you need to be emotionally steady when the woman that you’re truly looking to accept you comes around. Even if she doesn’t, happiness is still possible for you. All you have to do is show up here with Dr. Lambert and put in the effort.”

  Harrumphing, Mr. Lowell quirked one side of his lips and roved his pupils over me once again. “I think I just found the one woman I will work my ass off to make truly accept me already.”

  “Make? You can’t make anyone accept you, Mr. Lowell. It’s their choice, not yours. You just have to live with it.”

  Countering with, “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” he engaged in a long staredown with me.

  “Not necessary, Mr. Lowell.”

  “Oh, but it is.”

  Ah damn. That was a threat if there ever was one, stirring up flashbacks of fifteen years ago when a warning not as mysteriously-worded as Mr. Lowell’s was made to me and Malaysia. At least, the gangsters in Long Island made the boss’s plans to harm us clear if we didn’t play ball. Neither of those men was half as creepy as this one. One of them was actually rather appealing.

  Mr. Lowell didn’t care if the object of his obsession, currently me I believed, played ball or not. He’d unleash a terror campaign perfected long ago, slowly guiding me toward a mental minefield then serenely watch me get blown to figurative smithereens while fighting to regain control of my life. He was narcissistic enough to think he’d do me a favor by destroying my world if I didn’t give him what he wanted, acceptance.

  It was time for him to leave, so I blinked, losing the staredown by choice. Winning was all he wanted. As predicted, he turned to leave but not fast enough for me.

  “Good day, Cherise.” Only when the door closed behind him did I take my first full breath since he got up from the couch. There was no blood flowing in my fingertips when I stumbled to my feet, over to the desk to dial up Dr. Lambert.

  Expecting his voicemail, it was a little jarring to my disturbed system when he called out my name enthusiastically in greeting. “Cherise! It’s been a long time, no new patients from you.”

  I fell in my chair. “Well, that streak has been broken. I have one hell of a new case for you, and you will be in my prayers every night.”

  “That bad?” he voiced gravely.

  “Much, much worse,” I promised. “His pupils were dilated when he arrived, but he doesn’t give off dope-user vibes. His compulsive disorder wouldn’t allow him to spend money frivolously on drugs.”

  “His eyes never returned to normal during the session?”

  “No.”

  Darrell whistled low. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yes. Probably. At first, I thought borderline psychopath, but I’m sure now he’s a fully homegrown one with constant adrenaline high and no ability to feel fear.”

  After giving Darrell a verbal report on Chad Lowell, I forwarded a hastily written one to his office and left. Home was where I wanted to be most, where I could shut out the screwed-up world. Parking on my driveway in front of the single car garage, I took a moment to just breathe. I hadn’t had a day this bad since Long Island, a place I was never returning to.

  “A hot bath will make it all go away, Cherise,” I rambled to myself then staggered out of the car.

  Following the sidewalk to the front porch, a long, white rectangular box with a big red bow waited for me on the bottom of three wooden steps up to my starter home. Amongst the red ribbon folds was a tiny card sticking out. Expecting an early birthday present from Malaysia, who was visiting her aunt and uncle in Long Island while attending fashion week, I plucked the card from its holder attached to the bow. It read,

  Acceptance begins now, Cherise.

  There was no sender’s signature. I didn’t need one. Who sent the flowers was plain as day from the wording on the card. I legitimately had a stalker. It was useless to wonder how he got my address. The internet didn’t keep secrets.

  My paranoia mounted up to the tips of the coils on my head. I checked the street for anything, anyone out of place, and found both. A lone, white Dodge truck with heavy tint and a shadowy figure in the driver’s seat sat in front of Mrs. Henley’s home three houses down. She didn’t own, would never buy that type of vehicle. Neither would her two snobbish sons. My Homeowners Association didn’t allow for side street parking. Only someone who didn’t live in this neighborhood nor visited frequently wouldn’t know that.

  After the day I had, it was no coincidence that truck was there on this day. I was convinced Mr. Lowell was keeping his word to get what he wanted. What he would get was a good cursing out. Beyond furious, I snatched up the box and stomped across my lawn toward his truck. The engine roared to life. The driver backed up hurriedly into Mrs. Henley’s driveway, squealing tires as he drove away like a bat out of hell. I should’ve expected that. Stalkers didn’t get confronted, they did the confronting.

  Putting on the brakes halfway between Mrs. Henley’s home and mine, I raised the flowers and screamed after him, “I got your acceptance, you bastard!”

  After a quick call to 911, I realized convincing the cops my life was in danger was a nonstarter. Mr. Lowell hadn’t done anything illegal. One flower delivery and parking on the street in front of someone else’s house wasn’t harassment. I had no proof, no tag number, no interaction with him outside of our one consultation that it was him leaving unwanted gifts on my porch. For the police to intervene, he had to break a law, any law.

  Gifts began arriving daily. Chocolates. More flowers. Lingerie. Champagne. Even a dead rabbit, the weakest species in the animal kingdom. Each package came with the same message. Phone calls at all odd hours of the day and night began. Each time, Chad asked me if I was ready to submit to him. The answer was always no. The numbers he called from were always untraceable. Having a friend speak to a friend about using their influence with the judge over Mr. Lowell’s stalking case didn’t bring any good results either. He couldn’t be mandated to a
mental institution without proof he had added me to his agenda. I found no peace at my home any longer.

  By the time Malaysia suggested a month later that I relocate to Long Island with her, I had already packed up to move anywhere but here. Her comforting presence won me over. A fashion house in New York made a lucrative offer to back her clothing line. She and I rented a three-bedroom townhome together. I snuck out of Los Angeles, getting my first night of fitful sleep since meeting Chad. He had won the battle in California.

  The war was about to begin in New York.

  Tobin

  Oahu, Hawaii

  There was no place more captivating than at sunrise in Oahu, Hawaii. Staff Sergeant Andre Underwood and I seldom got to mini-vacation from the Marine Corps base. Observing the fiery ball make its debut as the city slept was my favorite pastime. Picking up chicks at the bar was his. Sometimes, he and I managed to secure a weekend leave concurrently. We always gravitated from the bar and grill we’d practically lived at all weekend to the beach around five a.m. We’d been here ever since, staring at the sky and talking.

  Well, Andre talked about endless subjects. The man led a double life vicariously through his family back in Harlem, New York. They seemed to know everybody there from gangsters to government agents. Then, they fed him the juicy bits of those associations. He fed them to me. I mostly grunted in all the right places as he gossiped. In no way did the chatterbox beside me even resemble the silent but deadly, lean and lethal killing machine in the field.

  We were as different as night and day. It had nothing to do with him being black. He decided he wanted to be a military cop, following in his ancestor's footsteps ranging from security guard to FBI. Naturally, with my background, I avoided law enforcement in any form. However, we had a lot in common. We hailed from the same state. His attitude was so laidback in his downtime I couldn’t help but become friends with him.

  He shifted in the sand, setting an empty beer bottle at his booted feet to prop his elbows on his knees then link his fingers together at his shins. “Have you heard from Greg lately, Tobin?”

  Of course, I only grunted. I hadn’t expected him to ask an actual question until the sun rose above the horizon. Pretty much when he was tired of talking to himself. I guessed he had reached that stage. Now, it was a dialogue.

  “Oh yeah, we talked on Friday before you and I left the base.”

  The midnight-hued globes in Andre’s head skipped over me as if looking for chinks in my invisible armor. A sensitive subject was incoming from him. “He quit working for Shane yet?”

  And the morning was going so well until that name left his lips.

  Instantly peeved, I turned up my beer. After swallowing down the last of it, I deposited the bottle in the sand beside me. Copying Andre’s pose, I gazed at the ocean’s surf breaking on the bank. “Greg’s still working for that monster no matter how many times I’ve told him it’ll get him killed. Maybe even locked up for life one day.”

  Greg declined to join the Marine Corps with me the day following the murder of Martin Hughes. Fifteen years later, my brother still hadn’t gotten his wakeup call about working for Shane. He’d survived numerous brushes with death from other gangs, the cops, and Shane’s volatile outbursts. Meeting Cherise was the blaring alarm indicating that I was a finger snap away from losing my life to the streets. I knew now that one look into her eyes that night changed me, made me want to be a better man.

  So, I tried to be that blaring alarm for Greg. Several times, I offered him money to resettle in another town. Since he was an adult, there was nothing I could do but worry and pray. So far, it was working.

  “Maybe, you should just try talking to him again about moving out here the next time you two talk,” Andre recommended. “This is a beautiful place to live and the women top the scenery. That’s one heck of an incentive to pack your bags and burn rubber for a better life.”

  I dead-eyed my friend of eight years. “You would know, playboy. No one fucks more of the locals than you do. And you know how you say I’m stubborn?”

  He snickered, shaking his head with a low cut containing enough spiraling waves to make someone seasick. “Not my fault the exotic women here love me. I’m probably exotic to them too, and I’m guessing Greg has you beat in the stubborn department.”

  “Beat? I don’t even place when it comes to Greg. There’s a picture of him beside the word stubborn in the dictionary. If I say yes, he says no for the hell of it.”

  “Then use reverse psychology, stop asking him to move, and regale him with stories about your life here.” Andre grimaced. “Then again, don’t do that. You are about as all work and no play as a career military man can get. I hope your dream girl appreciates your restraint. Pitiful.”

  Damn if I didn’t find his revulsion of my clean living, which started mysteriously around the time Martin was murdered, hilarious. Contrary to Andre’s beliefs, there had been a few women I tried dating over the years. Sleeping with them took a concentrated effort. Cherise would always invade my mind when it started getting good in the bedroom.

  It was easier to let her smooth, latte-toned face settle in my head than to push her out. Imagining penetrating her was insulting to the woman beneath me. As long as Cherise could enter my head, I wasn’t worth a damn to other women. I gave up on dating, embracing one night stands periodically. The woman who happened upon a crime scene inspired me to change my life. Her essence had all but neutered me.

  “Fine, Andre. I’ll tell Greg about your life here then. He’s as much a manwhore as you are.”

  Andre’s revulsion gave way to his own hilarity. “I would say I wish I could deny that, but I’d be lying.”

  “Yeah, you would, brother.” The backdrop of sun and sea divorcing at the horizon stole my attention again.

  Not long after, someone yelled, “First Sergeant Graham!” at the top of their lungs like someone was being killed.

  Andre peeped back over his shoulder. I bolted to my feet, rotating in the direction of the high-pitched bellow. Private First Class Pulley, a nineteen-year-old who hadn’t gotten his man-voice yet, was running full out across the beach in combat gear toward us, flapping his arm like a madman.

  “Sir, I need to speak with you!”

  “I gathered as much, Pulley.” Right away, I supposed it was bad news if he had tracked me with this much fanfare ten miles away to the bar and beach most of the Marines frequented. “You’re speaking to me, Marine. What’s going on?”

  “First Sergeant, we just received a call from Long Island Police Department about your brother,” he shouted midway to me. “Sergeant Major Lindon needs you to come back to the base asap!”

  Andre stood up. Pulley, an up and coming military police officer, recognized a superior in Andre and snapped to attention to salute. Andre urged him to go back to rest position. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. My throat had closed up. There were two reasons LIPD would be making a call on my behalf to my superior. My brother had been arrested. God forbid he was dead. We had no other family in New York to stand by him until I got there.

  He and I had been unwanted wards of the state, unwanted by families looking to adopt most of our lives after our parents died together in a fatal drug deal when I was five. Greg was only three. Even that young, we made it my business to make sure we were never separated. As fast as a family tried to take one of us home, they regretted it big time. Greg could pitch a fit like nobody’s business, and he only got better with time. Deep inside, I knew we had been separated in one way or another, bars being no better than the grave. I wouldn’t get to go home for the holidays this year. Greg’s crimes wouldn’t be a minor infraction.

  Andre squeezed my shoulder. “Tobin, I can see from the look on your face that you’re thinking the worst. Get all the details before you start borrowing trouble. Come on, Marine. Let’s go find out what the hell happened.”

  Unable to respond, I started trekking toward Pulley, whose mission was complete, so he had braked partway. Andre s
cooped up the empties to trash them at the threshold of the beach and parking lot where we’d been parked all weekend. I rode with him in his personal truck, so driving back couldn’t distract me from my whirling thoughts as we hurried to the base. Pulley drove behind us in a Humvee.

  The Private First Class guarding the entry gate to the base waved us through. Andre had barely parked the truck when I jumped out in front of our barracks. Jogging through the double-iron doors, past the barracks’ entrance, straight to my superior’s office at the back of the building, I bum-rushed his door without knocking. That was a no-no, but this was an emergency.

  Sixty-three-year-old Sergeant Major Lindon stopped shuffling the paperwork in his hands to chastise me with a raised, unnaturally thick dark eyebrow. “Because I have to tell you a couple things unpleasant, I’ll forgive you this time for not knocking. Don’t let it happen again, First Sergeant, and take a seat.”

  Still unable to speak, I couldn’t verbally acknowledge his rebuke or command as it was custom to do. I could only wait for him to tell me the unpleasantries. He pointed at the chair on the guest side of his desk. Sure he wouldn’t tell me anything until I sat, I dropped down into the cushioned seat. A nagging feeling that my world had been forever changed blazed in my stomach. It wouldn’t allow me the luxury of rushing him into spilling the beans, changing life as I knew it a lot faster than he was going to. This was news no one wanted to tell, thus no one wanted to hear.

  Lindon took a huge breath in, releasing it out in a whoosh. “It’s too often I have to do this. This is the part of my job I hate with a passion, and that’s saying something because I have to attend weekly dinners with the Generals and their unhappy wives who don’t want me in their homes any more than I want to be there.” Removing his glasses, he rubbed wrinkly fingers over his bald, sun-spotted head. “Graham, your brother is dead, shot through the heart early Saturday morning by a rival gang member who is in LIPD’s custody right now.”