“I’m not takin’ ya drunkness anymore! It’s over! It’s done!”
“What?”
“Did ye not hear me? Are ye as deaf as ye are dumb? Until ye clean up and throw away that disgusting, wretched, foul concoction, ye will not be seein’ me around here any longer!”
Patrick looked up at him. He then cried. At first it was silent, but then he heaved as the tears swept down his cheeks.
“This is all me fault,” he said. “All me fault.”
“What is?”
“I shoulda been there. I shoulda been home when those bastards came. I coulda protected me ma and da. I woulda died protectin’ Evelyn. Everythin’ is me fault!”
Sean kneeled beside him as he continued to cry. He did not speak at first, and then he placed his hand on Patrick’s arm.
“It wasna ye fault,” he said. “How could ye have known?”
“Does it matter? All I can think about is how I coulda done somethin’ and I didn’t. I’m bein’ punished for not bein’ there. I can’t get it out of me head!”
Evelyn wept with her face buried in her hands as Sean head for the door. She caught him just before he walked out and flung herself into his arms. He held her, but kept her at distance and would not look at her.
“Donna leave us!” she said. “Donna leave me!”
“I must,” Sean said.
“Why?”
“Because...I have to! I canna be here any longer tonight.”
“Why? What has happened? Please tell me. Ye changed.”
“Am I the only one who has changed?”
“Ye canna blame him for everything that happened.”
“I don’t. I blame him for what he has done with himself.”
“He’s my brother. Ye the only family we’ve got anymore. What else does he have?”
“If he does not change, he’ll only have ye, and then perhaps no one at all.”
Before she could respond, he kissed her. He then let go of her and ran out onto the street.
***
A cry rang out as Sean dropped to the floor of his living room. He threw back his head, gazing at the ceiling as though he were staring up into Heaven. He gasped as he stabbed his temples with his fingers. He then got up and ran into the bathroom, washing his hands with soap. He dried them with a washcloth, but then cried as he stared at them. He washed them again. It didn’t satisfy him. He washed them three more times.
He fled into his bedroom, falling at the foot of his bed. He cried out, holding his hands below his eyes.
“Oh God! Oh God! What have I done! What have I done! There’s blood on my hands! How can this be? I hear that voice again. Please, leave me alone! It haunts me wherever I go. If it won’t answer me, then tell it to leave! Please, leave me!”
As he cried, he began to speak again. Now, however, his voice was deeper, rougher, and harsh. His expression also became caustic and intense.
“Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”
“Stop! I didn’t murder anyone!”
“You watched as two innocent people were murdered and did nothing! Had you acted, they would have been spared. They would have lived!”
“I called for the police!”
“What police? You know they don’t patrol those streets. You know the officers are paid off by the O’Brien’s to stay away. You knew this when you shouted for them to come.”
“I did the right thing. I didn’t commit evil.”
“It is just as evil to not do what is right as it is to do what is wrong.”
Sean stood up, seeing a photograph of his grandfather sitting on one of the tables. He slammed it down, the frame shattering as the shards spilled onto the floor.
“Grandfather, you failed me! Failed me! What did all of this come to? You taught me that peace must be preserved no matter what, that we must never act out in violence! I trusted you! You told me violence is evil. What do you say to me now? What goodness permits evil to act uninhibited? Peace! Pacifism! How can that ever justify what I have done! A boy is deprived of his mother and father, all in the name of peace!”
“Only through desires of peace can evil thrive. Does a gardener allow weeds to choke the plants in his garden, or does he pull them out before they can kill his plants? Is that not violence? And yet, they do it, because it saves the lives of the plants that are good and desirable. If the gardener didn’t, all that there would be left would be the weeds, and the garden would cease to exist.”
“That is exactly what has happened here! This city is being destroyed, because the good people are shackled by an erroneous concept of ‘justice’ and ‘righteousness’! How many are saved, how many lives are protected, how many lives are guarded because a person kept to themselves when they saw a crime committed? If the police aren’t able to uphold justice, by what right or notion of righteousness is that task denied to good men?”
Bowing his head, Sean clasped his hands together in prayer.
“I cannot do this anymore! I have to choose what I am going to be. What life shall I live, one of violence or one of peace? Which one? I must be one! I cannot both, can I? What does the Bible say about it?”
“We are commanded to live in peace, but only as far as it is possible.”
“It is not possible to live in peace! Not here!”
“If I cannot obtain my desires for peace through peaceful means, then I will obtain them through violent means. I will not allow it to go on!”
Sean stood up. He wiped away the tears on his cheeks. He clutched the revolver from his dresser. He held it up in front of him, gazing upon it. He cast his eyes on the carpet as he knitted his forehead.
“But what am I to do?” he said. “I cannot go on a one-man crusade against all of this. I am no match for organized crime.”
“Yes, you can. You will succeed.”
“They will know who I am; all it will take is one look and they will have this entire block destroyed.”
“Then it must be done in secret.”
“Yes. Yes. In the night, when no one will be able to recognize me. But how will I get around? How will I escape if chased?”
“The sewers.”
“Yes! I know them better than anyone. I have it all mapped out in my head. I can use them to travel to and fro without being seen. Yes. No one will ever suspect it. But what I am to carry? Shall I only use this revolver as my means of justice?”
“With that revolver, you will be more dangerous than a hundred mobsters armed with tommy guns. Those with automatic weapons will fear your very name, because they know what you are capable of. They will shoot at you, but their bullets will not hit you. They will chase you, but they will not find you. They will try to take your life, only to lose theirs.”
“Perhaps. But how long will this last?”
“As long as it needs to; until the city regains it sense of justice.”
“Agreed. When the police intervene, I will be done…but what will I wear?”
Putting a finger to his lips, Sean crouched down by the chest as he look at his grandfather’s old clothes. He reached in and took out the trench coat, taking it into the bathroom, where he put it on and studied himself in the mirror. He smiled.
“This will do.”
He frowned, however, when he observed his smile. He struck the wall with his fist as he sighed, covering his face with his hand.
“Who am I kidding? I can’t frighten anyone. Patrick is not afraid of me, nor is anyone else. I look too young. I have to appear intimidating. I have to scare them merely by my presence. It’s the only way I’ll be able to survive. I will have the entire city’s criminal underworld against me. If only I looked like Mr. Cosgrave. His face could scare an entire army into surrender! It is he I must look like. Nobody scares him, and he scares everyone. Even the O’Brien’s are afraid of him!”
“Then what you need is a new face.”
Meditating on it, Sean entered the kitchen and poured a glass of water, drinking it as he returned to the bedroom. Focused on his
dresser as he walked in, he noticed the box of costumes.
Peeking inside, he stared into a face that made him cry out as he fell backwards. He got back up and looked inside, discovering the mask of a monster. He snatched it from the box, staring into the empty eyes as the mask’s hair cascaded over his palms.
“This is your new face.”
Sean returned to the bathroom, placing himself in front of the mirror. He stared at face before slipping the mask on, closing his eyes as he did so. He waited before opening them. When he did, he looked at the mirror.
He smiled.
“Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart,” he said. “Now, they will see the same thing.”
***
March, 1934. Inside an alleyway, the cover to a manhole slid back as the Vigilante emerged as a darkened figure emerged by the black abyss. He pushed the manhole cover to the side silently as he pulled himself out. In his hand was an automatic revolver.
Sifting through the darkness, he looked over at a man who lurked held himself up against the brick wall, a rope in his hand.
A woman then walked down the sidewalk, alone, carrying a bag of groceries. The man leaning against the wall waited until she was directly between the buildings before he jumped out and attacked her. The Vigilante did not react at first. He watched as they struggled, noting the woman’s resistance and the man’s sadistic delight as she screamed for help.
He didn’t have to wait for long. After striking the woman repeatedly, the man threw the rope around her neck, choking her as he reached for his knife.
The Vigilante called out softly, blending in with the wind as it brushed against the leaves of a nearby oak tree.
The would-be murderer stopped the blade just before it sank into the woman’s throat. He jerked around, staring directly at Sean, but without any light he couldn’t see him.
The Vigilante gazed at the woman on the ground, gasping for air.
Although he couldn’t see him, the man called out for the Vigilante to show himself.
The Vigilante forced a smile. Delaying it for a moment, he finally stepped out into the middle of the alley, his revolver down at his side.
The man seemed unafraid initially, sneering arrogantly. But when additional light fell over the Vigilante, his veneer became entirely visible.
The man’s sneer disappeared as terror flooded his eyes.
The Vigilante aimed with his revolver, pulling the hammer back. The man gawked in disbelief as he fired, hitting him directly in the forehead.
And then he was dead.
Wounded, the woman looked up at the Vigilante, gasping loudly as he stepped closer to the body of her would-be murderer. He tapped the body several times. When it remained motionless for a while, he looked over at the woman.
They exchanged stares for a moment.
Then he fled back into the alleyway.
Part V
The Death of a Legend
February, 1935. A foot kicked the door open. It fell off of its weak hinges, panic-impelled screaming and gunshots pouring as it slammed against the floor.
Three dark silhouettes stood in the doorway, chuckling.
Sean was in his diminutive living room, sitting on the disheveled chair. A copy of the morning newspaper was in his hands, spread out like a cloak.
The three men made their way into the living room, where they saw him. One of them made a squealing sound.
“Don’t move, ya mick!” one of them snarled.
The three men were dressed in thick coats. Their tousled faces held bland expressions as they hissed their breaths. One of them looked Italian, while the other seemed to have a mix of several European races. The last was ambiguous. All three had Tommy guns aimed at him. They all shook, either from nervousness, or the excitement and thrill of spilling innocent blood.
Sean dropped the newspaper, held it limply in one hand. He spoke in an extremely timorous tone.
“Please, leave me alone. I’ve done nothing.”
One of the men seemed to take the compliance as contempt. He pushed the tip of the Tommy gun into Sean’s right cheek.
“We don’t need sarcasm, pig! What we want is ya cooperation. Do what we says and ya might live!”
The Irishman nodded submissively.
“And what do you want from me?” he asked.
The two others started to chuckle as they realized his timidity was genuine. The first one who spoke stepped closer towards him, his lips slobbering like a mad dog. Violently, he struck Sean across the face.
“What we want is all ya guns and money, if ya got any. Also, we need ya da come with us. Got that? If we find any weapons or cash ya left behind, ya a dead man. Got it?”
“Please, I don’t want trouble,” he said.
“That’s too bad. Because it’s here, whether ya want it or don’t. Whadya gonna do about it?”
Sean gulped, bowing his head. The lights in the house went out, leaving them in darkness. A lone ray of sunlight shone in through the dusty blinds, gently landing on the Irishman’s face. It was a partial illumination that left half of his face in the murky shadows.
He began to laugh. They cocked their heads, puzzled as his high-pitch voice became baritone, menacing.
Then a voice appeared out of nowhere.
“They bring this on themselves. They just wouldn’t listen.”
The transformation Sean underwent before their presence terrified them. His smile became a vicious snarl. His body seemed to grow in size. The naiveté in his eyes vanished. His passive demeanor crumbled as though it was chiseled away by an invisible hand, revealing his true face.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, Sean threw the newspaper up in their faces. It stunned them momentarily. They fired blindly. Their bullets tore the paper to shreds.
No one fell with it. Sean was gone. He was agile, lithe, had sidestepped their shots. They turned to locate him, only to find him ramming into them.
He grabbed the Thompson from the first man, smashing the butt into his head. It knocked him out cold.
The remaining two went to shoot him. The fluidity of his actions was indistinct. He already had his weapon at his hip.
Impossible. No one was that fast.
He granted them a passing instant to gaze at him. Nothing in their limited vocabulary could describe the bloodcurdling expression he wore.
The muzzle flashed vibrantly, flickering like the bulb of a dying lamp. Sean kept screaming, pouring fire on their lifeless bodies until he abruptly dropped the weapon capriciously. It clacked snappily as it struck the floor.
He stood motionless, gawking at them. He bent down, glared at their faces; dead; examined their limbs; dead.
Trembling, he looked at his hands, touched the blood that had been sprayed on his face; it was unnervingly warm.
The living room was abandoned. He ran over to the closet in the sparse kitchen. Rummaging about in the back, his hand came out grasping a sawed-off shotgun. He was loading it with two shells when he cried out suddenly.
“Patrick and Evelyn!”
Holding onto the shotgun readily, he ran out into the street. He didn’t get far before he stopped, incredulous of what he viewed.
Shingleville was in pandemonium. The hellish, grisly vista was the incarnation of every evil deed he could dream of. Gunfire blazed from windows, the despondent residents unable to comprehend why they were being shot at. There was no reason for it.
Bypassing the bloodshed, Sean snuck up to Patrick and Evelyn’s house, only a block away. It took time. The path getting there was painful to behold. The high number of corpses on the street made him wonder if there would be anyone left alive on his entire street.
He walked up to the side of his friends’ door cautiously. He called to them.
“Patrick? Evelyn?”
There was no reply.
He hastily approached the door, slamming it open with a swift kick from his right foot, and then immediately threw himself off to the side aga
inst the exterior wall.
He waited for gunshots.
Nothing happened.
He leaned over and peered inside, the door creaking back and forth a little. It looked empty. He began to call again, this time more urgently.
“Patrick! Evelyn!”
No reply.
He ventured further into the house, his ears sensitively attuned to the slightest motion or quake. He held the shotgun with an outstretched arm, the barrel held high. Further down the hallway, he heard muffled voices. One in particular, a female’s, sounded suppressed.
He made his way to the family room, peering around the corner.
Patrick lay on the floor as a mobster kicked him in the stomach. He groaned as he absorbed the impact. A few feet away, another mobster had Evelyn on the sofa, his hand covering her mouth. Her eyes were white, tears glistening on her face.
“Just kill him!” the mobster said to his comrade. “Then we’ll finish with her!”
The other mobster grinned as he produced a pistol and pointed it at Patrick’s head. His friend grabbed Evelyn’s head and forced her to watch.
“Don’t worry,” the mobster said to Patrick. “She won’t be far behind ya.”
Patrick looked up from the floor at the muzzle fearlessly. A drip of blood fell down his lip. He didn’t bother to wipe it. He looked over at Evelyn, his eyes swelling with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me.”
As the mobster pulled the trigger, Sean leapt out from around the corner, crying out viciously. As they turned to him, he aimed the shotgun at the mobster’s chest and fired, blowing him across the room. He then raised his shotgun high, directly at the other mobster’s head.
Shocked, the mobster let go of Evelyn and pulled away. He held his hands up, whimpering as he begged for mercy. Evelyn gazed at Sean as though she had no idea who he was.
With a thunderous scream, Sean discharged the shotgun. The close proximity took its toll; the remains of mobster’s body crumbled, landing next Patrick.
The brother and sister trembled as they looked at Sean with equal apprehension and dread. Climbing to his feet, Patrick approached Sean cautiously.
Men Who Walk Alone Page 22