Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  She slammed the door right in my face. I responded with a blasé expression, shrugged it off with a preoccupied mind too distracted to be miffed.

  It seemed settled. No coincidence the Vigilante had struck the same hour Patrick was absent from his house.

  Other evidence added up to a guilty sum; Evelyn’s doll hair had been recovered at the scene; rust had been found on the foreign boots; the Malone’s were immigrants from Ireland, lived next to a junkyard in Shingleville; the area had a new victim of the Mob every day.

  The severity of the situation became apparent to me as I drove south on River Street past a known criminal front operation, where ominous men stood outside of it. They stuck to the shadows, visible silhouettes of weapons in their hands. Their long, dark coats barely hid their obvious intent.

  I turned my automobile lights off.

  In the pitch darkness, I heard shouts, cries for blood.

  Costa truly was impatient. He wanted to be paid, planned to make a currency exchange first; cash for the blood of law enforcement officers. The transfer would result in some capital loss, but hopefully result in a net profit.

  I slid my fedora further down the front of my head. I glanced up at the sky. Black clouds rolled passionately on the horizon.

  ***

  Outside of the abandoned warehouse off Water Street, I parked by the side of the road. There, I silently crept up to the barbed wire fence that encircled it. A sign read PROPERTY OFF LIMITS: NO TRESPASSING.

  Undeterred, he went up to the fence, pulled out a small pair of wire cutters. I worked quickly, created a small hole, which I climbed through painfully.

  I stuck to the grass as I made my way toward the left side of the building, where there were several side doors that would enable me to enter undetected. Within a safe perimeter, I ran across the mossy field, stopped right outside of the building. I pulled out one of my picklocks as I approached one of the doors.

  The hinges had rusted shut; I kicked just above the door handle to force it open, broke the noise with a tight grip. I got the door opened, turned on my flashlight to guide me. I traversed through the gloomy, tapered hallway with a wary gaze. Shrouded in pure black, I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me. My flashlight didn’t have the battery strength to discern anything farther than that.

  I took a glance at the walls, didn’t want to see more of my surroundings than I had to. I was certain all kinds of grotesque creatures ran loose inside. With years of no human activity, every vermin in the city lived in any empty quarters.

  I shined the light on the side of the wall when I almost ran into it; a large hairy spider ran furiously across a web it had spun, dead flies stuck to it.

  My heart stopped. Arachnophobic, the theatrical, creepy movement caused me to panic. A dead sprint brought me down the hallway within seconds. The walls seemed to close in on me. Noisy, frantic breaths repeated themselves.

  I found the door at the end of the hallway unlocked. I opened it slowly, surveyed the loading dock with a circumspect gaze.

  Two shattered doors were at the very end, held up by large boards nailed across.

  I looked down, realized I stood on a stairway that led down to the floor now layered in dirt. Dust sprinkled in the air irritated my nose with every breath.

  Several coughs later, I covered my mouth with my arm, stopped when I saw a flight of precipitous stairs that led to a closed office room.

  Ideal location for where the Vigilante had his cache.

  I walked up the wobbly stairs, gripped the guard railing as I slowly approached the door. I searched for improvised alarms designed to ward off intruders. I threw down cobwebs, expected booby-traps, surprised when I found none. The Vigilante had no expectation for visitors, trusted the signs, police, as well as rumors to do the job for him.

  I held my revolver close to my face as I planned every move I intended to make.

  It had come down to this; I wanted to warn Patrick, but the man had shown a proclivity for hotheadedness. If he shot at me, I wouldn’t hesitate.

  A brief prayer fell out of my lips.

  I leaned closer to the door, peered through the small window. Total darkness. I reached for his picklock, inserted it into the door. When he brushed up against it, the door swung open. It creaked with a long whiny resonance.

  My steps were cautious, deliberate. I shined my flashlight around.

  Boxes and crates of ammunition covered the dusty floor. A faded oak table was set against the wall on the left side. A dozen rifles, along with as many pistols of various types, were stacked by the wall or on the table. The brands spoke for themselves, the common, preferential choice for Costa’s hoodlums and the lower types of criminals in general.

  It was an arms buildup. The Vigilante had turned a small cache into a massive stockpile, ordnances accumulated from his victims. I counted them, estimated there were enough munitions to fully arm and equip two platoons.

  I got my first solid fact on the Vigilante’s personality: He hated what he did. If anyone was anti-vigilantism, it was he.

  I laughed quietly. The city had fallen apart because of his actions; Vigilante hated it all. The cache explained his ultimate scheme. He wanted the people to protect themselves, without him. He couldn’t give the weapons away now, attract undue attention. Reprisals from Don Mario or one of his underbosses would be merciless. It was a sledgehammer blow. Arm the populace all at once, let them fight back.

  It was calculated, furtive, brilliant. Didn’t sound like Patrick Malone.

  I bent over to inspect the weapons, heard the distinct sound of footsteps. I quickly turned off his flashlight, stepped out of the room, closed the door noiselessly. I pushed his head up against the damp wall, felt the stomps reverberate through the wooden baseboards. The footsteps came closer, closer to the room. I held onto my patience.

  The footsteps ceased curtly; the door on the other side of the room opened. I saw a light go on inside.

  A large thud then followed, a gun placed on the table. It was heavy, solid. A pistol. I heard the spin of a revolver’s cylinder.

  I straightened my knees, cast my eyes over to the small window in the door. I peered in for a split second, scanned the room, then pulled myself down.

  The Vigilante had his head turned. He was immensely tall, wore a dark brown trench coat; it matched the description given by the member of the ill-fated task force. Added to that; long greasy black hair that came down to his ears. Fingerless gloves were on the table. He tinkered with something off to the side, a very intimidating, ominous air in his posture.

  I didn’t know why, but I got a strange vibe from him. It was the first time I could confirm it was all true.

  The Vigilante was truly a real man.

  I wouldn’t wait for a better moment to make my move. The moment would be spoiled. I composed myself, reached for the door handle. I blinked rapidly, became entirely conscious of my environment, then opened the door as softly as I could.

  The door creaked. Cover blown.

  I rushed in.

  Before the Vigilante stirred, I aimed, called out forcefully.

  “Don’t move!”

  It was too late. The Vigilante spun around, his revolver held low by his thigh. Undaunted, I expected to see the face of Patrick Malone.

  I froze stiff, stared right back into the ghastly face of Death. My body became paralyzed as I shuddered at the grisly image.

  Grotesque features stared back at me. The face was covered with gruesome scars, razor-thin cuts, deep burns, had a long slash across the forehead that ended at the left cheek. The blue eyes blazed like two furnaces.

  None of his victims had ever survived. Now I knew why. They had been petrified just looking at him.

  But somehow, I managed to get out of that paralysis.

  I kicked the gun out of the Vigilante’s hands. I tried to calm him down. The Vigilante ignored it, placed all his weight on one leg as he dropped down low, tripped me with an outstretched foot.

  I fell with
wide eyes. My natural reflexes caused me to reach out for the Vigilante’s face. I grabbed something tangible.

  I landed with a large thump, my head whacked against the hard-cold floor. The violent impact jarred my senses. A sharp pain jolted through the back of my neck.

  Time passed. Then I opened my eyes as I tried to recover full consciousness. The lamp had dimmed considerably. The Vigilante had retreated to the darkened section of the room. He still held the British revolver in his hand. But it wasn’t aimed at me anymore.

  The hostility had dissipated. He had withdrawn out of embarrassment.

  I struggled to stand, groaned stiffly. I reached down to the floor with my hands, glanced at what I held. It felt like human flesh, but it was cold, lifeless. The flesh of the dead.

  Terrified, I cried out, threw it to the side. I grabbed my head to stifle the dizziness inside. I almost retched, felt the pressure build in my stomach. I coughed, tried to get rid of the ache. Nothing came up.

  I looked down again, unable to peel my eyes away from the figure who had until now been wholly elusive.

  The Vigilante’s face stared back at me with a haunted sense of emptiness. The eyes and mouth sections were black holes. The long black hair fell across the floor.

  Unbelievable. Ingenious.

  A mask; all of it fake. No identity possible to obtain unless the person was captured.

  I gazed up at the Vigilante. Quiet, reticent, he remained mute. His face was muddled, shaded, exposed without the mask. It made feel him naked, vulnerable.

  “Aren’t ya gonna say somethin’?” I asked. “I thought ya were gonna kill me.”

  There was no response.

  “Ya have no idea what ya were gettin’ into, Malone. This ain’t a fairytale. This is Beverly; there ain’t no heroes except dead ones anymore. Ya wanna to be a hero? Not somethin’ to aspire to, is it?”

  The Vigilante walked over to him. He spoke.

  It was low, deep, the combination of a raspy throat, a bass tone.

  “You are right in saying that there aren’t any heroes in Beverly,” he proclaimed. “But when did I ever say I was a hero?”

  A cold sensation crawled over the surface of my skin. The voice was grim, fit every detail the melodramatic press had branded him with. It seemed more than what a human had the capacity to express.

  The man lived up to the legend. The Vigilante carried himself as if he knew what he had become, more than what he was or would ever be.

  The Vigilante stepped over to him. Closer. Closer. His face gradually had a yellow sheen, exposed his features.

  His blue eyes gave it away.

  I gasped.

  Sean Blood smiled.

  “You seem so surprised, Detective Moore,” he observed. “Why?”

  I lay like a marble figure in a fixed position. My eyes peered at Sean; prey to hunter, hunter to prey, roles reversed, exchanged. When I could speak, I tried to reason it out loud.

  “Ya…how could have it been ya?”

  Sean broke his stillness.

  “Wrong presumption; why couldn’t it have been me?”

  “I found rust in the alleyway that came from the junkyard in Shingleville. Ya wore the boots, used the junkyard as a short cut to get into the other side of the street.”

  “So that’s what led you to us. I wondered what tipped you off. You didn’t just make a guess when you came over. You knew one of us was guilty, but there had been only one suspect in your mind, right?”

  Identity transformation. Sean wasn’t an Irish immigrant anymore; his use of slang, the thick brogue had disappeared. He spoke perfect English in a flawless American accent. He was eloquent; no one would have known he was penniless, destitute.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The junkyard is right next to your home as well, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  I replayed the conversation like a movie, revisited the scene in the car. We had talked like friends; in my focus on Malone, I had failed to ask Sean any pertinent questions; where he lived, where he had been that night at ten o’ clock, no exact details. I had been outmaneuvered by my better.

  The flashback reiterated more.

  Both parents dead. Sean had put it so calmly; no agony, concealed it underneath the pretense. Ingenious. Disturbing.

  “Then…. ya ma and pa,” I said. “Ya said they died. Let me take a wild stab in the dark. They were murdered, weren’t they?”

  “That they were,” Sean answered. He shook his head. “But that was not why I am this way. I am not doing this for their revenge.”

  “Ya used the sewers,” I chuckled. “Brilliant, kid! I gotta hand it to ya. That’s how ya were able to get to get across town without no one gettin’ wiser about it.”

  Sean gave no reply either way. It didn’t stop me.

  “And that night ya escaped the strike force; ya escaped usin’ the manhole in the alley! Nobody bothered to look at it. It was covered in moss. I barely noticed it myself. We let the stories control our freakin’ imaginations. We assumed ya would go up, not down. We seemed to have forgotten that only angels fly up. Demons go down.”

  “It seems that way.”

  “And the mask ya wear came from that costume store ya were workin’ in.”

  “That one was too easy.”

  The hair still applied. It wasn’t from a doll, but from the mask Sean wore. It had been one of the props sold in his store, explained where he had gotten it from. No one ever saw the Vigilante’s face completely. There was no way to confirm it.

  “So why ya, and not Patrick?” I asked. “Why wait so long to avenge ya parents?”

  “I told you I didn’t do it because of what happened to my parents,” Sean repeated insistently. “It was different for me when my mother and father were killed. I was only a boy when it happened, but when my grandfather came to America to raise me, he spent a great deal of time teaching me the evils of revenge and violence. He was a pacifist, you see. Even though I had anger in my heart, I was taught to hold it back.”

  Sean put his hands on his hips, casting his head up with resolution, determination in what he said.

  “Well, that was enough when I was younger. I had not been old enough to truly understand what had happened to them, to me. Whatever the feelings or emotions that I felt were, I repressed it. For years, I held it back. That’s the way I was when my grandfather died. I never got angry towards anyone, never reacted in violence.”

  “So, when did ya decide to do this?” I asked as I gestured at the cache.

  There was a long pause before Sean answered. His response was hesitant, riddled with spells of indecisiveness. He either deliberated or lied. I couldn’t tell which.

  “I was visiting Patrick and Evelyn one day,” he began. “This was after their parents had been murdered. It was just like the countless ones before it. It was the same thing again and again. Evelyn had another relapse, reliving her horrific attack, tormented by the faces of the men who had mercilessly raped her. Patrick, always with a bottle of some vile drink in his hand, did not know what to do. Drunk, unable to handle her, he screamed, and then smashed his hand against the wall. It was the guilt he feels, detective, not rage. He blamed it all on the fact that he was gone when his parents had been shot and Evelyn had been assaulted. He still thinks that he is partially responsible.”

  Sean looked pitifully at me. His eyes gleamed with distress.

  “What does that do to a man when he blames himself for something that another did, just because he had the capacity to act, but never got the chance?”

  I didn’t answer. Sean went on.

  “It was too much for me. I couldn’t keep witnessing it. It ate away at my conscience, eroding my pacifism. There was nothing to counter the logic of what I kept thinking; if only someone had fought back, they would have been spared. I stormed out of the house, vexed, and went directly home. I lost all sense of compunction. I ran into my bedroom, fell down to my knees, lifted my head up towards Heaven, and screamed with all the for
ce I could muster into my lungs. I screamed until my voice was gone, and I was unable to pronounce a word.

  “Then, the remnant of my old self came to life. I couldn’t stand it any longer, living a pitiful existence, helpless as I watched my friends endure a living death. There are thousands of them in Beverly. You can’t see them, because they are hidden. You can’t hear their voices, because they are voiceless in society; nobody cares about them, because they have nothing to offer besides their humanity. I had to stand up for those who had no one else to protect them. What is worse, to simply avoid evil, or to confront it and challenge it when it stares into your face?”

  I remained silent. It was not the same Sean Blood I had met before. Or was it the same person, only different because of the circumstances? Had the Sean I had spoken to previously been merely a false persona, a charade? Or was it another part of his personality, traits possessed by the same tortured spirit?

  No. It was the same man. Just the other side of the coin.

  “I think it’s time for me to go,” I said. “I’m ain’t turnin ya in, but this one-man cowboy show’s gotta to end. This ain’t some ghost town out of a B-movie Western. The outlaws carry more than six-shooters. Things have been changin’ in the last few hours, for the worse, I might add.”

  Sean formed a fist with his hand.

  “I know what I’m up against, detective. I didn’t take this up without having given it a long hard thought.”

  “So why the Webley?” I inquired. “Ya got Thompsons, Colts, Remington’s, guns twice as deadly and accurate than the limey revolver. Something special about it?”

  Sean nodded. He held his pistol out proudly.

  “If I used a regular gun, the deaths might be written off as a random act of violence,” he said. “But, when I use this, no one mistakes my handiwork. It is my calling card. No one can look at that bullet after pulling it out of the body of a murderer and say it was anyone other than the Vigilante.”

  I shrugged. “I get it, to a point.”

  “There is more, though.”

  “Yeah, well, perhaps ya can tell me the rest of ya story later. This city is about to be torn apart if something isn’t done. You’ve caused it, not to put the blame solely on ya. Ya inadvertently let the wolves loose on each other.”