Signal to Murder

by Rhone Sonnier

  My frustration and anger build as I try once more to move toward the door. I see the lead officer that had been previously standing by the front window; he has moved back in front of the window. I observe him place his right hand to his forehead and then wipe his right shirt sleeve over his brow and forehead; he then moves away from the window into the living room.

  I finally reach the apartment door and move through it reaching the hall, then fall face first and prone on the hard floor. I am positive that someone tripped me.

  I know that Francis is trailing very slowly behind me. I hear him shouting, “Keith, stay in the apartment, come back inside. Wait for me it is dangerous.” I hear Francis, but continue to frantically scramble to get up from the floor. Someone helped me, I do not know who. I begin to run down the hall. I am very dizzy. I keep moving touching the walls in the hall to maintain my balance. I am trying desperately to control my emotions. I stop briefly to stabilize my legs; my motor skills are returning. I breathe deeply to calm myself.

  I see the closed elevator doors, so to save precious time I run to the stairwell. I descend the stairs two or three steps at a time. I am still very dizzy so I hold onto the stair rail for balance. I slip and stumble down several steps, grab the rail and find my footing. With relief I hear Francis’ cane tapping on the steps above me. Upon reaching the lobby, I run erratically down the hall stumbling from side to side. I run through the building entrance doors and out onto the sidewalk. I notice a covey of pigeons take flight from the sidewalk.

  “Too late, too late,” I say out loud. The police car that Dillon entered is not in sight. I cannot control my emotions; I begin to weep as I further realize that Dillon is in the custody of a government intervention authority. “This is not good, not good at all,” I say this to no one in particular.

  I feel exhausted from the frustration of the events that just transpired. My head is still light from my bout of dizziness. A drop of pigeon poop lands on my left shoulder. Exasperated, I brush it away with a swipe of the back of my right hand and think, “This makes my day! This pigeon dropping totally describes my morning.”

  My mind races as I think, “It may take some help from Raj to get Dillon returned to me. I ask myself, “Why did they take him? When they realized they had hit the wrong apartment, why didn’t they contact the canine officer? Why has she not returned Dillon to my apartment? Who has Dillon?” I do not have the answer to any of these questions. Tears are falling down my face as I consider that Dillon must be whimpering as the vehicle moves him ever farther away from me. Suddenly alert to things around me, I hear a cane tapping and Francis shouting from the lobby behind me, “Come back in the building Keith, it is dangerous out there!”

  I sense people, women moving in what seems slow motion, advancing in what appears to be a military advance toward me. They are walking in front of a stopped bus. “I must get back to Francis he will help me get Dillon back. Nana is on her way, she will know what to do,” I think these thoughts with hope.

  “I will get Dillon back,” I say very loud, and again loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear, “I will get Dillon back!” Pigeons scatter and all about me becomes eerily quiet.

  I control my emotions long enough to focus once more on the area in front of me. At least two women are advancing in my direction; I sense and then see in my peripheral vision, Francis behind me and an armed uniformed security guard standing about eight or ten feet behind him. The security guard is beginning to slowly pull his Glock from the holster on his belt. “Why is he doing that?” I question.

  “We will get you back Dillon,” I shout even louder as I raise my fist in mental and physical anguish to the near and distant city streets.

  “Dillon is not just a dog to me he is loyal family, and I have grown to love and appreciate him as such,” I say this very quietly. I think to myself, “I have to get stronger, and I have to be smarter than this.” I know that my personality is that of Keith Sorrell, and I have a strong will to persevere.

  “This will not stand,” I say out loud as I feel Keith Sorrell’s strength continue to take more control of my mind and body; my fog slowly dissipating.

  “I will not allow you to take Dillon,” I continue assuring myself as Keith Edwards Sorrell.”

  My personalities switch very quickly, I am mentally aware when the change takes place. I am aware enough to realize that I have not experienced these switches before. Sevan slipped away when the SWAT team entered my apartment; he has been trying to take over but Keith, my stronger self, has totally taken over our shared body.

  I am somewhat confused, but understand my personality switches. I pity whoever gets in my path, because as Keith I do not openly display physical affection or weaknesses; Keith Edwards Sorrell is very devious, cunning, and possessive and cares deeply for family, which includes my pal Dillon. Keith has access to many weapons and will use them.

  Dillon must sense that my Grandfather Francis and I will lead the pack and come for him.

  “We are coming for you Dillon,” I say out loud to myself as though Dillon might hear me and have less fear.

  Once more, in my peripheral vision as if in slow motion, I see the Security Guard holding the handle of his holstered Glock. He is approaching me and staring intently at me. Suddenly I see a SWAT officer appear in the foyer about eight feet behind Francis and the security guard. The SWAT officer has taken his Glock from the holster and is extending and pointing it at Francis’ back.

  I see the mother with the baby carriage as she passes in front of the stopped bus. The bus has passengers disembarking and entering. The mother with the baby carriage is moving towards me. She is only ten feet or so from me; I see her drop to one knee and reach forward and into the pram to check her baby.

  Over the mother’s shoulder, I see the lady with the guitar approaching me. She is pulling her hand out of her coat pocket; I can see part of a gun. I realize that she is going to kill me. I notice a bunch of pigeons take to the air in frenzied flight.

  I hear Francis shout from behind me, “Keith, get down, get down.” Francis tosses his wooden cane, barely missing my right shoulder. The cane flies over the baby carriage making a swishing rotary blade type sound as it moves over the lowering head and shoulders of the woman with the baby buggy.

  Continuing to face the park, I swiftly drop even lower into a low crouching Tai Chi stance. My weak unstable legs fail me as my body continues toward the sidewalk. My mind does not really comprehend which burst of air came first. The blur moved toward the park as it passed me, appearing to have done no harm. As I drop even further into a prone position, I extend my arms with hands open and palms extended. I brace my fall, and feel pain as my hands and chest strike the abrasive concrete sidewalk tearing the skin on my hands and drawing blood.

  I turn my head as I hear the sound of a gun firing, and see a hole in the front of the baby carriage. I realize that a shot has been fired in my direction from inside the baby buggy; I see that cloth material is protruding from the front of the carriage. I wonder about the baby as the carriage begins falling over on its side.

  I recognize Francis’ wooden cane as it passes over the partially extended arms and hands of the lady with the guitar striking her full in the upper chest. She appears to maintain a firm hand grip on her gun.

  Everything seems to be happening simultaneously. I stay on the ground.

  The woman with the carriage starts to rise and tries to turn and run, but her legs fail and she along with the carriage fall over to the right facing me. She appears to have been hit by a shot fired by the guitar lady. I saw both women pull their triggers and I heard the shots when they fired their guns. As I witness the carriage lady fold into a fetal position, I feel a painful sting in my leg. She appears to be dead as she hits the pavement; her eyes open not blinking just staring into the distance, the carriage lying by her side.

  As her feet and legs back pedal, the guitar lady once more tries to take aim, but she is too late. Francis shoots her in the
chest with his extended Glock. Staggering forward Francis fires shots into the baby carriage lady’s chest and shoulder. For further assurance, he approaches her and fires yet a third shot into her head to ensure that she is dead.

  Francis is holding the Glock which he had swiftly retrieved from the Security Guard’s holster as he bumped him shoving him back and to the side. It seemed comical as though the security guard were holding Francis erect and shoving him forward.

  I can see Francis as he continues moving slowly but deliberately taking various martial arts stances, but all at once staggering and getting clumsy. The SWAT officer continues approaching Francis from our apartment building entrance; his gun is pointing at Francis, and he is yelling to him. Francis dismisses his presence.

  Francis stumbles as he moves next to and in front of me. As he approaches me, he looks all around for another possible threat. Francis stumbles again; his body shudders and he falls beside me. Beyond the prone body of my Grandfather, I see the bus slowly moving away from the bus stop. People and animals are scattering, moving away as though in slow motion.

  Chapter 18

  Animal Reactions

  The bus is moving ever so slowly, animals are scattering, and people are excitedly running away from the ambush area in all directions. I see all of this in slow motion. Very quietly I ask myself, “Am I dying? Am I experiencing the phenomenon of dying?”

  The birds have ceased chirping and singing. All is suddenly quiet. The quiet lasts for only a few seconds then the birds begin to chirp and sing once more.

  “Drop it,” a man shouts in mine and Francis’ direction.

  “Freeze old one. Drop the Glock now old man, or I will shoot,” the voice continues shouting in our direction, but speaking directly to Francis.

  Francis continues to disregard the shouting demanding voice as the man comes toward us.

  Another shout comes, “Put your hands in the air, now!”

  Francis reluctantly drops the Glock to the concrete. He curls his body on top of the gun that is lying next to me. Francis then rolls onto me, covering me even as he draws up into a fetal position. He is lying on his side, groaning in pain. Francis is clutching the left side of his chest with his right hand. He continues to partially cover my body with his upper torso.

  “He’s hit, my Grandfather is hit,” I shout. I gently push Francis off of me and begin to crawl from under his weight. The concrete is tearing at the skin on my hands.

  I begin to examine Francis. I see puncture holes in his shirt, and as I look past his moving hands; he is clutching at his chest. Francis’ hands are in the way; I cannot reach his chest with my own hands. I see no wounds or blood on his chest as he grips it in obvious excruciating pain.

  I pull the long gold Tae Kwon Do belt (Tai Chi has a sash, but no belt levels) or sash from where it is secured around my waist and while holding it begin searching for somewhere to place it for a compress to stop Francis’ bleeding. I manage to force the belt under his hands and he applies the necessary pressure.

  I tell a police officer, “Place your hand right here over his hands and chest to apply pressure, we need compression to stop any possible bleeding. We must roll him over to check for exit wounds.” I am shouting these swift instructions to the officer as he holsters his Glock and seemingly without any hesitation begins to apply pressure to Francis’ chest in a calm professional manner. The officer rolls Francis’ body slightly and feels under his back. He sighs with relief and says, “The old one is not wet back here, not wet at all, he is not bleeding.” The officer looks at me and smiles.

  I realize the officer is not smiling at me alone, but looking at the bus across the street as it is very slowly moving away from the bus stop. He is looking into the middle windows of the bus, and is making eye contact with someone and his mouth is forming silent words. The person in the bus could be a man or a woman, I cannot see them clearly enough to tell, also they have some sort of stocking cap and perhaps a hood on their head.

  As Keith watches the officer continues making eye contact with the individual on the bus. The person on the bus is very animated. Keith has the impression that he knows the person, but searching his mind he finds no specific recollection. The uncanny contortions of the face and the person’s antics are puzzling to Keith.

  Keith continues to watch the bus window as the individual’s arms and hands are waving in the air, then the person places their face in their palms and bends over at the waist. Keith thinks, “I cannot tell if the person is displaying anguish or happiness. It is difficult to tell which it is because the bus windows are tinted.” The face seems distorted with elation for or outrage over our downfall, exactly which I cannot tell. Having previously ridden on these transit buses, judging and comparing the seat size, I can surmise the person to be small in stature. The dark skull cap with hood combination provides a complete disguise. The temperature is warm, too warm to be wearing such a cap.

  I wonder, “Why are the officer and the person on the bus communicating?” I have no answer. I ask myself, “Is it possible that the person on the bus and the SWAT officer are clowning and having fun while possible mass murder is taking place?”

  As my mind abandons these inquisitive thoughts, I feel a slight swoon, a weakness overcoming me.

  My next thought is, “Nana is going to be very angry with me for letting Francis get shot. I cannot lose him; we just cannot lose him.”

  I, Keith, am very scared; I am filled with dread as I think there must be something more than this, something somewhere somehow more than this and I begin to pray aloud to God.

  As Keith and Francis witnessed the guitar lady stumble backwards they could see that she was unable to steady her body. She was back peddling, but could not regain her footing and eventually she staggered and fell backwards in front of the bus.

  “Not good for her,” Keith thought, as he and Francis heard the woman scream helplessly in terror as the massive turning wheels approached her then rolled over her extended left hand then arm and shoulder ultimately crushing her entire upper body. Keith and Francis both grew sick as they saw her legs and feet strike the pavement and quiver spasmodically.

  The bus moved on its way, no discernible bump in the road, nothing perceived by the driver. He probably did not see her, or realize he ran over a human body. While experiencing their own agony Francis and Keith look at each other and Francis laments, “She is dead, I pray for her sake she is dead.”

  Keith feels weak. Something is terribly wrong. Keith swoons again as a fog is descending on him as a shadow, a dark veil is overcoming his vision. He lets go of Francis and moves his hands to where he suddenly feels the onslaught of a piercing pain in his knee. He realizes that his knee is wet and his fingers feel that wetness. He realizes that the wetness is his blood. He thinks “This is a great deal of blood.”

  Keith hears and feels Francis resurrecting himself and then he feels Francis touch his knee. Francis shouts, “Keith, this wetness is not my blood this is your blood.”

  “It’s your blood,” Francis shouts again.

  “EMT, EMT, we need an EMT,” Francis shouts. He continues shouting for anyone to hear, “My Grandson has a gunshot wound to his leg and he’s bleeding badly.”

  Keith hears sirens and sees red and blue pulsating lights coming from many directions. He realizes that the rain has increased, and is falling heavily. He thinks to himself, “It is raining cats and dogs, and I am bleeding into the drain like a slaughtered pig.”

  “EMT get him an EMT now, my Grandson needs blood, he is bleeding profusely,” Keith hears Francis frantically shouting even louder than before.

  As Francis applies pressure to Keith’s leg he shouts again, “He needs medical attention; please get him a Medic, my Grandson is bleeding to death right here on the street.”

  Francis shouts, “Help, help, help us please!”

  I feel faint, and I realize that I am bleeding badly. Francis is beside me, and I hear him mumbling, but do not understand what he is sayi
ng. I come to again and hear someone, not Francis say, “He has lost a lot of blood and this is bad, really bad. We have stopped the bleeding, but we are losing him. His pulse is very, very weak. We have no pulse.” Once more I hear a voice say, “We are going to lose him.” I hear someone say, “We have lost him, he is gone.”

  “He is gone,” I hear someone repeat.

  I feel warm all over, and I see bright light. Light brighter than any I have ever seen before. The comforting warmth is unlike any warmth that I am familiar with or have experienced. I feel a security and safety I have never known in my life. I think, “Light, I see light.”

  I am moving, face upward rising slowly without any kind of known physical restrictions. I am levitating, totally unhampered. I, my new self, have lifted up like a soft breath of warm air (ruach is the Hebrew word for air; pneuma is the Greek word for wind, air or spirit).

  I am above the gurney and the vehicle. I turn my body in midair and with my face looking down I can see my flesh body lying on a gurney. My new other self has turned around and looked down into the vehicle at my former self, my flesh man. My light as air self (my spirit?) is now three feet above the vehicle. Suddenly I drift swiftly back downward toward the voice of Francis. Francis is calling to me.

  As I re-enter my prone body my mind begins to race, and I think again that there has to be something more than this, somewhere, somehow something more than this. I hear someone shouting, “He is back I have him. We are not going to lose you again Keith Sorrell. We have stopped the bleeding and your pressure is good. All your vital signs are good.” “Where have you been young fella?” the voice enquires as though he knows.

  The same voice continues to talk to me, “Keith, listen to me you are in good hands. You have been gone for a short time, but you are back with us now. Stay with us Keith. We are almost at the hospital where a lot of good people are waiting for you. Stay awake if you can, that’s it keep your eyes on me. Stay with me buddy, stay with me now. Where have you been big guy? Don’t go away again.”