“Man, Deac, your imagination is really workin’ overtime. Listen, I’ll tell you what. You know John Candella, right? He’s a member of the Sons; everybody calls him Shield. He’s tall with red hair, and his wife’s a bleached blonde with great teats.”
“Sure I know him, so what?”
“He’s a cop.”
“What, Shield a cop? No way.”
“Yup, he’s a major case detective downtown.”
“What do you want me to do, turn myself in and beg for mercy?”
“No, course not, what I’m thinkin’ is that I ask John, just as a buddy interested in knowing what’s goin’ down, to share some of the details of the two cases.”
“Why would he do that? He’d risk his job. He won’t take the chance just to satisfy a brother’s curiosity.”
“Maybe not, but he’s been tryin’ to convince me to sell my bike for a couple a years now. If I offer him a once-in-a-life-time deal, he’ll be so happy. He’ll do anything.”
“Doc, I can’t let you do that. Your Harley’s your life, man. She took years to build. It’d be like me givin’ up Widowmaker; it’s just too much. I can’t let you do that for me.”
“You’ve missed the point, Deac, that machine isn’t my life, you are, you and my family. You’re my brother. You’ve always been there for me. This is something that I can’t, not do.”
*****
Doc caught John Candella off guard when he offered him the deal. “I don’t like this, Doc. If I get you copies of those reports and somebody finds out, I’ll get fired for sure, maybe even busted.”
“Okay, John, I just figured you, of all people, would understand how exciting it is to be able to get somethin’ you aren’t supposed to have,” Doc insinuated.
“All right, all right, I give. I’ll help you, but you read the reports, destroy them, and don’t tell a soul, okay?”
“Deal.”
“No, you have to swear.”
“Okay, I swear. Now, when can I have them?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. When can I have my bike?”
*****
Looking up from the report, Doc shook his head. “Deacon, look at this. It’s worse than I imagined.”
It was nearly midnight, and the two men were alone, locked inside their bike shop. A single tarnished banker’s lamp illuminated the windowless service area. An incandescent bulb caused the thick green shade to glow. Clinical white light spilled onto the gray metal desk lighting a single oblong area.
Doc’s index finger flushed white from unconscious pressure on the paper. He marked his place on the poorly copied report, and read aloud. “Victim’s head, positioned upright on a large plate, was found in the kitchen. Eyes were open and small amount of dried blood formed a pool around severed neck.”
“Oh, my God, Doc, that’s unbelievable! Jesus, what if I did that?”
“Come on, Deacon, help me. Let’s get through this. Make notes in your little book. Let’s get all the details. I promised Shield I’d destroy the report, but he didn’t say anything about takin’ notes.”
“Should we copy it word for word? It’d be easier if we just make a photocopy.”
“Yeah, I know, but I gave my word, and there’s no difference between this copy and one off our machine. All we need is the pertinent stuff,” Doc turned his attention to the page. “Look, they call it rape slash homicide. The woman’s name was Cynthia A. Thomas. Are you sure that name doesn’t ring a bell?”
“No, like I said, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name.” Deacon pointed to an entry on the form. “She was born April nineteenth, 1972. Poor girl turned twenty-four this year.”
“This says the time of death is estimated at somewhere between one and two in the morning, Sunday. Where did you say you were?”
“According to Star, I was passed out behind a bar on The Landing.”
“She lived on the corner of Sidney and Salena. Probably less than fifteen minutes from The Landing, especially at that hour of the morning. Deacon, even though you were close enough, surely you didn’t ride over there. You were passed out, right?”
“Do you think that if what I consider to be my normal-self is unconscious, that another personality could be conscious?”
“You’re talkin’ about somethin’ that’s out of my league. If it doesn’t have spark plugs and valves, I don’t know much about it.”
“What else does the report say?”
“They found a straight razor at the scene.”
“Wow, imagine what a mess that must have been.” Deacon cast his eyes down as if trying to remember. “There was blood on my shirt, but what about my jeans? Cutting off someone’s head would have made an incredible bloody mess, right?”
“Yeah, I don’t know anything about crime scenes, but I saw Brown in the alley and I’ve never seen so much blood. A rapist would have to have his pants off, or at least down. The killer must have had blood all over him.”
“Great, now I’m a killer and a rapist.” Deacon slumped over in the ragged shop chair.
“That’s not what I meant, Deacon. I was just thinkin’ out loud. I’m trying to help you prove that you didn’t do it, not that you did.”
Doc read the rest of the report aloud. “Reporting officer arrived at 1956 Sidney Street, Apartment C, at zero three hundred hours in response to an anonymous report of a homicide. Caller thought to be female, overly excited, spoke broken English with a very heavy accent, possibly Spanish.”
“R/O found the apartment door closed, but unlocked, with no sign of forced entry. All windows were locked and unbroken. Female victim’s torso was completely naked; hands and feet tied to the four corners of the bed. Total bleed out occurred in the upper one-third of the bed. Sheet and mattress uniformly severed directly below neck laceration, indicating head was removed while the victim was prostrate on the bed. Victim’s head was found in the kitchen… Okay, Deacon, we’ve already read this part. Let’s work on the list of facts.” Doc ground his fists against his eyelids. “We’re missin’ something.”
“Maybe we can get something more, like a copy of the autopsy.” Deacon suggested in a tired voice. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the morning.
“There you go, that’s a great idea.” Doc sounded excited. “If we can get the medical examiner’s report, it should have blood type and all sorts of shit, maybe even somethin’ about the assailant. Do rapists use condoms?”
“You’re asking me? How will we get our hands on the ME’s report, and what can we do in the meantime? Doc, I’m too nervous to sit around. What—what if there’s another murder?”
“I understand. I don’t want to wait around either, but it’ll probably take a couple of days for John to copy another report. I just hope he’s still grateful. By the way, Deac, what’s your blood type?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a test, least ways, not one that I remember.” He sighed, “Just another example of what a worthless piece of shit I am. I’ve never even donated blood.”
“Continually beatin’ yourself up, over every fuckin’ thing, isn’t gonna help. First thing tomorrow, why don’t you go to one of those independent labs? I know one. My kids’ dermatologist sent them. If your blood type isn’t a match, that alone will disqualify you as a suspect. Now, go home and get some rest. You look like shit.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You know what I mean. This shit is takin’ its toll on you. One other thing, we’re friends, right? I mean best friends.”
“Of course, we are, Doc, you know that. Why?”
“Good, ’cause I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”
“Take what the wrong way?”
“Deacon, I don’t think you should drink anymore. I know you and Star are convinced you’re not an alcoholic, and I’m no expert. So, I’m not saying that you are. But as your friend, as your best friend, I’m just tellin’ ya that from where I stand nearly every time you drink somethin’ gets fucked up.”
Deac
on’s forlorn gaze was riveted to the ceiling. He answered in a deliberate whisper. “I know. I know you’re right. I don’t think I’m a drunk, but I can’t take that chance. I’m not going to drink anymore. Just please, please stick with me; help me. I have to know. I have to find the truth. When I do, I promise you I’m going to do something about it.”
“Do something?” Deacon’s choice of words and the way in which he said them set off a subconscious alarm in Doc’s mind.
“I don’t know exactly, but if it’s me—if I’m the one, somehow, I have to stop it. Somehow, I will have to stop me.”
*****
“Hi, doll. I’m glad you’re home.” Star met Deacon at the door. “I’ve missed you. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“I’m okay. Doc and I were catchin’ up on some work. I’m sorry it’s so late, I should’ve called.”
“It’s okay. All that matters is you’re safe. I’m just a little over sensitive. The crazy stuff that’s been happening must be rubbing off. Come sit with me.” She led him, by the hand, to his favorite chair. “Let me make you a drink, and something to eat.”
Deacon squeezed her hand. “Star, we need to talk.”
“Sure, doll, what’s on your mind?” She knelt at his feet. Her big blue eyes glistened with compassion.
“First, I want you to know—I want to remind you, that you mean everything to me.”
“Oh, my God, this sounds like a Dear Star conversation.” Tears welled up, and she squeezed his hands.
“Oh, sweetie, Star, Estrellita, never, don’t even think that for a moment. This is about being together, not apart. This is about loving you, about our future, our happiness, and our life. There’s just so much happening to me that I’m confused.
“On one hand, I have you. Without question, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I assure you, I am prepared to do anything necessary to protect that, to protect us. On the other hand, as you already mentioned, there’s plenty of weird stuff going on. Ordinarily, I’d just say that’s life; it’s not my problem, and continue doing whatever I was doing. However, I can’t do that this time because it’s all too close. Mostly, I’m scared to death by my nightmares, and especially the blackouts.
“Star, I have to find out what’s happening to me and why. I have to confront my demons. Then, we can be truly happy. We can be together forever.”
“Deacon, we are going to be together forever.” She said emphatically, wrapping her arms around his legs. “You feel our connection, don’t you? Nothing, or no one, can ever come between us. What’s happening is just part of a crazy world, a civilization off balance. It’s been this way since the beginning of time. Today, in some way, outside forces are affecting us, but it’s all in the odds. It doesn’t have to mean that it has anything to do with us, with you.”
“I wish I were as convinced as you. It just doesn’t feel right.” He shook his head. “It’s all too personal. Maybe if I were alone, it wouldn’t matter so much, but I’m not. I have you to consider. For the first time in my life, I truly love someone, and she loves me. I’ve waited too long for you. Our life is too perfect. I refuse to put us, to put you, at risk.”
“Deacon, that’s so sweet, you’re so sweet, but I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me? How can I be at risk?”
“I need to explain. There may be a serial killer out there, and he seems to be moving in our circle. What if you’re his next target? Then, there’s me, what if I’m sick? What if I am losing my mind?”
“You’re not losing your mind, and nothing can change our love,” she argued.
“I’m not talking about changing it. I know that’s not possible. I have for you, what I’m sure, is unconditional love. I will do anything for you. Star, I would die for you. Just imagine, if we die for the person we love, we might save that person’s life, but the survivor will suffer to endure the loss. Which is worse, dying or surviving the death of the love of your life?”
“Deacon, I’m lost. You’re talkin’ crazy. Nothing’s going to happen. No one’s going to die.”
“I know this must sound bizarre, and maybe it is. Regardless of the outcome, at least I’ve told you. Now, I need your help.”
“I’ll do anything you ask. You know that.”
“Sweetie, I know we’ve agreed that I don’t have a problem, but I don’t want to take any chances.” He said unflinchingly. “I want to stop drinkin’, cold turkey, not a drop, and I want you to help me.”
She answered without hesitation. “Whatever you say, doll, not a drop, not ever. You can count on me.” She climbed onto his lap, wrapped her long arms around his neck, and squeezed. With moist lips nestled against his ear, she whispered. “You can count on me. Doll, you’re so tense.”
She slid down, disappeared into the kitchen, and called back. “I’m going to make you a steaming cup of chamomile tea. My momma used to say there’s nothing better for what ails you than chamomile.”
Deacon settled into the over-stuffed recliner, and closed his eyes. His mind drifted. What seemed like a single, luxurious moment later, the glass teapot whistled.
“Be careful, don’t burn yourself,” She whispered in an ethereal voice.
He gingerly sipped the strong, bitter elixir. Even tastes like medicine, he thought.
“Drink, lover, drink it all. Relax. I’m here; you’re safe.” She coaxed him until he had drained every dram.
Deacon evaporated into a troubled sleep, to a place void of warmth and comfort, the demons’ sanctuary.
He swam alone in a murky brown river. Instinct kept his head above water. In the middle, a great distance from either bank of a very wide channel, he tried to touch bottom, but found nothing. He tried to relax, and concentrated on slowing his breathing.
In the distance, a long bridge, supported by massive moss-covered gray stone arched-top legs, stretched across the water. The current broke against the supports, and emanated out like two great Vs until they gradually diminished. The elevated roadway loomed large as the current swept a powerless Deacon down the ever-widening channel.
It sounded like a surfacing submarine in an old World War II movie. Startled, Deacon looked back over his left shoulder. The huge open mouth broke the dark surface. Fear tore through his body; he felt the dark tongue-filled cavity surround him. He screamed into the sky lit by a black sun.
He thrashed, and fought for his life, breaking free of the giant hippo’s bite. Instead of plunging into dark water, he fell through the air. A hard, flat surface stopped his fall.
A beguiling voice spoke to him. “It’s okay, doll, I’m here. It was just a nightmare. It’s all right. C’mon, let’s get you unwrapped. How in the world did you get so tangled up in the sheets? Maybe you don’t have to drink to have nightmares after all. Try to get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Deacon awoke long before daylight; his head throbbed. What is it that haunts me? He pondered. What have I done to bring this upon myself? I haven’t touched a drop for two days, and still I feel like I’ve been on a forty-eight hour drunk.
Star yawned, and made a waking noise. “Are you okay, doll?” She stroked his muscular chest. “Did you sleep okay?” She asked anxiously in her husky morning voice. “I was out like a light after we got you back into bed.” She rolled onto her side, propped herself up on her elbow, and held her face three inches from his. “Deacon, are you okay?” She repeated louder than before.
He did not flinch. “I’m okay.” He answered faintly. “I have a killer headache, that’s all.”
“Relax. I’ll get you a glass of water and some aspirin. Did you hit your head when you fell out of bed?”
“I don’t know what happened. I don’t have any lumps, but I feel like I really tied one on.”
“I hate to say I told you so again, but all you drank was a cup of chamomile tea, and you had a nightmare. See, everyone has nightmares.”
“Maybe you’re right. Either way I know for sure that drinkin’ doesn’t help, s
o why take the chance. Besides, I’ve already dried out once, and I don’t want to go through that again.”
“Okay, Deacon,” she tossed the curt words at him, “it’s your life.”
He dozed off. He awoke to find Star sitting next to him. She gently wiped the back of his neck with a cool moist cloth. “I thought you were mad at me?” He asked peeking from under the black sheet.
“I’m sorry.” She continued mopping his neck. “I just get stuff in my head, and sometimes I’m not very understanding. Forgive me?”
“Darling, there’s nothing to forgive.” He drew her close. “I adore you.”
She placed two aspirin between his lips. “Take these. You want to tell me about your nightmare. Talking might make you feel better.”
“Do you want to get your dream book? Maybe we can figure out what it means.”
It took a while, but he described to her, to the best of his memory, the river, the bridge, and his escape from the mouth of the hippo.
“I think you have to balance the book’s interpretation with general definitions of events.” Star sat, her legs crossed under her, in the middle of the bed. She flipped through the pages of the book. “The bridge probably represents a transition between two periods in your life. Maybe it means things are changing for the better?”
“If I’m getting better, how come it’s so damn scary?” He asked glumly.
“The unknown is always scary.”
“What else?” He touched the book as if to hurry the process. “What about getting eaten?”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t sound quite so encouraging. It could be, symbolically, the hippo is assimilating your strength. It’s possibly a manifestation of the jaws of death or the extinction of consciousness.”
“Great, none of that sounds good.” Deacon said apprehensively. “Extinction of consciousness and awareness is what I fight against every day.”
“Deacon, are you really sure you want to know all of this? They’re just one person’s idea; maybe, it doesn’t apply to you.”
“Yes, I want to know. I have to know. Tell me all of it, no matter how difficult.”
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