by Jay Nichols
* * *
"Get up, boy."
Russell pushed the dog’s ribs—a flash of pain jolting through his right shoulder—until the canine behemoth stood up. Then, pointing to the open front door, he yelled, "Inside. Now. Go!"
But Apollo didn’t go. He remained in the grass, waiting for Russell to wrap his long arms around his wide torso and pull himself to his knees, then to his feet. Once he had the kid standing and was sure he wouldn’t come crashing down again, Apollo turned and began a sulky traipse up the brick pathway.
I’m sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to yell at you.
Russell followed the dog to the porch, his shoulder aching but otherwise okay. The throbbing in his palm was gone, and by the time he stepped inside the house, the worst of the pain in his shoulder was gone, too. He sensed the joint would smart for the next several days, but if just walking could alleviate most of the hurt, then he thought he had gotten off lightly.
Hearing their son’s footsteps in the hallway, Diane and Darrel began a tandem descent down the staircase. Russell knew they had been listening the whole time, just as he knew that this "fortuitous" encounter had been planned out in hushed tones while looking down at him rolling in the grass from their bedroom window. But that was just how his parents were, and no matter how much Russell hated it, he couldn’t change them.
"I heard screaming," Diane said, clutching the lapels of her robe shut. "I really don’t like you hanging around Hector."
"Has he been drinking?" Darrel added gravely, doing his impression of the concerned parent.
Russell darted his eyes between the two of them, sighed, and said, "What do you think? I’m sure you heard every word. You tell me: Did he sound drunk to you? Or did he sound like he was about to go on a goddamn killing spree? You’re the experts, right? You know everything that’s going on."
"Don’t you—" Darrel began.
"SHUT UP!!" Russell screamed, his voice ringing in the hollow house. Somewhere out of sight but near, Apollo whined. "Neither of you have any idea what’s going on, so you might as well just stay the hell out of my business. I’ve got shit I need to take care of, and you’re standing in my way."
Russell barged up the staircase, pushing his parents’ bodies out of the way with his forearms. A twinge of pain exploded in his soul (and his shoulder). These are my parents, he thought while throwing them against the bannisters. What am I doing? But no matter how loudly his conscience may have pleaded to go back and apologize, he plowed on. He had to get to the top floor because that’s where his keys were, and once he got those, he could proceed to the next step, the one he truly dreaded.
He arrived at the second floor and turned the corner for the second staircase, the one that led to the lofts. It was there that he felt the hot gusts on the backs of his knees. He turned around to see yellow Apollo hot on his tail.
Of course he’s following me. He’d follow me to the ends of the earth. That’s why I’ve got to do what I’m about to do.
"Come on, boy."
Apollo climbed the last flight of stairs alongside Russell. They entered his room at the same time, squeezing through the narrow frame as if it were a race.
"It’s a tie! We both win!" Russell hooked an arm around Apollo’s neck and rubbed his short, blonde coat.
Apollo smiled.
Look at him. He thinks it’s a game.
Russell slammed the door and twisted the lock just as his father’s infuriated cries rose up to fill the hallway. Five seconds later, a fist was pounding the other side of the door, shaking the walls and rattling the night stand and drawers. There were screams, too, but Russell drowned those out by cranking up the stereo inside his head to full blast. He listened to "Soul to Squeeze" by the mighty Red Hot Chili Peppers while searching the cluttered dresser top for his keys.
Apollo’s head brushed against his thigh. Russell looked down to see the Dane’s mouth open and close: a bark. All he heard, though, was music. If by some freak accident his mind somehow broke (he prayed to God it never happened but you never know…), he hoped it would break in such a way so that all he heard for the rest of his life was music. Even if he had to remain locked up in some padded room somewhere and shit in a diaper, he knew he could be happy as long as he had his music.
But not this. I can’t live like this—disappearing inside my head every time life gets too stressful. I have many talents—I’m aware of this—but none of them have prepared me for what I’ve got to do tonight. How the hell am I supposed to keep Hector from killing Mike?
[The same way you kept him from killing you.]
And how do I do that, Mr. Strange-Voice-In-My-Head? Get lucky again?
[Luck had nothing to do with it. You played Hector’s emotions like you play your piano or guitar. You have the ability to do that to anybody. You can either lift people up or drive them into the ground. It’s your choice. It’s always your choice. You’re an artist, Russell. You think that means you create, but all you can really do is rearrange what is already there. Manipulate. What you’re best at is illuminating the truths that no one else can see. There are hidden secrets—connections, ties—that are ripe for uncovering, and you’re one of the few people in the world who know how to rip the mantles off of those illusions and expose what is really there. That’s why I need you tonight. You’re going to have to dig, though; you’re going to have to go places in your mind and soul where few dare to tread—or even know exist. You already know how to do that (Is that music I hear?), and what you uncover will always be beautiful and ugly, simple and complicated. You’ll see for yourself later.]
I see too much already.
[And you hear too much. I know. That’s the price you must pay for your greatness. That is your greatness. How else could you have toppled that giant, Hector Graham? Through brute physical force? No. You listened and you saw and you used every nuance of Hector’s character against him. You knew he wanted to see blood—your blood—but you offered him someone else’s instead. You diverted; you manipulated; you made the connections. You tied trip wires around his feet using nothing more than your tongue and your mind. His nature compelled him to attack you, but you made him go against his nature. Doesn’t that make you feel powerful? Don’t you remember how easy it all was, how natural it felt?]
Yes. But what difference does it make? He’s still going to kill O’Brien, and I still have to find a way of stopping him.
Lifting an old coffee cup, Russell heard the unmistakable metallic jingle. He reached in, put his finger through the loop, and said, "Gotcha!"
He slid the keys into his shorts pocket only to feel them slide down his leg.
"What the—"
Looking down, he saw that he wasn’t even wearing shorts, only boxers. Realizing that he’d been wearing nothing but underwear and an old, white T-shirt while talking to Hector, a flush swept through his body.
A brief flush. Quickly he grabbed a pair of green cargo shorts off the floor and pulled them to his hips. They were dirty, but he didn’t care. Next, he searched for his shoes and found them on the other side of the bed.
Apollo watched Russell scurry around the room from atop the window dais, having jumped up there to get out of his master’s way.
[Given all you know about Hector, do you really think he’d kill Mike O’Brien?]
"Yes," Russell said out loud. "Of course he would."
[They’re buddies, you know. Like how you and Pete were buddies. They go back a long way.]
You don’t know Hector. He has the capacity to kill.
[So do you. You killed his dog.]
"That was different and you know it! Lola had rabies. She attacked me!"
[So you chopped her head off with a hoe. A little excessive, don’t you think?]
"Shut up!"
[You’re refusing to see the big pic—]
"I see too much!"
[Can you turn off that stupid music? I’m trying to tell you something.]
Defiantly, Russell raised the vo
lume of his mental stereo and drowned out the traitor’s voice. He hated that guy—whoever the hell he was—almost as much as he hated the periodic throbbing that flared in his left palm whenever he played piano or guitar. He was an enemy—that much he knew for certain. He cozened; he tried to lead him down paths he didn’t want to go down; he was toxic.
Slowly, Russell eased up on the volume. When the music was completely gone, so was the traitor.
"Fuck him."
Russell walked over to Apollo, who still stood in the cubbyhole, and lifted his long chin with his equally long hand. Looking into the Dane’s glinting eyes, he said, "I’ve gotta leave you now, buddy. I know I promised I wouldn’t, but where I’m going…I’ve got this feeling…won’t be a safe place for you."
Apollo cocked his head to the side.
Russell watched him do it and nearly cried.
"Hector has gone batshit crazy. That’s all you need to know. There’s no telling what he’d do to you if given the chance. And I know you would protect me, and I know that in a fair fight you could probably take Hector. But Hector doesn’t fight fair. He’d try to kill you, boy, and I can’t let that happen."
He patted Apollo on the head one last time and walked to the door.
Standing in the hall, looking in, Russell felt the sting of a million needles inside his nose and the faint tickle of a tear on his right cheek.
"I’m sorry, boy," he said, closing the door. "I’m locking you in now. You see, I’ve got this feeling…"
Apollo disappeared behind two inches of varnished pine. Russell slid the key in the lock and turned the bolt. His parents knew the door had a lock—it came with the house—but what they didn’t know was that Russell had found the only key to it under a loose floorboard in his room when he was seven.
Russell touched his palm to the door. "I’ll be back. I promise."
Then he turned and went away.