He threw a scathing look over his shoulder.
“You said that it was involved with the fires,” she clarified. Memories of the life she’d left behind only a few hours ago flooded her mind. “So am I, in a way. I want to help figure this out. If this monster is really dangerous, I want to get rid of it.”
He turned to her and glared in silence, scanning her up and down.
Everything about him screamed dangerous. His large frame and towering stance, his rude demeanor, and his dirty, hunter-esque appearance all held firm to the image of a crazy guy. And he definitely wasn’t handsome, though his body was built like a massive Greek demigod, chiseled by Zeus himself. She had no doubt he had killed people and he was capable—and willing, if need be—to do some serious harm. But everything within her doubted he was as fearsome as he appeared. It was that strange, unexplainable feeling again, the one that felt outside of herself. She could almost hear Dante nagging her about how she shouldn’t trust her instincts, how she was too wild a spirit to listen to her gut. But she wasn’t that wild. Dante had always made it seem like she was completely off her rocker and incapable of functioning on her own. Maybe Dante had been wrong about her instincts. I’ll prove him wrong, she thought smugly. She almost felt eager now. “Please, I’m begging you. Let me help.”
Finally, he let out a huff. “I don’t work with people very well.”
She tittered at that. “I don’t doubt it.”
His jaw clenched.
She quickly gave an offer. “Maybe I’ll make it go by faster. Maybe the monster will…talk, since it apparently knows my name.”
He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, actually considering it. “And you’d really be willing to work alongside me so easily? You don’t even know me.”
“How many people have you killed?” she interrogated.
“A lot,” he said. There was no hesitation, like it was a natural answer. “Why?”
She shuffled around, trying to find a stronger stance. “Well, you want to know what I see?”
“What?”
It was her turn to try and take control of the situation. “I see a big, scary-looking guy who’s killed people. Yet, you sat there and didn’t really do anything to get your answers from me other than threaten me with a knife. You didn’t even use it, which you would have if you really wanted information and if you really were this big villain that you’re trying to act like. And I think you and I both know you didn’t even need that knife. But you’re not a big, bad villain. I can see that. I can feel that.” She let her eyes soften. “So, yes, I’m willing to go out and work with you, since you seem more knowledgeable about what’s going on than I am.”
His face contorted into bewilderment and his eyes locked onto her face for a silent minute. Finally, the muscles in his jaw twitched and he turned from her, throwing open the window. “I’ll be here same time tomorrow. Then I’ll take you to the monster.”
Her eyes widened. “What, you think it’s wise to just let the monster roam around another day?”
“Don’t worry about the monster.” He kicked a leg out and glanced up at her. “If you’re as tired as you claim, you’ll only be a burden. If you really want to help, get some sleep.”
She smiled. “It’s a date, then.”
He rolled his eyes and exhaled. Then he ducked his head out the window.
Trying to suppress the delightful giggling of her success, she whispered, “Goodnight, Hercules.”
He groaned and was gone.
Canto XII
The farther and farther Dante drove from Suzette the more and more his heart sank. Sorrow rocked his very being, mercilessly bothering him the entire trip. The radio grated against his ears but silence tormented him. He kept picturing Suzette’s tiny frame jumping off the bridge, disappearing into the darkness—over and over. All he wanted was to be around when the police finally had a solid answer as to what had happened. He felt so distraught, furious with himself for having let it all boil down to suicide.
He cringed at the thought, the dwindling sun sucking away any warmth that may have relieved him. But soon he would be able to fall again into the peace of a dreamless sleep.
It was about seven when he arrived at the rickety, little one-story home squished between a multitude of houses just as worn. With no driveway, he parked against the curb, tugged out all his bags, and sulked over to the beaten-up door. In the distance he could hear police sirens and he took a moment to look around the questionable neighborhood. Finding nothing, he turned back to the door, opened the torn screen door, and gave it a feeble knock.
A moment passed and the door opened to a small Italian man, flashing a tight grin. He looked just as Dante remembered, wearing a dirty t-shirt and ripped pants, greatly resembling a bum, though his face would belie such a claim. In his eye was a small twinkle, almost hidden underneath a wise brow. Upon his middle-aged face were the marks of happiness around his eyes, his mouth, and across his forehead. His hair, once a thick crown of pride, was thinning on the top. It almost seemed like there was nothing that could dampen such a man’s spirits. But at the sight of Dante’s hopeless and broken expression, the man’s smile faded. After a moment’s pause, he was able to whisper, “Hello, Dante.”
Dante looked away, ashamed. “Uncle Virgil.”
“Come on in,” he said, stepping aside for his nephew.
Dante’s feet hesitated a moment, but he went inside. He wasn’t afraid of hurting his uncle; he was too weak with numbness. Any anger or sorrow he felt barely caught flame. Virgil would be safe from him.
His uncle walked him through the little foyer and into the dingy den where two recliners sat, old and worn.
“Please, have a seat.” Virgil gently took the bags from Dante and hurried away toward the back.
Dante sat himself in the rough, uncomfortable seat and stared at the floor.
Virgil’s quick footsteps returned. “Are you hungry? I made dinner for you.”
“No,” Dante muttered.
“That’s okay—that’s okay,” the uncle replied. “I’ll just pack it into the fridge and save it for tomorrow.” He stood there for a moment, waiting to see if anything would happen.
Dante only gave him a glimpse as acknowledgment.
Virgil nodded and turned to a corner that contained a large desk and a coffee table scrunched against it, both covered in a cloak of loose paper. He went over and started fishing through some of the papers. “I wish I could say that my job is a good one, but it’s not,” he started honestly. “People underpay me, tell me my work isn’t worth much, and kick me to the curb when they’re done. But so is the life of a poet.” He came across what he was looking for and turned back to Dante, holding up newspaper clippings and wearing a smile. “I think I’m onto something great, but until then, I’ve got a whole list of jobs that could maybe occupy your time—get your mind off of things.” His eyes waited.
Dante’s gaze shifted down again, feeling drained by Virgil’s enthusiasm.
“O-or I could take them on if you would prefer not to,” Virgil suggested instead.
Dante didn’t move. Not one inch. Only his eyes trailed here or there, moving from the frayed carpet to Virgil and back again.
Virgil set the papers down, brushed off his pants, and sat in the other seat.
Dante wondered how Virgil would approach such a delicate subject. With an apology and a pat on the arm? Soothing, pretty words? Virgil was good at that. Dante expected that from him, though he still didn’t want to hear it.
“Dante,” Virgil started.
Here we go. Dante closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry about what happened.” Virgil very audibly swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “I loved my sister dearly and I understand what you’re going—”
“Where do I sleep?” Dante took a deep breath and stared firmly at his uncle.
Virgil stopped short in surprise, but immediately nodded. “I’ll take you to your room.”
They both got
up and Virgil led him to a cramped little room down the hall. Dante stopped inside and stared, though there wasn’t much to look at. There was only a thin mattress on the floor and the tiny open closet where Virgil had stuffed Dante’s bags.
“I’m sorry about the space,” Virgil said. “This used to be my office. A-and I couldn’t afford a bed frame.”
Dante looked at the dingy walls with mold growing in one of the corners and felt disgusted. Yet, at the same time, he felt satisfied. I deserve this.
“If you don’t like it, I’ll sleep in here and you can have my bed,” Virgil said. “A young, healthy man like you should rest your bones somewhere a little nicer.”
Dante sat himself down on the little mattress and hugged his knees. “Goodnight, Uncle Virgil.”
“G-goodnight, Dante,” he replied somberly. Virgil began to turn away but then turned back to Dante abruptly, his eyes sparkling. “Hey! I almost forgot!” His hands came alive with excitement. “I’ve got a real swell church down the block that I think you’re gonna love. It’s got more of a gospel-type worship—not like your church—but their voices are so beautiful. Why there’s this one girl, only ten years old and I promise you she—”
“I’m not going.”
Virgil froze at the very thought of Dante denying church.
Dante’s eyes fell, sickened at the idea of trusting God again. As he glared at the ground, he could feel his uncle’s eyes boring into his head. But Virgil gave a light chuckle. Dante looked up, curious.
Virgil was smiling despite himself, full of hope.
Dante fought an eye roll and let his gaze fall back down.
“I get it, don’t worry,” Virgil insisted. “I understand.”
“You don’t understand.”
Virgil stopped again.
At that moment, Dante’s eyes came up and met Virgil’s and he could see the unsettlement in his uncle’s eyes. When he looked deeper into them, Virgil’s distress only grew worse, as if he could see the kindling flame deep within Dante’s eyes.
“You never will.”
Virgil was slightly shocked, but gentle all the same. “But I’m sure if you just gave it time then—”
“Things have changed,” Dante whispered.
“But they can get better,” he insisted.
“They won’t.”
And again, no words would form. Virgil stared at him in stunned silence.
“Goodnight.” Finished, Dante plopped on the pillow, rolled to his side, and moved no more.
Stricken, Virgil was silent for a long time. “Okay,” he said quietly. Then he closed the door behind him and left Dante to his thoughts.
—
Jack paced in his cell, eagerly awaiting his guest to return. It had felt like he’d been pacing for hours, though he knew it was only a few minutes. Finally, a door opened and closed. Jack pressed his face between the bars and watched as Jason Grimes made his way over with a blank look in his eye. Officer Howes followed behind at a distance.
“So, what do you think?” Jack asked, gripping onto the cell bars. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his lawyer. He’d only met Mr. Grimes just a half hour ago, but his face lit a spark of hope in Jack. Grimes had been so intrigued and almost positive as he listened to Jack’s testimony. Grimes seemed smart. He’d see past the phoniness of the evidence. Jack shifted on his feet, excited by the very thought. “Do you think I could win this?” he asked.
The lawyer stopped in front of the cell and gave Jack a skeptical look. “Listen, kid, that guy on the video looked just like you.” Try as he may to sound logical, there was an odd, quizzical look in his eye.
“But it wasn’t!” Jack’s throat clenched as he desperately hoped to keep the skepticism alive. “I didn’t do all of that! Jekyll had to have done it! And he had to have made up all of that evidence, too!”
Grimes’s glare softened the longer he looked over Jack. He scanned the area around them and stepped closer. “You know something? I believe you. I’ve worked with so many criminals over the years—all of them guilty as sin, yet all lying and saying they didn’t do it. But there’s something in you, kid, that’s begging for justice.”
Jack appreciated the compliment to his character, but that’s not what he wanted to hear. “Have you found anything to help me?”
Jason Grimes pursed his lips and gave him a pained look. “Listen, kid…”
Jack’s smile fell.
Grimes scooted even closer to the bars and leaned in. “You know I believe you, but with all this evidence stacked against you, you’re looking at ten to life for aggravated arson alone.” A warning flickered in his eyes. “Whatever this is, you’ve clearly upset some extremely powerful people. This may be more dangerous for you than you can imagine.”
Jack’s hands shook against the bars. “Wh-what do I do?”
“My advice? Take the plea deal, plead guilty to first-degree arson, and take three years.”
“No!” Jack groaned. “I didn’t do it!”
“If you try to fight whoever these people are, you may lose more than just the trial.”
Jack gulped and stared at the lawyer, waiting to find his bluff. “So just…give in?”
“Just give in.” Grimes nodded. “Then after that?” He shrugged and shook his head. “Get out of here. Get as far away from this as you can.”
Feeling suddenly weak, Jack’s hands fell away and he leaned himself on the bars. He couldn’t bear looking at Grimes—his last hope, now gone.
Grimes sighed and took a few steps backwards toward Howes. “I’m sorry, kid.” After a moment of silence, he turned and left with the cop.
Long after the lawyer was gone, Jack turned himself around, letting the cold of the metal seep into the skin of his shaved head. He stared at the grimy wall of his cell, feeling hopeless. Am I insane? Did I really do all of this? Maybe it really was him in the tapes wreaking havoc. The thought of not knowing scared him. His throat tightened as his lungs began spazzing. Desperate to find some peace, he stared out of the barred window into the dark night sky, void of even a moon. As he looked on, he felt his lungs settle, though his whole body ached with dread.
What could he have done to make him deserve such a fate? He was a good student. As a son, though? That was another story, but with an angry dad like his, it was difficult to be good enough. But he was, in whole, a good person. He had to be. He had hardly done anything to deserve this.
And now that this Jekyll character was loose, there was no telling what could happen. How many other lives would he curse?
Jack stood there, thinking that horrible thought once again: Maybe he had done it. Maybe he’d made up the whole fiasco about a burning man as a way to cope with his own violent, unhinged tendencies, brought on by a mean, violent father figure.
He groaned. It had felt so real, though! His eyes fell to the bars of the window as he recalled the whole night, especially the miraculous feat of flying through a wall and still remaining intact. Could he really have done it? He had tried over and over again for the past week—pushing things, poking things, hitting things—only to come up with nothing.
Curious, he stood up and approached the concrete wall across from his door. He reached up and tugged on the bars of the window—steady. Then he pushed the smooth, hard concrete underneath—firm.
Taking a deep breath, he took a few good steps back, his eyes never leaving the wall, watching to see if there was a trick to it, if something would move. With a heavy exhale, he bolted toward the wall. With a gasp, he stopped short, throwing his hands up. His palms hit the wall and he sighed.
God, I think I am crazy.
And what if he was? Would it matter if he tried or not? If he smashed his head, he would know that answer soon enough. And if Grimes’s warning was right, it wasn’t like he’d be going anywhere anytime soon—and maybe even after.
Heart pounding, he stepped back again. Then he took a few deep breaths in and out and closed his eyes. He remembered how he’d felt that m
orning he went through the wall; scared and confused, but also almost detached from himself, like what he imagined survival mode to feel like. It took him a minute, but he forced himself into the same mindset. Then he bolted forward before doubt could creep back in his mind, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain.
A mist passed over his body and under his feet he felt a soft brush of grass. Confused, Jack opened his eyes, only to see a metal fence before him. He flinched, afraid of crashing into it, but that too passed with a slight breeze and the open world was before him.
He kept running, too fearful to stop. He gave the jail a glance over his shoulder, taking in the high, barbwire fence only a few feet from the brick walls. Floodlights shone in his face and he quickly turned back and picked up his speed. Huffing out a laugh, he felt so relieved to know that his powers did work—but more importantly, to know that he wasn’t really crazy.
—
The house was quiet as Abraham watched it from the bushes. No doubt the girl—Suzette, if remembered correctly—was waiting for him, though he prayed that she would completely brush it aside or forget. He didn’t need a vigilante-wannabe getting herself into danger on his watch. However, he couldn’t shake the vision he fell into when she had touched his hand the night before.
He cringed at the memory of it, imagining the horrid creature that had clung to his back as he writhed in the darkness. He could almost feel the monster digging into his neck and back all over again. The pain had been agonizing, far worse than anything he had dealt with before. He had prayed for deliverance but with each plea to God had come the creature’s claws digging into him even deeper. Then the pain had suddenly subsided and the monster had been thrown aside.
Abraham rubbed his forehead, trying desperately to remember what the monster had looked like. But just like when it had happened in the vision, in his mind the girl stepped in front of the thing before he could get a good look. He stared back up at the window to the girl’s room, letting reality suck him out of his thoughts. Just the memory of the vision pulled him away from the real world almost as much as the real thing had.
Blind World (The Onyx Fox Saga Book 1) Page 25