The Broken Ones (Book 2): The Broken Families

by David Jobe

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Stephen blinked and looked down at the man who had spoken. He had forgotten that there was a man working on measuring the seams to his pants. It took him a minute to remember that he had given the man a compliment. For the briefest of moments, he had thought the man had thanked him for making Veronica destroy her phone. “You married, my good man?”

  Magioni smiled with four needles poking out of thin pale lips. “Going on a year now, since they started allowing us to marry.”

  Stephen stared at the man for a long time before it clicked. “Oh, so you’re a pillow biter.”

  Magioni frowned and pulled back. “I am sorry, sir. I am not going to be able to finish your suit. I will, of course, give you a full refund.”

  Stephen shook his head. “I wasn’t going to pay you anyway. You are going to finish the suit. Now get to work.”

  The man’s eyes got that familiar glaze and he leaned back into his work.

  Stephen stared at the man’s balding head for a few moments, smiling to himself. A needle jabbed his calf. “Ouch! Watch what you are doing.”

  “Sorry, sir. If perhaps the gentlemen could stand still?”

  “Jab that needle in your-“ Stephen caught himself. He had almost told the man to stab himself in the eye. It would have been satisfying, but it would have ended up with him having no suit. Or at the best, a subpar suit from a half blind idiot. “Cheek.”

  Magioni stabbed himself in the cheek with the needle, crying out in pain.

  “Leave it. And use another needle for what you were doing.”

  The man whimpered but nodded, picking another needle from this small plush red pillow that he had strapped to the back of his wrist. It looked like some medieval torture corsage. It gave Stephen ideas, but he held his tongue for now. After everything was done, then he would give that command. Who did he think he was, thinking he could refuse Stephen service?

  The man continued to whimper as he worked, blood running down his cheek and onto the collar of his suit.

  “Hush.”

  The little bell above the front door jingled a merry tune. Stephen looked to see who had entered and found himself staring at two uniformed police officers. “Mr. Holger. We’d like you to come with us to the station.” Both played at having casual stances, but they both hand their hands resting in their belts just above their holstered weapons.

  Stephen sighed. “What is this about?”

  The taller officer, with a pencil thin mustache and pockmarked complexion spoke. “We’d rather not discuss an ongoing investigation out in the open like this. Could you please come with us?” He phrased it as a question, but his tone told a different story.

  “Yeah, that’s not happening.” He stepped away from the mirrors. “You,” he pointed at Pencil Mustache, “shoot her.” He pointed at Veronica. “Kill her,” he added. “You,” he pointed at the other officer, one with hair he was sure wasn’t quite regulation. “Shoot and kill him.” He pointed at Magioni.

  Each officer did as they were told with no hesitation. The sound of gunfire shook the walls of the small shop, leaving Stephen’s ears ringing. Each cop fired a few shots at their intended victims. Stephen guessed the police had been instructed that when they aim to kill, they overkill. He chuckled at that. “Now, point your gun at each other’s left eye.”

  Both officers complied. They stood there with gun barrels inches from each other’s eyes.

  Stephen stepped off the platform, careful to avoid the pooling blood of the suit maker. “Refuse me service.” He glared at the dead man. “Self-righteous little shit.” He moved around the two cops, moving toward the door. He still wore the half-finished suit, but he knew he didn’t have time to change back into his clothes. He leaned over the chair and scooped up his wallet, phone and keys. He could already hear the siren’s coming. This wealthy part of the city would have police here faster than any other part of the city. “Both of you pull the trigger.”

  The guns erupted milliseconds apart. Both heads whipped back and the corpses of two police officers hit the floor, blood covering the walls all around them. That close of range, those guns they carried were devastating.

  Stephen sighed, looking at the carnage. He was out arm candy and a tailor. “You made me have to reset my whole day.” He stepped out into the morning sun and hot-footed it over to the waiting SUV that had once belonged to a man named Wilbur. Or William. Or Walter. Something old school anyways. The poor man had come down with a case of the deceased and signed over the title of the vehicle to Stephen. A nice last gesture from a wealthy old man. He looked at the vehicle and realized that it was the only one within three hundred yards of the shop, except for the police cruiser. “Reset my whole day.” He began to walk down the street, away from the sound of approaching sirens.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Not the Intended Use

  Drew stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the basement, unable to bring himself to make that first step into the waiting darkness. For as long as he could remember, he had been told that the basement was no place for curious little boys. That within its dark and scary depths lurked things that Drew should feverishly avoid. Drew had taken these warnings from his father as gospel more than any of the religious tomes that his father had wanted him to believe. Even when he reached an age where the scariest of games were amusing to him, the dark promise of monsters in the basement had kept him from even opening the door.

  That had all changed with his father’s dying words. “Basement. Blue box. Bond.” For all Drew knew, it could have just been the last ravings of a man whose synapses were firing all at once. Drew had read a few stories in online discussion groups about final utterances, and each one had that one know it all that had said that at the time of death, a person was more likely to utter nonsense than impart any long held secret. Yet the look in his father’s eyes had made him believe that those four words held within them the key to everything.

  Yet here he stood, unable to complete the first piece of the mysterious utterances. He leaned to the side, peering around the nearby corner to verify that his mother still slept on the couch in the front room. At the moment she had wrapped a body pillow with one of the shirts of his father’s. She clung to it like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a piece of driftwood in a raging sea. He guessed that it wasn’t that far off an analogy. His mother had loved his father with the kind of devotion that stories are made of. Though she had never come out and said it, Drew suspected that he was alive because it had been his father’s greatest wish, and she had done what devoted wives do.

  He returned to facing the gaping maw of the basement doorway. He adjusted the Star of David on the lapel of his suit and tried to push the memories of the funeral out of his mind. “He’s gone, but he left me something to do.” He took a single tentative step onto the first stair. He brought his other foot to join it. There he stood, facing the darkness and waiting for a claw to reach out and claim him. When nothing stirred after a few moments, he did this again. Inch by inch, step by step, he descended into the darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the bottom and the light switch nestled into the wall there. He took a deep breath and clicked on the light, expecting to find a motley crew of monsters waiting to be revealed.

  All around him were metal shelves lined with boxes, each labeled with black sharpie. Boxed for kitchen supplies, or old albums rested on dusty shelves. Just beyond one jutting line of shelves, he could see a blue footlocker resting in a small alcove of stone and plaster. “Blue box,” he told the empty room. He stood there for a few moments, watching the box as if it might move. In some of his games, they had this thing called a Mimic. These things looked like regular treasure chests until an unsuspecting adventurer went to loot it. Then the monstrosity would reveal itself and devour the hapless fool. Something about this foot locker gave off the feel that it too could be just a monster waiting to crunch on his bones. “Dad’s final quest,” he reminded himself and began t
o shuffle over to the waiting box. Each step, he felt sure that the lights would shut off at any moment and the hidden creatures would rush him, though he made the short journey with no such fate befalling him.

  The box itself looked much like any footlocker. Blue with silver lining and a single latch held tight with a three digit combination lock. Drew knelt and tugged on the lock, hoping it would just unlock. “Why would there be a lock on this? Dad didn’t even lock the liquor cabinet, and he was so serious about his expensive drinks.” He tugged again, but the lock held fast. “Why send me to something and not give me a way to unlock it?”

  He sat on the cold dusty floor in front of the box, staring at it. Perhaps his father had been spouting nonsense. Or maybe there was another blue box in the basement. One that remained unlocked and ready for Drew to find it. Something about this box seemed to tell Drew that it was the one he had been meant to find. “Basement. Blue box. Bond.” He repeated the words aloud, trying to see if they would help him. He had guessed that inside was one of his father’s bonds he had spent so much time talking about. Something about savings. He had been talking to his father about needing money the morning he had been murdered. Perhaps this was why he was sent here. His father’s last wish was to give him the money he had hinted at needing.

  He scanned the room looking for something that might fit the last clue. Perhaps there was something here that would give him a clue as to what the combination was. Nothing stood out at him. Boxes marked with labels like “old clothes” and “donations” and “laserdiscs”. Drew chuckled at that last. His father had been so sure that laserdiscs would be the new great thing, long before DVDs had dominated the market. Way before Blu-ray stole even their thunder. He got up and strolled over to the box, curious to see if he had kept the machine itself. Maybe he would hook it up in his room and watch some of the movies his dad had bought. It took a bit to get the duct tape to budge, but once he did, he found himself staring at a collection of movies that brought tears to his eyes. Most were random buys, but one section had been arranged with meticulous care. “You Only Live Twice” caught his eye. “I wish you could live twice, Dad.” He chuckled, running a finger over his father’s beloved Bond collection. “Bond!” He shouted so loud he startled himself. “Drew, you noob!” He rushed over to the locker and dialed in the first two zeros and then the final seven. With a confident yank, the lock disengaged. Tears streamed down his eyes and he shook his head. Opening the lid he stared inside.

  Resting on top of a soft blue blanket of some sort was a single book. “Golem” by David Wisniewski. He remembered this book. It had been the one his father had read to him when he was a little kid demanding a story before the lights went out. Golem had been his favorite for when he had been scared. His father would pull this book out and let him know that while there were monsters, there were other things just as strong as monsters to protect them. “Unless you turn those protectors into monsters.” Drew picked up the book and let it fall open. The pages showed years of wear and the spine looked like it was two readings away from giving up the ghost. He set the book down next to him and pulled on the blanket. Underneath he found a few boxes of items he could tell were from the old country. Tin boxes touched with rust that hinted at stories all their own. Set to the side he found a brown leather book bound with yellow ribbons. The writing on the cover was in a language he could not read. He suspected it was older than even the old language his father had tried to teach him. He unlaced the book and opened it up. On the first page, he could see that more of the same language had been written out. In the margins next to it, he found writings in English. Writing that looked like his father’s. From what he could read, his father had been translating the book. A book devoted to the control and care of Golems. “Did you know about me, Dad? Or was this just you researching how to find the monster’s master? Did you want me to continue your crusade to hunt the villain down.” Tears dropped from his cheek onto his suit. “Found him, Dad.”

  He read on, finding that some parts had been translated, while others had not. It described symbols that different types of Golems had, and what each did for the master and the creation. He found the whole thing enthralling. His own use of the creation had been of such a limited scope than what the book hinted at. He found one particular passage that explained how he could create one from stone statues, infusing them with your will. Where you would no longer have to mentally control the thing. “That could be useful.”

  After reading for awhile, the dim light of the basement began to make his head hurt. Stuffing everything but the book on care for golems, he closed it back up and locked it. He wanted to go upstairs and read some more, but only after he took some Tylenol and let his headache subside.

  “Mom? Do you have any Tylenol in your purse?” He stepped into the kitchen and closed the basement door behind him. Walking into the living room he felt a cold spill over him. Something was wrong. His mom lay in the same position, even though he had been the basement for at least two hours reading. His father had joked many times that his mother had been a wiggle worm when sleeping, thrashing about. He moved across the front room, spying an opened pill container sitting next to a white piece of printer paper. He picked up the paper, but he knew what it was going to say. “I’m off to be with your father.” He read the words aloud to her. He reached down to try and take her pulse, but as soon as his fingers touched her skin he knew she was gone. It was cold to the touch. She had been dead for awhile now. Possibly before he had even gone in the basement.

  He sat down in his father’s chair across from where his mother lay. “I should have checked on you first.” He set the paper down in the same place his father had often sat his brandy. “But you wouldn’t have wanted that.” He looked at the one sentence his mother had left for him. “No, sorry. No advice. Just the kind of thing you would leave if you were stepping out for smokes, or running to get coffee.” He sighed and realized he had no tears.

  He sat there in silence contemplating what he should do next. He knew that if he called 911, they wouldn’t be able to save her. Not if her body was already cold. That would only set him up to be placed into foster care, or whatever they did with kids while the courts sorted out who should get them. He imagined several versions of bad outcomes, be it Lemony Snicket’s version, or the one from that movie about a girl who could dance. There was no shortage of stories that started with kids being thrust into foster care or with estranged family. “You just left me holding the bag, didn’t you?”

  A noise to his left caught his attention. Standing in the doorway stood one of his creations. “Did I summon you?” The last time this had happened, the thing had been what he thought was a nightmare. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  It did not reply.

  Drew took a look at the note again. “With your father.” He read the last part and a slow smirk spread across his lips. He pulled out the leather bound book and began to look for something. He had an idea. After awhile he found nothing to help, but he found nothing to say it was impossible. Though he doubted there would have been a passage for what he had in mind. “Definitely not your intended use.”

  He leaned back in his chair and focused on nothing. Willing himself into the nearby creation he began to give it commands.

  The golem marched across the room to stand in front of the couch. It leaned down and scooped up the body of his mother. Then, as if sinking into quicksand, his mother’s body began to get swallowed up by the dirt of the creature until she vanished completely inside the things massive bulk. “Lucky for both of us, you were a small woman, mom.” The monster’s dark rich laugh that followed made shivers run down Drew’s spine.

  It would be dark out by now, and the graveyard where his father had been buried today couldn’t be more than a few blocks away. It would be a risk, but one far less dangerous than hoping whomever they put him with wouldn’t lock him in the basement and mooch off his trust fund. Drew stood and started for the door. He stopped and took one of his father’s wid
e brim hats. He placed it on his creation’s head. He took the large blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around the creation a few times, holding it in place with two of his father’s belts linked together. If anyone saw him up close, then it would be game over, but in the shadows, he might just look like a burly man in raggedy old clothes. “You look like a shoddy Clint Eastwood character.” Drew gave a soft laugh and the creation gave its own dark rumbling laughter. “Am I doing that?” Another shiver ran down his spine. He shook his head and took his creation out the back door. There was a pathway that ran behind the house and down to the nearby park. From there they would have to take an actual street to get to the graveyard, but it was a street that dead ended at the graveyard, and most people avoided going there at night.

  They set off toward the park, skirting the pools of light that the lamp posts offered. Each time a dog barked or a car door slammed, he and the creation froze in place. His heart raged against his chest so hard sometimes all he could hear was the fast paced beat of it. When they got to the park they found it occupied by a little girl and a half-attentive older sister or babysitter. The girl rushed from swing set to sandbox to the massive piece with the slide and tunnels, skipping and giggling the whole time. The sister never looked up from her phone as they kept to the walkway that joggers often used in the cold hours of the morning. Once the little girl gave a high pitched scream that almost made Drew soil himself. When he looked back, she was hanging from the edge of a walkway, playing at being in danger. The sister looked up, and having apparently witnessed this ruse before, returned to the bright glow of the phone screen.