Damascus Road (8 page)

“On the phone!” I shouted. “Did you call me on the phone?
Are you Nathan? You are… You’re Nathan…”

Harrison was panic-stricken, shaking his head furiously.

“No-no-no-no…” he said again and again.

A shrill electronic tone broke between us and we looked at
one another, startled. What was he doing? What had he done? Then it happened
again.

“It…it’s my phone,” Harrison said.

I considered my options. If he didn’t answer his phone,
someone would be looking for him.

“Answer it,” I said. “Get rid of them. We’re not done here.”

He jerked his head in one quick affirmative.

“This is Senator Harrison.”

Harrison’s eyes went from staring at nothing, listening, to
bewildered fear. He looked at me, directly into my eyes with a startling
clarity.

“It’s for you,” he said.

I cocked my head to the side.

“Is this a joke?” I shot back.

He said nothing but held the phone out to me. I looked at it
with the same distrust one might have for a loaded pistol. Numbly, I took it
from his hand, eyed him cautiously, expecting him to bolt for the door and
ready to put him down in a heartbeat.

“Hello?” I said, lost for a better response.

“James… brother of Christ…what are you doing?” It was
Nathan, his voice laced with condescension and malice.

Nausea rushed through me. My head pounded, pain lanced its
way through my temples. The bathroom spun around me and I struggled to maintain
my bearings.

“You… you…” I breathed.

“I expected so much more from you,” Nathan said. “You’re
nothing but a sinner are you? Just like your father.”

The blade of guilt hit my heart with the accusation and
snapped me out of my stupor.

“You killed him!” I shouted into the phone.

Harrison was moving away from me and I did not stop him. I
shuffled forward and saw my own reflection in the mirror. Phone in my hand,
sweat on my brow. Harrison cowered in fear, made his way to the door away from
the maniac, the madman… me. What had I become? The knife was still in my hand
and I dropped it into the sink. The stainless steel hit the porcelain with a
ringing clatter that made Harrison yelp in fear.

“You couldn’t protect him and he deserved to die,” Nathan
said, dismissively. “You’re missing the point, James.”

“Which is?”

Behind me, in the mirror, I saw Harrison at the door to the
bathroom, he was looking at me in abject terror, while he disengaged the lock.

“Your father is dead,” Nathan said. “And you couldn’t stop
it. What does that make you, James? Do you really think you deserve some reward
for what you’ve done? And in your failure, your solution is to slaughter the
innocent. You deserve damnation, James. Nothing less.”

My gaze went from Blake Harrison to my own reflection in the
mirror. My eyes looking into the reflection, looking back at me. Nathan was
right…

I dropped to my knees as Harrison pulled open the bathroom
door. I was aware in some way of what happened next, but somehow I was
disconnected, distant even from myself.

Blake shouted to the Secret Service agents, but his voice
was muted to me, lost like a voice calling out under water. I could not raise
my eyes from the tile floor. Foosteps, then being thrown to the tile, my head
rapping against it with a resounding thump that rattled my vision, but did not
bring the sweet solace of unconsciousness. That I would not have.

Handcuffs were attached, cinching down on my wrists, and
still I watched the blue tile. I was pulled upright and led out into the
convention hall. There I felt the eyes on me, blame heaped on me by the crowd.
I had neither the desire, nor intent to change that.

I lowered my head and let myself be dragged through the
crowd. As we neared the entrance to the building, I could see the flickering
red and blue lights of the squad cars and knew what was to come next.

The agents threw me against the side of the squad car and
frisked me with malicious intent. If they had cause to pummel me, they would,
ready for any sign that would vindicate their intent. I did not give them the
satisfaction.

The officers pushed me into the car and I let myself fold
in, settled onto the hard plastic seat. I did not look out the window. I
ignored the staring eyes of the party-goers. I closed my eyes and waited until
the car moved.

Eventually, the vehicle pulled out, and I let the city wash
over me. Without thought or insight or mental process, I looked out the window.
The cop tried to talk to me, saying that if I would cooperate and tell my side
of the story, then I could help myself. I ignored him and invoked my right to
remain silent without saying a word.

Intake at the jail was everything I remembered it to be.
Cops and questions, but the tone was more reserved there. It was a forgone
conclusion you were staying, so why fight it?

I went through fingerprinting without struggle. While the
desk sergeant chattered away about my knife, how nice it was, where did I get
it, had I killed anyone with it, had I, hmm? I ignored him and watched the
inmates. Some were pups, stupid and slow suburban men too foolish to stay out
of jail. I ignored them immediately.

What did catch my attention were the inmates who had been
there before. Hard-looking men with fierce glares in their eyes. They had not seen
the inside of a gym since their last stay in prison, but lived by a regime of
knife fights, shootings, fisticuffs and running from the police. These were the
ones I was looking for.

I was led to a holding cell and found a seat away from the
other men. They kept their distance from one another, each wary of sitting too
close or standing within someone’s immediate area, let alone their reach-all
secretly afraid to “disrespect” the other, but outwardly giving no sign of
anything other than feral behavior. I watched them as they evaluated each
other, trying to find the weak link, ready to pounce on anyone who appeared to
be less than an alpha dog.

Hector was the pit bull of the crew. His neck was thick and
tattooed above a blue shirt buttoned at the collar. His hair was buzzed short
except for a goatee that he wore long. He paced with a low, shuffling gate.

Two other men were in the cell. One was tall and lean with a
sallow-looking face. He had been good-looking once, but now had been battered
by the street life and looked worn out. He reminded me of the snake that slept
under the front porch. Not aggressive until you wandered too close. I dubbed
him Slick.

The third man was a boxer. I could tell by his regularly
broken nose and catcher’s mitt face. His arms were abnormally long, nearly
hanging to his knees. His hands were scarred, the knuckles rough and calloused.
Like any other palooka, I named him Joe.

Joe and Slick stayed to their own sides, while Hector
prowled the center of the cell. I stayed in the back, never looking at any of
them directly. Instead I rubbed at the fingerprint black on my fingers with
disinterest. I was plotting, waiting for the right moment. I was unknown to
them, obviously had been inside before, a wildcard.

“Alright, gentlemen,” I said. My voice was loud, unwavering,
a bold opening move. Slick turned and looked at me. Joe stopped facing me,
fists clenched. Hector was watching my reflection in the glass.

I hopped to my feet and tossed my coat behind me. Unhurried,
I rolled up my sleeves.

“I’ve got someplace I need to be,” I said, locking eyes with
each of them. “And you boys are going to help me get there.”

The room was dead silent. Hector looked at Slick, who looked
at Joe, then back again.

“What are you talking about?” Hector said. “You planning on
breaking out of here?”

I laughed.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve got a little trip ahead of me.
And I need your help to get there.”

“You think you’re breaking out of here alone?” This from
Joe.

They weren’t getting it. I couldn’t blame them. I stepped
into the middle of the group, letting them surround me. I shook my head slowly.

“I want you to kill me,” I said.

“You want to fake your death?” asked Slick.

I’d had enough. There was no way to explain what I wanted.
They’d never understand and if they did, they would never agree to it.

“Not exactly,” I said, looking at my shoes.

I turned and punched Slick. His head snapped back and he reeled
at the attack. Joe was on me a moment later. He threw a quick combination that
I bobbed and weaved around before snapping a jab that bloodied his nose.

“Come on!” I yelled.

Hector kicked me in the small of the back and I pitched
forward. I caught my feet and turned back, only to be hit with a right hook. I
tumbled with it and fell into Slick, who kneed me in the stomach. I fell to my
knees.

I knew then… it wasn’t enough. They wouldn’t finish the job.
I had to push them harder.

“Let’s go, Slick,” I growled.

I came up under him with a punch to the groin, jackrabbit
punch to ribs and elbow under the chin. He fell hard, but I had no time for
him.

Joe came at me with his guard up, feet floating in boxer’s
footwork.

“Let’s go, bitch,” I growled at him.

He came at me hard. I took a jab to the nose and felt it
break. The right cross hit me in the eye and drove me back. Joe closed the gap
and threw a haymaker to finish me. I lowered my head, and his fist crashed into
the top of my skull. It rung my bell a bit, but Joe’s wrist snapped with a
sharp crack. He cursed and instinctively grabbed it. I kicked him in the
stomach and shoved him away.

Madness had flooded my mind and a fear that I would beat the
three men in my cell. I felt the blood running from my nose and it incensed me
even more. It was not enough.

“I want to see my father and I want to see him right now!” I
shouted.

I leapt off the floor and hit Joe with a flying roundhouse
punch. He sprawled on the floor. I lunged for him, only to be intercepted by
Slick, his hand snatching at my collar. I grabbed his fingers and twisted up,
breaking two of them. I could have finished him with a punch to the throat, but
instead rammed my fist up under his ribs. Slick hunched over and threw up like
a rancid fire hydrant.

Pathetic, I thought. I couldn’t even get myself killed in
jail. Slick was on his hands and knees, retching. I kicked him and he collapsed
on his side.

I never did see Hector coming, but his fist smashed into the
side of my face, and my world tilted crazily as I fell. The edges of my vision
dimmed. I tried to get up. I lifted my head, tasted blood. Hector’s foot came
down on my face and I actually saw the print of the tread of his boot before it
hit me.

Despite myself, I tried to cover up, only to have a foot
come down on my shoulder. I felt the joint give, then pop as the bone slipped
from the socket. I screamed and opened my eyes to see not only Hector, but
Slick and Joe raining kicks and punches down on me.

I laughed out loud as they beat me, right up until the point
that I passed out. Darkness sucked me down into unconsciousness, and I did not
fight it.

MY BRAIN WAS THROBBING; I was
convinced of it. I wanted to open my eyes, but the pounding intensity of the
light was prohibitive. Instead, I listened and waited. For nearly a minute I
let the thought of getting up play through my mind, but the ache of my body was
so strong that it bordered on paralysis.

“You awake?” a voice said.

I grunted the affirmative.

“Need a doctor?”

Groaning, I opened my eyes and raised a finger.

Wait.

Sucking in breath, I sat up. The world spun and tilted and
swayed. Nausea surged up through me and I nearly lost the battle. I swallowed
hard.

Across the room, I saw a police officer in full uniform. I
sighed.

“I take it you’re not the Prince of Darkness,” I said. “And
this isn’t Hell?”

The cop snorted, stifled a laugh. He choked, coughed, and
struggled to regain his composure. He looked like he wasn’t more than two years
out of the academy.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “This is County Lock-up.”

“Figures,” I nodded.

The cop’s face screwed into a mask of confusion and
amusement.

“Most people would have asked if they’d gone to heaven,” he
said.

“It’s just been that kind of week,” I said.

I looked around me, at the walls, the vacant space.

“Where are they? Hector and the others?”

The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Locked up,” he said. “They all needed medical attention, so
the duty nurse is making the rounds. So, like I said, if you need medical
attention, it will be a minute.”

While he talked, I tested my body’s limits, flexing my
hands, arms, legs. The pain was universal, but the quick once over told me what
I already suspected. My left shoulder was dislocated. I stood and walked toward
the cop. He recoiled, taken off guard by my sudden advance.

“It’s okay,” I said. “My shoulder is out of joint. I need
you to help me pop it back in.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Is that rhetorical?” I shot back. “Look, if you don’t help
me, I’ll say that you beat me and dislocated my shoulder. So come on...”

He stepped forward, still wary. I offered him my limp arm.

“Hold it tight,” I said through gritted teeth. “Both hands.
Like your life depended on it.”

He did and I braced myself, inhaling deeply to steel myself
against what was to come. I lurched backward and the ball of the humerus bone
slipped back into my shoulder joint with an audible click. I sat down hard in a
pile of bones and the cop let me fall.

I screamed, crying, more sure now than ever that I would
throw up. My stomach clenched reflexively, but there was nothing there. My gut
dry-fired a few times before it gave up. I blew out a harsh and ragged breath.