Ashes to Ashes (8 page)

He suddenly felt a little less safe.

There was a part of him that wanted to turn
himself in, to plead and beg for them to understand. But without
proof, he would seem crazy. Without facts, he would never see
daylight again. His own father would even view him as being
confused, off the deep end, without any evidence pointing in
another direction, illuminating another possibility.

Scott wondered if his dad had noticed the
clues that were left for him. He knew that the hope was slim
because the objects might not immediately stand out to his
father…or to Oscar. But he had to have faith that his dad’s mind
would look close at each piece of evidence left behind, including
the clues. Maybe his father was already chasing down the truth.
Maybe he was even running down the street as that very second.

Maybe. But Scott actually hoped against his
father finding him so soon, because there was still so much to do.
Dr. Ashe Walters would have to remain a few steps behind for the
time being, following his own path while Scott dug his way forward
out of the cold, hard ground.

The truth behind the curtain could be hard to
fathom, almost impossible to believe in unless solid facts were in
hand. His father would accept anything that he could touch and
examine. But it
was
real. Scott would have to make sure that
he had the proof he needed to make Oscar and his father see it for
themselves. Seeing absolutely
was
believing. He knew that
more than ever before. And even his scientific-minded father
couldn't push aside the truth if he were able to set his eyes
directly on it.

Bam was the key.

Bam had access to the proof.

Scott closed his eyes tight again. Far away,
the dead man with the bloody halo floated in the dark distances of
his brain. The macabre dance was stopping, becoming a memory. The
only death that he could clearly see in his mind was Owen's
shattered skull. He couldn't help but to feel bad, even sorry,
about his roommate and sometimes friend. But Owen had been a junkie
and unstable, and it was kill or be killed.

He had simply replaced one dead body with
another. Or so he told himself. What he had done was
entirely…human. Anyone with a rational mind and the knowledge that
he had should respect his choice. But the police would never
believe his reasoning. The only dead man they had seen had been
Owen. That was the only death that mattered to them. It was not
self-defense to them...it was murder...and Scott was a murderer who
needed to be put down, like a dog who had gotten a taste of human
blood.

He had to get to Bam and proof, before Oscar
Harrison and Ashe Walters got to him.

Sliding from the bench, Scott slowly,
cautiously, and quietly began to make his way across Lincoln Park.
At the far side of the park was an old baseball diamond, which had
long been overgrown with grass and weeds. There once had been a
tall metal fence sitting around the diamond, but all that was to be
seen were metallic bones. While sitting and observing, he had
noticed an occasional group enter and leave the beaten down wooden
dugout box. Drug deal? Bathroom break? Sex? He didn’t want to know,
especially since the group always consisted of only men.

Scott set his sights on the abandoned
baseball diamond and circled around a group of men and headed
across the expanse of field in that direction. He would cut across
and leave the park on the opposite side from which he had come,
unnoticed, or at least that was the plan.

Two men with dark faces, wearing dark
t-shirts came into view from dark places, and Scott couldn't for
the life of him figure out where they had come from. They were
just…there. And in the hands of the taller of the men was what
looked like a common steak knife, black handle and steel blade. But
the way the blade caught a glint of pale moonlight, Scott knew it
had a purpose more than that of a common kitchen utensil.

Scott stopped as the two men moved in front
of him.

“That is a nice coat,” the taller man stated.
“Looks kinda warm.”

“Looks warmer than it is, to be honest,”
Scott blurted, faking a slight shiver. He then rubbed his hands
down the length of his arms in order to nail the act. The truth was
that he was proud of his leather YSU Penguins coat. It had taken
him nearly a year to save up for it. It had his name on it along
with a few patches he had earned on the court. Outside of his team
jersey, his leather jacket his most prized possession.

“You mind if I try it on?” the taller man
asked, holding the knife so that the blade was pointing at the sky.
“I'm a little cold. You know. Winter hadn’t quit left us, yet. Know
what I mean?”

Scott could feel the bulge of the gun in the
coat’s pocket. The last thing that he wanted to do was give up
either his jacket or his gun, but things seemed to be going sour,
rapidly and unexpectedly. He should have stopped at the park. He
hung out for far too long with lower levels of humanity. What to
do? He took a second to let his mind process.

He knew that they were planning to take the
leather jacket and leave him lifeless. The intentions of the two
men were clear. Could he avoid the coming confrontation? Should he
attempt an elusive departure? He could break into a sudden sprint
and most likely outrun both of them. Or not. The two men looked to
be in shape. Or maybe they were just thin from being on the
streets. Scott could not size them up because of their soiled,
baggy clothing.

Scott did not want to spill anymore blood,
but he couldn't believe how quickly he was back in the same type of
situation. Kill or be killed. Self-defense. And he didn't see it
coming. How could he have? It would have to have happened twice.
Could it happen twice? Could it happen repeatedly? How? Why? And to
what end? To have that happen, would make someone a god or
godlike.

Bam would know.

Bam was there at the beginning.

“Are you dumb or something?” the shorter man
asked. He didn't seem to be carrying a knife. But Scott didn’t know
for sure. The seemingly unarmed thug might be hiding something in
his pocket, something more dangerous than a knife, something
similar to what was in Scott’s own pocket. “My man here...likes
your coat. Quit being rude and let him try it on. Doesn’t he
deserve a little warmth?” The shorter man had been slowly easing
himself to Scott's side while the taller man remained in front. It
was movement Scott had missed. Being tired was making it hard to
focus and think. It was a mistake Scott should not have made. He
was becoming flanked.

“Okay,” Scott agreed. “Okay. It is getting a
tiny bit small on me anyway. First, let me take my belongings out
of the pockets.” Before the men could react, he had the pistol out
and was aiming it at the taller man, the one with the knife.

“Hold on, man!” the taller man exclaimed, his
tune instantly changing. “I was just admiring that leather coat of
yours. That is all. That maybe I could wear for a second. I love
YSU. I am a big Penguins fan, my man.”

“I thought you might like my gun a little
more,” Scott replied. “It is shinier than that knife of yours.”

“Just having a misunderstanding is all,” the
taller man assured him, but Scott refused to lower his gun. He put
his finger on the trigger and gripped it tight enough to be ready
to fire at any moment. He tensed his arm and prepared for possible
recoil from the fired weapon. “Me and my boy here...like us some
basketball.” the taller man continued. “Is all. Isn’t that
right…Trevor.”

Scott was too slow to react when the man to
his rear rushed forward, throwing his shoulder into Scott's side.
The hit caused Scott's hand to clench up on the trigger firing the
weapon in the direction the barrel had been aimed. It could have
shot wide but it didn’t. The same instant that a bullet took the
man with the knife square in the chest, leaving him gasping for
whatever air could sustain his punctured lung, Trevor and Scott
went tumbling to the ground.

Scott landed on his back and held on tight to
the butt of the pistol, using his free hand to punch at Trevor, who
had landed on top of him. The first punch missed but the second
swing landed against the ebony skin of the man’s cheek. Scott heard
the man groan and immediately thought about a follow up blow, but
the dark skinned man quickly wrapped his hands around Scott’s
throat and squeezed down tight. Scott felt his breath get trapped
inside his throat. His mind began to fog up and his vision began to
blur. Scott knew, however, that choking someone was always a
desperate move, showing him that Trevor didn’t have anything to
resort to besides desperate methods. Trevor definitely did not have
a weapon anywhere on him or else he would be trying to use it.

Scott tried to focus. He was the only one
with a gun. And as long as the piece of deadly design remained in
his grip, he had the control. Instead of punching again with his
free hand, he tried to position the gun against the Trevor’s head.
The thug felt the barrel brush against his temple and withdrew a
hand from Scott’s throat to swat at the pistol. The gun was
immediately knocked away from Scott's obviously loosened grasp,
tumbling away from the grappling pair.

Trevor watched it fall and at once began to
scramble for it, but Scott was stronger and managed to quickly
scramble across the ground and trip up the man by grabbing a hold
of his ankle. Using his upper body strength, Scott managed to pull
the man back his direction, away from the gun. After gaining a
tight hold on the man’s leg and dark clothing, Scott tangled Trevor
up. Scott was then able to get level with the dark man’s backside
in order to administer a reverse bear hug. Frantically trying to
get to the gun, the dark thug responded by sinking his teeth into
Scott's arm. The teeth went in deep. Surprised, Scott's hold
slacked and Trevor was able to squirm his way free.

Instead of trying to grapple the man again,
Scott quickly sprang to his feet with a back handspring, something
he learned and perfected during basketball practice. As Trevor
reached the gun, but before he fully had the weapon in hand, Scott
struck him hard with the tip of his tennis shoe. He kicked him a
second time in the chest and felt a rib fracture, forcing the thug
to cry out in pain.

Taking the gun, Scott considered his options.
The man was injured and no longer posed a threat. But the thug
would be a threat to someone else down the line. He needed to kill
him before he hurt or killed someone else stupid enough to pass by
or even stop at the park. He was conflicted but only for an
instant. After that instant had gone, Scott shot the man twice in
the face, guaranteeing his demise.

Running over to the other man, he looked down
and watched the dying man’s struggled gasps, which failed to bring
oxygen fully into the injured lung. Scott felt slight pity for the
wounded assailant, whatever his name might have been. There
wouldn’t be any ambulance coming the man’s way, no savior to the
rescue. The thug was dead as soon as Scott’s bullet hit him. He
just wasn’t going peacefully. He shot him in the head, rather than
letting his attacker continue to suffer slowly and painfully. It
was the only help that he could offer.

“Fuck! Shit! God damn it!” Two more dead
bodies that the police would never see as self-defense, he
admitted. Unless. Scott put down the gun and took off his coat,
while eyeing the newly formed spots of wet crimson. He knelt down
next to the man he had just killed and forced the coat onto
him.

Colder than ever, he turned and ran across
the remaining length of the park. He did not reacquire the handgun
but let it lay. He didn't want the weapon anymore. It brought
nothing but death, which, as Scott knew, was its reason for
existing. The police would match the bullets to all three victims
in time anyway. He chose to save them the effort and manpower.

They should thank him for taking the time to
consider their needs. No. How foolish to consider such a thing.
They would simply continue to hunt him. Fine. Besides, there was
another reason to leave his belongs on and near to the dead thugs.
They were
, in fact,
thugs and they might be known by the
police. Having his jacket would possibly show robbery,
self-defense. It was slim but he had to try. Also, leaving the
Ruger behind would inform his trackers that he was unarmed and no
longer dangerous, possibly getting the trailing officers to lower
their own guns as well, or at least getting them to momentarily
pause before they try to fire them in his direction.

As he arrived at the other side of the park,
coming out next to a broad street, Scott realized that he had
gotten rid of his gun but he had his cell phone in his pocket. It
was still turned off. He thought about using it to call Bam, but
promptly decided against it. It could possibly be traced, which was
why it had remained off. He jogged across the broad street,
watching out for any traffic, seeing none. He would take it apart
and discard it in some random trash can along his long route. It
would be one less trail for the police to follow.

He did have to find some form a phone,
though. There was no way he could run all the way to Bam. He would
never make it before sunrise, that moment when a ball of lit up the
world and exposed the sneaking creatures.

It took Scott nearly another twenty minutes
of slipping along the nearly empty streets before he found what
might have been the last remaining payphone in the city. He was
surprised that any remained. They were like dinosaur bones,
remnants of an era that existed before cellular capability.

He picked up the receiver and found it
sticky. He kept it an inch from his skin and deposited the few
coins he had on him. While keeping his eyes on the street and any
possible law enforcement presence, he dialed Bam’s number. After
several rings, she answered the call and her voice was the sweetest
nectar Scott had ever experienced.