Mencken and the Monsters

by Jeff Elkins

  Imani leapt to her feet, knocking her chair over behind her. “What happened?” There was fear in her voice. Mencken had never heard fear in Imani’s voice.

  Jose held the door open. Chris and Agnew entered next. Imani mumbled, “Oh thank Jesus,” as Chris walked through the door.

  Chris’ mouth was a thin line. His eyes radiated fury. His yellow polo was as stained as Jose’s. His right pants leg was torn at his calf.

  Agnew had her left arm around Chris’ shoulders. She was soaked in blood. The thick, red liquid oozed from a rip in the thigh of her blue sweatpants. Her face was streaked with it. It was matted in her hair. Like Jose, her eyes were bloodshot and she was crying.

  “Agnew needs first aid,” Chris said to Imani.

  Imani shot up the stairs.

  Chris sat Agnew in a chair in the middle of the room. He took two steps back and began to pace back and forth, muttering to himself.

  Jose put his back against the wall and sank to the floor. Burying his head in his knees, he began to sob softly to himself.

  The door pushed open again, and the giant Rothman ducked under the door frame. His face was a mix of rage and pain. There was a bloody scratch on his right shoulder. He went to one knee by Agnew’s side and applied pressure to her wound with his hands. Agnew shrieked in pain.

  “She fought bravely,” Rothman said. The low rumble of his deep voice filled the room. Agnew wailed in response.

  Imani appeared with what looked like a fishing tackle box. She ran to Rothman’s side.

  “I need something to clean the wound, a needle, and thread,” he said. He took his blood-soaked hands off Agnew’s leg and the blood began to ooze again. “It’s just a minor wound,” he explained to no one in particular. “You’re going to be fine. The Rothman has repaired much worse.” He ripped her pants with his bare hands, exposing the wound. Imani opened the box, digging in the bottom, she retrieved the supplies and passed Rothman heavy gauze pads and a bottle of alcohol wash.

  “I need a drink,” Agnew said through tears.

  Chris vaulted over the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, hopped back over, and handed the bottle to Agnew. She took the screw cap off with her teeth and took a long swig.

  Rothman blotted the gash with the gauze and rinsed it with the alcohol. After repeating the action three times, he’d cleared away much of the dried blood. “Once, when The Rothman was in Cairo,” he said with no expression as he threaded the needle Imani had given him, “the Gracanjo lost his leg. Cut off clean at the knee.” He began to stitch Agnew’s leg. She screamed through gritted teeth and took another swig from the bottle.

  “All I had to repair him up was his sword and a campfire.” He stitched more. Agnew yelled again. “I pressed the red hot blade against his wound and seared it closed. He lived. This is nothing like that. ”

  “Not helping, Rothman,” Chris yelled. “Keep the damn stories to yourself.”

  “It is best she have something to keep her mind from the operation at hand,” Rothman retorted.

  A realization struck Imani. “Where’s… Where’s Melody?” she asked.

  “She’s dead,” Agnew said, and then she took another long swig of the whiskey.

  “Oh no,” Imani muttered.

  “Her body is in the trunk,” Agnew said to no one in particular. “In the middle of the fight, they… They ripped her head off.”

  Jose’s crying increased.

  “Oh Jesus,” Imani said.

  “She died as we all should,” Rothman said. “As a warrior, in the heat of battle.”

  Chris spun toward the empty side of the room, moving like a mama bear who’d heard her cubs cry. He pointed toward the darkness and screamed, “He’s here!”

  “Let him be,” Rothman said.

  Agnew cried in pain again as Rothman pulled the thread tight.

  Ignoring the command, Chris moved across the room, knocking over chairs and tables in his path. His eyes filled with tears. A guttural cry escaped his lips. Arriving at the spot where he had been pointing, he began kicking the air and screaming, “Leave! You bastard! Leave!” In a frantic rage, he completed a powerful spin kick, dropping his heal into the wood floor with a crash. Back on his feet, he punched and the floor with both hands, like a boxer going at a punching bag. As he beat the invisible enemy, he screamed over and over, “Leave us alone! Leave us alone!”

  Mencken watched in horror as Chris battled an invisible enemy, unsure of what to fear more: the insanity of the man who attacked shadows, or the precision and power of the wild man’s assault.

  Rothman completed the final stitch and tied the thread, and cut it with his teeth. “Finished,” he said, admiring his handy handiwork.

  Agnew took another swig of the whiskey. “You better go get him,” she said to Imani, “before he tears up your floors.”

  Imani jumped to life. Running over to Chris, she moved to stand in front of him. Holding her hands up defensively, she said, “Baby. Baby. Look at me. Look here. Look at me baby.”

  Chris’s assault slowed. He delivered a few more strikes, and then dropped to his knees. Tears overcame him and began to weep. “He’s not supposed to be here,” he moaned. “He’s not supposed to follow us.”

  Imani came to him. She wrapped her arms around him. Rubbing his back she said, “Come on Baby. Let’s go downstairs. He can’t see you downstairs.”

  She and Chris stood together. “She was so young,” Chris said. “She didn’t have to go like that. She was so young. They tore her head off. They just…”

  Imani supported his weight and rubbed his back as they walked. Holding each other, they moved passed Mencken to the basement stairs and disappeared in the darkness.

  “Now you need to rest,” Rothman said as he stood and stretched his shoulders, rolling them in circles. Agnew took another swig from the bottle.

  Mencken realized at that moment that his mouth was hanging open. He looked to the young woman and her newly bandaged wound. He watched as the giant took a swig from her bottle. He looked at Jose, who had stopped crying, but was still sitting on the floor with his knees clutched to his chest. Finally, the moment overtook him. Questions rushed to Mencken’s mind. Words stuttered from his mouth. He rose to his feet, but the only question that would fall from his lips was, “What the fuck is going on?”

  Rothman, Agnew, and Jose all looked in his direction with surprise. None of them had noticed him until that moment.

  “And what the fuck happened to Melody?” Mencken demanded. “And why are you bleeding? And why the fuck is Chris losing his mind? What the fuck is going on?”

  Rothman crossed the room with frightening determination. With his left hand, the giant took Mencken by the neck and lifted the reporter off the ground. Mencken’s feet dangled in the air. His hands tore at Rothman’s arm like a kitten scratching at steel. Mencken’s mind raced as his lungs begged for air.

  Rothman spoke softly. Each word was like the steady drum of a blacksmith’s hammer. “Small man,” the giant said, applying more pressure to Mencken’s neck. “You will not disgrace this ground with vile language or lack of respect for the fallen.”

  Mencken tried to speak, tried to scream, tried to force any sound from his throat, but all he could do was wheeze for air.

  “Your witness of this time was unfortunate. Now I must bring this to an end,” Rothman said.

  Mencken’s eyes grew wide with panic.

  Jose stood and yelled, “No! No more death tonight.”

  Rothman loosened his grip. “He has no place here,” he said.

  “Put him down,” the teen commanded. “This is my city. You are my guest. And I say enough people have died.”

  Rothman sneered at Mencken. Then, lowering his arm slowly, he dropped Mencken to the floor. Mencken fell to his knees and held his neck with both hands. He gasped for breath, trying to regain control of his senses.

  Rothman turned his back on the reporter. “He is yours to clean up then,” he said to Jose, “He will not be he
re when I return. If he is, I will forget that I am a guest.” The giant walked over to Agnew and said, “Come. You must rest.” He knelt down beside her, slid arms under her, and effortlessly picked her up. Then the two of them disappeared into the basement.

  Jose crossed the room to Mencken’s table. He closed Mencken’s laptop, placed it in Mencken’s backpack, and zipped the pack up. He then walked over to Mencken and held it out for Mencken to take.

  “What happened?” Mencken said, finally catching his breath again.

  “There were more of them than we expected. They flanked us. Things went south,” Jose said. “And then... Our lines broke down, and they got Melody. We had to retreat”

  Mencken stood and took his bag. He looked Jose up and down. He thought back to the stakeout at the gym. He thought of the Sahib’s story about the assault at the park. He thought about the recovery house and the black puddle on the ground. “You don’t lose often, do you?” Mencken said, accusingly.

  Jose cocked his head to the left. “No. We don’t.”

  Mencken took his bag. Slinging it over his right shoulder, he said, “I see you now.”

  Jose sighed. “I don’t know what you think you know, but-”

  Mencken cut him off. “I’m on to you and I’m coming. Game time is over, because I know your secret. You can’t hide anymore.”

  “You don’t understand. We were protecting the city tonight,” Jose said, rubbing his head with his hands.

  Mencken laughed. “Is that how Chris has brainwashed you? Tell yourself whatever you need to, kid. I know the truth. I know who you are.”

  Jose stood up a chair Chris had knocked over and took a seat in it. “I’m too tired for this tonight. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

  Mencken strode proudly to the front door. Before leaving, he turned and said, “But I was. And now I know the whole story.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The streets were quiet. At two in the morning, nothing on this side of town was awake. The neighborhoods in northern Baltimore still showed signs of the suburbs they were originally designed to be. While the main commercial streets felt like city, but the residential areas between them contained standalone houses with yards, driveways, and garages. Nevertheless, all the city’s problems were present: rats, crime, drugs, a struggling education system. They were just a little less condensed.

  Mencken knew who the tweet was from the minute it had come in. The hitman and his child partner were punching back. Mencken almost hadn’t come. He was terrified of what he would find. Would more buildings explode? Would more bodies be thrown from cars? Or maybe this was it? Maybe he’d gone too far? Coordinating the takedown of Agamemnon’s brothels had to have at least dented the Cabal’s revenue. Maybe they’d tired of the game and it was Mencken’s turn to have his eyes dug out? He’d tried to go back to bed, but his curiosity wouldn’t allow it. He had to know what they were summoning him to see.

  He killed the engine of his bike in front of the house. He’d recognized the address right away. It was the residence of the State’s Attorney in Baltimore, Alexander Cleveland. The up-and-coming lawyer lived here with his wife and sixteen-month-old son. Mencken had done a piece on the Clevelands after Alexander was elected last year. Alexander and his wife, Tamara, had sat in their living room with Mencken for an hour. It’d been a fluff piece. No hard questions, but Mencken felt he’d gotten a sense of the couple. They were good people, who cared about the city and were trying to carve out a life in it.

  Mencken held tight to his handlebars. He didn’t want to get off his bike. He didn’t want to know what horrors lay inside.

  Cars were sprinkled through the street. Mencken looked up and down the block and then took a deep breath, rallying his courage. Stepping off his bike, he faced the house. It was red brick and beautifully landscaped – nothing fancy, but everything was in place. Purple flowers bloomed in a flowerbed located under a large picture window. The shades were drawn, but the lights were on.

  The front door was located on the left-hand side of the house. Mencken walked up the driveway, onto the small brick porch. He wasn’t sure if he should knock or ring the doorbell. What was the protocol for the middle of the night? And what would he say when Alexander answered the door?

  “Hey, remember me? Mencken Cassie? Here’s the deal. I know it’s the middle of the night, but there’s this hitman? And, well, he and I are at war with each other. So he gave me your address on Twitter tonight and told me to come here. Have you, maybe, seen him?” Yeah. This was going to go great.

  Mencken sighed. He reached out to knock on the door, but before making contact with the wood, he noticed the door was already cracked. He paused and considered leaving, just walking away. He could call Rosie. Give her the address. Then she could tell him what was inside. He looked at his shoes. If he left, when he looked in the mirror tomorrow, who would look back at him?

  He pushed the door softly. It swung open. Alexander was there to greet him. The State’s Attorney lay on the floor, in a pool of blood. Dressed in comfortable house clothes, he rested unmoving, on his stomach, facing the living room, his bare feet were inches from the swing of the door.

  Mencken thought through the scene. Alexander had answered the door and then turned his back on the guest. Had he known the person, or had they said something to make him turn? There was an open wound at the base of his neck, and three or four more in his back. Around each incision, circles of blood pulled the State’s Attorney’s white undershirt tight to his skin.

  Mencken looked down the short hallway. He knew there was more. He knew this wasn’t the end. Moving gently, trying not to touch anything or disturb the scene in any way, Mencken made his way passed the dead State’s Attorney.

  Passing the entrance to the kitchen, Mencken stepped into the living room. It was a spacious room with vaulted, wood ceilings. Straight ahead were stairs to the second-floor bedrooms. Mencken turned to face the giant, flat-screen television hung on the wall opposite him. Between the flat-screen and himself was a blue couch. On the couch was Mrs. Cleveland, unmoving, peaceful. Her reflection looked at him in the TV, but he couldn’t raise his eyes to it. He couldn’t bear for her to see him through the dark screen.

  He stepped cautiously around the couch, keeping his eyes on his shoes. He could feel her looking at him. Her dead eyes following him as he circled her. Swallowing, he looked up and met her gaze.

  Her mouth was open and her head hung back. Blood from her neck wound soaked the front of her green t-shirt, causing it to cling to her skin. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. Like Anita Dickson, her eyes were missing. The caverns stared back at him. The insides of the sockets looked like dried, marinara-soaked sponges.

  None of this mattered to Mencken. He couldn’t dwell on any of it. All he could see was what was in her lap. Clutched tightly to her chest, sitting in her lap, covered in a mix of his mom’s blood and his own, was the small, year-and-a-half old, Cleveland boy. The black handled knife that had been used to kill his parents protruded from his neck.

  Vomit rose in Mencken’s throat, and tears burned his eyes. He locked his jaw so none of the acidic spew would fall from his mouth and defile the scene with his weakness. He swallowed the vile liquid, thinking it would restore his confidence, but his legs grew instantly weak. He had to sit. He fell to the floor and looked at the mother and son. His face in his hands, he lost control of his emotions and wept. Howling like a child with a broken limb, he cried over the innocence lost and the love desecrated. What kind of monster would kill a mother and her infant son? Who were these people? Why? Why come into the house to slaughter the entire Cleveland family? What had the sixteen-month-old done to the Cabal?

  Mencken lost time. He stared at the face of the young boy, an eternal cry on his lips. Mencken imagined the child screaming as his mother’s grip tightened and then went limp. He imagined her sitting on the couch, in front of the monsters that would take her life, clutching her son, and whispering prayers. He could still smel
l her fear in the room. It hung in the air, haunting the space.

  Mencken rose. He took out his phone and called 9-1-1, giving them the address. When they asked if he’d gone inside, he said “No. I only opened the door.”

  His second call was to Rosie. It was a short, tear-filled message with the address and a request that she “come quickly.” He didn’t know if she would get it in time. Surely, she was asleep.

  Gently, Mencken gently navigated passed Alexander, making sure to leave no trace that he’d entered the Clevelands’ home. Once on the front porch, he sat again, unable to stop replaying in his mind what he’d seen. The imagined cries of the young boy tore at his eardrums. Rattling in his mind, it refused to be silenced.

  Mencken took a deep breath and forced away his tears. He stood again, wanting to walk, wanting to run, wanting to be away, to be anywhere but here. Down the street, something caught his eye. There was movement in the periphery, on his left. Mencken turned and peered into the night. He thought that, maybe, at the end of the street were people. Two people. Leaning against the hood of a car. He looked closer, rubbing his eyes, thinking he was imagining them, but he wasn’t. It was them. Watching him.

  Approaching sirens echoed in the background. Reinforcements were on their way.

  The two figures are the end of the street stood, got in their car, and drove away.

  A few minutes later, and another text came through:

  @BmoreVoice Tag. You’re it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It had been a normal morning for John Hammerjam, the CEO of Rebuild Baltimore. He’d risen at five and jogged on his treadmill for an hour while watching the news on his large flat screen television. After his morning exercise, he’d enjoyed a fruit and cheese platter for breakfast, along with French-pressed coffee. As he ate, his assistant read the day’s schedule to him and explained the emails she felt he needed to return.