Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Borost and Junkie cannot discern whether he’s dead or alive. All they know is Davidson is one of them. And in this split second, they don’t care about their rules, which decree to never get involved. At once they spring in unison. They start to pummel Joshua, beating him in the back of his head, booting him in the side. Joshua stoops and tucks under their raining blows, still compressing Davidson’s windpipe.

  “Stop! Stop it! You’re gonna kill him!”

  Borost strikes full force, then snatches Joshua’s arm, breaks him loose, and drags him off. Junkie leaps in, and together they try to restrain him, but he battles on. “Are you going to stop? Are you done? Stop!” Finally he submits by ceasing to struggle, and Borost ultimately lets him go. Then everything falls silent, only wheezing and gasping for oxygen, while the three of them rise to their feet and look in shock, circled around Davidson, who is lying comatose on the floor. He isn’t breathing.

  “Hey! Junkie? Borost? What the fuck’s going on over there?”

  “Don’t fucking worry about it,” Junkie answers through the bars. His voice is shaking, but his eyes never leave Davidson’s limp form. Then, worriedly, he looks to Borost. “What’re we gonna do?” Borost stares unknowingly, catching his wind. “Davidson! Davidson!” he yells, jumping up and down, kicking him lightly but repeatedly, calling him a fat piece of shit, anything to rock him back to life.

  Borost kneels to check him out. The closer he gets, the more unmoving he is. He slaps his face. Nothing.

  “Do the CPR! Do the CPR thing!”

  Borost starts compressing his chest as Joshua rests on the lower bunk, assessing the damage. Oh fuck, what if I killed him?

  Then suddenly Davidson sucks in a bottomless breath. Borost rears. Junkie jerks, freezes. It scares the shit out of all of them, but at the same time awards relief. Junkie helps, and Davidson is aided to his bunk, where he immediately passes out again, wounded but alive.

  Joshua doesn’t say a word, just evenly returns to his bunk. If he feels any remorse, Borost and Junkie cannot tell. None of them makes a peep for hours. In Joshua’s mind he’s assured he won’t have any other problems; he’s established himself, gained their approval. In his cellmates’ minds, he is now thought of as a man to be reckoned with, living up to his media revelations.

  Then just before they attempt a restless night, Borost declares an additional law of the house. His voice punctures the dead silence. “You squeezed him so tight both his eyes will blacken; he’s too beaten up to go to meals for a week at least. And if his wounds are seen by the guards, we all go to the hole. And we all will bring back food until he heals; this is the way we do it!”

  Joshua looks down and nods in accord to both of them, then restores to his former position on the thin prison mattress, gaping at the ceiling, secretly smiling. In just a few short and adventurous moments of violence, he’s answered all of their questions. He’s done proving himself. And now he can focus all his energies on figuring a way out of this hellhole.

  Behind the closed doors in his mind, he has a plan. But then, he’s always had a plan.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Outside of the Walls, his name has taken on a life of its own. The justice system has given more focus to the missing girls written in his scrolls—bringing forth investigations and press releases. Psychologists list him in their case studies and journals. Teen magazines interview his high school classmates, who claim he carried the traits of a psychopath, and ex-girlfriends cry for the investigative reporters, telling how numb he is within. The mainstream Christian rhetoric asserts he’s a sign of the final days. And just to get under their skin, clever pundits refer to him as the second coming of Charles Manson. Rock groups have released new titles like “Murder of the Unknown” and “Playboy Assassin.” Lawmakers are advocating a litany of newly needed laws. And he’s exploited in comedic routines and late-night monologues. His name is cursed, ostracized, ridiculed, but it’s a name that one man is fighting to save— William Siconolfi.

  He’s been playing every card in the deck, threatening to expose all the dirt he’s acquired on his colleagues over the years, resulting in a list of influential members now contributing to his son’s freedom agenda, which includes cardinals, politicians, judges, and businessmen—the power players.

  He leaves not a solitary sleazy stone unturned, securing at least a retrial. He’s also hired a Fortune 500 promotion firm to sell the idea to the public that his son is innocent and a security team, former Blackwater militants, to protect his interests and the interests of those with whom he’s secretly conducting backdoor dealings. He has to be careful, as it seems the FBI has him under surveillance.

  Today, his security team, has set up a meeting with a court of appeals judge. The rendezvous is at a local BMW dealership. The judge will meet him in full disguise. Wearing dark flashy sunglasses, a sporty-gelled man’s wig, nametag, and a cheap suit that has salesman written all over it. As the FBI agents sit across the street viewing with their binoculars through the plate glass windows, they’ll only see William at the negotiating table, discussing payment options.

  When the meeting is over, a text message chimes. It’s from his security team, informing him who the mysterious man is (other than the government) who’s been following him. The text reads: Former Detective Bradley Cools.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  A number of nights after the cell brawl, nerves are calmed, and the men begin to bond as a result of Davidson being mostly healed up and the sharing of the OxyContin pills Joshua scored on the yard. They are now flying high, the best of friends.

  Borost and Junkie contribute a few accounts of their past adventures and loves. Then Borost asks Joshua to tell of some personal things about himself.

  Joshua quips, “I feel sometimes as if I’m being watched in the chow hall.” They all start laughing, picturing the setting of their dining area. Three times a day, they march single file through metal detectors into the large mess hall packed with hardened convicts. Walking among them are many guards carrying pepper spray and nightsticks. And standing above, on the second floor, other guards hold shotguns, teargas, and itchy trigger fingers. Security cameras rotate on their bases, following their every move. The cops are watching, the cons are watching, everyone is watching everyone. There is not one person who lives or works within the entire prison who doesn’t already know that Joshua won’t eat oatmeal, peppers his French fries, and will trade most anything for chocolate milk.

  “Okay, that’s pretty funny,” Borost says. “But seriously, tell us what you’re all about, man.”

  Joshua shifts his eyes to the wall, thinking for a minute, as the cell plunges into silence. “Well…all right,” he replies, and sits up, hanging his feet over the end of the bunk. And then for some unknown reason, he begins speaking freely of something he’s held close all his life. “I have dreams…I mean…When I dream, it’s different than the way you do. It’s called sequential dreaming.”

  “What the fuck does that shit mean?” Junkie asks.

  Joshua starts explaining the best he can, somewhat confused about it himself. “Well, when I dream, it’s very vivid, lifelike, and, unlike most men, in full color. And I dream in sequence, complete story lines, some lasting a year or more.” He pauses, searching their faces. Their expressions are as expected, suspicious and doubtful. Still he continues, “And the one I’ve been having lately is of a little boy named Frankie. The story is set in Alabama in the sixties. He lives alone with his mother; her name is Betty, and she is…well, sort of a tramp, a party girl.”

  “Yeah, I know the kind,” Junkie adds.

  Joshua smiles, and is encouraged to carry on. “Okay, so one Saturday night, in the middle of a house party, she’s called into work. She leaves in a rush, and little Frankie is left with her new boyfriend, Panama-Red. And he’s trouble. Big trouble! He ends up taking little Frankie with him to collect some drug money. And in the course of this, he gets killed by the hillbilly husband and wife that are in debt to him
. Obviously they figured it was easier to kill him than pay the bill. And what’s worse is it all happens right in front of little Frankie.”

  “Stupid fucking hillbillies,” Junkie slips in.

  Everyone chuckles and positions themselves to listen more closely.

  “So now the situation is, Abe and Sally—that’s the hillbilly couple—decide to leave Alabama the Beautiful and abscond to Idaho. And since they believe little Frankie to be Panama-Red’s son, and they sure don’t want to leave behind any witnesses, they’re taking him along.”

  “What happens next?” Davidson asks.

  Joshua answers gently, as these are the first words he’s said directly to him since their fight. “Well, that’s all I’ve seen so far…But one thing is that little Frankie is so distressed over seeing Panama being killed he can’t hear or even talk.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll have another dream tonight?” Borost asks, fascinated.

  “Maybe not tonight. Actually I haven’t seen him for some time now. But eventually, yes.”

  “And you’re gonna tell us what happens, right?” Junkie asks.

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you guys.” Joshua smiles again, feeling like he’s in the company of true friends.

  His sharing sparks off an atmosphere of social comfort, and the rest of their evening together is spent joking, laughing, and bad-boy storytelling. Even some hypothetical talk of escape is discussed until they are worn out. Then warm good nights are said, and once again they are buried under thin covers, warding off the cold. For Joshua the talk of little Frankie has opened a doorway that’s been closed for a number of nights now. And somewhere in the core hours of darkness, his eyes begin to roll back and forth into REM sleep.

  Flashes of radiance shift, imagery twists, and buried emotions emerge— taking form.

  Abe, his young wife, Sally, and little Frankie are driving in the old Ford truck down a long gravel driveway. The sun is just rising over a hayfield that ends with a large house surrounded by old-growth forest. It’s painted white and across the full width is an open porch, with wicker chairs and potted plants. As they come to a stop, a cedar board can be seen hanging above the entryway. The burned letters in the wood name the home: The Clemsens.

  Little Frankie stares out the window into another world. It’s a nice and proper homestead bordered by green lawns and fruit trees. There’s a playful Labrador retriever running in the yard. And standing on the porch, under wooden wind chimes, is a woman named Mrs. Sue Clemsen. She is a glowing lady with a joy about her that cannot be explained, and she never leaves his sight.

  They all go inside, where everything is clean and orderly, and little Frankie is sat down on a davenport sofa. There he appreciates a home that is filled with quietness and the smells of a fireplace and home cooking. Pictures of loved ones adorn the walls. And Mrs. Clemsen shows loving eyes, even as she patiently listens to the tall tales of her wayward brother.

  According to Abe they had to leave Alabama because he’d lost his job, and the young boy they have with them is Sally’s cousin’s kid, who they adopted, since she was using drugs. From there he goes on and on telling of one sad misfortune after another. The only part being the truth is little Frankie’s name, which Sally found stitched into the inside of his jacket.

  Little Frankie thinks about what Abe is saying before he realizes he can hear again.

  Then everything moves in fast forward.

  Days go by living with the Clemsens, eating family meals, attending Sunday services, and spending the daylight hours running and playing in the fields with their two children and the dog named Trixter. Their son, Billy, who’s close to little Frankie’s age, is a lot of fun and always kind to his younger sister, Bobby-Sue. Little Frankie also takes a liking to Jake, Mrs. Clemsen’s husband. He’s a hardworking man, whose nature is steadfast and gentle. He takes little Frankie around the farm, showing him the animals, teaching him how to feed the chickens and horses, and explains to him the strict rules of the home.

  In short manner he begins to adjust into a healthy young boy. And even though he still hasn’t uttered a word, no one presses him. The only conflict in him is the notion to hide his mother from them. He misses her greatly but doesn’t want anyone to know of her, because he loves it here—he never wants to leave.

  Then one day, as they are all sitting down to supper, the phone rings. Jake gets up and talks for a while in the family room. After the call ends, he takes a long time before coming back to the table. And when he does, Mrs. Clemsen asks apprehensively, “Who was that, darling?”

  Jake holds a stern hand to her, to which she remains silent. Then he looks to Abe, asking, “Why are the police in Alabama looking for you?”

  Abe makes a glance to Sally then replies, “I has no idea ’bout dat, Jake.”

  “Well, they said something…something about a man being shot,” Jake replies harshly.

  Abe, with pleading eyes, turns to his sister, who appears as if she might cry. Then he looks down, away from everyone, and says, “Maybe we bet’r leave din.” He gets up and walks out of the room with Sally trailing close behind.

  Mrs. Clemsen excuses herself properly from the table. She takes her husband by the hand, leaving the room as well. Billy and Bobby-Sue eat in silence with little Frankie as they listen to the grown-ups arguing and moving about the house. Then they hear the fading noises of Abe’s truck crackling the gravel in the driveway.

  Another twenty minutes or so passes before Jake and Mrs. Clemsen return to the dining room. Together they stand close, consoling arms wrapped around each other. They announce that Abe and Sally have left. And that little Frankie is now the newest member of the Clemsen family.

  Joshua loses the association. He tosses and turns the rest of the night, desperately trying to find his way back.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  After making it through a two-hour screening process, William waits in the visiting room. It’s painted drab, chilly, and deficient of every luxury.

  Across the other side of the prison, Joshua’s yard time is disrupted by the screeching sound of the loud speaker.

  “Joshua Siconolfi, visit!”

  Soon he’s escorted into the room, looking pale; his skin appears older and loose around the eyes. “Good morning, Josh. How’re they treating you here?” William asks, seeming more curious than concerned.

  “I’m doing what I have to, and that’s all I’m going to say about it,” he replies curtly. He then takes his seat and scans the room, getting an eyeful of a young, slutty girl visiting her boyfriend.

  “Listen, Josh, I’ve consulted with some very powerful friends of mine, and we have an excellent shot at securing you an appeal. We are going to get you out of here one way or the other.”

  “Maybe I like it here.”

  “Quit talking crazy, Josh. Now, is this why you asked me to come here?”

  Joshua removes his gaze from the girl, leans in close so the guards cannot hear, and says, “I want to do another interview with Tabatha Sterns; I need you to set it up.”

  “I don’t think she will, not after what you pulled last time.”

  “Oh, she’ll do it; believe me, she will.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” he replies, shaking his head, not understanding his son. But then he’s never really understood him.

  The remainder of the short visit is used up chitchatting of the inner workings of prison life while William quietly wonders if his son is remorseful for what he’s done.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Three days later, Seattle’s purple dahlias are beginning to bloom, and blue jays are singing and flying about in the long-awaited sunlight that has returned to the Pacific Northwest. It brings new life to the many shades of green in the city that rests in the heart of glistening waters and snow-capped mountains. Anyone who has ever visited the Puget Sound would agree she is a true beauty this time of year, but Cools hasn’t seen any of it. He’s been numbing his bitterness in a drugged-out state. Current
ly he’s hiding at his regular table.

  Again he’s half drunk and sniffling from the line of cocaine he’s just done in the bathroom. He takes a long drag off his cigarette while watching the news regarding the upcoming, primetime interview of his old adversary by Tabatha Sterns. In her commercials for the event, she blatantly smears Kimberly’s name, presumably trying to incite rage in Joshua beforehand, itemizing the choices she made in life—her vocation as a stripper, her false identities, her promiscuous affair, drug use, heretical religious beliefs, sexually transmitted disease, and her propensity for violence.

  The dark side of the deceased.

  It all makes him need another drink, another line. “Ahem,” he coughs, catching the attention of the new redheaded waitress, and waves her over. As she approaches he pulls out a wad of one-hundred-dollar bills—his recently illgotten gains from sales of cocaine to the local riffraff. “Bring me a new bottle of Jameson,” he slurs out, “and can you change the channel to anything but this shit?”

  “Anything for you, handsome,” she replies, with a counterfeit smile. She then turns to fill his request. And when he can no longer see her, she quickly drops her friendly expression. There isn’t a great deal known about him. Only what she’s gathered from the other girls, who’ve told her that he’s some kind of cop that was given the all clear to be here. But that isn’t her concern; all she is thinking is that he’s been here almost every night since she started two weeks ago. And he usually leaves absolutely obliterated. It’s a story she is all too familiar with. A reoccurrence she’s seen time and time again in her many years working in shady cocktail lounges.

  Sometimes good men, really good men, drink themselves to their death.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Final preparations for the audience of her career are underway, and the word on the street is that Tabatha Sterns’s employer has already paid $750,000 for the exclusive, maximum security interview. They expect it to set ratings records. Because Joshua, often thought of as a diabolical killer, has gathered a loyal congregation who can’t seem to get enough of his arrogance, good looks, or provocative theories of life. And since his exploits have been absent from their screens for almost three weeks now, their imaginations are starving for what outlandish things he might say or do next. Some even hold onto hope that they’ll get a genuine confession or hear the fate of the other missing girls.