“Thanks for calling Max.” He didn’t like me calling him Max, but it didn’t make any difference what he liked. What I had to say was to the point. I was about to hang the receiver up when I heard Max struggle to speak in an audible voice, “Godspeed Scythian.”
The receiver found its way to the phone cradle. I sat back and thought about his salutation. It had depth. It wasn’t Walter, but Scythian. It was my Palatini operative name. What did he mean by saying it? I knew it was customary in some circles to use the term Godspeed like adieu or bon voyage, but I believe Max fully intended it for a blessing. Godspeed for what he knew I would do. I was fresh out of gods that were willing to go out on a limb and bless what I was capable of doing. Not even some clown they called Beelzebub would back my play. I would give him a bad rap if he did.
Chapter 5
“Morning came, as it did for all survivors of the night.”
—Walter
I wasn’t perfect. That wasn’t news, however, I guess I expected higher of myself. People usually do expect better from themselves than they deliver. I was devastated by an unbearable sorrow. It was different than anything I’d ever experienced before, or ever knew existed. I turned on the radio to interrupt the isolation that surrounded me. I dialed through a dozen stations, none of which drowned out my thoughts. I landed on a station playing instrumental, and left it there. I settled deep into the cushions of the vintage Chesterfield chair, switched off the floor lamp, and tried to hide from my agony.
I thought I was a tough enough guy. I’d been around, seen a lot of ugly stuff happen, and dealt with it in my own way. I’d been made weak in an area that was new to me, an area I was not ready to experience in many ways. I took a risk, I loved, and now I hurt. I needed to get a grip on my feelings, but it’s easier said than done. It wasn’t love that caused me the galling pain, it was love stolen from me, and that was unforgivable. Nothing in my lifetime had been as special as Anna. My memories of her and my dreams of a future together, had vanished. Now, these thoughts were unbearably cruel.
What had I known about pain? Only the burdensome hurt from dreams and nightmares that shaped my destiny as an avenger. I had inflicted a lot of pain on predatory perverts that deserved to die a slow death in recompense for their filth. In their world, young innocent children were subjected to all manner of torture and abuse. They denied children the right to their childhood and stole their innocence. They used them and did whatever came to their perverse minds. In their world there was nothing taboo. I felt no remorse for them then, and I still didn’t.
I retrieved my Glock from the end table where I’d neatly placed it for safe keeping. Holding my trusted friend by its polymer grips, I pressed it against my chest. Here I had a bond, a kinship, something tangible with deep meaning. I rubbed the cold-steel muzzle against my face; I didn’t fear its savagery. It was a stalwart comrade, prompt in my time of need, always with me, through thick and thin. Such a friend could do much to alleviate my current distress, if I gently persuaded it. I brushed the corner of my temple with the muzzle while my thoughts were consumed by reality. I considered the ease that a split second could bring; suddenly it was there, the chilling coldness of the muzzle under my chin. It was the easy way out, fast and lethal. It would relieve the misery once, and for all. It was an answer, a coward’s answer. Who could blame me? I was free to choose. There was no one left in my life I had to answer to, for what some would consider a selfish act.
I could see the headlines of the local newspapers, some meaningless unknown offed himself. However, if it were known who I was, a wanted man, a vigilante with a price on my head. A killer who had roamed their streets and murdered their Mob neighbors, it would be heralded as a just and fitting end to my story. Either way, no one would care about me. The only way anyone would care was if I stayed alive, on the prowl, and remained a threat. At least the gangsters would care and I’d be happy with that.
I wasn’t like those folks that blame God for my predicament. Why should I? God had nothing to do with it. I’d watched the believers grovel on their knees in repentance and bare their contrite souls before the perception of thrones and judgment; all for not. The cup did not pass away so easily. Neither will mine. Why bother God with all of it?
Morning came, as it did for all survivors of the night. I found my actions the previous night perplexing. I felt unsafe in my safe house. I felt unable to mount a defense if mobsters paid me a visit. I had no sense of focus. So much disconnect, I knew I had to get out. Another night and it might not end the same way. I dressed warmly for the outdoors, strapped on my .40-caliber and buck knife, and set out to walk the city streets. I searched, for what, I didn’t have a clue. It was midday, and the temperature had warmed to thirty-six degrees. The snow had turned to slush where the sun shone directly, and the ice became dangerously slick.
I was a long way from my roots in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains of Oregon. I missed the comfort of the wooded hillsides that hid me from society and society from me. Buffalo was a city like any other I suppose, an asphalt wilderness filled with chilly steel towering buildings. I leaned against one of the high-rise buildings and looked to the sky. The building was cold to the touch and mirrored the city’s callous demeanor. The cloudless sky was without horizons, only buildings. The tinted brownish-gray haze from human pollutants filled the air. I watched the hustle and bustle of inhabitants as they scurried along. They were akin to an endless trail of ants. No verbal acknowledgment from another human being, not so much as friendly eye contact. They were in full guise for their eight-to-five masquerade.
I wandered aimlessly for more than a day, more than two, listening to the constant noise of the city. There was never silence. I didn’t sleep at night but dozed occasionally on park benches during the daytime hours. I wanted for nothing. I didn’t feel hunger, only numbness. I saw the homeless vagabonds. I had an inkling of how a person might choose their nomadic existence rather than live amongst others of their kind.
In the distance only a few blocks away, I could see the hostel which housed sanctuary. A block from our safe house entrance stood a corner liquor store, a familiar enough environment that would assist in my commiseration. Still sporting a trancelike fog, I entered my billet carrying four bottles of whiskey tucked neatly in a bag. I would drown my sorrows. In time, they would eventually give up, and go away.
I drank straight from the bottle. It didn’t do what I wanted it to. What I needed it to do. There was no satisfaction to be found. In my langered state, I’d hoped to have lost consciousness, but instead I lost the numbness, and pain reemerged. It would not be mitigated by mere consumption of alcoholic beverage. The flames of condemnation lapped at my spirit as if it hungered to consume me; for I was vulnerable to such an attack. I was filled with guilt.
The sun rose, more than once. I didn’t know how many times but a fifth of whiskey was never far from my side. I drank breakfast. It got the day off to a good start. I picked up my Glock and held it close to my heart. My weapon no longer held the choice of escape. I didn’t feel the need to end my heartache. I would live with the suffering, and pass the pain on to those responsible for mine. I had been driven by mission, now it would be vengeance.
I continued to consume the whiskey until oblivion was within reach, but before I could succumb to its power, the last drop emptied on my tongue. Pure bad luck, I thought, no more bottles to befriend me.
I hadn’t heard from Max, and it was doubtful I would. He paid our safe house bills through Palatini project funds. Now, I surmised I would have to draw on my own resources to remain in Buffalo. If I were going to make the Mob pay, I had to stay in the area. It might end up my life-long quest. From Maximillian’s perspective, the project was defunct. I needed to sober up and make preparations.
I entered a dreamlike state in which I saw myself sauntering through a hilly field laden with lush green grass. This landscape was not one I recognized from any of my previous dreams. Always before, there were torrents of cloud,
violent winds and voices. Here, there were none of these things. It was a celestial state. No light to follow through a dark tunnel, just tranquility.
The moment in time captured the dawning of a new day. Fresh, clean, and pure as the expectation of a sunrise. The horizon burst forth in rich red and deeply yellow sun rays. The sunlight sent vibrations across the meadow, the grass shook with excitement. I felt—delivered.
I sat on a western slope of the field and closed my eyes tightly as I basked in the rays’ warmth. I felt at peace. It was the first time in many days. As I absorbed the tranquil nature of my setting, I imagined in my mind’s eye, Anna in all her beauty. Anna was a leader. If she lived in this place, she would undoubtedly hold a position of high esteem among all the people in this heavenly domain.
I imagined Anna as she crossed the meadow toward me, scantily clad in a silky white garment, buoyant from the gentle breeze. Braided black leather straps wrapped around her, binding the sheer fabric to her voluptuous frame. The sensual sight pleasured my senses. She adorned herself with Celtic jewelry; a Trinity Knot necklace hung between her breasts and matching Celtic ornaments decorated her leather headband and upper armbands. Her flowing deep red hair and stunning blue eyes perfected her flawless erotic image. I wanted her. Anna approached where I sat; her arms open wide, stretched from side to side.
The very thought of Anna brought me tears of happiness. My heart was consoled. It was only a vision conjured up, an appearance fabricated for my dream, but dreams have had a prominent place in my reality. Perhaps, this was a vision of things to come, my reward for a race well run.
A cool and refreshing breeze wafted across the meadow and on to the brim of the hillside where I sat. I looked in the direction where I imagined Anna had been to behold an apparition coming my way. I was excited at the prospects. Could it be really happening the way I imagined? Is this a magical place where dreams come true?
I sat forward in anticipation. The spirit called my name in a sweet velveteen-whisper, “Walter.” I knew the voice; it was my spirit guide, Destiny. She’d been a part of my life that I’d kept hidden, and unable to share. She too was as radiant as my thoughts of Anna had been; strange I had not remembered her in such a way. Her robe was bright white and glowed. Her hair was a vibrant honey-hued blonde, sleek, long, and fluent in the wind. She had been my closest friend and only confederate in the beginning of my vigilante crusade. She had assiduously guided my every step. It was Destiny that had delivered me to the doorstep of Society Palatini where I found meaningful direction to my life as a killer of evil doers. She had made me a promise never to leave me, all the days of my life. I wondered had she come to let me in on a secret? Was the day of fulfillment at hand? If so, I was ready.
I stood to greet her. In my anticipation, I asked, “Have I died? Is that why I am here?”
Her eyes illuminated a bright blue as she responded, “Your time is not yet at hand.” Destiny reached out and touched my arm, “Can you feel me?” This was an odd question and gesture that I didn’t understand. She was an apparition. You can’t feel spirit-beings, and I never had felt her touch all the years I had known her.
“Yes.”
“Throughout your lifetime your emotions have paralyzed you from being the person you were meant to be. You exposed yourself to love and the unintended consequence of loss. Your life has taken on a broader spectrum.”
I suppose I’d known most of my life that I was different from others. I had learned that when I married fresh out of high school, and was soon divorced. I’d relegated the outcome to my military service. I was gone like a lot of the other guys, and they ended up the same way. It never devastated me. Maybe I’d never loved or maybe I knew why I felt as I did.
“You cannot hide or mask your humanity.”
“Nothing makes sense to me. I don’t understand why I was given a love like Anna’s just to have it taken from me?”
“You have chosen a path. To understand you must live in truth and honesty with yourself.”
“So what is the point? Anna is dead, and the Palatini was not what they said they were.”
Destiny’s eyes flashed a reddish glow, a sign I had seen before when she was angry, “In your self-pity you have forgotten why you were called.” Destiny paused, “There are many trials that await you. The things that come to pass will not be your choosing. Yet, only your choices will make the difference as to how you survive them. Neither you, nor any of your kind, have been given a rite of passage. It must be earned.”
“Destiny, you are talking in riddles. Name one thing I have to learn from a tragedy of love that I didn’t already know?”
“You already know,” she said. Destiny moved close to me, nose to nose, almost touching. I could feel the exhalation of her breath against my face as she spoke the word, “Victimization and revenge.”
If anyone knew anything about dishing out a payback, it was me. That was the only reason I killed the miscreants of society. It was my chore. When growing up on the ranch, I had chores assigned to me, and I did them. If a sexual deviant crossed my path, I eliminated them. I didn’t have a problem with it. It was assigned to me the way a chore had been. Outside other Palatini members, I don’t know anyone more capable of vengeance than me. I laughed at her statement.
Destiny ignored my response. “You are an elite killer, but superficial. If it were not so, you would be about the business at hand and not wallowing in your sorrow.”
I butted in, “I’ve never needed an excuse to kill the people I’ve killed, they brought it on themselves, and that was good enough for me. Besides, there was a time, and you remember as well Destiny, I had felt the agony of the victims.”
“What you felt was impersonal and brief. You’d made a connection with the traumatic wounds of the innocent, and it led you to me. But now, you know the pain of victimization personally. It is endless sorrow with no hope of escape or relief. Victims do not have the power to change what has happened. Victims overcome through fulfillment of their lives. Your calling is your satisfaction.”
I hadn’t considered I was a victim, only Anna. Secretly, I suppose, I’d whined “why me,” but had focused on my pain.
Destiny drifted away. Her voice resonated across the meadow, “Good happens to the just and the unjust alike, and bad happens in like manner. It is the way of your temporal existence. All things are not equal nor are all things always what they appear to be on the surface. Be steadfast, you will find wholeness in your being.”
* * * * *
I woke in the evening time. Which day it was, I wasn’t sure. I washed my face with cool water. My memory was intact. Alcohol had not erased Destiny’s visit. I was forced to confront my thinking for the first time since the loss of Anna. No interpretation of the dream was necessary. It was clear; I had done a pretty bad job of accepting the path which was mine to take. It was a weak excuse to say, I was only human.
The grief stricken looked for ways out of the pain, and I wasn’t any different. In some circumstances, there were ways to mitigate life’s pain, but in the case of a loved one having died, there were no viable escapes. It was true; I wanted closure. The type psychotherapists have tried to sell where the point was reached; you shut the door behind you and move on with your life never to feel the loss again. That was me. I didn’t want to remember. Memories brought with them pain of my loss.
I had read the “grief models” produced by the greatest minds in psychobabble to grasp an understanding of what victims felt. Whether they were psychiatrists, therapists or clergy, the results were always the same. No tidy ending to the confusion, pain, and anger could be found. I saw them as provocateurs of “new science” theories that didn’t help anyone. They were more like entrepreneurs who’d found a niche, and lined their own pocketbooks. I assumed there were sincere people, at least some, who’d propagated the myth of closure, and wanted it to be true. Maybe they saw no other way, and hoped it worked the way they said it would, but in every sense of the word, they were wrong.
Oftentimes it ended in passing the blame to the grieving person for not attaining the euphoric ideas they sought. For me, it was my expectations of closure that led me in a wrong direction and prolonged my agony. I likened my approach to beating a dead horse—it wasn’t going to take me anywhere.
I had to be honest with my feelings first and foremost. That’s what Destiny said. I wanted to rush the timetable and get past the grief. Who wouldn’t? The truth was there was no appropriate time frame for mourning a loss. Moreover, it was a reality that had to be lived with. There was no magical door for me to close and move on with my life. If such a door existed, it would require all my memories of Anna to be hidden, as well. There was a connection between memories and loss that could not be severed without the complete loss of that person to me. Who would want to lose the memories of someone they loved?
My relationship with Anna was not over. It had grown into the deepest fibers of my heart. She was forever part of my world in my memories. My recollections of her were my treasures and locked in my heart. I knew my emotions would remain raw for some time. I would learn to live with it. Death could not take my love away. It did not possess the power.
Chapter 6
“Double-tap, he was dead. I let him off the hook easy.”
—Walter
I felt better about where I was mentally, stable, and alive again. Joey Naccarella’s dossier lay open in front of me on the small coffee table. It was past time for us to talk. I’d kill him quick and easy like if he came across with what I wanted to hear. If he played hardball, I’d make him pay for a long, long time. It was up to him how he wanted to play it. I didn’t really care how it went down, as long as it happened.
The Naccarella home life was pretty well documented by Cal. He’d spent the majority of his time with Joey, and Joey’s wife, Angelique. He wrote about Angelique’s beauty, and how she was far too young for Joey, but they were together and that was that. It was one of the four cardinal rules for the Toronto Machine. You didn’t talk to cops. You didn’t steal from the Family. You didn’t disrespect a wiseguy. You didn’t mess around with a wiseguy’s wife, girlfriend or daughter. If you broke one of the rules—you were dead. They weren’t negotiable. Nobody touched Angelique. Joey had a bad temper, and he was the jealous type. I knew the feeling. It could make a sap out of a guy real quick, and nobody wants to be seen as sad and pathetic. Joey told Cal if someone messed with Angelique, he’d put a contract on them. I knew that feeling too, only I planned to fill my own contract.
Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues Page 8