by Tim Marquitz
Michael.
Energized by nearly an entire pot of black coffee, its potency chasing most of the hangover from my system, I flipped through the phonebook to find the address of Colonial Liquor’s main office. Once I had that, I dug my service pistol out of the safe and loaded it, stuffing a couple of extra magazines into my jacket pockets. The .45 felt heavy in my hands. It’d been over fifteen years since I’d fired the thing, but I had to thank the Army for yet another compulsion it had ingrained in me. I cleaned the gun religiously, so I was sure it would work, if it came to that.
I wasn’t licensed to carry the pistol concealed, but I wanted it on me, just in case. As long as I didn’t do anything to draw attention, I wouldn’t have to worry about it, anyway. In the car, I slid the pistol and mags under the seat and headed off.
The morning air was crisp and clear, and I rolled the window down as I drove, the chill wind keeping me alert. I had an exciting day ahead of me, and I didn’t want anything to stop me from learning the truth.
#
My day turned out to be longer than I expected. I’d picked a spot at the back end of the Colonial Liquor parking lot, just close enough so I could see who went in and out, but far enough out of the way that I wouldn’t look too suspicious. Eight hours into my watch, it felt like I’d wasted my time. Having arrived after the offices opened, I hadn’t seen Michael go inside so I wasn’t even sure he was there. Not knowing what kind of car he drove, there was no way to confirm he’d even come in today.
I thought about calling the office and asking for him, but I didn’t want to tip him off. If he’d heard about the graves, he’d know someone was onto him. I could only hope he was still in the dark because I wouldn’t get far if he knew I was coming.
My stomach rumbled and growled as I sat in wait. The donuts I’d picked up on the way had long since been devoured, and I hadn’t thought to grab anything else. My legs tingled from being confined for so long, and my back was a mass of twisted knots that made it hard to sit still. Worse yet, there had been hardly any traffic at the office. Only the occasional visitor drifted in and out over the course of my watch. There were a few men in suits who sauntered in late and hadn’t yet left, and a secretary who came out front every half hour to smoke. She made the wait unbearable, reminding me over and over of the time. I could set my watch by her smoke breaks, but I hadn’t seen hide or hair of Michael.
It was a little after six in the evening, the sun having already set beyond the horizon, that I decided to give up. The chain-smoking secretary had left for the night, as had several of her co-workers, and no one had stopped in for over two hours, making the time crawl. The streetlamps arranged around the parking lot gave me plenty of light to see the office entrance, but I couldn’t focus anymore. My eyes were itchy and irritated and my entire body ached from the strenuous activity of the night before, compounded by the long sit. Afraid to step out of the car and stretch, I hurt. My headache had come back strong, and my ears hummed with the pressure of it.
I reached down to start the car when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Ducking down in the seat, I saw a suited man exiting the building. The lighted open sign above the door had been turned off and he pushed the door closed, appearing to lock it. His back to me, I couldn’t identify the man, but my heart pounded in anticipation. He looked about the right age and size, but he stood in the shadows as he checked the lock, making him difficult to see. Just a moment later, as he turned and headed toward his car, all the uncertainty dropped away.
Joseph’s face became clear under the lights.
Michael didn’t even glance in my direction. He strode to a late model Cadillac and hopped inside. He was out of the parking and on the road just a few seconds after. My hands clutching at the wheel, knuckles white, I waited until he turned the corner and pulled off behind him.
He drove cautiously, as though he were in no hurry, never once giving me any cause to believe he noticed me behind him. I’d never followed anyone before, but he made it easy. He used his turn signals at every lane change and kept it well within the speed limit as he headed across town. The hardest part was keeping a couple of cars between us.
After a while, he pulled off the highway and into a residential area in a nice part of town. He coasted through the quiet neighborhood for a few minutes, and then rolled into the open driveway of a nice, one-story house on the corner. I drove past like I belonged there and turned onto the first side street I came across. Once I found a place where my old sedan wouldn’t draw too much attention, I parked and turned the car off.
My whole body trembled as I sat there trying to convince myself to get out. I still wasn’t sure of what I was doing, but if I was going to find some answers as to what happened to my grandchildren, this was the best place to start. A few minutes later, I managed to steady myself, rubbing my hands together to warm them. I collected my pistol and made sure the safety was engaged, then stuffed it and the extra magazines into my jacket pockets. Before too long, I was in front of Michael’s house, slipping through the open gate.
The Cadillac sat silent in the covered driveway, and I could see lights inside the house through the half-open shades. Thankfully, the porch light had been left off and the streetlamp was anchored on the other side of the road so it didn’t cast much illumination over the yard. What little did make it was mostly blocked by the tall shrubbery that encircled the manicured property. Once beyond the wrought iron fence and away from the driveway, it would be nearly impossible to see me from the street. I thanked God for small blessings.
My hand in my pocket, fingers wrapped around the pistol grip for comfort, I made my way up to the wall and slipped into the shadows that eclipsed its cold face. I still had the shakes, and my conscious yelled at me to leave things be, to run home and call the police. Who cares if they think I’m crazy? The question echoed in my head, but I shouted it down. Nothing made any sense, but I knew what I saw. I had seen Joseph alive and his knew body was gone. There was all I needed to know to carry on.
A flicker at the window drew me to it. I peeked through the slats and saw Michael walk from his kitchen to his living room. Still in his suit, his tie loosened and hanging from his collar, he carried a beer in one hand and a microwave dinner in the other. He dropped down on the couch, set the food on the coffee table, and then thumbed the remote, kicking off his shoes as he reclined. The big screen television flashed on, the muted murmur of the evening news floating to me outside. I stared at him as he picked at his meal and watched TV, and I felt my pulse race. Not twenty feet from where I stood was my dead grandson, sipping a beer as though the last six years had never happened. It didn’t matter what he called himself or who he thought he was—no one could convince me he wasn’t Joseph.
My head was full of conspiracy theories, my thoughts twisting in on themselves in an effort to explain what rational sense failed to comprehend. Had it truly been Joseph I’d seen in the casket? Had he returned to life and been stolen away, brainwashed to believe he was someone else? Had he truly even died? How? Why? There was no reason to my thoughts, ideas heaped upon ideas in an avalanche of unlikely impossibilities.
I was getting nowhere, my imagination running me in circles. The answers lay inside, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think I could burst in on Michael and demand he tell them to me. I had no illusions as to my age and general well-being. Though Doc Johnson always told me I was as healthy as a bull, I wasn’t’ so stupid as to think I could overpower a young man in fear for his life. Even with the gun, I’d have to traverse the distance between us, giving him plenty of time to evade me. No, I’d have to bide my time until I could catch him unaware. My breath wisped out in a tired sigh, and I leaned against the wall and settled in.
Much to my body’s continued regret, my afternoon wait repeated itself. Michael sat before the television for hours. He’d downed a couple of beers, but nowhere near enough to make me think he was drunk, though the wait had me contemplating my chances.
Just whe
n I thought I’d be forced to try to challenge him on the couch, he yawned, his arms stretching toward the ceiling. A moment later he shut down the television and got to his feet, slowly making his way toward the hallway that I assumed led to his bedroom.
With no idea as to what side of the house his room lay on, I hoped it was up front as I knew nothing about what wait for me in the backyard, and didn’t want to find out. I followed along the wall, listening for him as best I could, and I was rewarded with the light flicking on at the end of the house, the window facing the street.
Like the blinds at the living room, those to the bedroom had also been left somewhat open. He probably didn’t feel the need to worry about his privacy given the shrubbery that shielded the house from the street. That was fortunate for me.
I peered through the slats and saw Michael go into the bathroom, the lighted mirror showing me the room’s reflection right before he closed the door. He stayed in there for several minutes, the vague sound of running water in the background. After what seemed like forever, the dull hiss of the water ended and Michael emerged from the bathroom naked.
My eyes were drawn to his chest, and I bit down on my tongue to hold back the panicked shout I felt building in my throat. I stumbled back a step, unable to tear my gaze away.
Two thick and purpled lines ran diagonal from his collar bones and met at his sternum, redirecting from there to run the length of his torso down to his crotch. The puckered scars were in the shape of a Y. It took only an instant for me to recognize it as an autopsy scar.
Only after he crawled into bed and pulled the covers over could I look away, the morbid image burned upon my retinas. I staggered away from the window as the lights went out. My stomach roiled and I fought back the urge to vomit, swallowing it back. The bitter taste of bile stung my tongue as I ran back to the driveway to keep from being heard. I couldn’t hear anything over the thunder of my pulse. Dropping to my knees and the concrete, I felt lightheaded. The world pressed against my senses.
There was no longer any doubt that he was Joseph. The coroner had said he performed an autopsy on Joseph as no one knew what had killed him. It was after that they claimed it was an infection that shut down his lungs.
But here he was, walking, talking, and breathing as though he had never died. People don’t just get up off the table after being split open for an autopsy. How was it possible?
I couldn’t even fathom how.
Curled up fetal on the driveway, it was only a matter of minutes before my brain slowed to keep me from falling off the edge of sanity. I’d been close. My thoughts dim and disconnected, I drew myself to my knees and tried to catch my breath. I was numb, and struggled to focus. I couldn’t bring myself to think about the hows or whys, my mind pushing aside logic and reason in order to achieve the goal I’d set for it when I’d first decided to follow Michael. I needed answers.
Before I even realized it, I was on my feet and circling around the house in search of the sliding glass door I’d barely noticed at the far end of the living room. No thought to there being a dog or lights in the backyard, I slipped through the open fence and went around to the back of the house. A quick glance told me there was no security bar to keep the door shut, so I worked the lock quietly until it came free with a quiet click.
I left the door open and made my way down the hall, pulling my pistol from my pocket. Outside for hours, my eyesight had adjusted to the darkness so I had no problem seeing. The thick carpet silenced my footsteps as I walked to his bedroom, the last door on the right. The door was open.
Like a beacon guiding me, I stepped into the room and followed Michael’s breathy snore straight to the bed. In one swift movement, I turned on the lamp attached to his headboard and pressed the barrel of my gun against his forehead. He awoke with a start, Joseph’s green eyes flying open.
“Don’t make me kill you.” My voice came out raw, the words wrapped in barbed wire. I grabbed his throat with my free hand, leveraging my weight against him to keep him in the bed.
Tears welled up in his eyes as they came to focus on the gun. His Adam’s apple danced beneath my palm as he swallowed hard.
“If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll let you live.” I could only hope he believed me. While I’d killed men in battle before, there was no way I’d ever be able to bring myself to shoot anyone in cold blood, especially one who wore the face of my grandson. “Tell me you understand.”
I loosened my grip on his neck and he whimpered a quiet yes, his voice wet and filled with fear.
“Good. Now tell me who you are.”
He swallowed again. “M-Mi-Michael Banks.”
“Your real name,” I screamed, pushing the gun harder against his head.
“It’s Michael, I swear. Michael.” He trembled beneath me, his sobs gathering momentum.
I stared into his eyes, looking for any sign he was lying, but I saw nothing. Moist and red, they were wide and filled with frantic terror, but no deceit. “Where were you born?”
“Detroit, Michigan.”
“When?”
“September twelfth, nineteen eighty-two.” He spit out the answer without hesitation, his eyes on me the entire time. It was too practiced to be a lie.
I pulled my hand from his throat and took a step back, giving him a little space but I kept the gun aimed at him. My legs felt weak, but I didn’t stop snarling. I needed him more afraid than I was.
“The scar on your chest…where did you get it?”
For the first time, he looked away. He shuddered, shaking the bed and causing the wheels to give off a tiny squeak.
“Tell me!” I chambered a round but left the safety engaged.
His gaze darted back to me and he raised his hands. “Please, don’t shoot.” Hearing Joseph’s voice cry out so desperately made my heart twinge, but I forced myself to continue.
“Then start talking.”
He drew in a deep, stuttered breath and clasped his hands together in his lap. More tears spilled down his cheeks, mingling with the snot that oozed from his sniffling nose. He nodded and cleared his throat. “The scar was there when I woke up.”
It didn’t make sense. “What do you mean?”
He stared at me a moment without answering before a look of resignation crossed his face. His eyes on the gun, he sighed. “About six years ago, I was in an accident. I’d gone out drinking with some friends and we’d all had too much.” Once more his body trembled as he spoke. “I was driving. At some point, I must have taken my eyes off the road and swerved into the oncoming lane. I remember the blare of a horn and seeing the front grill of an eighteen wheeler. Next thing I know, we’re in the air. All of us were crushed together inside the cab, and I could hear my friends screaming as everything spun around us. There was nothing but blackness after that.”
My cheeks warmed as I listened. “Don’t try to tell me the scar is from a car accident. I—“
He cut me off. “That’s not what I’m saying,” he cried, wiping the tears from his face. “After the accident, I woke up at my parent’s house, in my old bed. Somehow I was still alive. I’d been mangled in the accident, I remember that. My legs had been shattered and the bones had been driven up into my chest. My left arm was wrapped around the steering wheel as though it was made of rubber, and I could taste the blood gushing in my mouth.”
I just stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was telling me.
“I remember a sense of vertigo and hearing the crunch of metal, like a tin can being crushed, then nothing until I woke up. My arm was fine, my legs healed,” he gestured to his chest, “and I had this,” then to his face, “and this.”
“I don’t understand.” I placed my other hand on the gun to keep it from shaking.
“I don’t either…not really.” The words came out quiet. “I went out drinking five-foot-nine with brown eyes and black hair, and woke up six-foot-two, blond and green-eyed. My parents never told me what they did, but I know they did something. They said to
never ask, that it was enough to know I’d been given a second chance at life.”
Unable to believe a word, I felt the truth of everything he’d said. Too weary to stay on my feet, I fell back into a chair that sat beside the bed. I didn’t even bother to keep the gun up.
Michael looked at me through Joseph’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t given a choice.”
“How is this possible?”
He shrugged. “I only know that it is, or I wouldn’t be here.”
I wasn’t able to look at Michael and not see my grandson. “So, you don’t know me, don’t recognize me?”
Michael shook his head. “No. We’d never met until we bumped into each other at the store. I didn’t even know his name,” again he motioned toward his face, “until you called me by it.” He lowered his chin and dropped his eyes. “I’m not your grandson. He’s gone, and I’m sorry.”
My stomach roiled at the words, bile climbing into my throat. Everything he’d said was impossible, but it was no less feasible than the wild possibilities I’d dreamed up to explain how Joseph was up and walking about after being dead for six years. I looked at Michael—Joseph—one last time, remembering the sweet child he’d been, and got to my feet.
“Treat my boy well, Michael.” I didn’t bother to see if he’d even heard me, storming from the house without looking back.
Back in the car and on the road, I was too dazed to do anything but mourn the loss of my grandson once more. Right then, it didn’t matter how Michael had come to be in Joseph’s body, or even why. The absurdity of it had pushed me so close to the edge I no longer cared if I came back. Like many of my fellow soldiers who returned from the war too shell-shocked to even bother trying to re-assimilate into society, I couldn’t picture giving a damn about anything after what I’d learned tonight.
The world was a darker and more twisted place than I could ever have imagined, and I wanted nothing more to do with it.
#
Out of habit more than desire, I found myself at home. The engine idling, I sat in the car a while, uninterested in getting out. If it hadn’t been for the sharp stings of agony that invaded my lower back, I would likely have stayed there all night. At last I climbed out, dragging my feet as I walked toward the porch.