Disintegration (7 page)

It's later now, and I may have missed my mark. I sit in the white car, exactly where I'm supposed to be, down Damen Avenue, in an alley facing west. I can see the front of the Rainbo Club, a trendy late night watering hole. I just want to go in and join them, suck down some cold beers, shots of whiskey to warm my wet, freezing bones. But I don't know what my victim looks like, so I sit here and scan the road for the tan piece of crap he'll be driving. I sulk in this white box of pain, no heater, no radio, eager to get this done.

There are a lot of Camrys tonight, but none with matching plates. It's late, I know that much, but the neon from Rainbo keeps glowing in the dark, so it can't be past three yet. I stare at the door, watching one drunk after another spill out and down the steps. Flannel shirts with shaggy hair, jeans, and motorcycle boots. Short skirts and knee-high leather, tightly wrapped breasts just begging for attention. Black Elvis Costello glasses, dark sweaters, and soul patches on the chin. Ponytails and six silver earrings, white sheer tops and skintight leggings. All young and good-looking, with plenty of money it seems. Piling into cars worth thirty thousand dollars, dressed as if they live under a concrete underpass.

The fifth tan Camry of the night pulls out of a parking lot across the street. It edges into traffic and slams to a halt, a horn blaring in the dark, a garbage truck rumbling past, dirty green and dangerous.

The car turns, the headlights swinging over me, but not before I catch part of the plate. XJL. My guy. I turn the ignition and the engine growls and purrs. That won't be a concern tonight. The headlights shoot out into the street, and I pull out behind the Camry. Traffic is pretty light.

I follow the car south on Damen, watching it weave from side to side. Hammered. I cringe as it comes inches from rear-ending a parked car on the west side of the street. That would complicate things. I wait to see where we're going, and as the car eases to the right, this time it does take out a side mirror, sending sparks and bits of plastic shooting into the night, lurching back into the road, and then it makes a quick left.

I follow for half a block, and the street is quiet. Cars are parked all along both sides, rows of small bungalows next to brick apartments, nothing moving on the street.

Time to do it.

Plopping the light on top of the dash, I flick it on, and the car fills with red and blue light. Accelerating up behind the car, I flash on my brights, and turn the spotlight on. It doesn't take long, and the scratched and dinged Camry pulls over to the side, lurching into an alley.

I kill all of my lights—the spotlight, the flashers, and the headlights. Against protocol, but I don't need an audience. I leave the engine running. Grabbing hold of the gun, I pull it out of the bag and shove it down the back of my jeans.

Time to make the donuts.

The door shuts with a solid thud, and I ease up to the car, thinking cop, cop, cop. I rap on the window, and it comes down slow.

“License and registration please.”

A brunette with long hair gazes up at me, not what I was expecting.

“Hey, Officer,” she says, grinning. “What's going on? Was I speeding or something?”

Her eyes are wide but glossy, and she presses her ample breasts up against the door, cleavage spilling out as she props her hand on the steering wheel. A silver charm bracelet shines in the moonlight. I bend over and squint at her bobbing head.

What the fuck.

“Hey, don't I know you?” she asks, lips spreading wide to reveal sparkling white teeth.

It's Cammie from the other night, one of the girls from the party on Fulton Market Street.

“The last time I saw you, buddy, you were shoving your tongue in my mouth, and beating up my boyfriend.”

There's a pain in my chest and a gut full of knots.

“Cammie, small world. You a little drunk, honey?”

“Um, you know? I have the worst luck. Seems like every time I have a couple too many, I end up hitting something. Right?”

“You mean like that car you sideswiped back there?”

“Huh? That? Just a flesh wound, hardly even grazed it.”

She stares up at me, a sweet rush of pine from her mouth, a warm musky scent easing from the car.

“I mean,” she says, “take that school bus. I mean, what the hell? I did my time. And of course I was sad for those kids, but why the hell weren't they strapped in? I mean, I thought those buses were supposed to be safe, right?”

“What are you talking about, Cammie?”

“I paid my fine, fifty thousand fucking dollars. I spent my thirty days in the county jail. Shit, I'm still on probation. This isn't gonna count is it?”

She bats her eyes, running her tongue across her mouth, eyes squinting, swaying back and forth.

“I mean, it was a baby shower, I only had a couple of glasses of champagne. I couldn't
not
toast the bride, the mother to be, right? I only drove a couple of blocks. Thank God my father works in a law firm.”

She shakes her head from side to side, and then glances back up at me.

“What? Oh, you still want that stuff, oh crap, all right.”

She leans back over to her purse and starts rooting around. Lipstick and a cellphone, tampons and a shiny tin flask, a pack of Marlboro Lights, and a pink plastic lighter—it all spills out onto the seat, and down onto the floor.

“Hold on, I'll find it. I just got it back, not used to having it with me,” she says, her voice muffled in the pink leather bag.

I hook my thumbs in my belt loops, as any good cop would, and stare into the window at the glowing lights on the dash. This can't be right.

“Cammie, is this your car? Is it maybe your boyfriend's or…I don't know, your dad's or something?”

I don't want it to be her.

She straightens back up holding a Coldplay CD and a tin of cinnamon Altoids. Her eyes have that thousand-yard stare.

“What was I getting again? Oh right.”

She digs back into her purse and the car starts to move, slowly crawling forward.

“Cammie.”

I back away so my feet don't get run over.

“CAMMIE!”

The car lurches to a stop, inches from the back of an aging Accord, kissing cousins these two. She bangs her head on the steering wheel, issuing a wheeze of a honk from the horn.

“Shit, thought I had it in park.”

I ease back over a couple of steps and lean in the window. She's not a threat.

“Cammie, is this your car?”

“Sure is.”

“Not your boyfriend's, not your dad's?”

“No sir, all mine. They wouldn't be caught dead driving this piece of crap. I usually ride with Becka.”

She's all smiles, eyelids fluttering, her right hand on her forehead, not sure why it hurts.

“Here you go.”

I take her license and registration. The license is expired and the registration is to an old Jaguar.

“You ever hear of a cab? Walking?”

She stares at me, squinting her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

She's empty and lost and there probably isn't much more to her.

“Anything else I should know, Cammie, before I run this?”

“Well, I'm a little stoned,” she giggles. “Does that matter?”

She pats the seat next to her, and turns her chin up to me.

“You know, we can just sit here for a while if you want, I've got a roach someplace. We could finish off where we started the other night. I'm up for it if you are.”

Her face is full of a heady smile, but her eyes are cold and distant. I reach around to the back of my jeans, and grab the handle of the gun.

“Please?” she whispers, her lips trembling.

I stare into her eyes and erase everything about her, her warm smile, her young, tight body, and simply do my job. Too much talking.

I place the muzzle in the center of her forehead and she doesn't even flinch.

“You fucked up, Cammie.”

A barely audible
pfft
and a warmth spritzes my face, the back of her head splattering the dash. Her eyes roll up and she slumps forward onto the steering wheel, beeping the horn, toppling over face-first onto the seat. I shove her paperwork into my pocket and walk away from the car. No fingerprints and no reason to make it any easier to identify her.

It's eight steps back to my car, and every shudder of my boot on the ground sends ripples up my body, steam rising off of my head. I can't focus my eyes, and the wind ripples through the trees. A door slams and laughter echoes down the alley.

EIGHT

Fucking Cammie.

SEVEN

What the fuck?

SIX

Her hand was on my…

FIVE

I just killed a girl.

FOUR

No choice.

THREE

What else did she do…

TWO

Fucking Vlad.

ONE

I need a drink.

“What, John?”

“Oh, sorry, sir…um, there are
bodies
here we need you to identify. I am so sorry to make you come down here….”

A full moon fills the sky as the cold wind whips at my body. My arms are stretched out as wide as they can go, and my wings flutter in the breeze. My eyes are closed, and yet the camera of God's eye rotates around my naked body, legs together, talons gripping the icy concrete lip of the building. I stand on the rooftop, and as the rain starts to drizzle, clouds racing by, the pale orb shimmers down, reflecting off my skin. I am here for all to see, and as the water falls faster, as it turns to ice, the sleet slices at my body, my skin parting, death by a thousand knives, and I ask for forgiveness. I mutter under my breath over and over.

“…forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us…”

Lightning cracks in the distance, a flash of hot, white light and a tall pine four streets over brightens the madness with sparks, and bursts into flame, a branch cracking, a deep splintering, falling with a whoosh, snapping and bellowing all the way down.

The muscles in my arms burn, trembling in the frigid air, as I hold them out wide, begging for destruction. Numb lips move silently and ivory teeth chatter in my head. Bones and muscle, sinew and sluggish blood slowly turn to marble, my breath clouding the air.

“…and lead us not into temptation…but deliver us from evil…”

I let go and fall, leaning forward into the empty space, plummeting to my death, or His outstretched hand.

This one I didn't like. This assignment.

At all.

I'm back in my cave, standing at the kitchen window, aching for my lost cat. It's so cold out. I can picture her frozen body, stiff, her mouth agape, tiny, sharp teeth bared.

I can't remember the last meal I had. I'm not sure what day it really is.

I don't have any idea what I did with the car, where I parked it, or how I got home. The trash can is overflowing with beer bottles and bloody paper towels. There are matchbooks scattered across the counter, with numbers on them that may be in Japanese or Polish. A pile of black T-shirts sits in the corner of my bedroom. They smell like jasmine, orange peel, and vomit. They reek of patchouli, cigarette smoke, and pussy.

I can't remember my name.

I haven't cut myself, as far as I can tell. I've spent furtive minutes naked in front of a mirror, trying to find the source of the blood. The balled-up, wrinkled, blood-soaked paper towels. There are no cuts on my wrists or forearms, none on my chest. I paw my genitalia, and gently probe my backside, fleshy butt cheeks and tightly bunched asshole. I run my hands up and down my legs, behind my knees, nothing. The last holdout, between the toes, the soles of my feet, reveals nothing.

It may not be my blood.

I spend a long period of time kneeling in front of the sawhorse, running my aching hands and swollen fingers over the nail heads that protrude from the wood. I can't be sure. I think there is a bit of paper towel stuck to one, but when I go to remove it, it isn't there. I've licked every nail, the head and the shaft, and have a mouthful of dust to show for it. That and a strong desire to chew on tin cans. But there is no coppery, sweet taste of blood.

The first thing I checked, when I could focus on my surroundings, was my hands, and then my nipples. I feared I had wandered back to that club and sacrificed myself again. But I don't think I did that. There isn't a mark on me that I can't explain, and that place would have left me damaged for sure.

I can't be sure of anything.

I sit at the dining room table, wearing nothing but charcoal gray cotton boxer shorts, and turn Cammie's ID over in my hands. Over and over and over. I stare at her name, her address, and I meld with her face. I want to find her history, I want to know that this was necessary. That my killing her was a philosophy, a mantra, and not simply an echo in the void of a million years of time. This was the death of the one, for the betterment of the many. She may not have been Hitler or Mussolini, but I want to know that she was far worse than a simple drunk. That there was even more to disgust me than accidentally killing a busload of children. That in the scheme of things, her killing a busload of children was minor, a blemish, a blip on the radar. That's how evil I want her to have been.

I'm holding my cat now. My beautiful, dirty, lost cat, Luscious. Her right ear is torn, there is a chunk missing, and she won't let me clean it. She's bitten me twice. I want to take care of her, but she won't let me. She's been beaten by the hand of a man, and now she shies away from me, her old friend, simply because I'm similar. I'm a shadow of her abuser, with my black boots and rib-rattling kicks. It wasn't me, I try to tell her, but she has her doubts. She's reluctant to trust me and I don't blame her. I reek of violence and remorse.

The window in the kitchen had been open for weeks now. Cold air gusted in, overwhelming the rattling heater that sat coiled beneath the gap. I came into the kitchen to find empty potato chip bags, gum wrappers, and leaves, bits of debris scattered about the room. I left it. I embraced this new relationship with Mother Nature.

I took what she gave me and hunted for clues, clues to the whereabouts of my gray-and-white cat. A dingy Target bag meant that she had been caught in the crosshairs, the focus of a dark spirit, and was broken in a gutter, dead. A torn bit of the
Chicago Reader,
the movie section, spoke to me, specifically the release of a cult classic,
The Professional
. It meant that things were not as they seemed, but in the end, the innocent would survive, after great sacrifice by those around her. A water-damaged and faded piece of manila paper, with a Crayola drawing of a sun and flower, brought me to my knees, telling me my cat was still alive, if I could just make it to the dawn.

So when I awake to a pressure on my chest, sandpaper rubbing across my face, it is everything that I had hoped for. So sad that I pin my hopes on a stray, damaged cat, that the glue in my life is a random act of feline affection. When I open my eyes, tiny emeralds sparkle in the night, her head cocked to one side, a hoarse meow gurgling from her open mouth. I am afraid to move, fearful that like Holly, she will disappear when I look at her too hard.

But she is real. She stays. I scatter kitty treats all over the floor, my hands shaking, as she looks up at me, trying to make some sort of offering. I keep her food bowl full, and after she eats, I fill it again. I want to defeat time, and keep every act of hers the same, changing nothing, every by-product of her actions the same, so that nothing disappears.

I promise her fancy wet food, foreign-sounding French cat mousse, whatever her heart desires. But I'm afraid to leave her, terrified that she will be gone when I get back. So I apologize for lying, for not going next door for two goddamned minutes, because I just can't make the trek. She understands.

So we sit on my bed, and I run my hands over her. She licks at her paws, fat and happy now, warm and inside, unafraid of the unkempt, half-naked man. She looks deep into my eyes and decides I'm more harm to myself than anything else. So she's along for the ride.