by L. E. Green
Abigail said, “For the jacket and … for everything else. It’s not much but it’s all I have.”
Frankie received the gesture as an insult. He slid the money back over the table and said, “I don’t want your money.”
She didn’t argue. She took the money back and walked towards the door with all her things stuffed into a backpack. She didn’t say goodbye. She turned her back without hesitation.
Frankie asked her, “Where are you going?”
She didn’t respond.
Her hand pressed against the cold metal bar on the door. Frankie stood up and yelled at her with a stern voice, one reminiscent of a father reprimanding a stubborn child, “Where the hell are you going?!”
She stopped in her tracks and she turned around.
Abigail respectfully responded to Frankie, who she knew cared about her, “If I tell you, it will only make things worse. I have to get outta here. Frankie, thanks for everything. I really appreciate you. You too, Roger.”
Frankie calmed down, “Come sit down for a minute. Please.”
Abigail gave in. She walked back and sat at the table where breakfast had been waiting for her.
Frankie continued, “If something is wrong, this is the place to talk about it. You’re family, Abigail.”
She responded, “I just don’t want to bring trouble to you, Roger or the pub. You guys don’t understand. I wasn’t shot in Boston. I was shot about 50 miles from here. I was chased… and ran here– the entire way on foot. There are things about me that are not natural. It’s not just the people looking for me. It’s me. I could hurt you too. You’re a big guy, Frankie but you can’t comprehend the strength… There are still some things I don’t remember. I can’t explain so much of what is happening. It’s not fair to involve you guys. And the things I do remember...” she stirred her fork around on the plate.
Roger looked guilty, dropped his head and said, “I can help you, Abigail.”
She first thought that Roger’s suggestion to help was a simple and kind gesture. Then she looked deeper into his expression and realized there was more to the comment than she initially thought. She tilted her head, looking curiously into Roger’s eyes as he lifted his head to further explain. She sensed there was a certain level of truth in his voice that made her believe he had something worth listening to on his mind. She nibbled on her split lip and exhaled.
Roger said, “We should talk. I need to be honest with you about something. We should probably head back to my house and talk.”
Abigail nodded. They quickly finished eating and rose up from their chairs, heading towards the door. Roger grabbed his things and followed her. Frankie picked up his keys and tossed them to Roger. He trusted Roger more than he wanted to. Frankie said, “Take the truck.” Frankie didn’t get the whole story from Roger, but at that table, while waiting for Abigail to come down for breakfast, Roger had told Frankie a few things that were almost unbelievable. He told Frankie about the incident in the alley and that Abigail had saved them. He didn’t give a complete description of her rage, but Frankie knew something sacred had happened in that alley. And lastly, Roger had explained to Frankie what he was about to tell Abigail on the ride back to his house.
FLASHBACK (EARLY MORNING)
About two hours after Abigail had slipped back into the bed from her late night fit, Roger woke up to a text from his mother, “CALL ME NOW!!”
The phone sounded like a woodpecker, buzzing against the wooden floor. He left the room and called his mother. With a sleepy voice he asked, “Hey Mom. It’s late! Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Ms. Atkins sounded serious as ever, “Bring your ass home, Roger.”
She never usually bothered Roger about staying out late or coming home by a certain time. Roger knew that something was bothering her, but the sense of urgency in her tone was one he hadn’t heard in a very long time. The last time he remembered her being overly nervous about things was when they first moved from Connecticut to Boston.
Terry Atkins, a disabled mother of one, would hear voices at night and would run into Roger’s room to make sure he was okay. She would lay in the bed with him and cuddle next to him as if they were in danger during a thunderstorm, hurricane or even a mild wind that moved a few plants around on the porch. Before bed time, she double locked all the windows and doors. She closed the shades and blinds and always kept the TV going at night. She slept with a knife under her pillow and gave Roger a knife to keep in the night stand. Her paranoia lasted for about three years after the move to Boston. It took her many years to explain to Roger why she panicked so often. This reminded him of those days.
She repeated herself, “Roger, please… come home now!”
Roger was still waking up, “What… Why?”
She explained, “Your friend Elvis is in a heap of shit. I saw some pictures on your bed…” She took a deep breath before she continued, “I haven’t seen those marks in years, but I will never forget them. Never!”
Terry Atkins continued to tell him a few things before she decided that speaking on the phone was a bad idea. I’m forgetting basic no no’s of discretion. Phones are not secure. She reemphasized to Roger how important it was for him to make his way home as soon as possible. Then she hung up the phone. She scratched the back of her neck and paced through the kitchen. Ms. Atkins spied through the window curtains. Her state of paranoia had returned with full force. She was perspiring and mumbling. Terry walked back and forth in the house as her anxiety increased.
Roger couldn’t wait to get home to get more answers and he couldn’t wait to tell Abigail that maybe his mother held the key to finding long overdue answers to her questions.
CHAPTER 10
LARGE CORNFIELD
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
The night was seasonably warm, with a cool tickling breeze. Overhead, the faint cry of a crow echoed over the hills of grass and trodden earth. Silence and mist fell upon clearing on the other side of a forest, which opened to a 100–acre farm. There was a small house and large barn with cracking sides which hadn’t been painted in years, but the updated tractor in it suggested that the farm wasn’t abandoned. It was off season until spring when plowing and planting would resume. All lights were off in the house. A small stream of smoke ascended from the chimney.
The former corn rows were still visible after a season of a few winter storms and heavy rain. Suddenly, coming out of the forest edge, bare feet splashed through the muddy old cornfield. The feet belonged to a woman. She stopped. She looked around and listened carefully. It was Abigail. Her eyes were blazing blue and her muscles were tightly flexed. Her mouth bled as she breathed heavily. Then, she held her breath and listened. She could hear her enemy near. She bent her knees and slipped one foot back. She growled and burst into a sprint. Within three or four leaps she was taken off her feet by a man also with glowing blue eyes. He pounced upon her, ripping at her body. They fought like wild cats scratching, punching and hissing at one another. They tossed one another to and fro.
Abigail managed to loosen his grip and ran again, dashing towards the edge of the woods on the other side. A helicopter could be heard approaching in the distance. It must be about a mile away. They were looking for her. She needed to reach the woods for a better chance of escaping. Just as she reached the edge of the woods, she was suddenly knocked down on her face. She turned around and saw her enemy before her. She and the man fought, rolling and growling in the muddy mash of dirt, grass and fungi. They punched and kicked, blocked and scratched, fighting for their lives. The loser would surely die.
Abigail felt minimal pain, and though her strength waned, she was winning. Every blow was precise, aiming for soft spots and major blood vessels. They were wrestling on the ground when, without warning, she heard a sharp sound behind her. She turned to look and was taken off guard by a fierce blow to the head by her opponent. The sound was the cry of a wounded deer about 300 yards away. The screech sounded like a rusty door hinge creaking. It was a sou
nd that demanded Abigail’s attention, but also caused her opponent to gain the upper hand.
The blow created a fuzzy world of spinning mist and dust before her. She could barely see. The man she fought with stood to his feet and pulled out a gun. She had only seconds to think of a way to regain control — maybe kick his legs so that he would lose his balance and most likely miss his target. The chopper was getting closer. Abigail was doomed, but rather than plan out an attack strategy, she gave up. Abigail sat up Indian style folding her legs one under the other. She exhaled a long painful exhale as her blazing blue eyes returned back to black. Instead of attacking, she made peace with God the only way she knew how. She remembered someone say it once, and now she understood why. Pater, ignosce mihi, she whispered to herself, and closed her eyes.
The male exhaled. His eyes turned black again. Pointing his gun directly at her head, he stood over her for a moment, confused. There wasn’t much time to think and nothing left to negotiate. He shot twice and darted off into the darkness. The farmhouse lights turned on.
BOSTON POLICE STATION
When they arrived at the police station, Finch noticed a few news reporters buzzing around. Finch asked, “What the hell are they looking for now?”
Brown answered, “No clue!”
Brown and Finch walked directly onto the second level, heading straight for Finch’s desk. They split up. She went to her desk as Brown went to his. When Finch arrived to her desk, she squatted down and opened her file cabinet. The office buzzed with ringing phones, fax machines, and Xerox copies running all morning. Detective Chris Duffy saw Sydney Brown flipping though papers at his desk. He seemed to be in a hurry.
Detective Duffy called over to Brown, “Hey Brown.”
Brown responded, “Hey Duff. How’s it going?” He never gave solid eye contact. He was busy.
Duffy asked, “Where’s the old lady?”
“Who?”
Duffy smiled, “Finch! Where’s Finch?”
Brown pointed in her direction. She was squatting on the other side of her desk and could barely be seen, “She’s right there looking for something.”
Duffy could never start the day without teasing Brown about something; he decided to pester Finch, “Good morning Finch. Actually working?”
Without raising her head over the desk, she stuck up her middle finger as she continued searching for a few files she needed.
Brown was getting annoyed, “What’s going on, Chris? You actually have something to tell me or you just get a kick out of fucking with me on a daily basis?”
Duffy giggled, “Both actually, but I guess I should keep you updated.” He turned serious for the first time in a week, “I’m still working on that memory card. I have some kids coming in from MIT.”
Brown was concerned, “Official police business goes out the window.”
Duffy said, “Listen Sydney, we can sit here and let the damn thing rot in an evidence file or try something new. It wasn’t just water that window cleaner’s phone fell into. We’re talking about a toxic mix of dirt, bird shit and cleaning solutions. The files are jumbled like a jigsaw, but we still have a chance. These kids at MIT are working on software that will restructure the memory files.”
“I guess we have no choice.”
“That’s what I was thinking. We don’t have the equipment or the brains to figure it out. OH… I have something better for you.”
Finch found what she was looking for and joined in on the conversation. She said to Brown, “I got it! What did I miss?”
Brown filled her in saying, “Well your buddy Duffy has some data recovery experts at MIT looking at the memory card using some software to recompile the pictures and hopefully get us something we can work with.”
Duffy interrupted, “Yes and something else too. It was so random. Jiang’s mistress called up here this morning. She wants to talk. She wasn’t sure who she should talk to, but she asked for Homicide.”
Finch was excited, “Where is she?”
Duffy answered, “I really don’t know. She called from a payphone in Framingham. Then she called again from a phone in Worcester. I convinced her to leave us a cell number. She said she is willing to meet. She’s on her way to the station now. She should be here in about 20 minutes.”
Finch didn’t like the sound of this. She made a suggestion, “Convince her to meet us at Starbucks on the Commons instead. There are too many ears around here, the media is buzzing about outside. I don’t want her flaking on us.”
Duffy said, “I wonder if someone found out she was on her way. Hmm.” He paused for a minute and said, “Oh one more thing. The footage from the alley murders is being downloaded to my drive now. It’s gonna take another hour or two. When we get back, we’ll check it out.”
“Great. Call this Jennifer woman and meet us outside. Finch, you drive. Duffy, follow us there.”
Duffy nodded and led them out the main door.
ATKINS’ RESIDENCE
Roger and Abigail entered Roger’s house. They felt guilty and shameful after a long night of murder and deceit. They were fugitives, Roger thought. They hid evidence of their involvement as best they could, but Roger couldn’t stop thinking about all the technological advances made in modern science that could detect the most minuscule particles of evidence. He couldn’t imagine them being foiled by bleach and a hot knife. He prayed the police department lacked in monetary funds to invest in such equipment. He prayed the police would thwart the investigation by their lack of organization, their own stupidity or sheer human error.
Ms. Atkins was sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea as she looked again and again at the photos of Abigail’s tattoos. She couldn’t believe her eyes, but a spark ignited in her lethargic body. She ran her index finger across the paper, tracing the lines in the designs. Memories of many years ago came to the forefront of her mind. She had vivid memories of her past– memories that she had blocked for about a decade had resurfaced thanks to Elvis.
Terry saw Abigail and Roger walk in and immediately stood up, leaving the tea on the table. She gestured Abigail to come closer. Abigail walked closer.
Ms. Atkins straightened her glasses and said, “It’s ok. Come here, Elvis. Come let me see.”
Abigail turned around and took off her top layer of clothing. Ms. Atkins ran her hands over the markings. Her hands were warm from the tea. Ms. Atkins scanned Abigail’s back with the tips of her fingers and her eyes. She adjusted her glasses to get a better look.
Ms. Atkins mumbled, “This is Paltee’s work. Dr. Paltee, that son of a bitch.”
Roger asked, “Doctor who?”
Abigail put her shirt back on. She draped her leather jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. Ms. Atkins poured Roger and Abigail each a cup of tea. She paced for a moment before she remembered to grab sugar and cream from the refrigerator. She placed them on the table next to the tea kettle. She put her hand over her mouth and tapped her cheek with her index finger. She paced again. Roger and Abigail didn’t ask again. They knew these must be hard memories that had resurfaced. Anything she was willing to share would be welcomed. She may never share it all and may never share again.
Roger got out of the chair and put his arm on his mother’s shoulder. Her anxiety had returned after years of remission. He guided his mother to the chair and kissed her on the head to reassure her that he was there for her. Ms. Atkins thought for a moment before she said another word.
“Dr. Paltee. Oh my, I haven’t said that name in years. It’s been about 15 years, but I remember his work. He made these marks. That’s his mark. Right there.” She pointed to a photo on the table.
Abigail looked at the photos but wasn’t sure to which photo Terry was referring. Ms. Atkins shuffled through the pile of photos. She selected one and showed it to Abigail.
Ms. Atkins explained, “This one. He stamped everything he ever did with it– letters, drawings, and I guess you. I wasn’t around long but...”
Abigail was stunned and
interrupted, “Wait. How do you know about this? What is your involvement?”
Each mark was tattooed in black ink. They were circular tribal style designs. Each circle was smaller than the next as they stretched from center of her shoulders to the small of her back. The inner designs were constructed of various combinations of shapes, varying line thicknesses, symbols and shading. Four of the tattoos centered on a main animal figure in the center. The smallest tattoo was a simple circle about the size of a fifty cent piece. There were three concentric circles with the circumference of each circle, getting thicker towards the center. In the middle was a small tribal butterfly that Dr. Paltee used to signature his work.
The marks in Abigail’s head, the ones she could see, were different. Through the shortened hair on the sides of her head, the tattoos were visible. On the left side, the tattoos looked like ancient symbols or an unknown language. They were written in the shape of a 3 x 3 inch square. There were about 15 lines of symbols, some repeating, some only depicted once. On the right side of her head, was a larger design that disappeared under the longer hair that striped down the middle of her head. What was visible showed a bar code and a hieroglyphic style picture. There were various images crowded together in layers. Only the bottom three levels were showing. She would have to shave her head to get the full image.
On the bottom level were four animals standing about an inch and a half tall, the same animals in the tattoos on her spine. They were standing side by side with locked arms. The animals on the farthest left and right held weapons. One held a spear, the other held a bow. They had animal heads and human bodies. They were accompanied by other symbols and artistic designs. The second level centered around eagle wings. On either side of the wings were clouds with smaller birds and four more animals similar to those on totem poles. The third level was partially covered, but of what was visible, there were pictures of spears, spiders, skulls and bones accompanied by more symbols.