Average Joe and the Extraordinaires (5 page)

With one
final push, Joe raced to the doors leading to the outside.  This was the most
exercise he had gotten in a long time and it was killing him.  He pushed and
pushed and pushed and knew that after it all he would pass out and die.  With
no breath left and no options available, Joe leapt and crashed into the
awaiting security guard, sending both of them tumbling through the stadium
doors to the outside.  Joe tried to get up, but the man was on top of him.

“Aye, get
offa him!  Come on, move—move!  We’ll take it from here, meathead.”

Joe
remained on the ground even after the security guard grudgingly rose off of
him.  Joe looked over and saw a young officer approaching.

Joe:
“Ouch!”

He was
flipped over and made to sit up.  The young officer roughly grabbed his arms
and twisted his wrists together.  The officer slapped on the cuffs, giving Joe
a death stare the whole time.  The cuffs were much heavier than Joe had
expected, and a little too warm.  Once he heard them snap shut, he found that
they were way too tight as well.

“You have
the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you
in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.  If you cannot afford an
attorney, one will be provided to you.  Do you understand the rights that I
have just read to you?  With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak with
me?”

Joe: “I
understand, but I don’t think I want to speak right now.”

“Good,
because I don’t think I can stand to listen to your crap, dirtbag.”

With that,
Joe was unceremoniously dumped into a cop car like all the criminals he saw on
a show he watched all the time,
Cops
.

Chapter
7

Joe the
Terrorist

The ride
to the police station was surprisingly quiet and, of course, hot.  This was “The
Sunshine State,” and heat was the norm, but this year’s temps were the hottest
that Joe could remember.  His whole body was racked with sweat, and it made the
frying pan hot handcuffs that he sported on his wrists even more unbearable.  A
beet red rash was forming where the cuffs set on his wrists.

Joe was
thankful that the sheriffs had decided to cuff his arms to the front.  Once the
heat became unbearable, he had to scream.

Joe: “Can
you let my window down a little more?  I’m going to pass out back here.”

The
officers continued to face forward.  The driver chewed on something.  A few
more silent moments passed before Joe heard the electronic movements near his
nearest window, but was disheartened when he saw the glass ascend and heard the
door lock click.

They
must’ve thought he was the terrorist scum that had tried to blow up the
hallowed battlegrounds of the Orangetown Pickers.  He would’ve hated himself
for such a thing if he didn’t know of his own innocence.  He hoped his name
didn’t get out in association with this; otherwise he’d attract the ire of the whole
town.  The Pickers were the biggest thing that came out of this town.  They had
won two NCAA championships, and though that had been over twenty years ago the
town still had that pride from the good ol’ days.  The team was always one of
the town’s biggest treasures.  Joe was in for a world of hurt if they put his
name out in the news.  He wondered how Kate and Mod were doing.

The car
came to a stop, apparently parked.  Joe was marched right out of the squad car
and into a holding cell.  He tried to rub as much pain as he could out of his
wrists once his cuffs were off.  There was much fuss over the stadium explosion
by both the cops and the prisoners in the cells.  Joe noticed that his clothes
smelled like smoke and fire.  Outside of his cell he saw coverage of the
Pickers’ stadium explosion on a nearby T.V.  He looked on, mortified as he saw
footage of himself tackling, or rather attempting to jump over, the stadium
security guard and landing on the concrete below.  The caption read: Terrorist
Suspect Caught.
At least they didn’t get my face
, he thought.

“Hey
look!  This guy’s the terrorist from the news,” said some guy in the cells.

Joe
looked at the man and then to the T.V. and saw himself, face up, being put into
a cop car.

“This kid
blew up the Picker stadium!  Evil little scumbag, get over here!”

Chapter
8

An Effort
of Futility

Joe was
saved by the police.  They pulled him out just as his cellmates attempted to
rearrange his face.  Two uniformed officers then escorted him down the hall and
to an empty room.  They asked if he needed some coffee, which he declined.  He
had seen enough cop shows to know that the small table and single wooden chair
in the middle of this shabby looking room signified this was the interrogation
room.  A sinking feeling was paradoxically rising in the pit of Joe’s stomach. 
It was fear, he knew.

Joe was
starting to get hungry, and the heat and constant sweating had accelerated his
thirst.  About an hour passed before he even had contact with anyone, and they
told him the detective would be with him soon.  He sat back and wondered what
they would do to him next.

Joe
wondered how long they would leave him to his own devices.  His thoughts were
everywhere: Beauty, Dahlila, Melissa, and all that had come from meeting those
incredible women—and girl. 
They were nothing but trouble
, he thought. 
Even while he despaired his current fate, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of
excitement about it all.  Initially, it was his endorphins and the constant
threat of danger.  Now the excitement came from piecing together the events
from the stadium and trying to make sense of it all.  No matter how hard he
tried to get it all to make sense, he simply couldn’t.  All he could do was
ponder over events he didn't understand. He found himself wishing for some
company.

Chapter
9

The P.I.

The silence
was broken along with Joe’s current train of thought as two voices came
closer.  They seemed to be getting louder and angrier as they approached.

“Remember
that favor you said that I had.”

“Yeah,
but you’re not gonna call that in now.  This is hot stuff!  Big time terrorism,
and this boy has something to do with it.”

“This boy
has nothing to do with anything.  He was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time.”

Now that
they were right by the doorway, their voices became hushed, but Joe could still
make out what they were saying.

“Whatever
the case, this guy is my prisoner, and my detectives will interrogate him and
get his statement.”

“Listen
Carl, I don’t want no damn statement.  I just want five minutes with this kid
to see if he ran into one of my colleagues in there.”

Carl:
“That’s why I brought you here.  I didn’t walk you down here for my health.”

There was
a bit of silence.

“I’ll be
honest, Carl.  Some of what we’ll be talking about you shouldn’t be hearing.”

Carl:
“What’s the point in us even arresting this kid then?”

"You
can ask him anything you want, I just want to get him off the record."

The one
named Carl let out a huge sigh.

Carl:
“Hank, if you do anything to mess up this case, I’m gonna deck you.  Your big ugly
gray mug is gonna go spinning into orbit.”

Hank:
“Five minutes, Carl, that’s all.”

Carl:
“You got your five minutes. Use ‘em wisely.  And he better be in usable
condition once you’re done with him.”

There was
silence followed by footsteps, then more silence.  The wooden door creaked open
and in entered one of the talking men.  Joe guessed this one to be Hank, who,
to Joe, looked very old and tired.  The man’s clothes matched his hair, gray
and unkempt.  He bore down on Joe with his grayish green eyes and Joe struggled
to meet his gaze briefly and resigned to stare at the floor.  Joe’s brief
glimpse showed him that the man wasn’t too tall.  The way his shoulders set and
all of the frown lines on his forehead gave Joe the distinct impression that
this Hank was not a patient man.

Joe dared
to look up at the man again; his grandpa wouldn't approve of him looking away. 
The man’s gaze was fiercely trained on Joe, and Joe began to fidget and squirm
in his chair.  He tried to sit as still as he possibly could, barely managing
to breathe in the process.  Joe let out all the air as slowly as he could.  As
the man approached, Joe tried to offer a bit of awkward stilted conversation.

Joe:
“Hello, sir.  How can I help you, sir?”

Hank: “By
dropping the crappy pleasantries, this ain’t the prom, kid.  You’re wasting
both of our time.  Now, you can answer my questions like a good little boy.”

Joe’s
stomach twisted and turned.  He didn’t know what this man wanted or even if he
had the answers that he was looking for.  It had just dawned on him how much
trouble he was in.  He was a terrorist — to the rest of the town at least — and
would be tried as such. 
They’ll probably give me to a firing squad for
treason or something
, he thought.

The old
guy loudly snapped his fingers.

Hank:
“Pay attention, Joe Shmoe!  I don’t have a lot of time.”

Joe
looked the man in the eyes and nodded.

Joe:
“Yessir.”

The old
guy pulled a chair from outside the room and sat. He studied Joe for a moment
and found his opening.

Hank:
“What happened in that stadium, kid?”

Joe
didn’t know where to start.

Joe:
“Well … um … me and my friends wanted to see the Pickers, and Mod—”

Hank:
“Enough foreplay, kid.  Start from the explosion.  You were there for that,
right?”

Joe:
“Yessir.  It happened during the second quarter.  I was watching the game when
it happened.”

Hank:
“What happened to your friends?”

Joe: “I
don’t know.  I didn’t see them after.”

Hank:
“But they were sitting right next to you, right?  How did they get out but not
you?  What the hell were you doing in there that whole time?”

Joe
froze.  He didn’t know what to say.  Most of what he did earlier was probably
very illegal.  The old guy was sharp as a tack.  He was quick to notice Joe’s
hesitation.

Hank:
“What the hell were you doing in there, kid!  Talk!”

Joe
pushed his chair back and spelled it out for Hank.

Joe:
“N-no.  I want a l-l-lawyer.”

Joe tried
his best to sound a lot bigger than he actually was or felt.  Hank had risen
out of his chair so fast and with such fury that he looked like a man half his
age.  Joe sprung backwards and out of his seat as he tried to scramble away. 
There was venom in the old man’s glare.  He screamed at Joe.

Hank: “Do
I look like a damned cop?”

After
that his voice lowered to a subdued growl, but his demeanor was no less
intense.

Hank: “I
wasn’t born yesterday, Joe.  I do know that you were somehow a part of the day’s
activities.  You wouldn’t have come out of the building nearly a whole hour
later if you weren’t.  Why were you so scared of those security guards at the
stadium?  You ran from them like you were running for your life, and the way
that you tackled that last one to get outside … you weren’t just scared of
getting into trouble or getting a little roughed up.  If that were the case you
wouldn’t have so willingly surrendered yourself to the cops outside.”

Joe
stared at the floor and gave a soft shrug.  He honestly didn’t know if he
should answer that.

Hank:
“Why’d you give up once you made it outside?  If you wanted to get away so bad,
why didn’t you try to keep running once you made it out?  What about those
guards inside frightened you so much?”

Joe
looked at Hank for a while before he decided that he was better off not
talking.  He wasn’t sure if it was a bit of savvy that he’d picked up from all
those cop shows he watched, or fear that stayed his tongue.

Hank took
a moment to reassess the situation and let out a sigh.  He wasn’t dealing with
the hardened criminals that he was accustomed to dealing with.  He was dealing
with a young teenager.  He needed to change his approach.

Hank:
“Listen, kid — Joe.  Anything you say to me now won’t be used against you or
those you care about.  I just want answers.  I lost someone in that stadium and
I just want to know if you saw them.  Now, can you level with me, kid, we don’t
have much time.”

Joe: “Who
— who are you?”

Hank: “My
name is Borland, Hank Borland.  You’re a kid, so use my last name.”

Joe: “Are
you a—”

Hank:
“I'm not a cop, but I used to be one a long time ago.  Right now I’m looking
for a woman named Dahlila.  Did you see her in that stadium?  About yay high
and tougher than Kevlar.”

Joe’s
heart and stomach jumped at the name.  He was sure that everything that happened
under that stadium had just been an alcohol-induced dream. He was sure he’d
never see nor hear of or from Dahlila.  Now Borland was tossing that name out
like he knew the woman.

Joe:
“Blonde hair?”

Borland:
“Where did you see her?”

Joe
paused.  He didn’t want to put Dahlila in any danger, and he remembered how he
found her, all tied up in the underground part of that stadium.  Who put her
there?  Joe’s face must’ve given away his thoughts, because Borland pursued the
subject more aggressively.

Borland:
“Listen, kid, Dahlila is important to me.  Please!  Tell me where she is.”

Joe: “How
is she important to you?  Answer that for her sake.”

Borland
pulled out an old and worn-out wallet, and in it sat an old and worn-out
photo.  Borland took out the photo and showed it to Joe. 

Borland:
“That little girl there is Dahlila when she was younger.  I helped raise her. 
She’s as precious as my own daughter.  I need to know where she is.  Please,
tell me where she is!”

Borland
pleaded his case, not only with his words but with his eyes as well.

Joe had
sympathy for the man, and felt he could trust him.  He told Borland about
everything except the shape-shifting, because he hardly believed it himself. 
Borland was ready at the end of his tale with questions.

Borland:
“Do you know where the girls were headed?”

Joe: “I
don’t.  We were separated.”

Borland:
“I see.  What about the little girl’s name?  Do you remember it?”

Joe: “Her
name was Melissa.”

There was
a flash of recognition in Borland’s eyes and he whispered, “That’s good,” so
low that Joe could barely hear him.