Messiah

by J. E. Taylor

  Matthew pulled André off the unconscious man before André killed him. “Enough,” Matthew said, pushing him back. “He will pay, I promise, but not at our hands. I know exactly what you’re feeling, André, and I would love nothing more than to kill the son of a bitch myself, but we can’t. We can’t.”

  André stared into his father’s eyes and tears blurred his vision. He sat on the grass, putting his head in his hands, fighting the raging beast inside, the one that wanted to crush the life out of the unconscious bastard. His son’s wail brought him out of it and he raised his gaze to the broken bay window where Katrina stood consoling Sam.

  Her gaze met his in a mixture of devastation and anger, the combination boiling inside her, swirling and leaving André helpless to stop the tears leaking down his cheeks.

  The cops descended in full force. André remained sitting on the lawn with his head in his hands while Matthew ran interference. Two ambulances were dispatched, one for the madman on the lawn and the other for Linda and Katrina, along with a group of female officers and a psychologist who swarmed the house.

  André blocked all thoughts, creating a silent barrier in his mind so he could grapple with the anger bruising his soul. When an officer squatted next to him, he finally turned his face out of the crook of his arm.

  “You have the right to remain silent...” the officer started.

  André stared at him. “You’re arresting me?”

  “Excuse me, Officer Sanders, but what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Matthew asked as he approached.

  “Your son killed those men by your own admission,” Officer Sanders replied, glancing at Matthew.

  “He was defending our family,” Matthew interjected. Keep your mouth shut, André.

  “That will be decided by a court of law,” Officer Sanders replied, hauling André to his feet, and cuffed his wrists behind his back. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I have stated them?”

  André nodded.

  Before he could say a word, Katrina screamed, “Don’t you take my husband!”

  André turned in time to see her running down the steps and Officer Sanders, pushed by an invisible hand, landed on his ass on the lawn.

  “Kat, it’s okay,” André said. Don’t make it worse, baby. He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  “It’s not okay.” She threw her arms around his neck. “They were going to kill us, André. They were going to kill Sam.” She cried against his chest.

  “I know, but you’ve got to let them take me to the station.”

  Officer Sanders stood up and grabbed André’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” André said, limping away with Officer Sanders. When the officer directed him toward the same craft that the now conscious thug sat in, André stopped. “If you put me in the same vehicle as that son of a bitch, he won’t make it to the station alive.”

  Officer Sanders glared at André.

  “He raped my mother and my wife,” André said and clamped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

  Officer Sanders redirected André to the second craft. After settling André in the back seat, the officer climbed in the front and started the craft. “Did you want to tell me what happened?”

  André opened his mouth and then thought better of it, his father’s command to keep his mouth shut still clear in his mind. “No,” André replied. “I want to talk to a lawyer.” His shoulders throbbed from the angle of the handcuffs. He closed his eyes, willing the cuffs to unlatch. The sharp click was undercut by the officer’s radio squawking on the dashboard.

  Rubbing his wrists, André rolled his shoulders, shifting in the seat to find a comfortable position. The movement brought a wave of pain from his thigh, signaling the pain medicine was wearing thin and soon any sort of comfort would be impossible.

  The craft stopped and André pried his eyes open. His headache throbbed in time with his leg.

  Officer Sanders stared at him. “How did you get out of those?”

  “They weren’t very comfortable.”

  “I didn’t ask whether they were comfortable—I asked how you got them off.”

  “If I wanted to escape, these things wouldn’t be able to stop me,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got no reason to run.”

  Officer Sanders’s face pinched and he turned away from André. With a curt nod he said, “Just don’t try anything. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” André replied. His eyes drooped and before the officer pulled from the curb, he drifted into darkness despite the ache in his leg.

  At the station, André pressed his fingers on the screen scan, his fingerprints cataloged along with his mug shot before the officer led him to a jail cell. Across the hall sat the man who attacked his family, the one who defiled his wife. The bastard had the nerve to grin at him like a sick Cheshire cat.

  “Your wife was such a good fuck.” He laughed at André.

  André glared, afraid to speak, afraid of the rage clawing at his stomach.

  “I took my time with her, too. I figured she needed a real man.”

  The fury broke free and André stood, crossing to the bars and grasping them tightly, his knuckles turning white under the grip. His eyes burned with rage and he ground his teeth together, willing the man’s privates into the consistency of jelly.

  A high-shrill scream filled the jail and the man grabbed his crotch, falling to his knees.

  The louder the scream, the wider André’s smile of satisfaction became. He turned and walked back to the bench, taking a seat again, crossing his legs at the ankle, and folding his arms over his chest, and watched the bastard continue to scream. He took a deep breath and released his hold.

  The man sobbed with his forehead on the concrete, holding his crushed privates. He vomited on the floor and fell on his side, gagging and gasping for breath.

  André remained smiling. The son of a bitch would never hurt another woman again.

  Officer Sanders appeared. He looked at the man on the floor and then over at André.

  André kept eye contact, daring him to say something, anything that would give him cause to lash out.

  The officer unlocked André’s cell. “Come with me,” he said, glancing back at the thug.

  André limped down the hall, following the officer to an interrogation room. He took a seat, glancing at the two officers in the room. “Where’s my lawyer?”

  “I’m not sure an alien is entitled to the same rights as a citizen,” Sergeant Bill Farrow said.

  André sighed. “In case you were not aware, the president of the United States granted me citizenship. Therefore, I do have the same rights as the next person.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “So, I’d like a lawyer if you don’t mind.”

  “What did you do to Ben?” Officer Sanders asked.

  André raised his eyebrow. “Who’s Ben?”

  “The man in the cell across from you.”

  André looked between the two officers. “I’d like my lawyer now,” he said. The fact that they used the man’s first name said more about them and their views than even their thoughts did.

  “Not so fast,” Sergeant Farrow began.

  André shot his gaze in the detective’s direction. “I don’t think you get it. I’m still a minor, and you are violating the rules by questioning me without either my parents or a lawyer present,” he said.

  Sergeant Farrow laughed. “I don’t think you understand. You are an intruder on this planet.”

  André’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched again. “You condone the attack on my family?”

  “No, but I share the same sentiment. You don’t belong here,” Sergeant Farrow said.

  André realized
neither one of the officers in the room accepted his existence. They both harbored the same hostility he remembered from his home planet.

  Sergeant Farrow glanced at Officer Sanders and back at André. “You killed those men.”

  André glanced in his direction, shutting his mouth against the words that wanted to come out, the muscles in his jaw taut with aggravation. He squashed the urge to let loose on both these men. They were officers of the law and as such, required respect, no matter how much they disliked his existence. He sat back in the chair and crossed his arms in protest.

  “Do you realize how much trouble you are in?” Sergeant Farrow asked.

  “Do you?” André returned the question.

  Sergeant Farrow raised his eyebrow. “Do I what?”

  “Know how much trouble you’re in.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  André smiled. “You are questioning a minor without representation,” he stated. “I have asked repeatedly for a lawyer and you have refused every time, and you have basically stated you agree with the attack on my family.” He leaned forward, cocking his head to the side. “I think that’s grounds for a hell of a discrimination lawsuit.”

  This kid is shrewd, Sergeant Farrow thought. “What makes you think they will let you out of here?”

  “Since when is protecting your family against armed intruders a crime?”

  “It isn’t, but they weren’t in your house when they died, now were they?” Sergeant Farrow said.

  “They were heading toward the living room in their hovercraft with the intent to kill us all,” André replied. “I stopped them.”

  “By making the hovercraft explode?”

  André glared at the sergeant. “I did what was necessary to protect my family,” he said between clenched teeth.

  The interrogation room door flew open and Matthew stepped inside, wearing full military dress, followed by three others in full military garb, two of which were lawyers and the third, André immediately recognized.

  “You have violated due process,” Matthew snapped and glared at the sergeant. “I am taking my son home. You can discuss the situation with my lawyers.”

  Cal approached André. “How’s the leg?”

  André shrugged. “It hurts a little,” he lied. It was throbbing and he was in need of another dose of pain medication.

  Cal smiled. “Don’t bullshit me,” he said as he helped André to his feet and led him out of the room.

  Matthew turned on his heels, following Cal and André out of the room, leaving Sergeant Farrow and Officer Sanders at the mercy of the two military lawyers who had been given orders to grill them for hours.

  Matthew drove home in silence, with Cal riding shotgun and André in back. He glanced at André as he pulled through the newly formed sea of reporters in their driveway. “It’s been a madhouse since the police left,” he said.

  André stepped out without a word and hobbled to the house as reporters shouted questions. He ignored them all, entering the house and slamming the door behind him. He headed for the stairs, ignoring his leg.

  “André, you aren’t supposed to climb the stairs yet,” Cal said.

  André never acknowledged the warning. He continued up the stairs, wincing with every step. He limped down the hall and opened the door to their bedroom.

  Katrina lay on the bed with Sam in her arms. She looked up when he opened the door, tears tracking down her face in a steady rain.

  “I’m sorry,” André said, as fresh tears slipped down his cheek. None of this would have happened if they weren’t associated with him. He crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around both her and his son.

  Katrina sobbed on his shoulder. “This isn’t your fault,” she sputtered, feeling his guilt.

  “Yes it is,” he said, taking ownership of the whole ordeal.

  She pulled away from him, wiping her face and looking down at Sam. He was still sleeping. She got off the bed, laying him in his crib. “What happened today is not your fault, André.” She turned as she spoke.

  André stared at her, the despair scratching deep as he tried to block the visions he had seen in his mother’s mind.

  “I already saw what happened to me,” Katrina said. “Your mom isn’t that good at blocking her thoughts.” Her chin began to quiver as fresh tears slipped from the corner of her eyes. “I was knocked out cold. And he still...”

  André crossed the distance quickly and took her in his arms, kissing the top of her head as she sobbed into his chest.

  “Did you kill the son of a bitch?” she asked.

  “No,” André answered. “But he’s a soprano now.”

  Katrina looked up at him.

  “He will never hurt another woman that way ever again.” He met her gaze. “Actually, he’ll never have any kind of sex ever again.” A satisfied smile surfaced and Katrina looked away.

  “I want to move,” Katrina said.

  André stepped back. “What do you mean?”

  “This house is too accessible,” she said. “Too vulnerable to attack.”

  “Where do you suggest we go?”

  “My parents’ house,” Katrina answered. “I’ve got enough money to support us and the house is ours since the will settled. Besides, the security system is top rate and there’s a gate around the entire border.”

  André considered the idea as he sat on the side of the bed. He looked around his bedroom and then back at her, torn between the need to be with his parents and the need to protect his wife and son. His eyes landed on Sam, sleeping peacefully in the crib and the decision was made. “All right,” he answered, looking back at Katrina.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” André answered. “Really.”

  “When?”

  André sighed. “When do you want to go?”

  “Right now,” Katrina said. “We can pack up some things for tonight and come back tomorrow for the rest of our stuff.”

  “Kat. I can’t just up and leave after what happened today. I’ve got to give my parents a little warning.”

  Katrina swallowed hard and studied her hands.

  “I’m staying up here with you tonight. I want to know you and Sammy are safe,” André said and closed his eyes, finally letting the day’s events take their toll. Tremors started in his feet and hands, working their way through his entire body until every fiber shook, rattling his teeth together.

  “Are you okay?” Katrina asked, suddenly so close he could smell her shampoo.

  André shook his head. “I need a pain pill,” he whispered with his eyes now squeezed shut against the pain lacing its way through his bones.

  “Something’s wrong with your leg,” Katrina said.

  André opened his eyes and looked at his right thigh. The fabric of his jeans darkened from the spot over the cut and spread out like a drop of water soaked into a paper towel.

  “Take off your jeans,” she said, unbuckling his belt.

  André slid his jeans over his hips and laid back, allowing Katrina to pull them off the rest of the way. He didn’t have the energy to sit back up.

  “Jesus,” Katrina whispered as she looked at his leg. She bolted out the door. “Cal!” she yelled down the stairs.

  Cal came bounding up the stairs. “Where is he?”

  Katrina pointed and followed him into the bedroom.

  The bandage was soaked but not with blood; it was stained a greenish color, which wasn’t the initial cause of Katrina or Cal’s alarm.

  “Jesus.” Cal repeated Katrina’s sentiment as they stared at the red veins covering the skin of his thigh, spinning out from underneath the bandage. “Go get my bag, now.”

  She immediately complied, disappearing out of the room.

  “What the hell have you done?” Cal said, stepping closer to André.

  “That bad?”

  “Your leg is infected.” He looked at André. “How long has it been like this?”

  André propped hi
mself up and looked at his leg. “It wasn’t like that when I woke up.” He lay back on the bed, dizzy and weak. “My dad changed the bandages this morning.”

  Katrina came in with the medical bag and put it down, scrambling for the antibiotics inside at Cal’s silent instruction. She filled a syringe and handed it to Cal.

  Cal didn’t hesitate; he plunged the syringe into André’s leg at the tip of the cut and pushed the antibiotic into André’s vein, ignoring André’s hiss of pain.

  André stiffened, the pain raking his form, spiraling out from the wound and encompassing him to the molecular level.

  “Another one,” he barked and handed Katrina the empty syringe.

  Immediately, the second one was placed in his hand. This time, Cal grabbed André’s arm and plunged the needle into another vein, emptying the contents.

  “I’m going to need an IV line,” he said and ripped the bandage off André’s leg before turning to Katrina. “Get me a couple clean towels, now.”

  She disappeared, reappearing moments later with two clean towels.

  “Put one under his leg, please,” Cal said and then he slipped the IV in André’s hand and plunged a third syringe full of antibiotics into the line.

  “Is this necessary?” André asked. The flurry of activity layered with a hazy veil and his mind wandered close to darkness.

  “Yes,” Cal answered and rifled through his bag, finding the iodine solution but waiting a minute for the antibiotics to run through André’s system. He counted to sixty and then dumped the iodine on the puss-filled cut.

  The shot had been a soft pat in comparison to the iodine saturating his wound and the haze disappeared, replaced with acute pain. André let out a yell loud enough to wake Sam. His breath hissed between his teeth and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the discomfort as Cal cleaned out his wound, scraping the infected skin away with a scalpel.

  Cal rinsed the open wound with saline solution and squeezed out a thin line of antibiotic ointment down the length of the cut before using his laser to seal it. “It’s over now,” he said, putting his hand on André’s chest.

  André panted, taking control over his body and pumping the blood through his veins and arteries as fast as he could without risking a heart attack. The medicine flowed in and he felt it attacking the infection in his leg, his body breaking out in sweat as it fought the foreign bacteria.