by Maira Dawn
With one hand clenching a taillight, he lurched around the end of the car. A light breeze caught his unzipped jacket and blew the left flap back.
Strapped to his waist was a gun.
The police backed up in unison as they pulled their weapons. Sharp and loud, they barked out their orders. "Halt! Stop! Hands in the air!"
The suspect did not respond.
A scowling officer snapped out instructions. "Lay your weapon on the ground!"
But the man continued to hobble along, one short, shaky step after another as he dragged a leg behind him.
The policeman shook his head and conferred with two others.
As dusk turned to darkness, they struggled to see. A few officers pulled out flashlights and pointed them toward the SUV. The rays of light played along the exterior of the dark-colored car searching for the suspect.
The sudden display of bright light made the surrounding night appear that much darker. They hunted for the man without success, adding more flashlights to the search. The brilliant beams began to move in a frantic pattern. Out of the darkness, he appeared.
The intense beam caught him full in the face. The man, who had acknowledged nothing else, reacted.
Hands clenched into fists as he flung his arms up to cover his face. His head swung so hard his whole body moved back and forth with the motion. With a quick movement, he brought his arms back down. Stiff and straight, he held them at his side.
The camera zoomed in on the suspect's face. There was an odd blankness to his eyes. His skin was pasty-white, drained of all color, except for his lips. A trick of the light, perhaps, because his lips appeared to be blue.
From those blue lips, red, foamy saliva dripped from his mouth, over his chin until it rolled off his face staining his jacket.
The suspect stilled for a moment. His face twisted in rage. He bared his red-smeared teeth and lunged toward the nearest flashlight.
The officer behind it called out a warning. "Sir! We know you are unwell. You must surrender, or we will shoot!"
The man stopped and wavered. His eyes rounded in desperation. He spoke for the first time, his voice hesitant, guttural and phlegmy. "I can't! I've tried."
Disease warred against man. The winner was clear when he lurched toward the policeman.
The officer fired his gun, but showing pity, hit the suspect's lower leg. The man's body jerked, but he kept coming. Pain didn't affect him. When surrounded, he changed direction, to another light, another officer.
"Stand down, or we will put you down."
A second shot rang out. Blood ran from the suspect's upper arm dripping to the pavement. His leg wound continued to bleed, drenching his entire lower leg.
There was no sign of slowing. Instead, the man's outrage increased. He dripped with sweat. His chest heaved with emotion, his hands became fists.
Bloody spit oozed between his clenched teeth. Blue lips pulled back in a tight, unnatural grimace dripping red wavering ribbons onto his chest.
He turned to another light, his face stark in the glare—Tom's flashlight. Despite his injuries, the suspect raced toward Skye's cousin. Tom took two small steps backward before stopping and holding his ground.
Tom opened his mouth to call out. There was no time. The air shattered with the sound of the shots. Once. Twice.
The man dropped to the ground. A serene expression graced his face. As if, at last, he felt peace. Then he was gone.
The video flickered and ended.
Skye’s shaky hands covered her mouth, holding back a scream. Her bracelets lightly clanged together as she lowered her arms and leaned back in her chair. She willed herself to draw in a few slow breaths to calm herself. She would have heard by now if Tom was hurt.
She took a sip of the still-steaming coffee and lowered the cup too fast. Skye knocked it against her desk and sent small beads of hot latte sloshing onto her hand. She gasped at the sharp burn of the hot liquid. After righting the cup and correctly setting it on the table, she brought her hand back up to her lipsticked mouth.
Skye leaned toward the computer screen and narrowed her eyes in thought. She rewound the video and stopped it on the dying man. She stared at the scene. It was impossible.
Skye raised her gaze and let it drift across the homey earth tones of the large room. Her latte's taste turned acrid on her tongue as her troubled mind replayed what she’d just seen and rejected it. She couldn’t be seeing it right.
But sometimes the mind comes across something so unfamiliar, so bizarre it refuses to accept it as reality. Was that happening to her?
No, Tom was in the video. It had to be real. Blue lips, the dripping red saliva? Was the limp a symptom too? How can a person be shot that many times and keep going? None of it made sense.
Worried about Tom, and wanting answers, Skye picked up her cell phone. She punched in his number, but all she heard was ring after ring without a response.
3
Jesse
Skye groaned as she ended the third failed call to Tom. With no voicemail, and the police station's mandate that personal cell phones stay in their lockers, it seemed almost impossible to reach him during the day unless it was an emergency, but she had to try.
Skye turned back to her work, determined to try again later. The slight scratch of shifting papers was soon the only sound in her spacious office. She reviewed these notes for the umpteenth time. The eerie video kept tugging at Skye's mind, and she nagged herself to focus on her patient's case.
Her client this afternoon was twelve-year-old Jesse Bailey. Her hardest one to date, and the child she worried about the most. Skye wanted very much to help this boy, but he wasn't having any of it. She sighed and nipped her inside cheek, a frown starting on her face.
Chipping away at his granite exterior was proving harder than Skye imagined, and she had known it would be difficult. No wonder though, Jesse had been through so much.
The death of his mother two years ago had left him alone with his abusive father, Frankie Bailey. Jesse’s grandmother took in his older sister, Sue Ellen. Other than them, Jesse had no other relatives Skye could track down. And if he knew of any, he wasn't sharing that information with her.
When Skye in formed the grandmother her grandson’s homeless state, she hadn’t said much. And what she did say hadn’t been helpful.
Refusing to take Jesse, she said, ”Jesse’s sister helps around the house, but I'm not up to takin in another young'un, especially a boy. I know Frankie whales on the boy, but he'll be fine. After all, a boy needs a good beatin now and again."
Pfft. Skye puffed out a breath over the hand loosely covering her mouth. Let's see you get a good beating.
Skye shook her head. This wasn't the first time she ran into this attitude, no matter where she worked, and it wouldn't surprise her if Frankie had been the object of some harsh treatment himself. When Skye asked the grandmother if she could speak to Sue Ellen, and the woman flatly denied her, it reinforced this thought. Skye made a notation to suggest someone stop in on the girl.
Skye brought a hand to the back of her neck. Jesse's lack of any loving family was a concern. To help a young person through trauma was a complicated process for them. When there was no support system, it became almost impossible.
Skye turned the page on his report. No one remembered when the abuse of the boy started, but teachers and neighbors alike had been more than willing to offer other family details.
Jesse's dad, Francis Lee Bailey, aka Frankie, hadn’t aspired to be a great dad or even a good dad. When he was younger, he'd had big dreams of being a race car driver. Those disappeared when his girlfriend became pregnant, and her family insisted on marriage. It appeared it was never a good union though Frankie tried at first. There were regular paychecks, and neighbors said he was home most nights.
"A second kid. He begins over-drinking," Skye mumbled as she ran her finger down the report. "Two nights becomes most nights. Less money for necessities." By the time Jesse enrolled in school, th
e family was getting all the state help they could but hardly got by.
"Troubles at school from the beginning. The teacher visited the home and reported the home and mother in bad condition." Skye flipped the page.
After his mom's death, things got worse. For long stretches, Jesse often missed school, his demeanor changed and his grades, never good, started steadily falling. He repeated his last grade twice.
Somehow, all this slid through the cracks until Jesse showed up in the ER with a broken arm, which he insisted happened when he fell from a tree.
Skye sighed. That was doubtful. And that didn't explain the evidence of abuse, the bruising and welts covering his back. When asked about them, he shrugged them off as if they were commonplace.
Small for his age, skinny to the point of being boney, authorities also strongly suspected he hadn't been getting enough to eat. Jesse insisted that he ate, but by his father's hand or by his own, it was hard to tell. It was clear that something was wrong. So for the last two months Jesse Bailey had been Skye’s patient, and he had yet to open up to her.
Skye barely got herself settled when there was a light knock on the half-opened door. Jesse slowly peeked around the door and scanned the room. Once satisfied it was safe, he pushed the door open the rest of the way and shut the door behind him. He paused and took a deep breath before continuing.
Jesse never seemed able to relax even though everything in this office, from the calm colors to the comfortable furniture, and even the toys, had been chosen to put the kids at ease. Jesse had tried the couch, then one chair after another as if he too realized he should be more comfortable than he was. In the end, he settled on one spot and used it almost without fail.
She greeted him, wishing she could make this easier on him, but gaining his trust would take time. Jesse didn't reply, but her gaze followed him as he made his way to his favorite chair.
Skye held a grimace as she once again noticed the coffee table between them. Well, at least I know which chair he prefers. Although I am sure if Jesse felt he’d given me even that much satisfaction, he’d switch it up on me.
Jesse’s shoulders hunched inward. He kept his eyes on the floor as he walked, refusing to take in the room around him.
He either carries the weight of the world on his shoulders or is waiting for the next blow... or both.
Once Jesse got to his chair and settled, he straightened his shoulders, lifted his head and stared straight into Skye's face, his brown eyes challenging her.
She sighed, and a dispirited expression flittered across her face.
Another one of those days. Will I ever get Jesse to realize I am trying to help him? Has he received so little help in his life that the mere thought is so impossible to believe?
His eyes flickered and slid away.
"Hello, Jesse," she said again with a small smile.
"Hey," was his cool response.
Skye straightened in her seat as she slyly examined Jesse. His slight frame seemed even smaller in the overstuffed chair and his preferred dark-colored clothing. She checked the doctor's notes. Jesse had gained two pounds this week. He was making progress.
Jesse eyed Skye. He knew what she was up too. The boy was a perceptive one. He ran a hand through his ever-spiky black hair, too many cowlicks on one small head. He was nervous. It was time to start.
We'll begin with something good. Hopefully, lighten the mood. Skye began, "Can you tell me something good that happened this week?"
Jesse was ready for her weekly question and was quick to say, "We had French fries three times for lunch at school." He was quiet for a minute, then he blurted out, "Did you see that video?"
Skye's head jerked up. "What video?"
"The one with the guy who can't die."
"Oh, Jesse, please tell me you didn't watch that."
Jesse huffed and crossed his arms. "Everyone else was, why wouldn't I?"
"They were?" Skye put a hand to her cheek. Of course, they were. "It's just—it's rather violent."
"No worse than what's on the news and every one of the shows."
She hated to admit it, but he was probably right. Though that subject they could talk about further another day. But today, he was cooperating, which was more than she expected after the look he'd given her.
"Well," Skye said going back to their original topic, "sounds like a good week if you enjoy French fries. And as for the video, I saw it. I was very sorry for the man. Something was wrong with him."
Jesse mumbled an unintelligible reply. Her lack of excitement over the video disappointed him.
Her gaze zeroed in on the game pile. She'd often found it was easier to get children to talk freely when you were doing something together. Some kids liked to draw or color. Jesse preferred playing a board game.
"Ok, so what game are we going to play today?"
"I don't care." He tapped his fingers on his armrest, avoiding her eyes.
"You do care, and it's your decision. It's not for me to decide, all yours," Skye insisted in a cheerful voice.
Jesse rolled his eyes. She was in way too high of spirits for his taste. He sighed. "Fine then, Jenga."
Skye laughed to herself. Of course, it is Jenga. Another favorite he has given away without realizing it. It's his favorite because he always wins, and I always lose. I'm so awful at this game.
After she set up Jenga, they settled in at the table. "You go first since you're so bad at it," Jesse offered with a flick of his hand as he relaxed back in his chair.
"That is thoughtful of you, Jesse, to give me a fighting chance." Skye's voice was laced with sugar.
Jesse snorted. "Ain't nothin fighting about it. Not like you have a chance in h- ah, blazes of winning," he corrected himself. Skye did not allow swearing in her office.
Skye smiled her thanks at his restraint, then removed her first piece. "There! I'm off to a great start."
"Hope you're enjoying it." Scorn trailed from Jesse's lips, along with his soft West Virginia accent.
"Seriously? You are mocking me with my first piece?" She chided him, then changed the subject, "So how are your goals going this week?"
His small shoulders shrugged, "I dunno. Okay, I guess. You don't smell me, do ya?"
"No, I don't, and your hair looks good too," Skye said after looking him over. "So we will say bathing went well. And were you able to get all your meals in?"
"I stayed full."
"Did you eat all the meals we discussed during our Goals session?"
"Yeah, I ate all the meals we discussed during our Goals session," he parroted.
"Great! Two of your goals completed this week. That's an accomplishment!"
"I guess." Jesse shrugged and tried to seem indifferent, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Were you able to complete any other goals?"
"Ms. Smith said to tell you I cleaned my room and took out the garbage for her without complaining or giving her a sour look."
Whoa. Helping others, this was a first.
"I'm sure you made her happy," Skye said. "How did you feel?"
"Okay, I guess."
"Okay is good, Jesse," she said with a soft smile.
He scowled, "Yeah, maybe."
Skye was happy the week had gone so well for him. This was the breakthrough Jesse needed.
"Any other news for me?" Skye asked.
"I seen my Dad."
Skye's hand tightened on the chair's armrest. This was unusually fast, and not what she had recommended. "How did the visit go?"
Jesse spoke without emotion, still unsure over the turn of events. "Dad said he hasn't been drinkin. He's going to those meetings and counseling, like me, and he's gonna see if the judge'll let him have me back."
With care, Skye said, "That's a big change. Are you okay with that?"
"Well, if he ain't drinking..." Jesse drawled, then he became defensive, "He is my dad, you know."
And there it was. No matter how bad a parent was, a child will almost a
lways continue to love them. It may be mixed up with many other feelings, but it was there, even when they didn't recognize what it was.
"Yes, he is your dad. Okay well, we will talk about what to expect with these changes during our sessions next time. In the meantime, how did school go?"
"I only got in trouble, like once a day. Dad and I are both trying to do better." Pride tinged Jesse's voice.
So Dad was the source of Jesse's turnaround. "That's good, Jesse, it will mean a better way of life for you both."
"Yeah."
"Fights in school?"
"Yeah," he sighed.
"Yeah," she sighed.
At the end of her sessions, Skye tried Tom again, but it was close to 5 o'clock when she reached him. At the sound of his voice, she sighed and leaned a hand on her desk. "Tom, I saw a YouTube video you were in, and I--"
Tom interrupted her with a throaty chuckle. "Yeah, the crazy thing has made me famous. The number of calls I've gotten since it went live is insane." He became serious. "That was a bad one though."
"Tom. It seems—I don't know—I am not even sure what I want to ask or where to start."
"Yeah, I get it. If I hadn't been there myself, I wouldn't believe it either. Skye, I been brushing off people when they call but there's something... well, we need to talk."
Tom's tone of voice set Skye on edge. "Sure. Just name the time and place."
"Better at the coffee shop, I reckon. How about tomorrow afternoon? Around 2?"
That was Skye's regular coffee break time, so the hour was clear of any appointments. "Looks good for me too, Tom. I'll see you then."
Skye rubbed her tight shoulders. What did he want to tell her? Why did they need to talk it over in private and not over the phone?
Without a doubt, this would be a hard case for her cousin, especially since his shot was the one that killed the man. To Skye's knowledge, Tom and his officers had never had a shoot-out during his daily work in this small town. Perhaps he just needed to talk about it.
But she wasn't sure. Skye nibbled the inside of her cheek. It seemed like there was more to this case than Tom mentioned on the phone, and he wanted her to know about it.