Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  Beside him, on his bedroll, his pager waited. He had pulled it from his belt so that he would not be startled in his task.

  The call to duty would come, though probably not tonight.

  True, too true, he had served in Uncle Sam’s army—prior to being discharged. Uncle Sammy had spurned him, the same way others had mis-judged and overlooked him in his thirty-plus years on this earth.

  This nation, it paraded its lewd behaviors through the streets and tossed the by-products of its immoral couplings into alleyway Dumpsters. Just as Mr. Rudolph had done with his bomb at the Olympics, he, too, had tried to get their attention, hoping to expose their shame before the world.

  But did they listen? No.

  True, too true, he was in the Army of God now, winnowing out tar-gets for maximum impact. A few more nails. A fuse. See? And when that was done, he would make another bomb to add to this precious package. Three, maybe four, would do the trick, with a timer and detonator added for the final touches.

  He would hit the trail, a conscript on a mission. He would gather lives. That’s what the instincts in his gut told him to do, his internal guides.

  He was collecting souls for the eternal damnation they deserved.

  He spent the rest of the night in the basement, finding release in his work. He had a stack of books about outdoor survival skills, which he pored over. He made notes on a legal pad. He liked these quiet hours—the alone, not-to-be-disturbed hours.

  At last he grew too tired to go on, and he reached for his bedroll. That’s when he realized the pager’s beeper had been muted the entire time. There was a message from last evening.

  From Erota.

  He pushed aside thoughts of her toned form. He knew too well the weakness of man, and that’s why he knew to stay fixed on his assignment. To punish. To teach. To purge the evil from others that he felt even now coiling within.

  The text of the message caught him by surprise, though.

  Chattanooga? So soon?

  According to earlier discussions with Erota, the date for the bombing should’ve still been a few weeks from now.

  Daylight was already feeding through the squares of cardboard taped across the basement windows. At this time of the morning, he would hit gridlock on his northbound journey through Atlanta. I-75 became a bottleneck, and it could be three hours, even four, before he reached the clinic and its birthing area.

  Not to mention that Erota wanted him to pick her up along the way.

  His exhausted body sparked into action, ignited by thoughts of media coverage and further embarrassment for those who called them-selves leaders. These politicians and doctors, all of these fat cats purring with contentment while sin abounded.

  He taped his supplies into a compact bundle, then set them in the bottom of his new pack—the one Erota had specified for this mission.

  He was a soldier. Time to unleash the dogs of war.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  Chattanooga

  Gina stood with weak legs at the nursery window. Jed was at her side, his hand covering hers on the sill. The morning was sunny, the sky a robin’s-egg blue scarred by thin gray clouds. The colors matched her initial joy and the intermittent concerns that cut through it.

  Why had her baby come now? Why so suddenly?

  Would he survive? Was he healthy, with all fingers and toes in place?

  Count ’em: one, two, three, four, five. Same on both hands, both feet. A plastic clothespin still clung to the spot where Jed had cut the umbilical cord.

  With the child out and the endorphins subsiding, she realized that her husband wasn’t the criminally negligent madman she had seen at her bedside last night. He’d stuck by her through the whole thing and never even fainted—though that had been a real concern of his.

  “Just look at him,” Jed was saying. “You did that.”

  She twined her fingers in his. “We did it.”

  In an incubator behind the glass, their frail boy squirmed in a snugly wrapped blanket. There were two infants to his left, one to his right, but Gina and Jed had eyes for him alone. His head was covered by a cap the size of a teacup, his little fists working the air in tiny mittens. In the name slot: Jacob Lazarescu Turney.

  “Don’t you dare call him Jake,” Gina said.

  “J. L.?”

  “Just Jacob.”

  “Kidding, of course,” Jed said. “I’ll call him anything you want.”

  “See how he never stops moving? That’s how he was inside. No wonder he came early.”

  “A go-getter. Like his mama.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “A very good thing.” Jed’s blue eyes turned watery. “He’s perfect.”

  “He’s amazing.”

  “Definitely. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re Wonder Woman.”

  “Thanks, Jed.” She touched his cheek. “I sure don’t feel like it.”

  By birthing standards, things had gone well. Still, her body was depleted, her hip bones made of wax and ready to melt, her lower section a knot of abused muscle. Contractions had rippled with insuppressible force along either side of her spine, seeming to push and pull through her very bones, as though the gravity of the earth’s own mass was calling forth life with travailing groans.

  Much later, Gina had requested an apple juice. Almost apologetically.

  “Don’t you be afraid to speak up if you need anything,” the nurse told her. “You did as much work as anyone does here. Just packed it into a shorter period.”

  The delivery had lasted ninety-seven minutes, from the time she drove herself from the job and checked in at the clinic to the moment of Jacob’s arrival in a gush of fluids and blood. He was almost a month early, small enough to fit in both palms, too weak to suckle at her breast. No one had expected him so soon, not even the doctor who’d examined Gina four days ago.

  “Did your mother have a quick birth?” the nurse had asked.

  “Don’t know. She never talks about it.”

  “You must’ve given her fits.”

  “I’m sure that’s what she would say.”

  Peering into the nursery this morning, Gina wondered what sort of life lay ahead for her newborn. Would he give her fits of his own? Would she turn into another Nikki?

  Though the pregnancy had been an exercise in endurance, she felt today like she could breathe again. Physically, there was no longer any pres-sure against her lungs, or anything distending her belly. But the relief went beyond that.

  Each day with Jacob in the womb, she had carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. Now, with that burden unloaded, she could begin to live again.

  What was wrong with her? It sounded selfish to even think that way.

  Her son was safe, and that’s what mattered. No undead assassins. No signs of Cal, either. Just another sunny day in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

  As if to demolish her tentative calm, as if to say he knew exactly what lay ahead, little Jacob let out a thin cry that escalated into a torturous wail.

  Atlanta

  He was in the cab of a rented Dodge pickup. On I-75 heading north out of Atlanta, he finally broke free of the tangled traffic, free of the tangled life. That’s what he told himself. He was headed to Chattanooga with his messengers of wrath tucked into their beds in the daypack on the passenger-side floorboard.

  See? Right over there, beneath Erota’s satiny nylon legs.

  No, he thought. Eyes straight ahead, soldier.

  Nevertheless, he allowed himself to wonder for a brief moment what it would be like to zigzag the country with her, a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, robbing the lives of the unrighteous instead of banks. Zeroing in on the places where lawlessness reared its ugly head.

  Not that the banks were lily-white. The fees they were charging nowadays? That was robbery in and of itself.

  “Hey, mister.”

  “Huh, yeah?”

  “You’re weaving into the other lane,” Erota said.

&nb
sp; He jerked the pickup back onto the right course, the straight and narrow. He sneaked a glance her direction. She had those sunglasses on, so that he couldn’t—

  But wait. She was taking them off. She was looking his way, with a request in her upturned eyes.

  Yes. That was his instant answer. Oh yes.

  With that reaction, he felt something stir inside him. There was a visceral male response, true, but there was something deeper too. A presence, her very essence, bulging through his limbs and prying his ribs apart with an invisible crowbar. He could almost smell fetid earth and a gnarled vine creeping through the opening.

  Then the image disappeared, and he was back in the real world, where cars were exceeding the speed limit on his left—lawlessness, everywhere—and Erota was asleep in the seat to his right.

  He sniffed at his chest. He smelled sweaty, salty.

  “Erota?”

  She was sagged against the door, eyes closed. Nobody home.

  He said her name again, then realized she was but a shell next to him. Yes, she was already here with him, in him. They were going to do this together. They would mete out justice as a team. As for those doctors who got paid to deliver newborn life during one appointment, then to take an unwanted child in the next . . . they would pay. The ones who funded such hypocrisy . . . they would pay too.

  And if Erota wanted some collateral damage, he was all for that.

  “Not much further,” he said, watching a road sign pass overhead.

  He was a soldier. A demolitions expert, if you will.

  “I need to call my boss,” Jed told her. “Let him know I won’t make it in.”

  “Sure.”

  “Be right back, Gina.”

  “I’ll be here, keeping an eye on our baby.”

  She watched her husband pad down the corridor, out of sight. She turned back to the cries of her child, her heart flayed by each note. Ignoring hospital guidelines, she eased into the room to console Jacob. She touched his hand, leaned down over the incubator to kiss his soft cheek.

  A mother’s love . . .

  He only wailed louder. His slender lips peeled back, contorting into shapes independent of one another, red matching banners that curled and snapped in the blustery winds of his unspoken sorrow.

  Between the closed eyelids, a sliver of color showed. Gina had observed Jacob’s irises earlier, while cradling him in the birthing suite. She thought she’d seen flecks of gold.

  She had also spotted faint blue splotches on his forehead, but she was reminded that the letter Tav would not appear until adulthood—if she even believed any of that. No, these particular markings were nothing more than bruises from Jacob’s passage through the birth canal, sorrows endured for the greater reward of life.

  “Just stop,” she whispered to herself. “Stop being so philosophical about everything, and just try to enjoy this.”

  Jacob’s continued cries made that difficult.

  His hands were now grasping at the air, his body rocking in the tiny bed. The warble started again in his throat, his lips fluttered, and a scream rose with bansheelike persistence. Although Gina had always loved children, even dreamed of working in the orphanages of her homeland, this was more than she could bear. He was a miserable baby, and each shriek was an indictment against her.

  Had she done something wrong? Was she inadequate, unable? Maybe he was just upset that she was standing so close and not picking him up.

  “Sorry,” she breathed. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  Gina slipped back out to the thick viewing window. The cries were muffled yet still audible, and she was struck by a disturbing vision of the months to come . . .

  She would take Jacob home, armed with medical guidelines and cautions and what-to-do-ifs, but no one would have an answer for how to deal with his screams. She would rock her baby for hours on end, pace the floor, and try to feed him, hoping, praying, pleading, that he would fall asleep or find a few moments of peace.

  None of it would help. Little Jacob had a burden to bear, a rare gift.

  What had Cal called it? A long, lonely road . . .

  The doctors and the neonatologist would examine Jacob and find nothing wrong. They would pat her on the back. Assure her all was in order. Even suggest that if she would only relax, then her son would too—like it was all her fault.

  Of course, none of this would alleviate his misery.

  Was this the plight of those who carried the weight of the world? Was Jacob truly one of them? Who could bear such a burden?

  She imagined filling prescriptions for depression. She saw herself enrolling in one of the local postpartum support groups, then retracting her enrollment, mortified at the thought of soccer moms in pink, brushed-velvet pants, giving her advice through collagen-swollen lips.

  She visualized walking through the mall, seeing accusations in strangers’ eyes, hearing shushes from browsers in the bookstore. Everyone would know that she was a horrible parent. Who was she to argue with the evidence?

  A screaming child.

  A young mother, tagged on her forehead with a warning sign.

  Cal had forgotten to mention how, back in the book of Genesis, Cain was marked for life after he killed his brother. Smack-dab on the noggin. And then there was the whole triple-six thing, in the book of Revelation. Gina had learned all that stuff from her mother, but rejected it along with the abuses.

  Maybe Cal was wrong about the symbol. What if it didn’t indicate an escape from wrath or from the jaws of death? What if it was the mark of curses and iniquity?

  In the incubator, Jacob was still thrashing.

  Gina touched her palms and face to the glass. She’d pressed through the last eight months, telling herself it would end on the day of delivery. She realized now, however, that this was only the beginning. There was much more to go.

  She felt tired beyond words. Through the vivid reflection in the window, the fatigue was clear on her face.

  Her brow was also clear. She pulled her hair back to be sure.

  Yes, the Letter was missing, faded and gone. She pressed closer, but there was no doubt about the clarity of her skin. In delivering this child, had she washed herself of the identifying mark? Did this mean she’d done something wrong? Or was it the natural—supernatural—result of fulfilling her duty?

  “I’m cleared for family leave,” Jed said, touching her arm. He was back from his phone call.

  “Oh.” She stiffened. “Good.”

  “So whatever you need, Gina. I’m on it.”

  “I need to lie down,” she said.

  “I thought you were keeping an eye on—”

  “Jed.”

  “You betcha, sweetheart. I know you’re wiped out.”

  He passed the clinic, eyeballing it all the way, then parked the rented vehicle two blocks further down.

  He eased the pack from under Erota’s feet. She was motionless. He decided her empty shell would be fine where it was, enjoying a little nightynight. Just to keep her safe, though, he locked the doors before heading back up the street.

  He was a regular joe—walking to work, or taking an early lunch, or just another wandering tourist, or . . . an expectant father coming to offer support.

  Yes. Yes, that was the image to project.

  The idea came to him from left field, but now that it was here in his head, it seemed so obvious. Yes, that was good. He must stand straight and pull both shoulders back. He was a man rushed, and sure of himself, and not to be delayed.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  “Gina, darling.”

  “Hello?”

  “Is he healthy? Where is he?” Nikki said, stepping into the room.

  Behind her, Jed shrugged and rolled his eyes, like a man who’d fallen asleep on guard duty and didn’t know whether to sound the alarm.

  Did you frisk her for ancient daggers? Gina wanted to ask.

  She propped herself up in the hospital bed. With the months of silence between them,
she had no idea where to start. A part of her wanted to share this experience with her mother—the circle of life, a chance to bring things back to their proper order. On the other hand, she didn’t trust this woman around her child.

  “Nikki. Uh, hi, Mom. How’d you even know?”

  “I should’ve guessed the baby would come while I was away.”

  All part of my master plan, Gina thought. But kept her lips sealed.

  “Naturally, I hurried back as soon as I heard. You might not be answering my calls, but the clinic’s been kind enough to keep me abreast.”

  “Who? I didn’t give anyone permission to—”

  “I am your mother, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for coming.” Gina combed at her hair with her hand. “Sorry if I seem a little on edge.”

  “I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  Gina swung her feet over the side of the bed. “Jed took some pictures. We can get you reprints, if you like.”

  “Thank you. So how was the birth? Natural, I hope. I do believe that’s best.”

  “She had to get some stitches,” Jed said. “But you know Gina—she’d never tell you that herself.”

  “Too much information,” Gina snapped.

  “She’s your mother. Not like she’s never been through this before.”

  Nikki wrapped an arm around Jed’s middle, the first ever display of her approval. “You should listen to this husband of yours. He speaks wisdom.”

  Gina flashed a fake grin.

  Jed stepped forward and gave his wife a hand as she pushed her feet into slippers and pulled on a robe. “Sorry, I found her wandering down the hall,” he said under his breath. Then: “Here, sweetheart. Let’s go show your mom little Jacob.”

  “Please. I’m dying to see my grandson,” Nikki said.

  “Jed.” Gina squeezed his hand. “Give us a minute.”

  “Now?”

  “If you can just wait outside. I need to ask Nikki something, in private.”

  “Uh, sure.” He inched the door closed, eyes begging for information.

  The room was cheery, clean, dappled with sunlight. Gina rubbed her hands against her lower back, felt the floor tilt and sway. She braced her-self by the bed.