Valiant Page 12

  Crying screams from the agony planted inside him, he turns over tables and rips apart clothing and towels. His fists pound into pillows so hard, the stuffing drifts through the air like snow. Only one hole is punched through the drywall before Jace begins taking a beating on himself. Dragging his fingers across his chest, and pounding his wrists against his head.

  In the bathroom, the shower curtain pulls fast, leaving the rings to spin on the bar. Jace pulls the bar and snaps it in half, using one end as a hammer against the sink and toilet. It’s no surprise to him if someone in the hall or the other hotel rooms can hear the damage being done.

  At this point, he no longer cares.

  A calming wave rushes over him. Silence falls once again only to hear voices from the television.

  “Everyone in this world strives for peace…,” a woman’s voice says.

  Standing in front of the mirror, with lines of blood from his lip, Jace stares deep at his reflection. Looking back at him are the remains of a broken soul. A broken body.

  No one will call to check on him.

  No one will respond to the crashing noises from his room.

  These things, as well, are of no surprise to him.

  Jace is alone in a world all his own.

  A living hell worse than death.

  “I don’t care about the world finding its peace,” he says. “I look forward to the day I can sleep from it forever.”

  Jace watches as his eyes draw careless.

  People don’t kill themselves because they want to die. They end their life because they want the pain to stop.

  In a flash, Jace throws his head forward, smashing the mirror into pieces. Shards of glass fall to the sink but the top half left in the frame remains, spidered with cracks, still there to show his face.

  He removes a sharp triangular piece of the mirror from the sink and sits on the lid of the toilet.

  Examining his arms, and teasing the tip of the shard along his skin, he speaks:

  “This is where I stop. This is where it ends. My life. The old me. The coward.”

  Jace chuckles and a tear streams down over his cheek. Twisting the pointy edge of the glass, he holds it to his face, examining the jagged edges up close.

  “The fearful always lose. The timid get left behind.”

  He kisses the side of the glass as though it were the face of his own son.

  “Give me one more chance, you piece of shit.”

  His face relaxes, no longer with a care in the world. Only one thing left to motivate him.

  “The next time I see you,” he says, pressing the tip to the side of his left shoulder. “You can follow me to Hell.”

  The razor-sharp tip pierces and slices downward through his arm, spreading layers of skin to each side and releasing dark red blood to drip from his elbow. To Jace, nothing else hurts anymore. Not even this. The glass cuts deep, but the rush of endorphins, the body’s natural euphoria, takes the pain away.

  Wrapped over on his left shoulder is a blood-soaked bandage. An empty bottle, a fifth of whiskey, lay on the floor next to broken pieces of mirror and glass. These pieces stab the bottom of his bare feet as they press into the carpet.

  Beside the bed, Jace steps into a pair of black-laced leather boots. He raises a dark pair of tactical pants over his knees and fastens them with a thick leather belt. A black tank top slides over his shoulders and falls across his chest. To cover the bandaged wound, he fastens a buttoned dress shirt.

  Leaving everything behind, the mess, the damage, the show on the television, the broken liquor bottles and pills poured across the floor, his dead cellphone, Jace takes a final look around the room.

  Empty handed, he steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him, tossing his key-card to the carpet and disappears into the elevator.

  Waiting inside, an older couple, a man and woman, step aside to make room for Jace. The two smile and Jace smiles back and watches as the buttons on the wall illuminate with each passing floor. His hands don’t shake. His body doesn’t tremble. He shows no fear or anxiety. No panic. To the couple, he’s just another stranger on their way to the hotel lobby.

  As the elevator comes to a stop, the doors spread apart and Jace exits ahead of the two. His wallet falls from his rear pocket, but he walks on.

  “Sir,” says the older gentleman, leaning over to pick up the billfold.

  He rises, holding the wallet but Jace has disappeared through the lobby and into the streets.

  The man unfolds it to a blood stained photograph of Jace and his son.

  19. BURN THE BULL (PART 6)

  KANSAS CITY, KANSAS - 2013

  Across a long gravel road in the early dark hours of the morning, thick wheels of an SUV crumbled across the ground. Headlights showed the way to nowhere, speeding through lanes of dirt and rock. The wind blew in from the open window of the passenger side and across the face of a man chewing gum. Each bump rocked his head, bobbing it back and forth, yet he grinned looking onward to the dark mountainous piles of coal and rubble in the distance.

  “Less than a minute,” said the driver.

  El Toro turned his eyes, lit only by the glow from the dashboard. Behind the wheel, a large man with an old scar across the bottom of his chin. His prison guard uniform shirt unbuttoned.

  “No rush,” replied Bull.

  Between the hills and towers of a forgotten coal mine, a small group of flashlights waited, floating in the darkness. The SUV came to a stop in front of them and its headlights showed familiar faces to the man who had arrived. Faces he hasn’t seen since the deserts of Afghanistan. Soldiers dedicated to their Captain whether there be a war or not.

  The Bull’s bare feet pressed the dirt and he smacked his gum with each step. Centering the group, he scanned each face, serious and ready to get down to business, but also frightened of their acceptance into the newfound empire.

  Bull took a loaded gun from Mateo’s extended hand and tapped the barrel against the side of his own leg.

  “If anyone wants to change their mind, do it now so no one can hear it.”

  The sound of nothing fell for a moment as each set of eyes looked toward another. Even Bull stopped chewing to allow the thick deafness to set the mood.

  The group listened as El Toro explained his plans and rules. Amongst the group was a younger man, Craze’s father, who appeared more anxious than the others, ready to get started. The Bull explained the need for patience, for focus, and they all listened.

  “Each of you will benefit from this mission. You will reign with fortune and power. There will be no failure. There will be no betrayal. If one of you turns his back, someone innocent and close to you will pay—”

  A thud hit the ground, mid sentence.

  The Bull stopped.

  At his feet sat a folded pair of tactical pants, a clean shirt, jacket, and a pair of black combat boots.

  He snickered and removed the prison shirt, exposing the scorched and scarring tattoo beneath the back of his right shoulder. Only if they had heard about it or seen it, would anyone know before it was once the ink drawing of a bull’s head and horns. The charred skin now covered the details.

  El Toro raised his flashlight to shine in the face of the man who tossed the clothing to the ground. As the rest of the small crowd watched, The Bull began to don his new wardrobe, discarding his torn prison outfit to the grass.

  Pulling the neck of a tight shirt over his head, Bull paused and sniffed.

  “Why do I smell gasoline?”

  In a rage, the man charged at El Toro, shoving him back and falling on top of him. His forearm across The Bull’s neck, pinning him to the ground. With his free hand, the deviant man lifted a cigarette lighter, the same one used to light the blackout boxes in Afghanistan, and flicked it once, igniting a small flame.

  “Because your clothes were soaking in it, you piece of shit.”

  The rest of the group took a stance but held their ground.

  El Toro recognized his opponen
t and lay on his back, still, with his hands apart and his eyes locked.

  “The liquid doesn’t ignite,” he said, “it’s the fumes that catch fire.”

  With gnashing teeth and the small torch above his head, the man drew his face closer to The Bull.

  “Then you had better pray your stench doesn’t kill us both.”

  Spit fell from the man’s teeth. It was hard for him to swallow. A burning sharp pain filled his chest, and leaning back a bit, he clenched his fist above his stomach. Sweat began beading across his brow. His skin flushed.

  The Bull lay still, watching as his attacker fought to catch his own breath.

  “The most effective way to control someone is to take away everything they have…”

  The man’s pain grew heavier and his flame holding hand began to weaken as Bull continued.

  “You erase the boundary…”

  The man fell back, gasping for air and grabbing his chest. Bull snatched the lighter, extinguishing the flame with his palm.

  “Then they have nothing left. In their despair, their dismay...”

  With both hands gripping the center of his shirt the man fell backward, panting heavy as El Toro stood and pushed his boot down over his throat.

  “…They realize their only option, other than death…”

  Fighting to push the boot away from his throat, the man choked as The Bull pressed harder.

  “…is to do whatever you want them to.”

  The rest of the group watched, frozen, as the man’s eyes began rolling back.

  El Toro released his boot, leaving the man to roll around sucking and wheezing strides of air into his lungs.

  As Bull stepped back and resumed dressing himself in the fume-soaked clothing, the attacker rose to his knees in front of him.

  “You, my friend,” said The Bull. “You get to play the most important roll.”

  Recovering from the pain and distress, the man accepted The Bull’s open hand to help lift him to his feet. Behind the former Lieutenant’s cold gaze was submission.

  Bull smacked Schaeffer’s face, leaving his palm pressing against his skin.

  “This face,” he said, shoving it away, “will be my mask. Now that I’ve taken everything from you, we’ll see if you have finally learned how to follow orders. The show is yours. You are the star. I am merely the director.”

  The Lieutenant’s physical pain had subsided, and to his surprise, so did the emotional anguish from the loss of his family. His breathing slowed. A sense of relief washed over him. If El Toro wanted him to be the terrorizing face of his new empire, Schaeffer would gladly step in. He saw an opportunity to get back at the man he hated the most.

  As The Bull turned away, Schaeffer clenched and bit his tongue. Behind his lips were the tastes of bitter blood and sweet revenge.

  20. UNETHICAL

  Inside Spencer’s office, he’s on the phone with different people trying to find some sort of break. As soon as he ends one call, he dials another number. Sometimes, in mid-sentence, he has to switch lines to answer someone beeping in. He’s as desperate to find answers as I am; every tip he receives leads to nowhere, to nothing, but he keeps trying.

  Sitting outside his office on a bench is Reverend Jonas and a meek young boy named Randin. They sit across from me and the boy doesn’t say a word. I smile and hold my finger and thumb like a gun and point it at him.

  I whisper, “pew-pew” as I shoot my pretend gun.

  He smiles and does the same but without the sound effects.

  The three of us wait patiently for Ms. Pritchett to arrive.

  Jonas runs his palm across the back of Randin’s head, like he were his own son. If only for a moment, if only as a substitute, Jonas remembers what it’s like to have a child again.

  “You’re right, Avery. He’s too young. Kids this age are of no use to El Toro. Why would Mateo have even bothered?”

  It doesn’t make sense to me either. Only one person has the answer, and that’s Mateo.

  Ms. Pritchett comes from around the corner and kneels next to Randin.

  The best way to build a rapport with kids is to physically bring yourself down to their level. A stranger standing tall above them is threatening.

  She introduces herself as Ms. Pritchett, but tells Randin he can call her Susan.

  “Do you like to watch cartoons?” she asks.

  Randin nods.

  “At my home,” she adds, “I have a great big television with thousands of cartoons to watch. Would you like to come watch them with me?”

  The small boy looks to me for permission and I tell him it’s okay, but he’s uncertain of what to do, almost like he’ll hurt my feelings if he were to leave.

  I explain to him Susan is a friend and will take good care of him.

  I tell him she may even have some cookies if he likes those.

  Susan nods to him and smiles.

  “I’m so hungry,” she says. “I could eat all the cookies in the world, but I’m willing to share some with you.”

  Reverend Jonas puts his hand on the boy’s shoulders and tells him it’s safe. He assures Randin that being at home with Ms. Pritchett sounds like a lot more fun than being where he is now.

  “I’ll come check on you when I can,” I say.

  Randin hops down from the bench and takes Susan by the hand.

  His other hand makes a pretend pistol and he points it to me.

  I shoot back again, and whisper, “pew-pew.”

  Jonas and I step into the detective’s office once Randin is gone. I tell Spencer about my conversation with Christopher, the patient in room 311. He believes it’s a dead-end, but me, I’m not so sure. True, there’s not a lot to go on, but I tell him about the one clue I was given and how it seemed so important.

  “The Bull is marked,” I say. “Craze likes his puzzles, but this one he left for me to solve on my own.”

  Jonas expresses his concerns to Spencer about Mateo’s intentions with Randin, but Spencer has no answers for either one of us. The prisoner sits in his cell, not willing to speak about anything.

  “Mateo Cabal has every right to keep his mouth shut,” says Spencer. “We could go on for weeks or months back and forth with his attorneys. It’s his right not to say anything.”

  He sighs and throws his hands.

  “Fuck!”

  “There is one option,” I say, looking to Jonas.

  He doesn’t need to hear my words; the Reverend knows already what I’m about to ask of him.

  His eyes close and he shakes his head.

  “It’s unethical,” he says. “Like the law, the Church has its rules as well.”

  The concept I have in mind is to get Reverend Jonas to offer some sort of spiritual guidance to Mateo. To have him confess his sins and therefore be redeemed. Jonas would not have to repeat anything to Spencer or myself. I would never ask him to do such a thing. What I do suggest, however, is that Jonas call from his cellphone and leave the device hidden in his pocket, so Spencer and I can listen in.

  Jonas is right; it’s unethical.

  Nothing we would learn will ever hold up in court, but at the end of the day, it’s our only option to save Haylee and the rest of the children.

  The Reverend lifts his eyes to me.

  “Jonas,” I say. “You want to find El Toro as much as the rest of us. You have to ask yourself, if you could hear your own children’s voices again, what would they tell you to do?”

  I’ve never told him I know about his underlying agenda to seek revenge. It’s a secret he kept to himself, and when I say these words to him, Jonas seems relieved he hasn’t been alone in this fight.

  I give him Haylee’s phone to place in the pocket of his robe. This way, if questions are asked later, nothing can be traced back to him directly. His hands shake a bit as he takes the phone from me.

  “I don’t like it,” he says, “but I’ll do it.”

  Once inside the jail, Jonas calls but says nothing.

  Spencer a
nd I sit in the office, listening in.

  Compared to the height of Mateo standing in his orange jumpsuit, The Reverend appears short and weak. Standing in the corner of the cell with his back turned, Mateo doesn’t need to see or hear anything to know Jonas is there.

  “What is it you want?” he asks.

  “A moment,” replies Jonas. “Consider me your spiritual attorney. What you say to me is confidential. It doesn’t leave this room. Nothing you tell me can be used in the courts.”

  “That’s a good one, Reverendo. You think you can come down here and trip me up with that Bible-thumping bullshit? I know who sent you, and it wasn’t God.”

  A loud buzz echoes throughout the wing, and the barred door to the the cell slides open and shut again once Jonas steps inside. Even to someone who is not a prisoner, the clank of the steel locking you in an concrete room is an unsettling feeling.

  Jonas takes a seat on the bunk and tries to assure Mateo he’s not a threat. He’s there because it’s what he does. It’s his job.

  “In these walls,” says Jonas, “even the strongest men break. They lose hope and they have no one to talk to about it. This is why I’m here. To earn your trust. To cleanse your soul of any wrongdoing. I’m here to listen. What you tell me cannot be repeated. They are not words bound by the laws of man.”

  Mateo snickers, his back still turned to the Reverend and admiring the chipped paint of the walls of the room.

  “Maldita puta,” he says. “From what I hear, her daughter got snatched by El Toro. Does she not know her little hija is done for? No confession of mine is going to get her back. Not to God, not to the police.”

  “Do you have children?” asks Jonas.

  He glances down to make sure the phone’s screen isn’t shining through the fabric of his clothing.

  Mateo turns a bit and sees his shaking hand adjusting the flap of his pocket.

  He smirks, scratching the scar on his chin, and faces the wall again.

  The Reverend gives his best effort. He plays a card he’s been holding for years. He explains to Mateo about the night his wife and children were taken while he was working at the church.