The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  The two men locked eyes for several moments. Breath vapor from each of them, as if matched bulls at a showdown, combined, gathering into a warm boding cloud. When Mo stepped back and reached for another beer, Jacob walked past him, taking large strides. He put his hand up without turning around. “You guys take it easy. I'm outta here.”

  Guillermo, with beer in hand looked at Tatem, then at Jacob.

  “No, Guillermo.” Jacob said, sensing that Mo would press the issue.

  “He's going to feel better. No matter what it takes.” Mo spoke to the air, and though an uneven line had been drawn in the gravel, Guillermo chose to cross it.

  With his own long strides, he quickly reached Jacob, laid a hand on his shoulder and prepared to hand him the beer, though he knew what was coming.

  Over Jacob's left shoulder, a fist seemed to materialize from nowhere and Guillermo dodged it. Then, round-housing his arm, broke the bottle over the back of Jacob's head. Even though beer and bits of glass trickled over his face, around and in his eyes, impairing his vision, Jacob seemed to know that something, something sharp, was moving quickly towards his back. He redirected his body to the left and Mo's hand – with the broken, jagged neck of the beer bottle – and arm, extended past him. Jacob grabbed Mo's arm by the wrist, pulled it forward and attempted to drive several elbow shots to his face. Not one landed. Behind him, Mo ducked and dodged, avoiding the elbow. He, too, seemed to sense each blow even down to its erratic timing. Mo threw his forehead forward toward the back of Jacob's head, but Jacob had already leaned out of its path and took the softened blow at the base of his neck. Jacob kicked his leg back and up into Mo's groin several times, each kick connected with Mo's genitalia, incapacitating him, rendering his legs to noodles and his hands to groin guardians instead of aggressors.

  Jacob sprinted to the street, turning around once to make sure Mo hadn't sprung up, found a rock – with which to club him over the head in case he did – and ran harder. But on the parking lot gravel, Tatem kneeled beside Guillermo, talking to him, offering him a beer. When Tatem saw Jacob looking back, he nodded as an unspoken agreement of some kind that only longtime friends, or quick acquaintances that have been through traumatic stress could understand. Jacob returned the nod as if to say, 'I'll see you later.' because they both knew, and even while he laid on the ground grunting to ease his sore testicles, Guillermo knew, that this could not be the end, that somewhere, somehow they would see Jacob again – alive or dead.

  Chapter 14.

  “You okay?” Ken asked, watching Tanner's demeanor morph back into the slightly tense, but relaxed man that he saw in the street. However, still not the Tanner of old. Though, that dream, as with time, was gone.

  “You asked and I told you.” Tanner said.

  Ken tossed his hands up. “Fine. It's just that your statement had a practiced sound to it.”

  Tanner shrugged and tilted his cup toward Ken to show him it was empty. “You mind?” Ken shook his head, took the cup and stood up from the table. “Drugs, huh?”

  “Yep.” Tanner palmed sweat from his forehead, disguising the act by running his fingers through his oily hair. Ken grinned at him and pressed Tanner's mug against the release valve which splayed steaming coffee into it.

  “Just drugs?” Ken chuckled. Tanner nodded at the table. “Kinda general, don't you think?”

  “Well, I guess I did a bit of everything. I mean, I can't recall specifics.”

  “Tanner,” Ken shook his head, still smiling, knowing that his own knowledge of drugs lent to the fact that drugs were simply not drugs. “There's Marijuana, Cocaine and its daughter crack, both deliver separate and unequaled highs. There's Heroine and her daughters Oxycodone, Vicodin, the list goes on, but they deliver about the same high differently. There's LSD and that's in a class of –,”

  “Ken,” Tanner stopped him. “I'm just not sure, man. That whole period of my life is a blur. It just – just seems like a dream. A very, very bad dream. So, please,” Ken raised his hand and Tanner knew that that line of questioning would be at least temporarily discontinued.

  “I understand, Tanner. I was there too. Usage, detox, trying to put life back together again.” The mug was filled and Ken placed it on the table. Tanner took it and put it to his lips.

  “Be careful with that thing. That coffee's scalding.” Ken said. Tanner nodded, his face half hidden by the mug.

  Ken waited a few seconds for Tanner to lower the cup, then asked. “So what's your plan?”

  “My plan?” Tanner swallowed the coffee. “I didn't come here to intrude or –,”

  “I know that, man! What I mean is, why did you come back? What changed you? Something had to have opened your eyes and brought you to your senses.”

  Tanner looked bewildered, then his puzzlement turned into a smile. “What? You're not happy to see me?”

  Ken chuckled. “Of course I am. But I'm a cop and I know that that humor you're using now is just a defense for something else. You're hiding something. Your intentions, maybe? What's up, Tanner?”

  “I'm not hiding anything! I told you what I know. I was at... I was...,” Tanner rubbed his eyes and his face scrunched as he tried to remember. “I was just there not long ago. I was with someone... no! I was by myself.” The conversation turned into an inward focused debate as he mentally stitched bits of fragmented memory with unmatched pairs until his neutral past resembled a patch-worked quilt. “And I... I must've been working because I had money. And then... I needed to get home. I remember saying that, 'I gotta get home! I gotta get home!' Then, I went to the library, looked up Lee Garay... Dad's address popped up and I recognized it, but I saw Ken's name and address pop up, too... I wrote it down, then I... bought a ticket on Greyhound.” He confidently looked back up at Ken. “I rode to the Marietta terminal, got off, and walked here.” Tanner said, delighted as if his answer were fully thought through, though, with no realization that it was not.

  Maybe Tanner had gotten hold of some phenacetin laced cocaine during his usage period, but Ken did not fail to notice his brother's absentmindedness and took slight pity on him. “So, that's where you were?” Ken said, playing along.

  “Yep.” Tanner said. “And I used the money I earned from work to get here.”

  “I see.” Ken said, suppressing his condescending urge because, after all, this wasn't just another dealer, or user, or suspect, it was his own mentally ill flesh and blood.

  “So, where did you work to earn that money?”

  Tanner leaned back with his own condescending smile, tilting his chair on its hind legs until it creaked. “Seriously Ken? Are you not listening? I just told you. Should I repeat it because I –,”

  “No, no! I'm – I’m sorry, Tanner.” Ken waved his hand. “I just forgot. It slipped my mind for a second.”

  Tanner laughed. “You're losing your mind too soon, big brother! Age is catching up with you.”

  “Yeah. I guess so. So, why did you come back?”

  “Figured it was time for me to grow up, be a man, see how life is on the other side of the tracks. I know it won't be easy trying to find a job, finding a place to stay, finding a woman,” Tanner winked and Ken returned a tepid smile. “But I'm willing to put in the work. I don't shy away from work.”

  “That's good, Tanner.” Ken patronized, detected it and stopped it in its tracks. “I mean, it's good that you are not simply wanting hand-outs or anything. I'm assuming you don't have a place to stay.”

  Tanner winced. “No. But I know you'll offer and I do not want to be a charity case for you and your family.” Ken exaggeratedly shook his head. “Ken, really. If my staying here is any burden at all,”

  “You're my brother. You think I'm going to let you sleep on the streets more than you already have? Nonsense. You're staying.”

  “I do need a temporary place to stay so I won't argue. But please don't be shy about telling me my limits.”

  “Fine.” Ken stood up. “Grab your coffee. I'll show you where you'll be s
leeping.”

  Beside Ken was a door that led to the basement. He held it open for Tanner, not truly trusting him since his police instincts didn't allow for unwarranted confidence and because they had been so long apart – even if it was his brother. Tanner eased down into the darkness a few steps, one hand sliding along the hand rail trusting it would take him where he needed to go, until Ken flipped a switch behind him, illuminating the basement.

  Tanner scanned the room and whistled. “My God, I've died and come to your man cave!”

  As if straight out of an eighties pop movie, panels of glass wrapped the blood red walls. The carpet was deep forest black and for no more than a moment, Tanner feared stepping on it – or into it – as though it were void of substance and would simply swallow him. Brightly polished gold and brass rails ran the length of a bar that sat far off in a corner, and a large flat screen television, mounted above a pool table and near a leather couch that was the same color as the rich, dark brown wood that formed chairs, the table and the bar, was already crackling to life since it was connected to the same electricity source as the light switch.

  “Don't exaggerate. It's just a place I can come to get away from Mary when she's in her moods, and the hell spawn we gave birth to.” Tanner smiled and took in his surroundings. “This is out-of-the-way so Mary can't complain about your presence.”

  “She would?” Tanner asked, turning back to him. “Because I'm sure I can find –,”

  “Tanner, you're staying here! It's done. And she would complain, just not to you.” Ken said.

  At the bar he poured himself a shot of bourbon and watched Tanner gawk at the surroundings. “A few years back, a friend from the department was in the middle of a rough divorce and needed a place to stay. Not that I'm a cat lady who takes in strays or anything, but I let him stay down here. She didn't say anything to him – always polite, smiling, offering him coffee and snacks when he was around. But as soon as we got alone,” Ken vehemently shook his head and threw back he shot of liquor in one gulp. “It's not her. I guess I understand her concern, but most people would be beside themselves to have two cops in their house. Not my Mary. She saw him as an intruder.”

  Tanner stood with his hands on his hips, only feet away from the television, watching ESPN. “The nesting instinct.” He said.

  “Huh?” Ken began pouring another shot.

  “In women. It's not that she didn't want him here, or that she didn't like him. She was probably cordial with him in any other situation. But in her home – her nest – he was unwelcome, a parasite that could potentially destroy what she had created.”

  Ken furrowed his brow at the back of Dr. Tanner Garay, psychologist, curious as to where his insight into a subject he probably knew nothing about, came from. “That's exactly how she behaved. But Lewis was no threat.” He tossed back the second shot. “Probably the most passive cop at the department.”

  “But he was going through a divorce?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, he was single?”

  Ken thought through the line of questioning and replied, “Yeah, Tanner, but I don't bar hop; I'm too old and too fat for that.”

  “You don't have to bar-hop. If this 'Lewis' were to bring women back to this lush pad of yours, you might be tempted to partake in the goods. Not that you would, but she doesn't know that. Thus, he and his independence pose a threat to your interdependent household.”

  Tanner didn't know Mary or Lewis, but in those few seconds he had reduced that tumultuous situation from years ago, down to a nugget of info he'd probably heard on a morning talk show. Ken nodded and laughed. “Well, that about sums it up. He stayed no more than two weeks before she started issuing 'couch' threats. He left here and stayed with another buddy of mine for a while.” Ken held the bottle away from his face, thought about another shot, but sleep was closing in and increasing the time between his blinks. “I gotta get to bed.” He said more to himself than to Tanner. “But, I want to show you something before I do.” Ken placed the bottle of bourbon back on the shelf with its label facing out, leaned back to verify its positioning, and waved Tanner over to a closet below the stairs. When Tanner reached the door, a mischievous smile grew on Ken's lips. “You ready for this?”

  “Sure.” Tanner said. Ken opened the door and tugged on a pull chain hanging from a light fixture inside of the closet which illuminated his private, post-Armageddon gun collection. Though, no specialized racks were constructed to hold the collection, and their placement – rifles leaning against the walls of the tight space, handguns tossed inattentively on the floor, magazines scattered about like PEZ dispensers – seemed a bit crude, the sight of forty plus deadly weapons was still impressive.

  “I picked up most of them from local tough guys – thugs, if you will – that were carrying them concealed. It's illegal to do so without a license stating specifically that you can. So, when I catch them, I give them the choice: Give up the weapon and go free, or give up the weapon and go to jail. I don't usually give 'em the third choice unless they are really mouthy. I found out that once we turn the guns over, the department has these things destroyed! Can you believe that? What a waste.”

  Tanner ran his eyes over the arsenal, then said, “Nice.” and his attention went back to SportsCenter.

  “Nice? You're kidding, right?” Ken picked up a Sig P226, oscillated his hand to check its weight and handed it to Tanner. “Here. Feel this and tell me it doesn't feel natural.”

  “I'd rather not, Ken. I'm not a gun guy.” Tanner took several steps away from the closet door.

  Ken slumped his shoulders. “Are you a lib or something?”

  “I just don't care for them, okay. Is that acceptable? Like I told you earlier, I had some bad experiences with guns –,”

  “Just hold it, Tanner! I'm not making you shoot the damned thing! I just want to see how it looks on you.”

  Perturbed, Tanner snatched the gun from Ken, turned it over and visually checked for the magazine. Since there was none, he pulled the slide back and checked the barrel for a round of ammunition. When he saw that it was clear, he aimed the gun at the television and held it there, both eyes open and staring at the television through the front sight.

  “Nothing less than a work of art.” Ken said. “Feels natural doesn't it?”

  Tanner handed the gun back to Ken. “If I never have to use one, I'll die happy.”

  “Have you ever used one?”

  Tanner looked at the closet of guns for a moment. “Nope. And I don't intend to, so don't ask.”

  Ken laid the P226 on the floor of the closet as if to establish some order among the guns, clicked the light off and shut the door. “Alright, alright. Fine. Guns save lives, Tanner. Remember that.”

  “And they take them, too. Far too easily. Remember that.” Tanner smiled. Ken wanted to start a debate over the low statistics of murders caused by lawful gun owners, but now wasn't the time.

  “I'm not gonna argue with you, little brother. Hell, I'm still in awe that you're home! It's blowing my mind!” Ken smiled and slapped Tanner on the shoulder. “You can sleep on that couch over there,” Ken pointed to it, then to a chair beside it. “There are some sheets in that chair. Use those. The bathroom is on the other side of the stairs and there are some linens in there as well. Make yourself at home. I have a few things to take care of when the sun comes up. I'd like it if you came with me. We can probably go visit mom and dad.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Good.” Ken gave Tanner a strong hug, then gripped him by the shoulders. “Shit, its good to see you. We've got a lot of catching up to do.” Ken released him and started up the stairs. “Rest easy.” He said and closed the door to the basement.

  'Rest easy.' That was a strange statement to Tanner because rest never came easy. It usually began with an attempt at easy rest, but seldom resulted in such. He looked around at his new apartment instinctively searching for something large and heavy to place on the stairs. At the bar, there were
four high seated stools that not only looked cumbersome, but once he lifted one, he realized it would fit his purpose.

  He took two of the chairs, one in each hand, walked to the staircase and laid the first one on its side on the third step from the bottom. He grabbed the other two chairs and pushed them vertically against the bottom stair, put the last stool on the second stair from the bottom, leaning it against the two upright stools. So precarious was the situation of stools that if one even slightly moved, the canted stools would topple over and the one that lay on its side would roll down the stairs, sending them both crashing and clanging against the floor, inevitably waking him up.

  He took off his shoes, stuffed his socks into them and laid down on the couch. Though his eyelids drooped dangerously low, and his consciousness slipped in and out, Tanner would not go easily into sleep, it would have to come and take him as it always did. Sleep was a serious matter, required vulnerability in which hours would elapse where he was not aware of himself, and because of sore tonsils which meant he'd been snoring, sore legs which meant he'd been in a tensed position for a great duration of time, or standing, and the bruises and cuts he'd sustained on his hands and arms, easy was the last adjective that should accompany a word like sleep. Though, he never knew how the injures happened, over time he had formulated some ideas.

  SportsCenter was on a continuous loop and would remain so until around 10:00 am, or until Lebron James decided to hold an early morning press conference and announce that he would take his talents back to Miami after taking his talents back to Cleveland. The anchor's clever quips became stale after the second loop and large segments of highlights Tanner didn't remember watching the first time through. But his blinks become longer and he had assumed that brief naps accounted for those missing minutes. He looked to the stairs at his four stooled Leaning Tower of Pisa and wondered whether it was enough. It would have to be because he couldn't fight with sleep much longer. Though, wasn't it enough to protect him? To protect... them? He submitted to sleep's call, closed his eyes and rolled his face away from the stairs. “It's enough.” He said softly with diffident acknowledgment, and quickly the voices of the SportsCenter anchors faded into an ambiance of echoes in yet another dream about endless sand and some suffocating darkness that also contributed to his uneasy sleep.