Damascus Road (9 page)

“Thanks,” I managed. He was stronger than he looked, and I
was thankful for it.

“You’re welcome,” he said, still a little unsure about me.

My nose was broken, so I cupped my hands on either side and
snapped it back straight. My involuntary reaction sounded more like a sob than
I would have liked.

“What is wrong with you?” the cop asked, more honestly than
I think even he was ready for.

“I’m having an argument with God,” I said.

“How’s that working for you?”

I cocked my head and wiped the blood from my face.

“About the way you would expect it would,” I replied.

He nodded sagely.

“You’ve been bailed out,” he said.

I was hearing things. Or brain-damaged. Either or both made
more sense than being bailed out.

“Why?” was the best answer I could manage.

“If I asked why every time I saw something that didn’t make
sense here, I wouldn’t have lasted very long,” the cop said.

I let that rattle around in my skull.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Let’s go see my benefactor.”

I stood on wobbly legs, more aware than ever of my bones
from shin to knee, knee to thigh, and the precarious balancing act they
performed.

The cop walked beside me, slowing his pace to keep in step.
The silence was awkward.

“What’s your name?” My tone was casual, relaxed.

“Officer Connors.”

A few more steps in silence.

“What’s your name, Office Connors?”

Steps and silence.

“Mike.”

“Mike, I’m James.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Wish it was under better circumstances,” I conceded.

“Likewise.”

We came to a series of doors and each time Mike guided me
through. The place was obviously built to make escape no easy feat. We arrived
at a secured reception area. There were a few inmates being reunited with
family. I heard murmured complaints about the police officers that arrested
them. I couldn’t say that I felt the same. I deserved to be there. I had murder
in my heart and hate in my eye. I had no complaint for the cops, no gripes that
I wasn’t treated fairly.

“Where are they, Mike?” I asked.

“There,” he said and pointed.

I followed his gesture and saw a tight circle of men. Suits.
One of them saw me coming and told his compatriots. The man with his back to me
turned to look. It was the Senator, Blake Harrison. The man I had attacked only
hours earlier.

“No… no… no…” I said. “Take me back to my cell. No way. Take
me back to my cell right now.”

I backed away, but Mike caught my arm. I was in no shape to
flee or struggle so I stopped, but tried to distance myself from the men,
leaning away from them like a child unwilling to enter the dentist’s office.

Harrison was walking toward me.

“Sir, I really don’t think you should—“

This from the Secret Service agent at his side. Harrison
calmed him with a smile and a ‘wait here’ gesture before turning his attention
back to me.

“Mr. Marlowe, please hear me out,” Harrison said.

Around his neck, I could see the reddened flesh, already
beginning to bruise where I grabbed him. I cringed, already regretting speaking
harshly to him.

“Sir…” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought…”

I struggled to find the words, the easy explanation.

“You were lied to, Mr. Marlowe,” Harrison said gravely. “You
lost your father, and his murderer lied to you, deceived you, in fact. You were
distraught.”

Harrison was standing closer to me than common sense would
have dictated. He had no fear of me, even though I’d nearly killed him hours
before. His face was sincere, eyes open, honest, and without guile.

“Yes…yes, sir,” I managed.

“Please understand, Mr. Marlowe,” Harrison said. “I don’t
mean to diminish what you’ve gone through, but I think that in some small way,
I understand.”

I couldn’t look him in the eye anymore; I was staring down
at my boots.

“Why are you doing this?” I said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t deserve this. I tried to kill you,” I said. “Why
would you want to help me?”

Senator Harrison looked from me to Mike to his own Secret
Service agents.

“Well, it’s the right thing to do,” he said, as if the
answer was obvious to everyone else in the room.

“I don’t get you, man,” I said.

Harrison threw his head back and laughed deep and loud. He
clapped me on the shoulder, giving me a start.

“Shall we?” he said and gestured for the door.

I looked at Mike, who in turn looked back at me.

“You going to be alright?” he asked.

I considered the ramifications of his question. My friend,
my father… I’d lost two people in my life and in retaliation, lashed out at an
innocent man. On top of everything else, there was a madman out there
somewhere, pulling the strings. He’d killed my father, and I had absolutely no
leads, nothing to go on.

Then I realized that Mike wasn’t talking about the big
picture. He wasn’t enquiring into my metaphysical well-being. He was only
talking about the situation at hand.

“I’ll be alright, man,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

We shook hands, and he watched me go with them. I wondered
how often this happened in his daily life. Not often, I wagered. Few Senators
would forgive their assassins, let alone swing by County Lock-up to bail them
out.

Harrison signed paperwork, and talked to the desk sergeant
as we waited. I noticed that one of the Secret Service agents was looking at
me, eyes narrowed. I was no less of a threat to them, I realized. Blake
Harrison bailed me out, but I was still a threat in their eyes and therefore
under the microscope.

“Shall we go?” Senator Harrison asked, walking back toward
us. “Oh, they returned this.”

Harrison held out a plastic property bag that held my
wallet, keys, phone, pocket litter, and my knife. The agent closest to him
grabbed the bag before I could reach for it.

“Sir, for your safety, it would be best if you let me review
any items before you hand them over to--,” His eyes flicked to me, but the word
eluded him. Attacker? Charity case?

The agent plucked the knife from the property bag, pocketed
the knife quickly, then thrusted the bag in my direction.

“Thank you,” I said, my eyes still downcast.

I took the bag and returned the items to their rightful
homes. It gave me a strange sense of normalcy to feel the weight of them back
where they belonged. Keys and wallet and phone. They were things that free men
carried, not prisoners.

I relaxed a bit at that. Some part of me expected Harrison
to let his agents drive me to some abandoned lot and beat me to teach me a
lesson. And that would have been okay, too. Not as if I didn’t deserve it. But
in the end, I was free. The walls would not close in and would not fall into a
dark recess of my mind, sulking about my father and fighting for my life every
day, but losing a little bit of hope, of will with each battle until I was
crippled or dead.

No, I was free.

“Thank you, sir,” I said softly.

My eyes were moist, and I rubbed the heels of my hands
against them. A smile broke out across Harrison’s face, and he clapped me on
the shoulder.

“Let’s go for a drive,” he said. “Are you hungry? Have you
eaten?”

“I’m famished, sir,” I confessed.

“I’ll get the car,” the other agent said and disappeared out
the door.

We followed him out and felt the eyes of the people in the
holding room follow us. What did they think? That this was my lawyer? Federal
agents come to take me away? It was nothing as common as that.

I walked beside Blake Harrison as we headed for the door.
Outside of the facility was a massive carport and a Town Car waiting for us.

The agent at our side, who I now recognized as Walters from
the fundraiser event, held the door. I stepped aside to let Harrison in first.

“You’re my guest,” he insisted. “Please.”

I got in the car first, more than a little uneasy. No one
was this nice. Were they?

Harrison did not get in the car, though. He held the door
and closed it almost to the point that the latch engaged, but not quite. Closed
enough that I couldn’t hear what he said to Agent Walters.

I heard the low murmur of Harrison’s voice, a soft lilting
tone, but none of the words. Walters paused before responding, weighing his own
reaction. When he did speak, his words came in tight groups, measured and
careful, but without easy compliance. Harrison jabbed a finger at Walter’s
chest and caught a rapid fire sentence still too low to hear.

“Yes, sir,” Walters said and he dropped something into
Harrison’s hand.

The Senator got into the backseat beside me. Agent Walters
closed his door and took his own position in the front seat, eyes out the
passenger window.

“Jeff, let’s go to that restaurant we visited last week. The
one with the ribs that I liked. Ask him to make up the back room for us,”
Harrison said, his demeanor was sunshine and daisies now, without a trace of
the steel he’d had when he dealt with Walters.

“Do you like ribs, James?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, very much.”

“I  appreciate the ‘sir’, James,” he said. “Indicates good
upbringing, but it’s not necessary. Please, call me Blake.”

I looked up at him and there was genuineness to him. This
was not a ploy. Not a tactic. He asked me to address him by his first name. As
if I were his friend.

“I…can’t,” I said.

Blake shook his head with a sad smile.

“For better or worse,” he said. “Our paths were meant to
cross.”

“Like fate?”

“Like the hand of God,” Blake Harrison said.

“I think I’ve gotten the backhand of God,” I muttered,
looking out the window.

“James, this will not work until you’re willing to talk, and
I don’t think you’ll be willing to talk, to really talk until you feel whole
again.”

He held out my knife to me.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

He gestured, urging me to take it.

“Why would you do that?”

“Let’s discuss it inside, but in the meantime, take it on
faith,” he said.

I lowered my eyes, not wanting to meet his. I stared at my
knife, the worn stainless steel handles, the battered, flawless beauty of the
design. I did feel like a part of me was missing without it. A part of my
father, that made me his son.

“Thank you,” I whispered and took the knife from his hand.
It disappeared into my pocket.

We stared out our windows for the rest of the ride, letting
the silence take its place between us. I was not from his world, nor was he
from mine, but there we sat. Two men brought together. I had no explanation. No
witty retort. No smart ass comeback. So I sat and absorbed the silence and let
the car take me where it wanted. Whatever came, life or death, I took at face
value. No lines to read between. The city lights washed over me, and I watched
the faces of the people on the street.

I could not help but covet their trials, their troubles. The
boss who wanted his report by the end of the day. Missed the taxi and needed to
hail another one. The girlfriend who hasn’t called. The cat at home in need of
kibble and chance that there may be mice in the apartment. I wished my life was
that. Any of that. All of that. But it wasn’t. And the beat goes on. Let it
ride.

The Town Car pulled to the curb in front of an understated
brick building. I saw the parking lot and the line out front, but we didn’t
stop there. The sign above the door said “Inferno” in simple block print, white
on black. We drove around the corner and stopped at the rear of the building.

Agent Walters was out of the car before we stopped rolling
and opened the back door after a quick survey of the area. Blake stepped out,
and I followed behind. Blake did not bother to wait and jerked open the back
door to Inferno. We entered through a dimly lit hallway and up a half flight of
steps. The building had been a warehouse or industrial space before being
converted to a restaurant, and it showed. The floors were uneven, and exposed
brick was everywhere.

Blake knew the way better than he let on and quickly led me
to the kitchen. It was a massive stainless playground for the culinary elite.
Instead of the white coats and toques I expected to find, the kitchen staff was
a motley band of pirates, each dressed in their own particular brand of
uniform. Chef’s coats were crimson and navy and denim. Most of the staff wore
headbands from handkerchiefs. Their ethnicity was as diverse as their apparel,
Dominican and African-American and Asian. They barked orders and times to each
other like a tactical assault team.

Fire flared to my right and I spun, fearing the worse, only
to see a chef flipping his skillet, cooking off alcohol in the pan. He glared
at me with a dismissive sneer. Behind him, another chef had hair in braids that
cascaded over his shoulders while he sliced meat on a platter. He forearm was
seared with burn marks both old and new. He saw me watching and winked. I
looked away.

“Jack!” Blake boomed.

I turned and saw a tall, thin man step into Blake and hug
him fiercely, slapping him on the back. His hair was a maddening tornado of
blackness, without style or care. His face was a couple days past a five
o’clock shadow, but somehow I knew it was never going to make it to a full
beard. His fingers were scarred from time in the kitchen like some kind of
malicious tribal tattooing. The real ink began above that and I could see the
beginning of what appeared to be some adapted Jolly Roger featuring knife and
fork instead of crossbones on his forearm.

Blake turned to me and held out his hands, ever the showman,
to present his newly arrived friend.

“Mr. Marlowe, I present to you, Mr. Jack Dante,” Blake said.

I stuck out my hand and he crushed it in his bony clutch.