Breaker (16 page)

I leave the station, stunned and confused. Delmar says they should have records, files someplace, from when my father was accused of rape and murder so many years ago. And records of my mother as well, from the SIDS incidents, the daycare problems. They're stored away someplace; blood samples, maybe DNA, taken many years ago. Something might match.

I tell them if I see the van, if I see this man, who might very well be my father, I'll call them. I want him off the street as much as they do; he's an embarrassment, he disgusts me, preying on his daughter, who really isn't his daughter, a predatory action no matter what her blood, our life under one roof still supposed to work a certain way.

Stephanie must have known that she had been adopted. No way did she sleep with my father if she believed they were blood relations.

I hope.

I pray.

Maybe that's why that memory I have of her and me didn't seem so strange to her, not being her brother, just another boy in a house full of strangers, Stephanie a girl damaged and lost early on.

Nature or nurture—that's always the question, right?

I refuse the offer of a ride home, wanting the fresh, cold air to slap some sense into me. And if there's any chance that my father is in the area, if he's really still alive, and back here in Chicago, up to no good, in some sort of strange failed partnership with my sister, then I don't want him to see me anywhere near a police car. If he's going to approach me, I want him to feel safe, as if his indiscretions are simply his own, nothing the public knows about yet, the puzzle pieces not put together yet, him sneaking around Chicago, hiding in the shadows, nobody knowing he's even alive.

But did he kill Stephanie or was it retaliation from the Disciples, something to do with the gambling and the fight? Why would my father kill her?

And then it hits me like a ton of bricks.

She was pregnant with his child—not me, not mine, that never happened. Whatever monster he was, trying to disappear, those late-night phone calls about oil rigs, working in Alaska and the Williston Basin, anywhere isolated and desolate, away from temptation—he had finally broken down and returned.

It was one thing to fall in love with a young woman that the world thought of as his daughter, but whom he saw only as an easily manipulated girl, somebody he could lure into his dark, depraved world, shape and mold into whatever he wanted her to be. Stephanie had been damaged goods for a long time, so was it really so hard to believe that she could hook up with him? It was another thing entirely, though, to create more of your kind, impregnating the fractured spirit with a future little monster.

And what does that make me?

I shake my head and walk on.

I deny myself so many things, and maybe now I know why. I seek control because the alternative is chaos. I don't drink because when I do, things get slippery, my emotions running wild, and I find myself in a crowded nightclub, the darkness a place where freaks like me can find interest, lights flashing, always some young thing eager to get her mutation on, to try something different. No drugs, either, the same thing—an altered mind is a mechanism that I can't control, the gears turning, arms and legs in motion, seeking out something more, the violence that lurks inside me always eager to rise up to the surface. And sex. I might as well be in a monastery, my physical needs and desires pushed down so far that they are tiny stars surrounded by a black cosmos, a million miles away. To let that come out is to let it exist, to flourish and simmer on the surface, constantly in need of attention, a satyr rutting in a never-ending wood, sniffing out one maiden after another, no end in sight, no satisfaction ever coming.

No, I'm aware of my limitations.

But if he comes,
when
he comes, I will be ready.

I will give him a few days to show himself, Stephanie now dead at his hands certain to accelerate his unraveling, if he wasn't undone already. And in the meantime I will ready myself for the moment when I must confront my maker, and make him answer for his dark deeds. I will train Natalie, continue to help her develop, to learn, to prepare herself as well. Not just for this wolf that very well may show up in this neck of the woods shortly, but for the other canines that leer at her from the edge of the forest, baring their teeth, eager to show their true colors. It's the least I can do—protecting one last innocent, before my bloodline comes to an end.

There is money to distribute, accounts to be opened, paperwork to be filled out. Maybe I will take Sandy up on her offer. Perhaps she has softened in my absence, realized that I am more than the shapeshifter she saw up close and personal.

The cold settles in around me and I embrace it, let it turn my skin to alabaster, my blood to ice. If I am to dissipate, to dissolve, to wither and die, a rotten weed finally succumbing to the poisons in the air, then maybe I will take out some others with me: the gangbangers that rape and murder, gunshots riddling the neighborhood. There is no need for them to proliferate like cockroaches; every rotten barrel should be lifted up, scattering them into the daylight.

Winter is the season of death, what was once strong and full of blossom and seed slowly over time withering and dying, splitting and falling to the earth below, only to fade into nothingness. I am surrounded by a bleak landscape, cold metal turned brittle and sharp, the earth hardened until turned into stone. This is what I must see as my home, my inspiration; this is my calling, my fate. I will let the life drain out of me, the black horror of my marrow running between the cracks of this stunted civilization, never to be seen or known again. No more hope, no more feeling, just one last futile breath, one final action to appease the gods above, and then an everlasting silence.

For weeks now, Natalie has been preparing for the worst, walking the streets with one eye on the people that walk past her, other kids and adults, the other eye on the boulevards, watching for a white van. And there are so many white vans. She has spent many an afternoon punching the air, dodging Ray's slow open hands and pretend violence, hoping she will never have to apply what she has learned.

When she is walking to the grocery store, or back and forth to school, or even just bending over tying her shoelace, she drifts from one state of mind to another—on full alert, and then bored and distracted; one moment thinking about dinner, or her math test, or that cute boy in homeroom, the next remembering her friend and the abduction, the details Ray won't tell her about, but the violence she has seen on television, or in movies, so crisp and unnerving, if she stops to think about it.

Eggs, that's all it was, a trip to the store for her mother, a dozen eggs for breakfast or for a cake recipe perhaps, hanging from the end of her arm in a gray plastic bag. Any excuse to get out of the house and away from her mother's cold gaze, and her father's watery eyes.

She passes Mr. Garcia like she has so many other days, the man leaning against the wrought-iron fence, a tall-boy in his right hand, a cigarette dangling from his left, a dark sweatshirt straining against his belly, stubble dotting his face.

“Hey, Natalie, how's school?” he asks.

She stops for a moment, the cold air pushing up and down the street, seeing how he wavers, drunk, holding up the fence, eyes darting to her and then away.

“Good, Mr. Garcia. It's going well.”

“You got a boyfriend now?” he asks, smiling, drinking the beer, then crushing the can in his large hand, dropping it into a plastic trash can that is already filled up with empty aluminum.

“No,” she says.

“A cute girl like you, I'm surprised,” he says, grinning, inhaling the last bits of his cigarette before flicking it into the grass that separates the sidewalk from the fence.

Natalie smiles, trying to pretend this isn't awkward, ready to move on.

“I gotta get going, my mother is expecting me…”

“Hey, can I ask you a quick question? I'm working on something, for my niece, and I could use a female point of view,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face. “I made this birdhouse, and the colors, you know, I'm not sure—purple and pink and blue, it seems really bright to me, but that's what she's into. Do you have a second?”

He opens the metal gate and starts to walk toward his apartment complex. Natalie pauses for a moment, alarm bells going off, but she refuses to live her life in fear, and she's known Mr. Garcia for years—she's being silly, she thinks.

“Sure, just for a second,” she says, following him down the sidewalk.

“It's around back, been working on it behind the building,” he says, placing a meaty paw on her left shoulder, guiding her down the sidewalk and around the side of the complex.

And then Natalie remembers a statistic that Ray told her about abuse, about men who touch little girls, and how most of these crimes happen at the hands of a family member, or neighbor, somebody that is trusted, allowed into your home, or alone with a daughter or son. Like Mr. Garcia, she thinks, his hand still heavy on her shoulder. Glancing back at him, she sees his eyes are glassy, his jaw clenched in determination.

Natalie stops walking and turns toward Mr. Garcia.

“You know, maybe this isn't a good time after all…” she begins, and he places his right hand on her other shoulder, his fingers digging into her shoulders, the tools in her backpack suddenly a million miles away, the brass knuckles burning a hole in her jeans pocket.

“Natalie, it's okay,” he says, leaning in, pulling her toward him.

The eggs fall to the sidewalk, cracking open, yellow yolk leaking out of the bag and across the dull concrete. She brings up her knee into his crotch, and he lets out a foul breath of air—cigarettes and beer—his eyes going wide.

She takes a step back, but not far enough, as his right hand swings wide in a huge arc, the slap across her face sending her staggering to her right, saliva and blood spraying out of her mouth.

“You stupid little bitch,” he says, moving toward her, one hand on his crotch, hurt, but not stopping, a sneer pulling across his face.

As Natalie tries to stand up straight, to regain her balance, she shoves her right hand into her pocket and quickly slips on the brass knuckles, remembering everything Ray taught her, putting her thumb on the outside of her fist so she won't break it, cocking back her arm as Mr. Garcia closes the distance. She feels a rage inside her, a heat blossoming up, and she lashes out with the knuckles as his hands land on her shoulders again, teeth bared, connecting with a crack and a strange soft sensation of cartilage and flesh surrendering, blood spraying her, as his nose breaks. He staggers back and she pushes forward, raining punches down upon his head in a blur of movement, the knuckles leaving dents in the man's head as he raises his hands to defend himself but she keeps coming, blind to the moment now, a high-pitched keening escaping from between her lips.

When he falls to his knees, begging her to stop, eyes rolling up in his head, blood running down his face, she levels one final blow to his face, his teeth cracking and scattering on the concrete as he tips over and falls down, his sweatshirt hitched up revealing pale white skin and a long, ugly pink scar across his distended belly, her own stomach curdling, and she turns to the side and throws up.

Natalie picks up the eggs, half of them still unbroken, out of breath, eager to leave. She scans the street—no sign of anyone, so she heads back down the sidewalk, sweating, and on the verge of tears.

She doesn't know if he is dead or alive, still breathing or not, and she doesn't care.

Later, when she has time to think about it all, she decides not to tell Ray, because deep inside, she blames herself.

I can't go home and sit yet—my nerves are still jumbled, so instead of heading inside, even though it's dark now, the cold seeping into my bones, I keep on walking. I head south to a little grocery store to grab some things to cheer me up—hot chocolate, mac and cheese, green tea, ice cream, anything to fill the void, to comfort me in the wake of all of this news.

On my way back home, I notice a mailman drifting along, way past the usual delivery time, but it's known to happen this time of year, almost Christmas. Hell, I've seen them delivering packages on Sundays sometimes, which is just weird.

I pass him up and keep on walking to the apartment. As I slip the key in the lock, I feel someone standing behind me and turn around. He's holding a box, wearing the blue coat with the white and red stripes.

“Delivery,” he says.

“Ah, okay,” I mutter. “Let me get out of your way,” I say, and push the door to go in. There's a stinging at my neck, the box hitting the ground with a dull thud, and the mailman is on me. I wake up in my bed, the lights dim, my head propped up on a pillow, and at the end of my bed sits the fat, balding mailman. I can't lift my arms, I can hardly breathe, and this feels oddly familiar.

“You, my friend, are really heavy.”

The man stands up and unzips his coat, placing it neatly on the bed. He unbuttons his uniform and opens the shirt to reveal padding. He reaches around to the back, and I hear Velcro ripping, the fake gut taken off and set on the bed, the mailman shirt set down next to it. He reaches up to the back of his head and peels off the fake skullcap and places it in a pile next to the other items. This man is pale, with dark hair, not fat and balding, his arms tight and sinewy, his hands gnarled and thick—as if he had been working with them for years, physical labor, maybe a mechanic, or in a warehouse—possibly on an oil rig.

“Hello, son,” he says. “I imagine this is a bit of a surprise.”

He stares at me and sits back down on the bed.

“I don't even know where to begin,” he says, running his hands over his face, stubble rough under trembling fingers.

I try to open my mouth to speak, but I can't. Even if I can get my lips parted, my voice won't work.

“Don't try to talk, Raymond. I gave you a shot of something to keep you still, so I can have a little conversation with you—and to keep you from getting too excited.

“Long ago, I left, Raymond, because I had dark thoughts, dark desires. Something wasn't right with me, or for that matter, your mother. She had issues, some before I met her, some probably caused by my actions. Either way, she was on medication, as was I, but over time, we went off them. Big mistake. One night, we fought; I hit her, she hit me, I left, I got drunk, and much of the rest is a blur. I was accused of some crimes. I didn't believe it was me—but couldn't be sure. So I offered the girls all the money we had to settle, and they took it. I got back on my meds, but your mother was never the same. It wasn't long after that night that your brother died. SIDS is what the coroner ruled, but the daycare, and the second case, made me suspicious of your mother.”

All I can do is stare.

“After I was cleared of the crimes, I told her I had to leave—for her sanity and mine. But she urged me to stay. Once she was level again, back on her meds, we adopted Stephanie, and everything seemed okay. We tried to rebuild, to ignore the dark shadows. And then she got pregnant.”

He turns to me.

“I saw you at the police station, Ray. You know about Stephanie; I could see it on your face when you came out. And I'm sure you know about us as well, which is even more complicated.”

He sighs.

“Now listen to me well, Raymond. You were a mistake, but that doesn't mean we didn't love you. I had a vasectomy, and your mother—well…supposedly she got her tubes tied. Turns out that didn't happen. I'm not sure why. Against all odds, she got pregnant. Either way, eventually it was too much. The darkness sat with me, and even on the meds I couldn't stop wanting to kill you, your sister, to do horrible things to the little girls in the neighborhood. It was as if I were under a spell, knowing what I felt was wrong, knowing it would destroy lives. I couldn't stop my mind from wanting those things.” He looks down at his hands, wringing them in his lap.

“Instead of killing myself, I ran away. I worked on oil rigs, and at various outposts where there were never any women, any girls, barely any people at all. I thought that maybe this would be enough. And for a time, it was.”

He clears his throat.

“Now and then I'd call your mother, to make sure you two were okay. When she took her medicine, she was safe—cold and distant, but safe. I knew that. Somehow your sister got my number, called it back, found a letter—she reached out to me.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I know that you killed her, Raymond—your mother—and I don't blame you for surviving, for finding a way to end her madness, and your own. Stephanie told me everything, how you poisoned her, the secrets you shared. I came back, for what, I don't know. I didn't speak to you, only briefly to Stephanie, and then I left town again. I couldn't stay. But she was all I thought about. And she was so nice to me, Raymond. I can't really explain it….I'd been so alone in the world.” He starts to cry, and I feel dead inside. I don't want to hear this. I make noises, grunting, but he doesn't hear me.

“She came to me, told me about Tully, told me about you”—his eyes darting to me, making contact—“and I thought that I'd have to kill you. And then she came on to me. I pushed her away, Raymond, I did, I tried, but I was weak….”

I can't breathe, the bastard—I want to wring his neck with my bare hands.

“I know. I hated myself, Raymond. She wasn't my blood, but it was just the same, really. I sent her away. Never again, I said, and she left. When she told me she was going to kill herself, I came back. When she got pregnant, I snapped. She said it was mine, but I didn't believe her. We were high, Raymond, out of control, drinking and meth, coke and even heroin—I'd lost control, all reason, and in the end, I did the only thing I could do—I killed her, and whatever monstrosity we might have created. I put her out of her misery. I mean, what kind of mother would she have been?”

He starts sobbing, and I have no sympathy for him. He is a stain on society, a worthless lump of flesh, and he knows it.

“Thank you, Raymond, for listening. Not that you had any choice, really. I know the police are looking for me. I've been in trouble in the past, as you know. I'm in the system, so when they run the blood, the DNA, any prints, I'm going to pop up. There's no hiding now. I can't seem to stay out of trouble, even up in Fairbanks, even in Williston. Maybe they can smell it on me, one fight after another—the waitresses shying away, making false accusations just to get me out of their sight—it adds up. And then I move on. I have nowhere to go, Raymond, so I thought I'd come home.”

I try to shake my head, but it won't move.

“I know. Just off myself, right? The thing is, Raymond”—and here he stands back up, a leer slipping over his face—“I have got to admit I kind of like it—all of it. The drugs, the sex, the violence—it's a nicely wrapped-up ball of destruction, one that I'm finally going to embrace.”

He slips the pad back on, and fixes the Velcro in the back, buttoning up his shirt.

“I've tried to ignore my desires, to take medicine to keep it sedated, but I'm done with that now. The Lord made me this way, Raymond, so I will honor his work. No voices in my head, I know what I'm doing, and the peace has settled down over me now,” he says, smiling, a glow in his eyes, “and it's a beautiful thing.”

He pulls the plastic skullcap back on, his hair tucked under it, smoothing it out.

“This world is spinning out of control, Raymond. The chaos, it's inevitable. Good men and women lose every day. Babies die in cribs for no reason at all. Evolving? The human race is beyond saving—selfish, brutal, greedy, and depraved.”

He pulls his jacket back on, and zips it up.

“Now that you've seen me, this disguise will have to change. But that's no problem. I'm used to moving around, changing my identity. But I need it at least for tonight. Nosy neighbors, right?”

When he says
neighbors,
I tense up.

“If I were you, Ray, I'd get out of town. Leave. Take that fight money in the closet and leave.”

I stare daggers into him.

“Your fight the other night was especially inspired. I'm proud of you—I hope you know that. But understand this, Ray,” he says, walking closer to me. “Tonight, I let you live. Next time you get in my way, the next time you talk to the police…I won't be as kind.”

He leans over and kisses me on the forehead, like I'm a kid again. My skin is burning, but his lips are ice cold.

“And it won't start with you, my friend,” he says. “You're not as alone in this world as you may think. There are people that care about you. So for their sake, leave, and I won't bother them with my sharp blade, my slick oils, my insatiable appetite.”

He slides to the door, leaving, and I still can't move, can't speak, a tear leaking out of my left eye.

“I see everything, Raymond. Don't disappoint me. Don't disappoint your friends. Leave, and all of this will be a distant memory. Believe me, with enough alcohol and time, you can forget anything.”

He stares at me, standing in the doorway, the lamps behind him lighting up his dark silhouette. “At least that's what they say.”

And he's gone.