Brian knew this was it. This bizarre nightmare riddled with a man, a creature in a trench coat, proved he had one foot already in hell. He realized that he was about to face his demise. He had given it a shot, and he knew his family would miss him, at least he hoped they would. We often wonder what last image we will see when we take our last breath of life, and for Brian it looked as if it would be the image of his own blood painting the metal floor of an abused train car. Although Brian lost his badge, lost his identity, lost his soul, he knew he was still a detective, still a cop. And cops were trained the moment they entered the police academy. For Brian, his academy instructor had ingrained something into his mind, something that he had done every day he went to work, something that would save him from his devastating fall.
Brian heard a click from the pistol above him. But almost instantly, he defeated the pain and twisted his arm behind his back, grabbing at that something—the second weapon that his instructor had told him always to carry, a small pistol tucked in his belt.
Two quick gunshots echoed in the train car. At first, both men stood motionless, not knowing where the shots had originated. But then, one of the men felt blinding pain, pain that took his breath away. That man looked at his shoes and saw two holes where patches of white leather had been.
The passengers collectively gasped. They saw the single man in front of them shoot his own feet.
Trevor toppled over. His gun flew from his hand and his photograph ripped in two, tearing Trevor from his family. Two lead bullets had pierced his shoes and had busted the bones in his feet, and now the businessman was on the floor squealing.
“I know the hidden gun trick too,” Brian replied as he mustered the strength to stand even with his busted leg.
Trevor crawled on the floor and reached for his gun, but Brian kicked it farther away toward the passengers witnessing evil. The yuppie, in particular, couldn’t look at the battle. All he could do was to stare at the security camera on the ceiling. And the yuppie did not know it, but the 55” flat-screen monitor at Brian’s precinct displayed the camera feed for Lt. Foster and the two techs, frozen in fright. The three of them watched the black and white video of one man acting out two parts. He was talking to himself, struggling with himself, shooting himself. The passengers, the techs, Lt. Foster all knew that what they were seeing was beyond insanity.
Blood and grit now covered the businessman’s white shirt and polished trench coat. He had lost his shine.
As Brian stared at Trevor, he reached deep into his back pocket, and then pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and revealed his son’s artwork, the Boise family at the beach through Jonathan’s eyes. As Brian looked at the gap between the figure marked “Dad” and the two holding hands, “Mom” and “Me,” a droplet of blood fell from his temple and landed on the paper. It soaked into the fibers, spread out, and connected “Dad” to “Mom” and “Me.”
“I’m sorry,” Brian whispered. He missed his family. He knew at that moment that he was not a cop, not a detective striving to be captain. He was a father, a husband. But as he saw the color red covering himself, he realized that his recognition might have been too late.
As Brian reflected, Trevor raised his hand and entered Brian’s open wound with his finger. Lights flashed inside Brian’s mind as his pain receptors screamed. The detective collapsed again on the ground, his second gun sliding under the chairs, the picture falling.
Evil consumed Trevor’s eyes. His hair was tousled, his face spotted with blood, and his polish now dulled. The businessman raised his fist, and then unleashed it into Brian’s head.
Brian’s skull bashed against the metal seat, and his brain rattled inside his head. Brian flexed his right leg, and using his heel, he chopped Trevor’s foot. Trevor stopped, yelled, and crumbled.
As Trevor lay on the ground, he saw a boy in the crowd of onlookers, a boy who Trevor did not remember inside the train car before the detective had arrived, a boy who trembled on the ground, hands gripping his knees, a boy who reminded Trevor of his own son. As Trevor lay there bathing in blood and pain, the boy locked eyes with him. It happened for only a second, a second in time never again to be lived, but it did happen, and that connection, lasting only a second, frightened Trevor. He wondered what was going through that boy’s mind, what thoughts, what images, what sounds were burning into memories that would cause that boy restless nights as a teen, would make him consider dropping out of high school, would prevent him from becoming a father. Trevor looked past the pain and saw Laura, Katie, and Kevin. He missed them, but he knew it was too late to go back now. And then the demon pushed his family away and regained its grasp on his mind.
Brian stood up and saw his 9mm only feet away. He stumbled toward it, but Trevor elbowed his leg. Brian plummeted to the ground. A metal armrest on the chair cut his temple as blood seeped down his face. His eyes rolled back as a blinding ache consumed him.
Trevor rose to his knees. He looked around and saw the disoriented detective. His eyes shifted to Brian’s gun. Trevor wobbled toward it. He picked it up, his hand trembling. Trevor turned and saw his chance, saw his shot, but the reflection in the window stopped him. Trevor saw himself as Brian.
Brian blinked and realized he was now standing, holding the gun. Trevor was on the floor, trading places.
“I’m in your mind, Brian,” Trevor’s voice whispered inside Brian’s skull.
The detective closed his eyes and pounded his head with his fist.
“I know everything about you, Brian. I know that you like to fuck your wife doggy style. I do too.”
“This is Detective Brian Boise. Shoot the suspect!” Brian’s voice yelled inside his brain.
Brian punched his head harder as the voices shouted. He felt Trevor inside his mind, felt his eyes, felt his breath, felt his memories, felt his evil. Brian realized that those black holes in his mind were holes filled with Trevor. He realized he was Trevor. It all made sense to him now, but at the same time, it made no sense. He wanted to wake up—he needed to.
The sight in the train car made April’s body clench. She was terrified beyond words.
Brian clutched his gun. He placed the barrel on his temple, and then looked into the window. He saw not his own reflection, but the reflection of Trevor holding the gun against his temple.
“I have to get them out of my head,” both men said at the same time.
Trevor’s life flashed before his eyes—his son’s jump shot, his daughter’s girlish laugh, his wife’s supple touch. Then he regressed to a child. He shot free throws with his dad; he rode on his father’s shoulders in the deep end; he felt the strong hands of his father holding him.
Brian’s family filled his thoughts—his son playing video games, his wife’s whisper. Then the detective flashed back to a teenager. He played catch with his dad in the backyard; he sat in the front seat as his father parked in front of the ice cream parlor; his father’s protective hands hugged him.
It all flashed before their eyes in a split second, a split second we all will face one day.
The train entered a tunnel, darkness stealing the light. A blast of energy erupted inside that train car, lost in the dankest, darkest part of the city’s underground. April saw only the flash of light from the gun and heard the echo of the discharge. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the howl of the train.
Chapter 27
Hundreds of bodies filled an auditorium. The place looked like a high school assembly, except for the police uniforms and news reporters filling the seats. The audience sat under bright lights. Two cops scurried down the aisle like two tardy jocks, one was chubby, the other skinny. Both officers searched for a seat and grabbed two near the side exit, two they always had grabbed to guarantee they were first in line if there was cake.
The audience quieted down as their eyes fixated on the stage. Lt. Foster walked out first holding a folder and wearing his best dress. He ensured the single silver bars pinned on his shoulders glimmered in the ligh
ts.
Behind the lieutenant, the captain trekked to the podium at center stage as his shoes clunked on the hardwood. His dress black uniform contoured his potbelly, but the two-bar insignias on his shoulders captured everyone’s stare. The captain’s face exerted power as he stood in front of the silent crowd, the lieutenant standing behind him. Without looking away from the faces in front of him, the captain adjusted the bar anchoring a half dozen microphones. As reporters prepared to take notes, he cleared his voice and began his speech.
“Before I answer any questions, I’d like to make a statement. This great city has seen its share of crimes and criminals. And over the past ten years, one man had made this great city a better place, a safer place. He had sacrificed his time, his family, and his self for the better of this city. That man’s name was Detective Brian Boise. Detective Boise followed the footsteps of his father, another man named Detective Boise, who was a damn good cop. I had worked with him on several cases some twenty years ago, and I probably wouldn’t be standing here today if it hadn’t been for that man. But the reason that I am addressing you today is because of Detective Brian Boise. While this cop fought crime, he fought demons inside his mind. He was sick, suffering from things beyond me, beyond anyone in this room. And I want to be precisely clear, that Detective Brian Boise was, and always will be, a great man with a great name.”
The room was silent, but then a hundred reporters raised their hands. “Captain! Question! Here! Over here!”
The captain took a moment. He looked at Lt. Foster as both men shared a frown. Finally, the captain selected a slender male reporter.
“Is it true that Detective Brian Boise was both the detective and the suspect in a murder case?”
“That’s correct,” the captain replied, his voice deeper echoing throughout the auditorium.
“A detective inventing his own suspect! What’s next!?” someone yelled out as the reporters all hollered for another question. The captain selected a young woman with glasses.
“Did the detective pass his psychological evaluations? And was he insane?”
The captain did not answer. He closed his eyes.
Lt. Foster looked down and opened the folder in his hands. He stared at the photograph that the detective named Brian Boise had given him, the photograph of one man standing in front of a basketball court—one man who was insane.
Chapter 28
A picture of Trevor Malloy embracing his family sat next to a picture of Brian Boise on the beach with his family. A man with brown-framed glasses and a trimmed beard, which had grayed out after his second doctorate, sat behind a desk. Laura and Anne Marie occupied two identical chairs across from him. Both women looked alike; they had the same hair pulled back, the same blood-shot eyes, the same failing frown.
“Misses Boise. Is this your husband in both of these pictures?” the psychologist asked.
She nodded, her mind dead to the world, a world that had turned upside down less than 24 hours ago.
“Do you see a difference in these two men?” he continued.
Anne Marie looked at the photographs again. The man on the beach was the man she remembered, but the other man looked like his evil twin. He had the exact same chiseled jaw and the same thick eyes. The only difference between both men was the direction of the parts in their hair.
The psychologist turned to Laura. “Misses Malloy. Is this your husband?”
She glanced at both pictures.
“He’s not my husband anymore.”
The psychologist took off his glasses and sat back.
“Please remove those pictures,” Anne Marie said.
“I’m sorry,” the psychologist said as he hid them in his desk drawer. “I know that both of you probably have a million questions.”
“You don’t know how I’m feeling,” Laura said.
“I understand,” he responded.
“No, you don’t understand. You’ll never understand what it’s like to share a home, to share a bed, to share a family with a monster.” She started to cry.
Anne Marie put her hand on Laura’s shoulder, but she flicked her off.
“I don’t need your sympathy, Anne Marie. What do you want? Do you want us to be best friends, to move in together and cook together every night? You fucked my husband.”
“Misses Malloy,” the psychologist said as Laura stood up and crossed her arms in the corner.
Then there was silence. Anne Marie listened to the clock ticking. It was like a heartbeat—constant, rhythmic. She liked the sound, wished she could hear it when she lay in her bed. After exactly ten seconds, Anne Marie looked into the eyes of the man across from her.
“I never knew he was sick. He worked a lot, was hardly home, but I didn’t know he had a double life for ten years. No one knew that.”
“This is an extreme case of dissociative identity disorder. It basically means that this man displayed multiple identities known as alter egos or alters, with each having his unique way of interacting with the environment. In this case, his subconscious made him both Trevor Malloy and Brian Boise.”
“But how did he have two jobs, have two families? How did I not know for ten years?” Anne Marie questioned.
“I know it sounds impossible, but just think about it for a moment. You said that he was hardly home. Correct?”
Anne Marie nodded.
“Well, those times that he was not with you, he was Trevor Malloy.”
“My mind hurts when I think about it. It just all sounds crazy. How could he be like that?” Anne Marie said.
“His mind had two perfect personalities. His subconscious protected him and switched between these two personalities at will. In my thirty years of practice, I’ve never seen a case like this.”
“Why did he want to get caught?” Anne Marie said.
“It’s like a game. Both personalities liked to push the limit, to go deeper and deeper until it was too late. It sounds like his father had suffered from this and after witnessing his father’s death, Brian the detective and Trevor the businessman were born. The tenth anniversary was a point where his subconscious imploded.”
“Who was he before? Brian? Trevor? What was his real name?” Anne Marie asked.
The man licked his lips. “I can’t answer that question.”
“What about my kids?” Laura said after listening for too long.
“They will need counseling, but most importantly, they will need love. Don’t hide this from them. Let them know their father was ill and that he was suffering from dissociative identity disorder. Don’t hide anything from them. They’ve had this hidden from them all their lives.”
Outside the room, Anne Marie’s sister, Helen, sat with Jonathan on her right side and Kevin and Katie on her left. They sat in the waiting room in silence.
Shadows shifted. It was Anne Marie and Laura. Anne Marie kneeled and hugged Jonathan. Kevin and Katie fell into their mother’s open arms.
“Kids, it’s all going to be okay,” Laura said, looking at the three nine-year-olds. She approached Anne Marie and hugged her. The kids all formed a circle around their mothers.
“What about Dad?” Jonathan asked.
“Your dad is…gone,” Laura said.
Anne Marie looked at all three kids. “While your father is no longer on Earth, you all just gained a new brother or sister.”
An hour later, the patio door to the Malloys’ backyard opened. Katie and Kevin walked out. Jonathan joined them. The three kids were frozen, the toys teasing them. The sound of a grass cutter buzzed in the distance. A bird landed on a lawn chair. A balmy breeze visited. Katie broke free from the stillness and picked up a basketball. She passed it to Kevin.
“Cool ball,” Jonathan said.
“My dad got it for me,” Kevin replied, passing it to Jonathan.
He realized he had the same one. “So did mine,” Jonathan said.
“Do you wanna bounce?” Katie asked.
“What?”
Katie ran throug
h the warm afternoon sun toward their trampoline, her brother on her trail. Laura stepped onto the patio and watched her two kids. Anne Marie and Helen followed. They all watched Katie and Kevin roll onto the trampoline. The two kids started to bounce, their smiles singing.
Jonathan watched with envious eyes, craving to join his new siblings.
“Go ahead,” Laura said, grinning.
Jonathan glanced up at his mom, who nodded. The youngest Boise gave Laura the ball and hustled through the yard, letting the sun warm his soul. Kevin extended his hand and helped Jonathan onto the trampoline. Katie held onto Jonathan as both bounced together, first at three feet, then four, and then five. Jonathan laughed as Kevin joined them.
Helen, Anne Marie, and Laura grinned as they watched their three children flying as one, but then Laura’s face turned cold.
“There’s just one thing that still doesn’t add up,” she said.
“What’s that?” Anne Marie asked.
“Where’s the body?”
The kids soared in the air toward the cloudless blue sky, smiling, giggling, without a care in the world.
Chapter 29
A heart beat exactly sixty times in a minute. It was rhythmic and could have been mistaken for the ticks of a clock. The leads of a telemetry monitor were attached to the heart that had been through the darkest parts of hell, and then dragged through the dirt and mud on its way to a building protected by a hundred guards, barbed wire, and surveillance triggered by heat sensors. The heart was inside of the chest of a Homo sapiens unlike any other that walked the Earth. It was a creature with two names, two families, two lives.
The hair on the being’s head was completely shaved off, a three inch wound sutured shut by a dozen staples. He wore a sterile white gown, which covered his deloused skin. The room hid him away from everyone—his past lives, his past colleagues, his past families. A federal agency that trumped even the city’s police department had brought him into this secret facility. He was inside a womb, being reborn into a new world as a new man, his brain worth its weight in gold.
A Smudge of Gray: A Novel Page 17