Beyond the Fire

by Cheryl Pierson

  “Jackson!” Kendi laid across him, mindless of his shoulders, wrists, ribs—everything that hurt him physically. His forbidden memories were ripping him apart far more than any pain she might cause.

  He stopped moving, his strong body tightening beneath her. She wondered if he would throw her to the floor, or hit her, as he tried to fight his inner demons. His breath hitched in horror, and at that moment, Kendi would have done anything to keep him from reliving the nightmare he was ensnared in.

  “God—no—”

  But it was too late. He’d been unable to prevent whatever it was from happening. Kendi was helpless to intercede. He took a deep gasp of air, holding back the rolling emotions for what Kendi knew must be the millionth time. This was an old, deep wound that had never healed, and there was nothing she could do.

  “Wake up, Jack...oh, please, just wake up, sweetheart...” Her voice was almost soundless. Her insides churned, and she felt Jack’s agony as sharply as if someone had physically beaten her. Tears welled in her eyes. Someone had to cry, and of course, he never would. He wouldn’t allow it. Something had hurt him in the past, so deeply he had cut himself off from emotion, from feeling, from being human. Except when he slept...when he dreamed...when there was no protection.

  Kendi carefully brought her hands to his face, laying her palms on his cheeks. She leaned up to him.

  “No,” he whispered brokenly, surveying the incomprehensible carnage of his nightmare. “He’s just a kid!”

  Kendi put her lips to his gently at first, meeting with his anger as he pushed at her, as if she were the enemy he fought. “He’s just—”

  “Shh, I know.” She took his mouth under hers, her lips gently slanting over his as their breath mingled and became the same.

  His body was tense and rigid under hers, resisting the comfort she offered.

  “—killed him—” he whispered impatiently as she lifted her head for a moment to shift her weight off his side.

  “I know, darling.” She smoothed back the dark sweat-damp hair. His eyes opened slowly, burning Kendi with their intense depth of scalding self-condemnation. He pulled her to him in the next instant, rolling her beneath him the moment he put his mouth to hers once more. And in his kiss, she felt the desperation, the sorrow—and the need. He kissed her roughly at first, almost as if he was angry—but with himself, her, or the situation, she wasn’t sure.

  “Jack—”

  “Kendi...God, Kendi—just kiss me—”

  She threaded her fingers gently through his long dark hair, and held him to her, offering herself to him, to take whatever he needed from her. She felt his muscles tremble with the effort it took to hold himself above her, and she turned to her side. He eased down to the bed, never breaking the kiss, but she felt him shudder with relief.

  His tongue touched hers, demanding a bold response, his teeth gently nipping her lower lip. She moaned, moving closer to him, still mindful of the bandaging and wounds it covered.

  She drew away to look at him, his eyes veiled to her now. “I couldn’t wake you—”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s over.” He turned slowly onto his back, groaning as the lacerated flesh made contact with the mattress.

  “No, Jack. It’s not over. Whatever it is that hurt you that much...it’s still there.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, and Kendi thought she’d probably pissed him off with that piece of armchair psychology.

  Finally, he said, “You’re right. It’s still there. Always will be.” He glanced at her. “There’s no getting over some things.”

  “Things that make you wish you were dead, you mean?” She propped beside him on her elbow, still feeling the hunger of his kiss on her swollen lips.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t look at her, but she noticed how his expression softened for a moment as he kept his eyes on the far wall.

  “It might help to talk about it.”

  He gave a caustic snort. “Dredge it all up again? Beat it to death?”

  “Well, from what I saw, it wouldn’t take much ‘dredging’.”

  “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Sorry? You better not even think of apologizing for one lousy kiss, Mr. Taylor.”

  “I meant for worrying you—”

  “You didn’t worry me,” Kendi lied, sitting up beside him. “You are beyond words, Jack. You don’t want any help. Even with a hole in your hand, I can’t hold a fork for you. It might make you less manly. You have a terrible nightmare you refuse to discuss for the same reason. I assume it might disturb your perfect sense of machismo, or whatever the hell it is.” She pushed back her hair with an angry gesture.

  Jack watched her in silence, his lips curving upward. He gave a low whistle. “Made you plenty mad, didn’t I?”

  “Were you trying? You know, making someone mad is a great way to put distance between you and—”

  His hand shot out and closed over her wrist. She gave a startled gasp as he pulled her down to him, scant inches from his mouth, his eyes blazing into hers. She didn’t shrink from him, even in the withering heat of his steady gaze. This was her house. Her bed. She felt his grip relax, then tighten again, but she didn’t move.

  “You’re going to open that hole up in your hand.”

  He quirked a dark brow. “Too late.”

  Even as he said it, Kendi felt the sticky warmth oozing through the bandage. She leaned forward, even nearer, closing the small space between them. Her lips touched his mouth with a certainty, and he reluctantly released her wrist, as if he were afraid she’d go. As if he were used to losing the things he cared about.

  Kendi felt it in his touch. She broke the kiss, finally, not touching him, yet not moving away.

  “You’re worried about a hole in my hand.” He moistened his lips, still watching her. “If I talk about it, I’ll open up a hole in my heart. I can’t afford it, Kendi.” His voice was low and quiet. “I’ve lost all I’m ever going to lose, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Kendi gave him a hesitant smile. “As you said earlier—too late.” She looked down, moving away. Jack reached for her, and she let him settle her beside him again, her head near his shoulder.

  He sighed heavily. “I figured that.” He took a decisive breath, as if he’d crossed a barrier within himself and was resigned somehow to going forward. He touched her hair, and by the look on his face, there was no doubt he was debating with himself about what to tell her, and how.

  “It’s too late all around, I guess,” he murmured. “I can’t fight this any longer, either.” He shook his head and blew out a sigh. “Kendi, you ought to be running away from me so fast—”

  “Why? Jack, what could you have possibly done that’s so bad?”

  “I’m going to tell you. All of it. And when I’m done, I want you to know I won’t blame you if...if you do run out of here screaming. But, I also want you to believe me when I tell you, I would never hurt you.”

  “I do believe that.” Her hand drifted across his hard-muscled waist, settling on his bare hip. “I believe in you.”

  A wistful longing crossed his face for a moment, and he moved to kiss her forehead. “I hope you keep the faith. Just until I can finish telling you everything.”

  Chapter Eight

  It had been a long time since he’d let himself remember. Of course, the nightmares forced themselves into his subconscious often enough that he never truly forgot—not really. That evil night was always there, lurking in the recesses of his memory, and he knew it would never leave him. It needed to be there, to keep from being forgotten. As if that would ever happen.

  He took his time, picking and choosing the words he wanted to use to tell the story. It was gruesome enough to remember, and putting it into words wasn’t easy. He’d never thought he’d have to do it again after giving his account to the police.

  “I was living with my girlfriend Amy and her son in Tulsa,” he began quietly. “Back when I was young and stupid, and thought—” He broke off, then went on
quickly “—I thought I was untouchable. I was running drugs...”

  He stopped again. Kendi rubbed his arm gently, letting him know she was listening. “That night...uh, it was—in the summer. In July. The day before my birthday.” He drew in a deep breath. “We’d gone out to eat, to celebrate—because it was Saturday. Mikey was excited and didn’t want to hold Amy’s hand to cross the street. I picked him up and carried him to the door. Amy unlocked it...”

  The blow to the back of his head drove Jack to his knees. From somewhere, he heard Amy scream his name, heard Mikey cry as he fell to the carpeted floor ahead of where Jack had fallen.

  A man’s laughter came from behind him. He tried to get to his feet, only to be shoved to the ground, his head hitting the couch cushion, then the floor, as his arms were yanked behind him and tied.

  “We been lookin’ ever’where, man. Can’t find your stash. You must have a good hidin’ place.” A booted foot caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs so brutally he thought he would be sick. But he tamped down the nausea, shaking his head to clear it.

  “Hey, man, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way...”

  Abruptly, he was hauled to his feet, still struggling for breath. He looked at his assailants, one by one, memorizing their features. Four men; two of them, regular customers of his. Arnie Mason, who lived in the same apartment complex two buildings over, and Dale Harrison, Arnie’s cousin. The other two, he didn’t know.

  Mikey was crying inconsolably in Amy’s arms, and Arnie cast an irritated glare toward where they stood by the kitchen door. “Shut that brat up. He’s workin’ my last good nerve.”

  “No call for that—” Jack began. Arnie’s powerful right cross knocked him back against the wall, and Mikey wailed even louder.

  “Where’s the stuff?” Harrison asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “I bet...I just bet we can make you talk.” He turned toward Amy and Mikey, advancing slowly. Amy took a step back, but there was nowhere to run. She was breathing in ragged gasps. “Put the boy down,” Harrison ordered softly.

  “No—oh please—”Amy said breathlessly.

  “I said put him down!”

  “You’re a bad man!” Mikey yelled, flailing out at Arnie’s jowly face. His infantile punch was lucky, connecting squarely with Arnie’s nose. Blood streamed down his face. He ripped Mikey away from his mother’s grasp and set him on the ground, pushing Amy into the kitchen.

  “Mason!” Jack started toward Arnie, but Harrison yanked him back.

  “Just stay where you are,” Harrison ordered, giving Mason a knowing grin over Jack’s shoulder.

  “I don’t have any more stuff! I fuckin’ told you, I sold it all!”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Harrison mocked from behind him, and the other two men laughed nervously.

  Arnie Mason knelt in front of Mikey. “Want to see a magic trick?” Arnie’s voice was hard, and his tone made Jack numb with fear.

  “He’s just a kid, Mason!” Jack could hear the boundless note of raw terror in his own voice, but was helpless to stop it.

  Mason smiled, wiping the blood from his face, then placed his hand on Mikey’s head.

  “No!” Mikey yelled, trying to squirm away. Mason held him tightly, and the four-year-old was no match—no match at all—for the stocky adult.

  “He’s just a kid, for God’s sake! Mason, don’t! Don’t do it!” Jack fought to get to Arnie Mason but the other three goons held him.

  Mason turned slowly to look at Jack, grinning hellishly, and Jack’s helplessness in that instant had never been equaled.

  He surged forward again with an animalistic cry of rage, straining to get free, but Harrison pulled him back. He threw Jack against the wall and began pummeling him. It wasn’t long until the two nameless thugs joined in, and Jack knew he was dying, too. His one regret was his hands were tied and he couldn’t at least take a couple of the bastards down with him.

  But he hadn’t died. He’d come to with a dash of cold water in his face. Groggily, he’d focused through swollen eyes, looking at Amy. She lay dead on the kitchen floor, Mikey beside her...unnaturally still.

  Mason’s voice spoke into his ear. “She was a wildcat, your woman was. She never gave one inch—never told us where your stash is, either.” He slapped a hand on his leg. “You want to tell us where the stuff is now? Cause, we are surely gettin’ tired of waitin’ around.”

  Jack closed his eyes, willing himself to die, too. He had failed Amy. Failed Mikey.

  How could he still be alive? His heart was ripped out, but he was still here, still breathing.

  Just then, Arnie Mason’s cell phone rang. “Walkin’ on Sunshine.” That was ludicrous. How could that be? There would never be sunshine again. Jack’s thoughts were scrambled, and he wanted nothing but death’s release.

  “What?” Mason’s voice was worried. “Now?” There was a pause, then, “Shit.” He snapped the phone shut. “Let’s go, Deke. Cops’re here—that was Dale.”

  “What about him?” Deke asked. He glanced at Jack finally, then back at Mason. “Can you break his neck, too?”

  Mason kicked Jack in the kidney, watching with unsuppressed glee as he could do nothing but groan at the excruciating agony. “Could. But I think I wrenched my back when I offed that kid. Besides, it’ll give him somethin’ to think about. I bet we’ll be gettin’ free dope from now on, Deke. A lifetime supply.” He leaned close to Jack again. “Right, Mr. Taylor?”

  The police had come in just seconds after the men had escaped through the back door.

  Jack remembered the urgency in their voices, the disgust as they discovered Mikey’s body, then Amy’s.

  He swallowed at the gruesome memories, and at the recounting of the sordid story to Kendi. She hadn’t flinched as he’d spoken, but she’d gone completely still, drawn into the past along with him.

  “They told me how lucky I was to be alive,” he murmured hollowly. “I...wasn’t alive. They just didn’t understand. My body worked...sort of. But I was dead. That made me dangerous. I felt it didn’t matter what happened to me.”

  Kendi still didn’t speak, though Jack had fallen silent. He felt the warm streak of wetness against him. She was crying. Were her tears for what had happened to him, or because of what he really was? For a moment, he doubted himself. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest. Had he lost her already? He sighed. It was done now, no matter the outcome. “Should I go on?” he asked softly.

  She nodded, her silky hair tickling his neck.

  “They cut me free, did what they could until the paramedics got there. I guess you could say that was the night my life was turned around in more ways than one.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Up to that point, I’d spent my days running from the law. I’d never needed a police officer for anything. Never had any use for them. I took pride in being able to outwit them any way I could. But...those officers who answered the call that night changed everything. They really cared. One of ’em was just a few years older than me. I think maybe, when he put his hand on my shoulder, I knew all cops weren’t out to get me. He kept saying, ‘Hang on. They’ll be here soon—just hang on.’ It was like he was saying it for himself as much as for me. We were both young.” He paused before he went on.

  “I don’t remember anything, except the way he tried to be there for me. I woke up in the hospital the next day and they had posted a police guard at my door. Made me want to laugh. But I felt I’d never laugh again; not after all I’d lost. Everything was gone, except those memories. I couldn’t shut those out, no matter how I tried.”

  “You survived, though,” Kendi said through her tears.

  “Yeah...well, I had something I had to do. I had to see it through.” His mind drifted, and he let the rest of the memories come. He was feeling sleepy again, but relieved. It felt good to get it all out. Kendi would know it all—no surprises.

  Jack opened his eyes to find Officer Allen Thompson sitti
ng in the big corner chair, watching him. The other uniformed guard stood just outside the door. Thompson, a veteran of the Tulsa Police Department, was a burly man with kind blue eyes that had seen everything. And, he had been there the night “it” happened.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Thompson said.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. The steady rhythm of the machinery in the room with them and the muted conversation in the hallway were the only sounds.

  “Why’re you here?” Jack ground out.

  Thompson leaned forward. “It’s not good to be alone. Not after something like...like what happened. And you’re about as alone as anyone I’ve ever known.”

  Jack didn’t reply. He focused his eyes, half hoping Thompson would leave, half hoping he’d stay. Officer Thompson was right about one thing so far. He didn’t want to be alone.

  “Been checking on you, Jackson. No parents, no sibs, no other relatives—it’s like you were born last Saturday night—the night you were almost killed.”

  “Shows how efficient the system can be.”

  Thompson cocked a sandy brow in question.

  “Foster care,” Jack explained.

  “How long?”

  “Forever.” His lids drifted shut against the brightness, and Thompson stood up to turn the overhead light off.

  “How old are you, son?” The concern in the policeman’s voice brought sudden tears to Jack’s eyes. He kept them shut, waiting until he could get himself under control before he answered.

  “Twenty.”

  “Why did they leave you alive?”

  He gave the policeman a steady look through quarter-inch slits. “They didn’t.”

  Thompson nodded, not disputing. “Feels that way, I’m sure.” He looked at the floor. “That boy yours?”

  “No. But you already know that.”

  Thompson shrugged. “I wondered if you did. Sure, we did DNA tests, but sometimes women—well, they tell a different story than the testing does. I just thought it might ease your mind, if you were thinking he was your son.”