The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons (21 page)

Studying the dwelling for an hour from the woods across the road, he saw no one pass before the flickering television screen in the living room. He hid his bag behind some prickly bushes and approached the house. Greeted by the stench of decaying wood, he peered through the screen door at the dark living room, and listened to the laugh track of an inane sitcom on the television. Seeing no doorbell, he knocked on the screen door, its wooden frame bouncing on its hinges. A dog barked inside, a real beast by the sound of it, and he flinched.

“Shut up, Blackie!” a harsh voice said, and Marc trembled for a moment. Then he remembered why he had come in the first place. Heavy footsteps preceded a balding man with a beer belly who appeared on the other side of the door. “Yeah?”

Marc swallowed, his stomach knotting up. He recognized his father, who did not recognize him. He should have known; thirteen years had passed since they had last seen each other, with no birthday cards, Christmas greetings, or photo exchanges in the interim. His father did not know that Sara had died, or that Marc had been institutionalized for killing her. “I’m from the power company. I have a refund check for an overpayment you made.”

Gary Gorman, the Big Bastard, narrowed one of his heavy eyes. “Why didn’t you just mail it to me?”

“Policy. We need to get a signature before we can actually release the check.”

Opening the door with one hand, Gary looked Marc up and down. For a moment, Marc thought his father might recognize him after all. “Where’s your car at?”

Nodding to his left and hiding his disappointment, Marc reached into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. “Right over there.” When Gary leaned outside to search for the nonexistent vehicle, Mark took out a slim metal cylinder and sprayed tear gas into his father’s eyes. Crying out, Gary staggered back. Marc caught the closing door with one elbow. Blackie unleashed a flurry of barks somewhere behind Gary, and Marc hesitated for an instant. When no dog charged at him, he stepped inside. Then he knew where the rotting smell originated from.

“God damn it!” his father yelled, and Blackie barked louder. The big black Labrador had been leashed to one leg of the kitchen table, which she now dragged across the linoleum floor. Marc shifted the canister to his other hand and took out a blackjack. His father rubbed his eyes, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. Marc swung the blackjack at the back of Gary’s head and the big man collapsed to the floor and lay still. Blackie snarled, her head now inside the living room. Marc walked straight toward the canine, who leaned back on her haunches as if to launch herself at him, her pink gums visible around her sharp teeth.

“Shut up, Blackie!” Marc had his father’s voice down pat after imitating him for so many years.

Blackie skipped a bark, a quizzical look in her eyes, then started up again. Marc aimed his cylinder at her and released more gas. Blackie yelped and rolled over, pawing at her eyes. Marc pocketed his arsenal, seized his father’s wrists, and dragged the Big Bastard across the living room while Blackie whimpered. He rested at the door before pulling the heavy body outside. Tears formed in his eyes, and he wondered if they had been caused by lingering gas or from the emotional weight of the reunion. He did not worry about being seen because he expected no traffic on the quiet road. He dragged the body through the overgrown grass to the backyard, passing an outdoor shed, which made him wonder what power tools his father owned. A drill? A jigsaw? A power sander? He relished the possibilities, but rejected them as too obvious; the Widow had cautioned him not to sign his work, and such an angry display might suggest revenge as a motive for the killing.

As Marc propped the Big Bastard against the stone well, the humidity caused sweat stains to appear beneath his armpits. He bent over, hoisted his father to an almost erect position, and pitched him headfirst into the cool darkness below. A long moment passed, followed by a deep, echoing splash. Peering over the edge, he saw nothing moving in the darkness. When the water settled, silence prevailed until Blackie howled inside the house. For the first time in his life, Marc felt as if he and his father had shared a special moment together.

Daddy
, he thought.

Then he drew a knife from his back pocket and went back into the house for Blackie.

The doorbell rang, drawing Marc back into the present.

The Widow had arrived.

Unable to contain his excitement, he buzzed her into the building. Darting into the bedroom, he combed his hair, which he had just cut with a straight-edge razor and dyed jet-black. He hoped she would like it. Hurrying back into the living room, he unlocked the front door and waited.

The Widow stepped off the elevator and strode toward him, her movements elegant and purposeful. She entered his apartment, and he closed the door and locked it. She removed her sunglasses as she turned to him, and he knew from her expression that she had come on business. His heart sank and she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Nice,” she said.

“Thank you.” Her approval meant everything to him.

“Still, we may need to take greater measures.”

“Like what?”

“I’m considering plastic surgery for you.”

Considering the notion, he grinned. “I’d like that.”

“Good. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

She removed a photograph from her coat pocket and held it up for him to see. “I need you to catch this soul.”

His shoulders slumped. “You’ve always let me pick my own targets.”

Turning the photo over, she showed him the address printed on the back. “This is different. I need this
particular
soul.”

He shifted his balance from one foot to the other. “But it isn’t time yet. It’s too soon …”

“Make an exception for me.” She stepped closer and kissed him on the mouth. As her tongue probed his, Marc slid his hands around her waist. When she pulled back, his heart beat faster. He took the photo from her and studied it.

“When do you need it?”

“Immediately.” She showed him a second photo. “Watch out for this man, her husband. He’s dangerous, and I want you to avoid him.”

Marc studied the man in the photo. “He doesn’t look dangerous.”

“He’s a policeman.”

Marc’s eyes rose from the photo. Why did she want him to take such a risk? He breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume. “Anything for you.”

E
merging from the tunnel, Jake surveyed the Ninety-sixth Street platform. A homeless man lay on a wooden bench near the stairs, where an overweight Hispanic girl in tight clothing bobbed her head as she listened to her iPod. Setting his palms on the dirty platform, Jake saw that the backs of his hands matched his filthy suit. He sprang onto the platform, then got to his feet and moved toward the stairs. On the upper level a locked door prevented him from entering the men’s room. He went to the turnstiles to call out to the heavyset woman reading a romance novel in the surveillance booth, but no sound came out. He could not speak. Massaging his throat muscles, he glanced at a pay phone mounted on a steel column. Even if he found his voice, what would he tell anyone?

He passed through a turnstile and climbed a second flight of stairs into the sunlight. On Ninety-sixth Street, he breathed fresh air. The temperature had risen, and pedestrians regarded him with mild curiosity. Ignoring them, he glanced at his watch: 11:15.

Forty-five minutes until the bars opened.

He walked south along the East River until noon, then located a tavern on Thirty-eighth Street. Inside, a clean-cut young man wiped down the empty joint’s bar. Jake made for the men’s room.

“Those bathrooms are for paying customers,” the bartender said.

Jake opened up his wallet, took out a fifty dollar bill, and slapped it on the bar. The bartender nodded, suspicion in his eyes. Jake entered the men’s room, which smelled of pine. He stared at the unrecognizable reflection in the mirror above the sink. Grime and blood streaked his face, and his suit, covered in chalky dust, made him look like the survivor of some catastrophe. He did not remember his name.

Shock
, he thought.

Pressing a wet paper towel against the gash on his forehead, he winced at the stinging sensation. Under different circumstances, he might have gone to an emergency room for stitches. As he scrubbed his face and hands, his visage came into view, and with it his memory.

Demon-blood-demon
…

He gulped cold water from the faucet, relieved himself, then did his best to make his suit presentable. Five minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom and sat on the stool before his fifty dollar bill. The bartender stepped over to him with an unimpressed look on his face.

Say something
, Jake thought.

The bartender waited.

Speak
.

“Double bourbon,” Jake said at last.

After the Widow had left, Gorman returned to his bedroom and opened the closet door. Unable to go out in public wearing a suit again, he selected a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt from a rock concert he had never attended. After he had dressed, he rubbed grease in his hair, which he plastered to his scalp. The change in hair color made his flesh look even paler than usual, and he inserted green contact lenses before stepping into steel-toed motorcycle boots. A black leather jacket completed the ensemble. Now he needed to create a new identity for himself.

Ryan Coulter
, he thought.

Once he had a name, the rest of the pieces fell into place. Ryan’s friends called him Python because they did not trust him. He had lived alone in Boston and currently resided at a YMCA in New York City while hoping to land a job at a recording studio. He had no real musical talent, but he sure dug rock ‘n’ roll.

With his new identity set, he tucked the tools of his trade into a ratty-looking backpack—not the one that belonged to Knapsack Johnny. A screwed-up kid like Ryan Coulter would not be caught dead carrying a briefcase.

He had a soul to catch.

Jake stumbled out of the bar at 3:00 p.m. He felt drunk, but not drunk enough; the morning’s events still burned in his mind. Lighting a cigarette, he followed the crowded sidewalk to a quiet, residential street in the Murray Hill district, which consisted of town houses and brownstones. A craving gnawed at him, and a single word formed in his mind.

Cocaine
.

Jesus, he wanted to get high. Perhaps he would drop in on his old pal, AK. At his current salary level, he could afford the best that Lester had to offer. Or maybe he would stick the kid up, just for old times’ sake.

No
.

He refused to slide back into that emotional sewer. He needed to keep his wits about him, and he grew angry at himself for drinking again. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he leaned against a black metal gate. He looked behind him, his eyes following the stone steps of the building to its steeple.

A church. Presbyterian, not that it mattered to him.

Sanctuary
.

Aunt Rose had been Catholic, and she had forced Jake to attend St. Bartholomew’s in Woodside until his high school graduation. Since then, he had only been in church once, to marry Sheryl. Casting his eyes upward to the storm clouds massing in the sky, he flicked his cigarette into the street. He stepped through the gateway and climbed the steps to the wooden doors. The scent of melted candle wax assailed him as he entered the vestibule and made his way up the aisle. Dull sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, and every footstep and rustle of clothing echoed beneath the arched ceiling. A dozen people sat scattered in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. Jake sat down on a wooden bench halfway up the aisle and gazed at the giant cross behind the pulpit. He waited for an epiphany, but none came.