Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  Wallie didn't even know he was the gate keeper for my faith in humanity. I often imagined he was the brother I would have had had my mother not died and the baby with her. A lot died that day.

  Everything except our bond. I never expected Wallie to keep that promise but he is the only one who knows every ugly thing about me. I trust him with it and like to picture him in Switzerland.

  The pastor and his wife were gone but the church still stood, weatherbeaten as always. The steps still creak. Ignorant, I used to think that it must have helped with collection time to get members to dig a little deeper but the truth was, the Reverend loved the look. Later, I learned he kept it that way because it resembles him. Worn, comfortable and welcoming.

  I know whoever is following me is outside. Tucked in a bush or hiding behind a tree. I look at my watch. Good, just a few more moments. That's all I need.

  I'm alone. The church is empty. I take out a few things from my pocket. I didn't know this was in there. A secret pocket in the lining. The content of the weighted left breast pocket. A passport and money. Lots of money, cash.

  I could disappear with this, Richard and Gretchen must really trust me. I remove the finger-sized sealed plastic bag from my pocket and hold it deep in my lap. The writing. It's dad’s handwriting.

  "9729"

  The first thing that came to mind was that it was the number to a safety deposit box at a bank. That’s logical. Important hard drive, safe, makes sense. But, it doesn't sit well. Anyone could think of that. Dad was not just anyone.

  Wait, it was familiar for the saddest reason. It was the plot number for their grave site. Dad purchased it long before they died, wanting to make sure everything was in order. He showed me everything. He told me planning kills fear. Always kill fear. I need to go to the tombstone but not with a tail. I look at my watch and exactly on the hour, the new Pastor comes out of the back room and opens the church doors. Crowds of people pour in and out.

  I blend in and exit the back door of the church. There are two graveyards, the one in front and one behind the church. Their tombstones are behind the church. I was not seen or followed. One thing about the town people, they will pull a total stranger into church on a Sunday morning. And so they did. I see the two men following me drift into the church pulled by the Pastor himself. They are probably going in willingly out of curiosity because they didn't see me come out.

  The chatter of the churchgoers fades as I bed down behind the large tombstone and rub the letters.

  "Well, you got me here, dad. Only you could have gotten me here again."

  The tombstone intact. No flowers. But, footprints. Men’s boot prints. They've matted down the grass circling it.

  There is nothing here. It's a wooden duck. A decoy. Wait. The number game! Of course. Dad’s game. We played to pass the time while fishing. It was our personal game. We made it up. 'Add one, skip two, add three'. The outcome, a set of numbers that made sense somehow. Thinking about it, did 'we' make it up or did dad teach it to me.

  I had played it so many times I got good enough to beat dad’s time. I haven't played it in years and can hear dad’s voice talking me through it. Twenty-five, thirty-three, forty-three he says in his head.

  I feel like there's a reason he brought me here to figure it out. I can't help but grin to myself. Dad is with me again. His greatest talent was knowing how people think and he knew how I would think. He knew I wouldn't be tricked by the wooden duck. A reason to live fills me again.

  He must have wanted me to think about mom. But why?

  "What about mom?"

  What did she love? Coffee and books. Coffee first. She even had a shirt that said that. Where did she go for her coffee? Of course.

  I slide my fingers across her engraved name on the tombstone.

  "I love you, momma. I'll never forget you."

  I disappear into surrounding brush. A shortcut path to my next clue.

  That’s the benefit of home ground. You know it. Every country back way that cars can't follow. Every Police speed trap and dip in the road.

  Mom’s spot, a quaint perfectly feminine coffee and tea shop with small round tables overlaid with heavy floral tablecloths matching the drapes around the large picture window.

  It hosted the women's club meetings twice a month. The few elderly ladies stare shamelessly, putting together their version of my life on a glance.

  "Pick a seat, we're not formal here, honey," says the waitress to me from behind the counter.

  I choose mom’s old seat. The waitress approaches, swabbing her hand on her frilled apron. She pulls out a worn order pad.

  "Coffee or tea?" the waitress asks.

  "Coffee, please."

  "Here-ya-go. New to town, huh? Haven't seen you here before."

  Does she have to pop that gum that loud? Sounds like she cracked a tooth.

  "Actually, I grew up here."

  "Yeah, nice, huh? Remodeled years ago. Who did you say you were?"

  Nosy. I didn't. Trying to get the first scoop on the newcomer. Ignore.

  "There was a waitress here, nice lady, blond hair. Mi-something."

  "Oh, Mildred, yeah she was nice."

  Sure, have a seat why don't you?

  "Was?"

  "Cancer. Two years ago. She sure knew how to clean a coffee pot. Cat lady. Divorced. Sweet. Why?"

  I wonder how long she can go on talking in just one word and how sad a whole life could be summed in four words.

  "Someone I knew came here all the time. Mildred served her regularly and I just wanted to talk to her that's all."

  "Who? What was her name?" Pausing, "Must be a pretty special lady for a guy like you to come into a place like this."

  I couldn't help it. I chuckled. Was never referred to as 'a guy like you' in a positive sense before. In New York, you have to hit a pretty high standard before you can get that phrase.

  "Mrs. Promise."

  Sounds strange. I haven't said that name to anyone.

  "Oh, yes. I remember her. A beauty. Extra strong, sweet, natural sugar only and non dairy creamer. Mildred always served her but when she knew she was, well, going...she told me what all of her regulars took. See, Mildred only ever knew serving. She loved it, genuinely. Can't say I feel the same. What was she to you-"

  "Miss. Excuse me," interrupts one of the elderly ladies from the other table.

  "Be right back." Irritated she couldn't get that itch in her ear scratched.

  Did I get it wrong? Did I miss the clue? The television mounted to the corner is playing BBC World News.

  "The President of the United States is confident that despite his absence, great things will come of the secret World Summit. It is expected that every European country's leader will be in attendance and despite keeping its location a secret, security will make this an 'air-tight' event. The World Leaders Summit is expected to bond the leaders as well as hold talks on global peace, and it is expected that an entire day has been dedicated to them bonding as a motivational act of unity they hope will impact their homelands..."

  The waitress rushes back to me almost breathless.

  "You were saying?" she says eagerly.

  This was a dead end.

  "Nothing. How much do I owe you?"

  "Never mind, honey, just nice to have a good-looking man in here." She looks me up and down as I reach for the door.

  "There you go, Mrs. Finny. Nice and hot." She attends to the other table.

  I hear her pouring the coffee. Could it be?

  "What brand? Her coffee, what brand was her favorite?" I ask her.

  "Same as we use now," holding the pot up, "Cold Ridge, dark brew."

  I push the door and she yells: "You can't find it in the store. It's wholesale only. We get it from the warehouse beside the tracks. Ole Billy Baxter's been supplying the town for ever."

  "Thanks, thank you."

  I look both ways outside. Still no one following me.

  I walk off the main path to the coffee warehouse. I
don't know if this is right, but it's what I've got. I'm here. Dirt parking lot. Fork-lifts, and a huge steel warehouse with tiny inner office. The door is slightly ajar. The place smells great. It wakes my senses immediately.

  Approaching the door, an elderly man holding a clip board yells at me.

  "We don't sell to the public. Wholesale, kid. Hey, Ken! Not over there, that load goes inside!"

  I walk up to him casually. My jeans and boots get a dusting of the dirt in the yard.

  "My mother loves - uh, loved your coffee. Please, I'll pay whatever you ask."

  The man pulls two yellow earplugs out of his ears.

  "Tinnitus. Most of these guys have it. Not me. These babies work. Five bucks a pop but I'll never go deaf. Ken over there, couldn't hear a hammer if it hit him on the head. What did you say?"

  "I said my mother loves your coffee. I'll pay anything for a bag. Just one."

  This may not help my hunt for the drive but every time I smell it, it will be like she is right here. He pauses. What's wrong?

  "What's your name, kid?"

  "Caleb. Caleb Promise."

  He stands up straighter and puts his clipboard under his arm.

  "Wait here."

  "Hey, Nick! Where-ya going?"

  He doesn't have his earplugs in. He ignores Ken and goes up steel steps to the office overlooking the warehouse.

  "Come up, kid."

  He looks nervous. This must be right. He opens the office door and an older gentlemen with glasses seated behind a rough desk points me to the seat across from him. He has thick circular glasses. He's in overalls with a plaid shirt over them. I've never been around anyone spitting from chewing tobacco. I haven't missed anything.

  "You got I.D.?"

  "No, Sir, I don't."

  "Prove your Promise’s boy."

  He rocks back in his rolling chair. And I begin tell him about my father.

  "Military man, loved fishing-"

  "Not that stuff. Everybody knows that. That fish won't swim, kid."

  "When he was a boy, he got shot in the butt with a b-b gun. Never told anyone. Left him with a scar. He told my mother it was a dimple."

  He's laughing. That must be it.

  "Didn't know that one," he chuckles. "Nope that's not it. Almost wish I didn't hear that." He laughs. "Try again."

  "I - I don't know."

  "If you're his son, you know something about him that no one else in the world knows. Something he wouldn't tell anyone but his son. Think."

  "He always wanted a boat. His father loved the water but never had enough money to get one. He saved and saved and one summer bought a fixer-upper. Everyone thought it was just because he liked boats. It wasn't. But, his father died before he could get it running. Ever since then, he took me out every weekend."

  "Of all the stories, why did you pick that one?"

  "Because that's the one that made my father cry. He told me on the boat, no one else could possibly have known."

  The man smiles. He reaches behind him and pushes a hidden panel behind his desk and pulls out a dusty paper bag.

  "That is a special roast. I've held it quite some time for you."

  He plops the bag on the desk, completely ignoring the dust. I can't help but just stare at it for a moment. I got something right. After years of feeling like the crack in the mirror, I got something big right.

  "He told me you'd walk through that door one day-"

  He spits.

  "-he said to tell you, leave at 7:00 p.m. I don't know what's in there but, son, it's worth dying for."

  A loud knocking on the steel door below. He sticks his finger through the blinds and sees the foreman looking up at him shaking his head 'no' letting him know he wasn't expecting anyone. Some thing’s wrong. The man’s smile lowers quickly.

  He pulls a shotgun out from under the desk.

  "They’re here. Go. Through there. Remember, 7:00p.m."

  "Wait, I have so much to ask you."

  "No time, son."

  "Why did you help? You know how dangerous it is, why help?"

  He spits tobacco into an empty coffee can and cocks his gun like a pro.

  "Semper Fi"

  A warmth swells in my chest. There is something in that military bond that exceeds anything I've seen aside from family. They put themselves at risk for one another. Now, I understand dad in a different way.

  I grab the bag, open it, take out the small coffee bag. I shove it into my inner pocket and go through a thin door that looks like a cabinet door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  This guy’s smart. The narrow dark opening leads to an opening. Great, another roof. At least this one’s got a ladder at the end. Gunshots. Single caliber. Then, boom. Shotgun.

  I balance with both arms out on the slanted grooved metal roof. I pass a sunroof. I couldn't see it until it was too late.

  "HE'S ON THE ROOF!"

  No time. A few more feet and I'm at the ladder. Again, boom. The shotgun. But then, sadly, continuous rapid fire. Silence.

  "BRING IT DOWN," says the leader.

  "The boss wants him alive," replies one of the men with a gun.

  "I don't care if I drag in a corpse," says the leader.

  I think his ego is bruised since Vin blew up his helicopter. He was the one at the hospital.

  "He won't like it," replies the man with a gun.

  The leader looks at him, puts his gun to the man’s face and pulls the trigger. A few explosions shake the building. The roof is collapsing. Leather jacket, my best friend. It's slowing my slide down the side of the roof. I must grab the ladder. It's coming soon.

  The building crumbles fast. I miss it. But the descending roof lowers so much the fall off the side doesn't break my legs. I hate roofs.

  I have to get to the tree line. There are men on the ground. I look at my watch. It's 6:45 pm.

  "There! In the trees."

  Lights in the distance. The Winter Festival. The train tracks run right beside it. We came here every year. Of course. The chatter of the people is welcoming. My long legs got me here pretty quick but I can see flashlights waving in the brush behind me. I need the row of lockers. Where is it?

  "12, 13...14, number 15. Our locker."

  I always chose my locker number to correspond with my age. I managed to work my way down the row over the years. You bring your own combination lock and the locker rental was free. I find number 15, that was the last time I was here. There's a combination lock already on it. I spin it quickly looking over my shoulder every other number. Here it goes. Nothing. It won't open. The men in black are closing in. I keep my head down. No time. Deep breath.

  "Come-on, come on."

  I tug it. Nothing. Maybe I'm wrong.

  "Hey!" says a little boy.

  He's holding a bag of popcorn. He's loud. Really loud. I don't need the attention

  "That’s my locker! Thief. Dad!"

  This guy’s huge. Like a tree standing behind me, eating a King Henry the Eighth turkey leg. Great.

  "Sorry, my mistake."

  "What are you, some kind of freak stealing from the lockers? Huh?" the big man says, pointing his turkey leg at me.

  He's gonna draw attention. I've got to make this end.

  "No, just a mistake, could you please-?" I say to him quietly.

  I pivot so I can see behind him and hide behind him.

  "Please what?"

  "No need to yell, man, it's just a mistake."

  I can see the men in the distance standing on benches, looking over the crowd.

  "You trying to make me look bad in front of my kid? Trying to tell me what to do?"

  Great, ego. I’ve had enough of this guy. I step backwards and hold my hands up, trying to glance at the lockers while he's ranting. I grab the one that is my age now.

  "This has to be it," I say, turning the lock.

  "Freak. He's a stupid freak!" he says, watching me.

  My age now? How could dad possibly know how old I would be when I
found this? Worth a try. The green giant is waiting. If it doesn't open, this will get ugly. Turkey leg and all. I turn it, tug it. It opens.

  I can't help it. I stop. Holding the combination lock sitting in my palm, feeling it's weight. I'm holding something my father placed just for me.

  "What's wrong with you? I ought to knock your lights-" the big man says.