CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PARK AND RIDE
The park was still green and soothing, a restful haven from the restless city, and everyone who came was seeking that same peace. Right now it was empty, save for one soul. No one played on the basketball court, no one on the diamond, no one on the playground. I didn’t need to check the stalls.
Jim pulled the car to the curb. He patted his pocket, nodded to himself, and said: "Wait here."
"What are you going to do?" Teresa asked.
"Business," he said, and got out of the car and headed across the grass. I went with him, blending into his shadow.
There was a man sitting at a metal picnic table a few hundred feet away under a tall pine, and it wasn't hard to guess who it might be. As we passed the sandy play area and comical Ladybug Merry-go-round and matching Ant Slide, his features came into focus. Brent Hewitt. As we came closer he looked around nervously, becoming more agitated the closer we got.
"For God's sake, sit down. Let’s get this over before someone sees us."
Jim laughed, then spread his arms wide. "Ain't nobody here but us, and if there was, they wouldn’t know who we are. And if they did, they wouldn't care." But he sat anyway. "Money," he said.
"We need to talk about that," Hewitt said, picking at the fake wood planks on the table. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he had taken off his coat, his tie loose and shirt partly undone. There were lines on his forehead that kept appearing and disappearing with each grimace.
"No talk," Jim said evenly. "Just money. A thousand. Just put it right in my hand and keep it coming every month."
Hewitt looked up. "I can't. There isn't any more. Things have been tight at work and--"
Jim slammed down his fist and the table vibrated with a low clang. "Don't give me that. I've seen where you live. I know where you work. You've got money. Plenty. But if you'd rather spend some time in jail that's fine with me. But I'll tell you this: I've been there. You wouldn't last a week."
"I'm telling you the honest truth--" Hewitt began, sounding like a salesman, but that's as far as the truth went. Jim cuffed him on the side of his head and he went sprawling to the side and back, falling off the bench to land over concrete and grass. He grabbed his ear and rolled onto his stomach as Jim walked around the table and kicked him in the side.
Hewitt groaned, getting to all fours and gasping for air as if he’d never taken a kick to the side before. He winced as he found his way back to the bench and knelt over the seat.
“More?”
Hewitt had his eyes closed and gulped to say: “No. Here.” He reached into his pants pocket, took out and envelope, and tossed it to Jim, who snatched it up quickly and took out the bills, counting.
"This is only six-fifty," he said after counting twice. "You're a little short."
"I'll get it," Hewitt gasped. "I promise--"
Jim reached down and pushed the man's face to the table, twisting as he said: "Tomorrow. Same time. And you better have the rest. All..." he stopped, figuring in his head, “...all of it."
Hewitt moaned and managed a nod as saliva oozed from his mouth onto the table.
Jim let go of his head. Hewitt lifted it a few inches off the table, then slammed it down. "Remember," he said in a whisper, “I know where you live and I know where you work. And I've got a big mouth."
He let the man go and walked off.
I remained as I had been the whole time–sitting bent over, hands clasped--and watched drips of blood seep from Hewitt’s nose to form spreading drops on the concrete. Here, I thought, was justice. Maybe not the kind I would have chosen, but close. The man responsible for my death had turned, or been turned, back on the one who had started the whole process in the first place. I looked into Hewitt’s face as he dabbed his wounds with a handkerchief and I wondered if he felt remorse for what he'd done. I wondered if he was thinking twice about his actions and wishing desperately to go back and make it all right. I wondered if he even remembered who I was.
His face held no answers, just pain and blood. I noticed without satisfaction that he seemed to have aged in the short time I knew him, yet he was only a few years older than me, and I hadn’t aged at all.
Perverse curiosity got the better of me and I reached over, knowing I shouldn’t, and touched him, searching for some type of acknowledgement of me rattling around his mind.
I was greeted by a toe-headed boy, maybe five, beaming up at a man who was smiling down at him, his expression full of the love and joy and unconditional acceptance only a father has. The man lifted the boy into the air and kissed his cheek, then put him back on his feet only to lift him overhead and let go, briefly, to be caught and kissed, then tossed again to be brought down to more kisses and sloppy puffs of air to the neck as the boy laughed and giggled.
I sat back, examining the man with anger and irritation and even some pity. That mop of blonde hair was now thinning and combed to cover a bald spot.
“Too late,” I said, wiping my hands on my pants. “Too damn late.”
"What happened?" Teresa was asking as I walked up to the car.
"Business, like I said," Jim answered. He looked back at Hewitt who was still sitting at the table, dabbing at his face. "And it looks like business might be good for a while." He laughed and got in.
I slid into the back seat while he started the car.
"Can we go home now?" Teresa asked.
"One more stop."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
"Why?"
"Business," he said. "Same as this."
With little energy or hope, I reached over the seat and pushed into Jim’s mind; maybe I could manipulate his thoughts, or manufacture an aneurysm. But it was like touching a glob of putty, with as much response and intelligence. I pulled out, wiping off the goo and cursing the inevitability of consequence. There was no stopping the fact that we would end up in the one place I wanted to keep him from.
What would happen when we got there I didn’t know, but there was one consolation, and it was a small one. I was with Teresa. Rollins had repeated that instruction so many times it must have meant more than simple obedience. Maybe she was the key after all. Maybe she would be the one to protect my family, the true guardian angel of us all.
I looked at her face, studying. Blotchy skin, greasy hair, patches of dryness around her mouth, almost skeleton-like. If this was salvation, heaven help the lost.
Trace the Dead Eye Page 24