Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  I had to do it. He fell like a ton of bricks. Dad, the boxing lessons do work.

  The men in black close in. The locker's empty. No false bottom, nothing. I slam it shut. It's not in the locker. I squeeze the lock. Of course. It's in the lock.

  Over the music, I can hear the train coming. The track turns just ahead and the train slows. They're shooting at me. People are screaming. The Sheriffs guarding the fair draw their weapons and head toward them. That buys me time.

  Running beside the train, I can tell it's picking up speed. I can hear the bullets ping on the train. I've got to get to the other side of the train. That means I need to cross in front of it at the slow down point, the turn.

  If memory serves me right, it's right after the Willow tree. Gravel crunches beneath my feet. Here. I have to take my chance now. I have to cut in front of the train now or never.

  Police lights blinking behind me, they aren't phased. I can hear the leader yell.

  "There! He's gonna try to cross in front!"

  "No way," says one of the men breathlessly.

  I feel a boost like something pushes me in the back. NOW.

  "He's gone. Where is he?" yells the leader.

  Crazy! I would do it again any day. Whooo! Holding the metal vertical handles on a train car. It's speeding up. The police lights are disappearing behind me. Holding on, what time is it? I look at my watch.

  "7:03." Can't help but smile.

  "Get to the next stop!" yells the leader.

  I slide the door open. Let’s see what we've got. Back against the wall of the car, knees bent with coffee bag in my right hand and the lock around the finger on my left hand. The empty car rattles and has just enough light.

  Examining the lock, I don't see any opening marks. It rattles. I hear something making a 'ping' sound in it. I bang it on the floor but it doesn't budge. Think.

  I put the combination in backwards and the back of the lock pops open. A small steel box with cut out indents on its side falls out. It is welded all the way around. The cut outs look like the teeth of an old key. It's safe in the lock. I'll keep it in my jeans pocket.

  I pull open the coffee bag. Whole beans. Smells great too. What's this? Glasses. Even held up in the light, they look normal. I put them on. A vertical line of light slides across each lens. A retinal scanner. A tiny pin head sized green light flickers on the arm then holds steady. Then, the picture is clear. I can't believe what I'm seeing.

  It's the inside of dad’s workshop. Dad is sitting at the rustic table we worked at more times than I can count. I hear the coffee beans spilling out on the floor. I don't care.

  "Son, I knew you'd figure it out. I'm gone. I know. And I'm sorry I left you alone. To survive you need to use everything I've taught you. One day, you'll teach them to your son. Remember, keep God first, obey your parents, and do well in school."

  He is exactly as I remember him.

  "Focus, Caleb. If you're on the train, from the warehouse you have exactly 12 minutes before the first full stop. This video is exactly three minutes long. Keep time, just as I taught you.”

  I start tapping my foot. It's a counter.

  “If they’re on to you, they will breach before that stop. They will take you. Use what I taught you, while fishing, walking, working... it will come back. You will be fine. They won't kill you. You're too important. Know your value.

  “I've combined the data to one drive. They may still think it's on two so use that how you want. Here goes.

  “You know I was in the Marine’s Special Operations, what I didn't - well, couldn't tell you and mom is, I was also a part of the P.S.D.T. Presidential Secret Detail Team. A handful of men, sent 'double deep'. Embedded into U. S. Forces when needed to root out the small foxes. Small foxes hide deep.

  “I was embedded into the S.S.O. to look into the things that were of direct concern to the President. Some would call me a snitch, some a patriot. I don't care what they called me, I just want to save lives. A mission in Afghanistan gave me the Intel they were looking for-"

  No! The video's jumping, the picture warped. Finally. What did I miss? It's playing again.

  "-is the one responsible. Caleb, everything is on the hard drive. When you find it, and you will, you must do what you feel is right with it. When and where you find it is equally important.

  “Trust no one, no one! They were making something they thought was for good. Ultimately, it's a killing machine, problem is, it has no soul. Son, there's another player, I never found that person. I don't know who they are but it's someone you probably haven't met yet, but trust that whoever they are, they are watching.

  “That player is more dangerous than the one chasing you now. Hear me. Son, no matter how they made it look, my death was not an accident. I didn't kill myself or anything crazy like that. I would never leave you and your mother.

  “I need you stay focused. No matter what you feel, you can't make this about revenge. Remember, flesh clouds spirit. When fishing, we used small fish as bait to..."

  I mouth the answer while he speaks it.

  "...catch bigger fish."

  He continues. "Same principle, son. Promise, no revenge. If you do, your cause isn't pure and you'll be seeing me sooner than you think. You're it, son. Remember what I taught you in fighting?"

  I mouth it simultaneously with him again.

  "Strike once in the right place and you can topple a giant."

  "That's right, son. I knew you'd remember."

  I feel myself smile. Even as a grown man, I love knowing my father is pleased with me. The video continues:

  "You bring them down, that avenges me. We, strike like one sword, a two-edged sword. That's how we leave our mark. Millions of lives are at stake."

  Only saw my dad hang his head like that once. The death of his parents. He hangs his head, swallows and continues.

  "The drive, it is in the safest place on earth. Your mother would be amazed. Complete my mission. You are not alone. Son, only give it to the one who would have no use for it." He glances at his watch. “Time to go, Caleb. I love you, son."

  No. I don't want him to go, he stands. Wait, he sits down again and looks out the door to the work shed. Who is that playing kickball in the distance beside the lake? It's me at fifteen.

  Dad looks straight into the camera.

  "You are the one thing in my life that is perfect. I'll see you again one day."

  He has tears in his eyes. For a moment, I hold my breath. He stands, rams his left fist into the pocket of his worn blue jeans and reaches toward the camera with his right hand.

  I reach out, to touch him just one more time. But the image goes black. I exhale. Tears. He let me see him cry on purpose. He never let people see him cry.

  I have to destroy them, I know I should but something in me can't do it. Not yet. It's the only thing I have with him, his voice, his face. Suddenly I appreciate every moment we spent in that dusty old shed.

  He was right. I can hear them coming. The train is still moving. A helicopter is close. I hear boots on the roof of the car, running. I roughly wipe my nose, scoop up the coffee beans and shove them into the bag and hold it in my hand. I put the glasses on my head and wait.

  I want them to come. I want them to take me. Take me to Wilkes. This has to look real. I take a stance and have no problem clenching my fists. Full anger rises. I feel my mouth turn down. I'm going to land a few punches just for them to think they took me unwillingly. Alright, it's to make me feel good too.

  It didn't take long for them to breach. That felt good. I can see through the black hood. One guy in black, holding his nose with blood pouring through his hand. Another holding his ribs and the guy next to him tapping a cut on his temple. My knuckles hurt but it was worth it.

  They shoved me down a long hall and now, I'm in this steel seat in what looks like a doctor’s examination room.

  I'm not alone. Only his warped mind would grin watching someone squirm in pain with tight zip ties digging to the bone.
Is it? I recognize this guy. The tall man from the hospital. My hands and feet are numb. He's sitting in a seat across from me.

  "Roger that."

  Who is he talking to? He's not on a phone. I don't want him to know I can see him. I move my eyes but still can't see anyone else in the room. Of course, an ear piece. I think he got some kind of kick out of how rough he snatches off the hood. I shut my eyes and let my head bob.

  "Get up."

  He hits me in the side of the head. His lip is bleeding. I got him too? Good. That explains it.

  "My work here is done. He's all yours."

  “If it were up to me, pieces of you would be all over the floor," he whispers in my ear.

  He walks out of the room but I don't feel alone. Then, a man in the corner speaks from the shadows. I didn't even see him there.

  "You have something to tell me," he says.

  The light blindingly bright even with my eyes shut and turning my head from the left to the right trying to avoid the glare doesn’t help at all. I can see, but everything is blurred, then finally a breakthrough. He steps into the light. I see his face. A familiar face.

  "Dread?"

  "Good memory," he says.

  Impossible. He was killed in Afghanistan. We had a memorial service.

  "You're dead."

  He's grinning like an old sailor about to tell his favorite sea story. I want to knock it off his face.

  "It's a long story. See-" he opens his arms as if on a stage before an audience.

  "No. I mean, you are dead. I'm going to kill you. You being here means you have something to do with my parents’ death."

  He hops up on a table. He never liked sitting in chairs. When he did sit in one, it had to be the wrong way.

  "Where's the drives?" Dread gets off of the table and approaches my chair.

  There was always something about him I didn't like.

  "You'll find I don't like to repeat myself," Dread says, crossing his arms.

  "What made you turn?" I ask him.

  "The drive."

  "Dad was your kid’s Godfather? Boy, are you going to hell."

  He's steaming up. Good. A little more of a push.

  "He showed me pictures. Said you were the bad-ass that made everyone feel alive, kept them on their toes. Why? Why-"

  "Enough!" yells Dread.

  He's a talker. If it was him, he'll say it now.

  "Did you do it? Was it you behind that wheel, Dread? You did it, didn't you? Tell me, come on, let it out."

  He hits hard. I think my lip’s bleeding.

  "Yes, Sir," says Dread.

  He's speaking to that voice in his ear piece. I saw it when he hit me.

  "I'm not family, kid. I have a job to do, to find out what's in that head. You can tell me now, without pain or we'll find another way."

  I spit on him. That was fun. Another punch in the face. My blood splatters onto the floor. I can feel my teeth grind when my jaw swung loosely. My head rings like a bell from the blow. What is he doing?

  He's rolling out a stainless steel tray. Shiny clean, with scalpels, various knives, mini saws, a cigar cutter and a mini hammer carefully displayed.

  I just notice the room is immaculate except for my own blood on the floor.

  "Last chance," says Dread. "Have it your way."

  He picks up the cigar cutter and lifts one of my purple fingers. They are so numb I can barely feel them.

  "Touch me and you won't get a thing. You know it. Free my hands."

  Dread laughs. Then he pauses. He's listening to that voice in his ear. Then, reluctantly, he steps forward, pulls a box cutter from his back pocket, exposes the blade, looking me straight in the eye with a cold calm. He cuts the straps binding my feet, then my hands.

  The blood is flowing back into my hands. I wipe it from my bottom lip using my wrist.

  "I'll talk but only to you," I say.

  He looks puzzled and shrugs his shoulders.

  "You're dealing with me," Dread says.

  "Yeah, right." Sarcastically.

  I look straight into the small black camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

  "You want what's in my head. I want what’s in yours. That's the price."

  Dread cocks and aims his pistol at my head.

  "You got some nerve," says Dread.

  All I have to do is wait. Dreads nostrils flare, itching to take the shot. I can see his finger tapping the trigger. His face red and the veins on his temples are popping. He can't bite his jaws any harder. Clearly weighing in his mind whether it's worth it to satisfy his urge or continue to breathe another day, knowing better than anyone else that Wilkes wouldn't hesitate to purge the dross. Logic won.

  Walking through this hall, I can smell Wilkes. It must be him. He looks like the kind of guy to wear aftershave and cologne. He probably wears hair spray too.

  We approach double doors. Two armed guards in a variation of military uniform open the door. I can feel my body shiver with anticipation. The double doors swing open. I'm not surprised. This looks like a room in someone’s house, not an office. The lights are soft from lamps, the floor covered with Persian rugs and classic dark wood and leather seating. Ceiling to floor windows behind the stately oak desk reveal snow-capped mountains. Where am I?

  The wall facing the desk is covered with over-sized security monitors interchanging, showing every inch of the facility including a helicopter landing pad and private airstrip with a private G650 on the airstrip.

  There he is, seated behind a large oak wood desk. I want to talk to him and I want to kill him. In that order.

  "You've been very difficult to find, son. Please, sit," he says.

  “Please, help yourself.” Says Wilkes.

  On the desk, he pours coffee from a pot. There are several pastries on a plate. I watch as he pours his coffee, adds sugar and creamer then drinks it. He didn’t die. He points to a chair that looks comfortable, deep dark worn leather. I remain standing. My eyes are locked onto Wilkes’ eyes, looking for his soul. Seeing if he had an ounce of guilt, searching for that unspoken information a person unknowingly divulges without even knowing its escaping.

  Something in me digs and keeps digging, looking at every gesture, every slide of his hand across the desk, the turning over of a paper, the lifting of his coffee cup with his right hand to his lips. The squint in the corner of his eyes so smugly satisfied with himself.

  His moustache finely trimmed and full salt and pepper beard well brushed. I wonder if dad would have been gray by now.

  His shirt, crisp white and typical navy suit. Every person has a gesture that gives away there true feels. There it is. His habit, returning his hand to the hilt of the cane that leans on his desk.

  I want to hear and feel everything in this moment unclouded by human emotions, the total opposite of the last few years of my life. I feel my New York teaching, cool, not revealing amazement, fear, even anger. Never let your enemy see you sweat. It’s difficult because I feel the tremors begin in my hands. Side-affects of ending my drinking habit. Nevertheless, thank you, Big Apple.

  I put my hands in the pocket of my leather jacket, hearing the comfortable stretch of the leather as the weight of my hands rest deep inside them, feeling that smooth lining. But, the truth is that coffee and pastry will help. I feel a headache starting to form. He hasn’t died from drinking the coffee and if I don’t think he’s stupid enough to poison me now that he may have my cooperation.

  I pour some coffee and toss a small pastry in my mouth. It is second nature now after having done it at Richard’s house.

  "And I'm not your son," I say coldly.

  "I see," he replies.

  He busies himself shuffling things on his desk. Is he nervous or trying to unnerve me?

  "Do you know who I am, Caleb?" He asks me.

  "Yep. Not impressed." I say taking my last sip of coffee and putting down the cup.

  "I don't know what you've heard-"

  "What makes you think I've hea
rd anything? You were dad’s friend, now you drag me here, didn't you?"

  I don't want to allude to Richard and Gretchen at all. They are the only two who could have told me anything.

  "That's right, Caleb, you are the son of my best friend. Officer Joshua Promise saved my life-"

  "Don't say his name!"

  I couldn't help it. I automatically pull my hands from my pockets. I feel them form into fists.

  "Okay. You may not recall but, I remember you playing by the lake one day, you fell, hit your head and I pulled you out before you drowned."

  "You know what I remember. I remember the last day I saw my parents. You have anything to do with that?"

  "Direct, aren't we?" he says.

  "I'm no politician. Answer the question."

  I watch his head shake 'no' but his eyes say yes. Could it be true? Not enough proof. Will he grab the cane? If he touches it, even gestures in its direction, I will know. Finally know. The letter opener on the table would do the trick.