Damascus Road

by Charlie Cole

  The blade of guilt hit my heart with the accusation and snapped me out of my stupor.

  “You killed him!” I shouted into the phone.

  Harrison was moving away from me and I did not stop him. I shuffled forward and saw my own reflection in the mirror. Phone in my hand, sweat on my brow. Harrison cowered in fear, made his way to the door away from the maniac, the madman… me. What had I become? The knife was still in my hand and I dropped it into the sink. The stainless steel hit the porcelain with a ringing clatter that made Harrison yelp in fear.

  “You couldn’t protect him and he deserved to die,” Nathan said, dismissively. “You’re missing the point, James.”

  “Which is?”

  Behind me, in the mirror, I saw Harrison at the door to the bathroom, he was looking at me in abject terror, while he disengaged the lock.

  “Your father is dead,” Nathan said. “And you couldn’t stop it. What does that make you, James? Do you really think you deserve some reward for what you’ve done? And in your failure, your solution is to slaughter the innocent. You deserve damnation, James. Nothing less.”

  My gaze went from Blake Harrison to my own reflection in the mirror. My eyes looking into the reflection, looking back at me. Nathan was right…

  I dropped to my knees as Harrison pulled open the bathroom door. I was aware in some way of what happened next, but somehow I was disconnected, distant even from myself.

  Blake shouted to the Secret Service agents, but his voice was muted to me, lost like a voice calling out under water. I could not raise my eyes from the tile floor. Foosteps, then being thrown to the tile, my head rapping against it with a resounding thump that rattled my vision, but did not bring the sweet solace of unconsciousness. That I would not have.

  Handcuffs were attached, cinching down on my wrists, and still I watched the blue tile. I was pulled upright and led out into the convention hall. There I felt the eyes on me, blame heaped on me by the crowd. I had neither the desire, nor intent to change that.

  I lowered my head and let myself be dragged through the crowd. As we neared the entrance to the building, I could see the flickering red and blue lights of the squad cars and knew what was to come next.

  The agents threw me against the side of the squad car and frisked me with malicious intent. If they had cause to pummel me, they would, ready for any sign that would vindicate their intent. I did not give them the satisfaction.

  The officers pushed me into the car and I let myself fold in, settled onto the hard plastic seat. I did not look out the window. I ignored the staring eyes of the party-goers. I closed my eyes and waited until the car moved.

  Eventually, the vehicle pulled out, and I let the city wash over me. Without thought or insight or mental process, I looked out the window. The cop tried to talk to me, saying that if I would cooperate and tell my side of the story, then I could help myself. I ignored him and invoked my right to remain silent without saying a word.

  Intake at the jail was everything I remembered it to be. Cops and questions, but the tone was more reserved there. It was a forgone conclusion you were staying, so why fight it?

  I went through fingerprinting without struggle. While the desk sergeant chattered away about my knife, how nice it was, where did I get it, had I killed anyone with it, had I, hmm? I ignored him and watched the inmates. Some were pups, stupid and slow suburban men too foolish to stay out of jail. I ignored them immediately.

  What did catch my attention were the inmates who had been there before. Hard-looking men with fierce glares in their eyes. They had not seen the inside of a gym since their last stay in prison, but lived by a regime of knife fights, shootings, fisticuffs and running from the police. These were the ones I was looking for.

  I was led to a holding cell and found a seat away from the other men. They kept their distance from one another, each wary of sitting too close or standing within someone’s immediate area, let alone their reach-all secretly afraid to “disrespect” the other, but outwardly giving no sign of anything other than feral behavior. I watched them as they evaluated each other, trying to find the weak link, ready to pounce on anyone who appeared to be less than an alpha dog.

  Hector was the pit bull of the crew. His neck was thick and tattooed above a blue shirt buttoned at the collar. His hair was buzzed short except for a goatee that he wore long. He paced with a low, shuffling gate.

  Two other men were in the cell. One was tall and lean with a sallow-looking face. He had been good-looking once, but now had been battered by the street life and looked worn out. He reminded me of the snake that slept under the front porch. Not aggressive until you wandered too close. I dubbed him Slick.

  The third man was a boxer. I could tell by his regularly broken nose and catcher’s mitt face. His arms were abnormally long, nearly hanging to his knees. His hands were scarred, the knuckles rough and calloused. Like any other palooka, I named him Joe.

  Joe and Slick stayed to their own sides, while Hector prowled the center of the cell. I stayed in the back, never looking at any of them directly. Instead I rubbed at the fingerprint black on my fingers with disinterest. I was plotting, waiting for the right moment. I was unknown to them, obviously had been inside before, a wildcard.

  “Alright, gentlemen,” I said. My voice was loud, unwavering, a bold opening move. Slick turned and looked at me. Joe stopped facing me, fists clenched. Hector was watching my reflection in the glass.

  I hopped to my feet and tossed my coat behind me. Unhurried, I rolled up my sleeves.

  “I’ve got someplace I need to be,” I said, locking eyes with each of them. “And you boys are going to help me get there.”

  The room was dead silent. Hector looked at Slick, who looked at Joe, then back again.

  “What are you talking about?” Hector said. “You planning on breaking out of here?”

  I laughed.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve got a little trip ahead of me. And I need your help to get there.”

  “You think you’re breaking out of here alone?” This from Joe.

  They weren’t getting it. I couldn’t blame them. I stepped into the middle of the group, letting them surround me. I shook my head slowly.

  “I want you to kill me,” I said.

  “You want to fake your death?” asked Slick.

  I’d had enough. There was no way to explain what I wanted. They’d never understand and if they did, they would never agree to it.

  “Not exactly,” I said, looking at my shoes.

  I turned and punched Slick. His head snapped back and he reeled at the attack. Joe was on me a moment later. He threw a quick combination that I bobbed and weaved around before snapping a jab that bloodied his nose.

  “Come on!” I yelled.

  Hector kicked me in the small of the back and I pitched forward. I caught my feet and turned back, only to be hit with a right hook. I tumbled with it and fell into Slick, who kneed me in the stomach. I fell to my knees.

  I knew then… it wasn’t enough. They wouldn’t finish the job. I had to push them harder.

  “Let’s go, Slick,” I growled.

  I came up under him with a punch to the groin, jackrabbit punch to ribs and elbow under the chin. He fell hard, but I had no time for him.

  Joe came at me with his guard up, feet floating in boxer’s footwork.

  “Let’s go, bitch,” I growled at him.

  He came at me hard. I took a jab to the nose and felt it break. The right cross hit me in the eye and drove me back. Joe closed the gap and threw a haymaker to finish me. I lowered my head, and his fist crashed into the top of my skull. It rung my bell a bit, but Joe’s wrist snapped with a sharp crack. He cursed and instinctively grabbed it. I kicked him in the stomach and shoved him away.

  Madness had flooded my mind and a fear that I would beat the three men in my cell. I felt the blood running from my nose and it incensed me even more. It was not enough.

  “I want to see my father and I want to see hi
m right now!” I shouted.

  I leapt off the floor and hit Joe with a flying roundhouse punch. He sprawled on the floor. I lunged for him, only to be intercepted by Slick, his hand snatching at my collar. I grabbed his fingers and twisted up, breaking two of them. I could have finished him with a punch to the throat, but instead rammed my fist up under his ribs. Slick hunched over and threw up like a rancid fire hydrant.

  Pathetic, I thought. I couldn’t even get myself killed in jail. Slick was on his hands and knees, retching. I kicked him and he collapsed on his side.

  I never did see Hector coming, but his fist smashed into the side of my face, and my world tilted crazily as I fell. The edges of my vision dimmed. I tried to get up. I lifted my head, tasted blood. Hector’s foot came down on my face and I actually saw the print of the tread of his boot before it hit me.

  Despite myself, I tried to cover up, only to have a foot come down on my shoulder. I felt the joint give, then pop as the bone slipped from the socket. I screamed and opened my eyes to see not only Hector, but Slick and Joe raining kicks and punches down on me.

  I laughed out loud as they beat me, right up until the point that I passed out. Darkness sucked me down into unconsciousness, and I did not fight it.

  MY BRAIN WAS THROBBING; I was convinced of it. I wanted to open my eyes, but the pounding intensity of the light was prohibitive. Instead, I listened and waited. For nearly a minute I let the thought of getting up play through my mind, but the ache of my body was so strong that it bordered on paralysis.

  “You awake?” a voice said.

  I grunted the affirmative.

  “Need a doctor?”

  Groaning, I opened my eyes and raised a finger.

  Wait.

  Sucking in breath, I sat up. The world spun and tilted and swayed. Nausea surged up through me and I nearly lost the battle. I swallowed hard.

  Across the room, I saw a police officer in full uniform. I sighed.

  “I take it you’re not the Prince of Darkness,” I said. “And this isn’t Hell?”

  The cop snorted, stifled a laugh. He choked, coughed, and struggled to regain his composure. He looked like he wasn’t more than two years out of the academy.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “This is County Lock-up.”

  “Figures,” I nodded.

  The cop’s face screwed into a mask of confusion and amusement.

  “Most people would have asked if they’d gone to heaven,” he said.

  “It’s just been that kind of week,” I said.

  I looked around me, at the walls, the vacant space.

  “Where are they? Hector and the others?”

  The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Locked up,” he said. “They all needed medical attention, so the duty nurse is making the rounds. So, like I said, if you need medical attention, it will be a minute.”

  While he talked, I tested my body’s limits, flexing my hands, arms, legs. The pain was universal, but the quick once over told me what I already suspected. My left shoulder was dislocated. I stood and walked toward the cop. He recoiled, taken off guard by my sudden advance.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “My shoulder is out of joint. I need you to help me pop it back in.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Is that rhetorical?” I shot back. “Look, if you don’t help me, I’ll say that you beat me and dislocated my shoulder. So come on...”

  He stepped forward, still wary. I offered him my limp arm.

  “Hold it tight,” I said through gritted teeth. “Both hands. Like your life depended on it.”

  He did and I braced myself, inhaling deeply to steel myself against what was to come. I lurched backward and the ball of the humerus bone slipped back into my shoulder joint with an audible click. I sat down hard in a pile of bones and the cop let me fall.

  I screamed, crying, more sure now than ever that I would throw up. My stomach clenched reflexively, but there was nothing there. My gut dry-fired a few times before it gave up. I blew out a harsh and ragged breath.

  “Thanks,” I managed. He was stronger than he looked, and I was thankful for it.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, still a little unsure about me.

  My nose was broken, so I cupped my hands on either side and snapped it back straight. My involuntary reaction sounded more like a sob than I would have liked.

  “What is wrong with you?” the cop asked, more honestly than I think even he was ready for.

  “I’m having an argument with God,” I said.

  “How’s that working for you?”

  I cocked my head and wiped the blood from my face.

  “About the way you would expect it would,” I replied.

  He nodded sagely.

  “You’ve been bailed out,” he said.

  I was hearing things. Or brain-damaged. Either or both made more sense than being bailed out.

  “Why?” was the best answer I could manage.

  “If I asked why every time I saw something that didn’t make sense here, I wouldn’t have lasted very long,” the cop said.

  I let that rattle around in my skull.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Let’s go see my benefactor.”

  I stood on wobbly legs, more aware than ever of my bones from shin to knee, knee to thigh, and the precarious balancing act they performed.

  The cop walked beside me, slowing his pace to keep in step. The silence was awkward.

  “What’s your name?” My tone was casual, relaxed.

  “Officer Connors.”

  A few more steps in silence.

  “What’s your name, Office Connors?”

  Steps and silence.

  “Mike.”

  “Mike, I’m James.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Wish it was under better circumstances,” I conceded.

  “Likewise.”

  We came to a series of doors and each time Mike guided me through. The place was obviously built to make escape no easy feat. We arrived at a secured reception area. There were a few inmates being reunited with family. I heard murmured complaints about the police officers that arrested them. I couldn’t say that I felt the same. I deserved to be there. I had murder in my heart and hate in my eye. I had no complaint for the cops, no gripes that I wasn’t treated fairly.

  “Where are they, Mike?” I asked.

  “There,” he said and pointed.

  I followed his gesture and saw a tight circle of men. Suits. One of them saw me coming and told his compatriots. The man with his back to me turned to look. It was the Senator, Blake Harrison. The man I had attacked only hours earlier.

  “No… no… no…” I said. “Take me back to my cell. No way. Take me back to my cell right now.”

  I backed away, but Mike caught my arm. I was in no shape to flee or struggle so I stopped, but tried to distance myself from the men, leaning away from them like a child unwilling to enter the dentist’s office.

  Harrison was walking toward me.

  “Sir, I really don’t think you should—“

  This from the Secret Service agent at his side. Harrison calmed him with a smile and a ‘wait here’ gesture before turning his attention back to me.

  “Mr. Marlowe, please hear me out,” Harrison said.

  Around his neck, I could see the reddened flesh, already beginning to bruise where I grabbed him. I cringed, already regretting speaking harshly to him.

  “Sir…” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought…”

  I struggled to find the words, the easy explanation.

  “You were lied to, Mr. Marlowe,” Harrison said gravely. “You lost your father, and his murderer lied to you, deceived you, in fact. You were distraught.”

  Harrison was standing closer to me than common sense would have dictated. He had no fear of me, even though I’d nearly killed him hours before. His face was sincere, eyes open, honest, and without guile.

  “Yes…yes, sir,�
�� I managed.

  “Please understand, Mr. Marlowe,” Harrison said. “I don’t mean to diminish what you’ve gone through, but I think that in some small way, I understand.”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye anymore; I was staring down at my boots.

  “Why are you doing this?” I said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t deserve this. I tried to kill you,” I said. “Why would you want to help me?”

  Senator Harrison looked from me to Mike to his own Secret Service agents.

  “Well, it’s the right thing to do,” he said, as if the answer was obvious to everyone else in the room.

  “I don’t get you, man,” I said.

  Harrison threw his head back and laughed deep and loud. He clapped me on the shoulder, giving me a start.

  “Shall we?” he said and gestured for the door.

  I looked at Mike, who in turn looked back at me.

  “You going to be alright?” he asked.

  I considered the ramifications of his question. My friend, my father… I’d lost two people in my life and in retaliation, lashed out at an innocent man. On top of everything else, there was a madman out there somewhere, pulling the strings. He’d killed my father, and I had absolutely no leads, nothing to go on.

  Then I realized that Mike wasn’t talking about the big picture. He wasn’t enquiring into my metaphysical well-being. He was only talking about the situation at hand.

  “I’ll be alright, man,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

  We shook hands, and he watched me go with them. I wondered how often this happened in his daily life. Not often, I wagered. Few Senators would forgive their assassins, let alone swing by County Lock-up to bail them out.

  Harrison signed paperwork, and talked to the desk sergeant as we waited. I noticed that one of the Secret Service agents was looking at me, eyes narrowed. I was no less of a threat to them, I realized. Blake Harrison bailed me out, but I was still a threat in their eyes and therefore under the microscope.

  “Shall we go?” Senator Harrison asked, walking back toward us. “Oh, they returned this.”

  Harrison held out a plastic property bag that held my wallet, keys, phone, pocket litter, and my knife. The agent closest to him grabbed the bag before I could reach for it.