by Rick Jones
Cooch raised his glass to the scenery beyond the window as if in toast. “That’s what happens when you make a deal with the devil,” he said to no one in particular.
Then the devil drank from the glass.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dennis Zeemer and Becki Laurent were beginning to feel the effects of coming down from their highs. Their systems were drying out, so their bodies craved what they knew they couldn’t have. Dennis owed money they didn’t have. And he knew that people would be coming for him and Becki.
They packed minimal clothing into a couple of net laundry bags, along with a few toiletries.
“Come on, babe,” Dennis said. “We gotta go. Now!”
Becki was slow, the cramps delaying her efforts to move at a rapid pace. “I’m scared, Dennis.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he told her. “You know I’ll take care of you.”
He grabbed both linen bags and started down the stairway with Becki in tow.
It was dark and the street lights were lit. Directly across from them was the Oak Grove train station. And because of Becki’s cramps, he had to help her along and up the stairway to the platform.
Their plan was to head into Boston, have Becki perform a few tricks to earn enough money to go as far south as a bus would take them, then thumb the rest of the way to Miami. All Becki wanted to see were clean beaches and palm trees.
After topping the final step to the train’s platform, Dennis half-carried Becki to a concrete bench at the end and sat her down. The platform was empty. “You’re gonna be fine,” he told her.
“I want to see nice beaches,” she said. “Like you promised.”
“And you will.” He looked at the schedule posted on the wall. The train would be arriving, if the schedule was correct, in less than five minutes.
“I want to see palm trees . . .” She was just popping off at the mouth and romanticizing.
“Yeah, I know, babe. Just be quiet, OK?”
“. . . a warm ocean to bathe in . . .”
Dennis continued to check the map. They could get off at Kenmore Square, he thought.
“. . . and sand between my toes . . .”
“Shut up already. It’s just a damn beach.”
“. . . a hammock to swing in . . .”
“And perhaps some smack to hold you over?” The voice wasn’t Dennis’s, but certainly recognizable. Jesse was leaning against one of the concrete columns that supported the station’s overhang with his arms folded across his chest. Even in the chill of an October night he continued to wear his tank-top to exhibit a well-muscled physique.
Dennis stood away from the map as Becki barked a cry. Where there’s one, there’s always the other.
“Oh, he’s here,” Jesse intuited.
Billy-the-Blade came out from behind a pillar swinging his butterfly knife with hand movements that were graceful and poetic. Beneath the overhead light of an incandescent bulb, spangles of light reflected off the blade that had a mirror polish to it. “How you doing, kid? Trying to run, I see.”
Dennis shook his head. “No. Not at all. We were going to Boston to get your money.” He pointed to Becki. “Ask her. She was gonna do some tricks.”
“I knew you were going to do this,” Jesse said as he continued to lean against the column. “You think you’re the only one to do something like this? Worse, how stupid do you think I am?” He pointed to their bags. “You often go into Boston to do some tricks with your laundry?”
Dennis tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was too dry.
“You remember what I said about not paying me, right?” Jesse said rhetorically. “About what would happen to you if you tried to run?”
“Please, Jess, it’s not what you think.”
“Again, Dennis, my name’s not Jess. It’s Jesse. It’s like you calling Billy-the Blade here Billy-the-Bong. And I don’t think he’d appreciate that, would you, Billy?”
“Nope. Not at all.” He continued to swing the knife, but more aggressively.
“It’s not what you think, Jesse.”
“I think it is, Dennis. I really do. And I can’t help you anymore.”
Dennis took a step back. “So you’re gonna stab me? Is that it?”
“Actually, I was thinking of something a little bit more dramatic. Something I always dreamed about doing.” Jesse remained unmoving against the concrete column, his arms still folded.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Dennis.
Becki started to sob uncontrollably.
In the distance, the headlamp of the train could be seen rounding the bend.
Beneath the light of an incandescent bulb, Jesse smile predatorily.
Billy-the-Blade disappeared.
“Jesse, please,” whined Dennis.
But Jesse held up a halting hand and patted the air. “Don’t want to hear it because it makes no difference anymore. The dye is cast.”
Dennis turned to take flight with every intention of leaving Becki behind, but Billy-the-Blade stepped out from behind a cement pillar and intercepted him, the big man sweeping Dennis into a bear hug. “Where’re you going, sweetheart?”
Dennis struggled futilely against the larger man’s hold.
Jesse, walking casually along the platform, made his way and stood before Dennis, who finally tired out and surrendered in defeat. Tears were tracking down Dennis’s face.
“It’s almost over,” Jesse said evenly.
The train was nearing the station at over forty-miles-per-hour.
Dennis traced Jesse’s eyes to see the oncoming train and surmised his fate. “Oh God, no! Please, Jesse!” He began to struggle with a second effort. But Billy-the-Blade was too strong.
Just as the train was slowing down to pull into the platform area, Jesse gave one last smile. “Good-bye, Dennis.”
Just as Dennis’s mouth was forming a perfect O to scream, Billy-the-Blade launched him over the side and onto the tracks. Dennis had enough time to raise his arm instinctively against the train just before he was crushed beneath the wheels. For the next several hours that led into the early morning hours, members of the state Coroner’s Office would be picking up the pieces until every scrap and cell was collected.
As the train skid along the rails and came to a stop, Jesse pointed to Becki and issued an order to Billy-the-Blade. “Get her cleaned up and get that stink off her,” he said. “We’ll wean her a bit from the smack but keep her going enough to earn her keep. Cooch wants her working the streets within a week.”
Billy-the-Blade didn’t answer. He simply responded by grabbing Becki by the back of her arm, hoisted her to her feet, and nearly dragged her off the platform and into the shadows. Jesse did the same. He disappeared. By the time the doors to the train opened to allow people onto the platform, the only things found were two laundry bags of filthy clothes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
On the following morning information had spread like wildfire throughout the school. Things like Connor Deveraux was old news and seemingly less dramatic than someone getting chopped and diced beneath the wheels of a train. But when Kimball heard the victim’s name to be Dennis Zeemer, he knew Becki was in serious trouble.
Just as he was about to leave school to check on his cousin, he was at his locker when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“I saw you at the hospital.”
Kimball turned, only to feel his heart skip a beat or two. Vicki Pastore was standing there wearing sunglasses to cover the bruising on her face. She was holding books tight to her bosom.
“I didn’t know--” What to say.
“You should’ve come in.”
“I . . .”
“You what?”
“I didn’t think you knew who I was,” he finally managed.
“Everyone knows who you are,” she said. “How could anyone not? You’re the biggest guy in the school.”
“I felt bad about what happened to you,” he said.
�
��The flowers were pretty,” she stated. “I had the nurse pull them out of the trash can right after you left.”
Kimball never felt so embarrassed in his entire life.
Then she rested a hand on his forearm. “Thank you for caring, Kimball. It was really nice of you.”
He looked at her with endearment. Despite the bruises and abrasions, even with the sunglasses hiding most of her features, she was still beautiful. “I have to say something,” he said.
She offered a light smile. “Of course.”
“These,” he pointed to certain landmarks on her face, “weren’t from a fall, were they?”
Her smile faded.
“I can help you, Vicki. If you let me.”
She turned and began to walk away. “Thank you for coming to the hospital,” she answered, her words coming at a rapid clip.
Kimball took up beside her. “Vicki, please. You don’t have to go through this alone. I know it hurts . . . And it’ll continue to hurt. It’ll never go away. But you will learn how to live with it. Let me help you.”
She stopped and turned on him. “How?” She sounded less friendly and curt.
“Tell the truth. Let people know. I guarantee you Travys won’t come at you when I’m standing by your side.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“People like Travys are untouchable.”
“No one’s untouchable.”
She sighed and the features of her face fell slack in sorrow. “He’s surrounded by his team. If you take on Travys, then you take them on as well.”
Kimball never considered this. “There’s always a way.”
“There isn’t.” She reached out and grabbed his forearm again, this time giving him an appreciative squeeze, one that he would long remember. “Thank you, Kimball. You’re very sweet.”
And then she left. Leaving him to wonder if she would ever speak to him again.
“You making a move on my girl?” It was Travys D’Orazio and he wasn’t alone. Three of his lineman were standing alongside him, a posse of fat people.
“Not sure she’s your girl anymore, since you took to beating her.”
His cocky grin faltered. “She slipped off a precipice.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” said Kimball. “You keep telling everyone that, including the fatties you got standing behind you. Maybe they’ll believe you but I won’t.” When Kimball started away, a hand grabbed his shoulder and wheeled him around. It was one of the lineman.
“Who are you calling a fatty?” The lineman sounded as stupid as he looked.
Kimball didn’t hesitate. He drove a powerful fist into the lineman’s nose, smashing it. The lineman’s head snapped back viciously and his eyes rolled back into his sockets until they showed nothing but white. Then he fell to the floor, hard, the lineman obviously out for the count.
Kimball stood waiting for an all-out assault. But none came. The other lineman, including Travys, stood with their mouths open in awe. The action was so quick and violent, it was apparent to Kimball that they were still processing the moment.
Kimball measured each individual as he felt something deep and dark consume him. He enjoyed the moment and loved the feeling of being uninhibited and free.
“Mr. Hayden!” It was the vice principal. “In my office! Now!”
But Kimball ignored him and turned away, knowing the cost would be expulsion. He made his way through the crowd as they parted like the waters of the Red Sea and gave him a wide berth. Vicki, who bore witness, stood her ground when he approached.
As soon as Kimball reached her, he leaned down and whispered into her ear. “I will stand with you,” he told her. “No matter the cost, I will be there.”
And then he walked away with a swagger as the vice principal continued to call after him and voiced his threats.
When Kimball was gone from view, Vicki couldn’t help but to smile inwardly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The area around the Oak Grove train station was still cordoned off with yellow tape. Across the street was the residence where Becki and Dennis Zeemer had shared their time together.
Kimball took the stairs to the third level two at a time. The door was locked, which meant little to Kimball as he smashed the door in. The locking mechanism and pieces of the doorjamb skated across the floor.
The apartment smelled awful, like rotting food and body odor. The windows were covered over with aluminum foil that for some reason seemed odd to Kimball. And when he kicked aside a box of rotten food, scores of roaches took flight to nearby niches. The entire area looked like a hoarder’s wet dream.
Kimball went from room to room looking for Becki and calling her name.
But there was no answer.
She was gone.
Though Kimball never claimed to be a mental giant, he had his logical suspicions. And those suspicions led him directly to the common denominator of Vinny Cuchinata.
He tore away at a strip of aluminum so that he could look out the window. Directly across from them was the train station. Police officers, and city and county officials who often dealt with the dead, milled about the platform devising theories as to what happened. There was so much yellow tape, Kimball thought, he could have wrapped a bow around every oak tree in Malden.
He sighed as he stood there watching the crime-scene detectives. I can tell you what happened. I know who’s responsible. What I don’t know is what happened to Becki.
But I’m going to find out.
When he left the residence he did so with purpose.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
When Kimball’s mother received a phone call from the school who reported that Kimball was involved in a melee that sent another boy to the hospital with a possible concussion, she was beside herself. His father, on the other hand, appeared to beam at the prospect that his son had toughened up.
“I don’t know what’s got into him,” she said. She was roaming about the kitchen grabbing pots from the cabinets, then slamming the cabinet doors in anger and setting the pots on the stove just as hard.
“Must you do that, woman? It’s loud enough around here as it is.”
She turned on him with a hand to her hip. “Your son is out there acting like a cowboy and throwing his fists around like it was free. And you sit there acting as if you’re OK with it.”
“It depends upon the circumstances,” he said.
“Circumstances? No one has license to raise a hand against another.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, woman.” He pointed to the hole in the wall where Kimball nearly forced him through. “Now that boy done that because he thought I hit you on purpose, so he came to your aid. And he did what he did to Cooch’s guy because he thought he was helping out that loser Johnnie Deveraux. Now who knows why he hit that kid in school. Could be because he was helping someone and someone got in the way. Or perhaps someone went after him. Seems like the boy is developing a pattern of getting involved in situations where he shouldn’t. But involved he gets.”
“I think it goes much deeper than that,” she said. “He’s angry.”
“Boy ain’t angry. He acts before he thinks, is all.”
She didn’t buy it. “Kimball never showed a vicious bone in his body until recently. There’s something wrong inside him. Maybe we need to take him to a psychologist or something.”
The old man snorted at this. “What? You don’t think boys get into scrapes sometimes? It happens all the time. God knows I had my fair share.”
“So it’s a boy thing, is that it?”
“That’s exactly it. It’s about time that boy of ours started to flex those God-given muscles of his to establish himself. I was starting to wonder if he was a tootie-fruity.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“For what? Supporting the boy? How come when I finally support the boy in something, then I’m an idiot? And when I don’t agree with you when you support the boy for having no life
ambitions, then I’m still an idiot? Just ain’t no chance of winning a cause against you women, is there?”
“A boy, a football lineman, is in the hospital with a broken nose and possible concussion. And your son may be suspended or expelled from school. You really want to support such violent behavior?”
“A lineman,” the old man seemed impressed. “A big boy, then.”
“Are you kidding me? You certainly can’t be proud of what he’s doing.”
“I’ll say it again, woman. It depends upon the circumstances. Not everybody can turn the other cheek like your Bible says. If someone continues to hit you and you don’t fight back, they’ll keep hitting you until you or someone else stops them. It’s a true fact of life. Now it may be idealistic to live by the words of the good book you read, but realistically, people just ain’t built like that. They can be vicious and brutal and prey upon the weak. I know. So if Kimball is standing up for himself or for those who can’t protect themselves---then yeah, I support him.”
She turned away. “You’re an idiot.”
“Whatever.”
The following hour passed with Kimball’s mother slamming pans around the kitchen while readying dinner. This often elicited complaints from her husband, which she ignored.
When Kimball finally arrived home he found his mother standing sentinel with her hands to her hips and her feet parted at shoulders’ width. A grim and angry look clouded her features.
“I’m guessing the school called?” he said.
“You march into that kitchen, young man, and take a seat.” Her tone was stern and certainly commanding. But Kimball expected it.
He took a seat opposite his father, who didn’t appear to be bothered.
When his mother folded her arms across her chest and started to tap a foot angrily against the floor, she said, “Well?”
He shrugged. “Well what?”
“You know very well what I’m talking about,” she said. “What happened at school?”