Dark Thoughts Page 3

  Time took a jump-cut. The next thing Garrett knew he was standing outside under the awning trying to mate flame to cigarette with hands that wouldn't stop twitching. He managed to light up, started walking and took a deep, bitter drag. Since Garrett hadn't smoked in years, the nicotine rush slapped him sideways. He leaned against the brick wall, his heart thudding like a primitive drum.

  "Damn."

  The cigarette slipped from his fingers and showered blue smoke and orange sparks before the rain put it out. The world spun like a brightly-lit Ferris wheel. For a few seconds the idea of just letting go, slipping away into dark nothingness, felt welcome. Garrett knew what he was doing, did it anyway, even though it always brought back feelings from the war.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine being dead and gone and his pulse quickened.

  Garrett remembered reading somewhere that death was "the impossibility of further possibility." That idea makes the human ego, which is an observer, go 'tilt.' It cannot see itself not being there, and thus the mind starts to gibber and shrivel. And yet we all have to die even if we can't make peace with the idea. The world has hundreds of religions and philosophies, all claiming to have an answer that lies beyond answers in the undiscovered country. To be or not to be.

  Garrett threw the pack of cigarettes into a trash can. The rancid odor beneath the lid abruptly made him think of his deceased father. He stuck his hands into his pockets and kept walking.

  Tom Garrett was a country boy, born outside of Ely, Nevada. The land was hard then, those who lived there harder still. His mother died young and the old man, 'Ace' to his pals, found occasional work as a hired hand on different spreads, bailing hay and branding cattle. World War Two and the Pacific had gouged the warmth from his soul and left his dark eyes wary and haunted. He'd drunk bathtub gin and mumble stories about humans flattened by tanks or fried crispy by flame throwers and endless rivers of dark, dried blood. Garrett and his brother rapidly learned not to hang around when the fists started flying, which was damned near every weekend.

  Old Ace would sober up from time to time and drag the boys to the white clapboard church come Sunday morning. Kneeling beside him, they'd see swarthy, sweaty skin that stank of smoke and alcohol; powerful forearms and trembling hands that clutched a frayed black family Bible. Ace would close his eyes, struggling to believe, his quavering baritone tentatively joining in on the hymns he knew.

  He died of liver disease the summer Garrett was drafted and left for Nam.

  A car honked and Tom Garrett jumped sideways and back, into a puddle. A taxi almost clipped him and the driver gave him the finger. "Watch out, moron!"

  Garrett shook his head and grunted. He felt grateful for the interruption because he didn't want to think about Nam. His time there had been violent and chaotic, though blessedly brief. He'd been shot twice in the first four months; then half-way through his tour a mortar barrage that wiped out most of his platoon had given him his third wound and a ticket home.

  He'd arrived in country as an invulnerable, immortal young soldier but arrived back in the world a bitter drug addict who was preoccupied with death and dying.

  And now here he was, about to kill again.

  A trident of blistered, white lightning pierced the western skyline and the deserted office buildings at the end of the street morphed into towering gargoyles. He air boiled with electricity, reeked of ozone. Garrett leaned his shoulders against the downpour and turned his collar up. His jeans and shoes were uncomfortable, soaked. His clothes made odd whooshing sounds as he picked up the pace. Low thunder rumbled hungrily in the mountains, rolled forward and prowled through the concrete canyons.

  I could shoot myself too…Garrett's fingers clutched the cold metal of the weapon and immediately recoiled again. Maybe like the cops do it, he thought, grimly. Just eat the gun.

  "Want to party?"

  The voice startled Garrett and he stepped back. His left shoe landed in a puddle of rainwater where the gutter was clogged with autumn leaves. He lost his balance and moved away, left hand tunneling back into the pocket of his raincoat. Above him, some gang kid had shot out the streetlight, and the corner was a smear of shadow except for the pale rainbows of neon reflected from the slick city streets.

  "I didn't mean to scare you, pops." The voice was female.

  Garrett squinted. The skinny girl was maybe a yard deep in the alley. She took his silence for interest and glided forward through the mist like some eerie creature born without feet. "My name is Willow, and I can make you happy for fifty bucks."

  "That true?"

  "For sure."

  "No, I don't think so."

  The scantily clad Goth girl was clearly a junkie; anorexic-thin with small, circular bruises on her pale arms. She took in his size and the black tension in his face and hesitated, wary eyes darting up and down the residential street. Her exposed body was alive with crawling gooseflesh, trembling from the cold. Garrett could tell her nerves were shot.

  "Okay, forty?"

  Willow stayed put. Her harsh voice went up a notch on the second word and made it a pithy, desperate question.

  "You'd sell yourself that cheap?"

  "Huh?"

  Garrett opened the raincoat and took out his wallet. Myriad expressions running from agony to relief to mistrust flowed over the girl's face like melting wax. He counted out a twenty and two tens then took out a worn business card. Willow shook feverishly. She licked her lips and edged further into the light, but her eyes kept flicking back and forth between Garrett and her hiding place.

  "I got a pimp," she lied. "He's right behind me."

  "Sure you do." Garrett didn't budge as the girl called Willow forced her painted mouth into a reasonable imitation of a leer.

  "How do you want me to do you?"

  "I don't." Garrett held out the cash. "Just take this."

  "Huh?"

  "It's on one condition, though. You've got to promise me something."

  Those skittish eyes widened. "What?"

  "This business card is for a referral agency, Willow. Call that number. Get in a program, get clean. Do it now, while you're young."

  She tried a sneer. "You some kind of 'Captain Save a Whore'?"

  "Nothing like that."

  "Forget it." Her eyes moistened. "It's too late for me."

  "No," Garrett said, wearily. "I promise you it's not. Just call that number."

  She was openly crying, now. Her nose was running and she wiped it on her arm. "Maybe I'll do that, okay? Maybe. I'll think about it."

  He stepped closer and this time she didn't flinch. Garrett pressed the bills and the card into her hand. "Do more than think about it. Think of me as your last chance. Life's a bitch sometimes, but don't take the easy way out."

  "Easy." She repeated the word dully, without emphasis.

  "Oh, and there's one more thing."

  The girl cocked her head like a parrot and looked up expectantly, but Garrett wasn't there. He was already moving away, towards the main drag. His deep voice echoed a bit.

  "Tell them Hack sent you."

  More rain, less time. Tom Garrett walked hurried his pace. Sepulveda Boulevard had decayed more rapidly than most other areas of the San Fernando Valley. Anywhere much above Victory it was like a giant Monopoly board packed with sleazy liquor stores, vacant lots, crack houses and motels that promised 24 hour cable porn and mirrored ceilings. Garrett still felt at home on these blighted streets, still had some larceny in his soul. In fact, that's why he'd chosen to leave his car several blocks away with mud smeared over the license plate.

  Garrett looked up and down the street for any more cops. Finding it clear, he walked briskly through the rainy night. The gun still seemed heavy and awkward, like a tiny brick of well-oiled metal. He wondered again if he'd be able to go through it. He had less than ten long blocks to decide.

  I can do this…

  Garrett stopped walking and stepped into an alley, out of the rain. Some overflowing boxes of trash
were stacked haphazardly on a raised, slatted platform. Garrett stepped up onto the dry wood and leaned against the brick wall. He slid down into a sitting position, the yellow raincoat squealing in protest, wrapped his arms around his knees and closed his eyes again. The thoughts wouldn't slow down or rearrange themselves to be any less disturbing, no matter how hard he tried to control them; they just played out like some movie in his woozy head.

  Garrett had been in Tarzana for his second rehab, still just a tall bully who thought Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome was a blank check to use drugs. He'd already gotten in trouble for fighting and putting the moves on an actress who was in for her third DUI. The meetings were mandatory but he'd attended them sullenly, legs sprawled out to lay claim to alpha space, muscular arms crossed over his chest to keep arrogance intact. He imagined himself there, and a smile curled his lips. What a damned fool…

  A new guy led the meeting that night, a big man nearly Garrett's size with a shaved head and laser blue eyes. Hack looked maybe fifty, but nobody smart would have screwed with him anyway. He wore a blue work shirt with a cowboy string tie, belt with a gold horse buckle and a pair of snakeskin boots. He talked about time as a biker and said he'd done seven to ten upstate, but didn't say why. He'd gone around the circle, made everybody speak up. When those eyes fixed on Tom Garrett, he'd felt his guts dive to the parking garage in a fast elevator. After the meeting, Hack had cornered him by the ashtray outside on the patio.

  "You got a sponsor."

  "No," Garrett mumbled. "I don't."

  "That wasn't a question," Hack said. "I said you got a sponsor. Me. And I have a news flash. Your sponsor tells you what to do."

  "Okay."

  "Now, the first thing you're going to do is take that chip of your shoulder before I knock the taste right out of your mouth."

  Garrett, sitting in the cold alley, felt his lips twitch into a smile. The memory of that moment still gave him the oddest mixture of amusement, respect and fear he'd ever experienced. He'd been sober ever since, and that was a lot of years. Most of that time had been at Hack's side, first as a student, then as a good friend.

  A passing car sent a tidal wave of filthy water into the alley. It rose up and over the wooden platform and splashed against his legs. Garrett swore under his breath and struggled back to his feet. He raised his illuminated watch.

  No more time.

  Garrett shook himself like a wet hound. He stepped down and stumbled back out onto the empty sidewalk. A break in the rain let him complete the last, long block in relative comfort.

  He had rehearsed this part several times, so his heart settled down and routine took over. He turned right and came to a muddy stretch of grass adjoining the nearly empty parking lot. Garrett stayed in the darkness, away from the lights; his eyes roamed the vehicles and the brightly lit lobby, searching for witnesses. Satisfied, he jogged across the grass, slid down the last row of cars and found the fire door. The pack of matches he'd left the night before was still there, propping the emergency exit open.

  Tom Garrett slipped inside. He stood in the stairwell, took several deep breaths and then started up the metal stairs as silently as possible. His footfalls echoed in the gloom. An eerie calm overtook him, now that the moment was at hand. Three floors and time would run out. No more indecision. Death is coming…

  Two floors, then one.

  Garrett paused on the third floor to gather his thoughts and took another quick look at the glowing wrist watch. He was right on schedule. The overworked nurses would be completing their final rounds, now that visiting hours were officially over. The VA hospital was badly understaffed and many of the patients went unattended for long stretches, even after repeated attempts to summon help.

  Garrett edged the door open and peered out into the dimly lit hallway. The green walls were spider webbed with cracks, the paint faded and stained from cigarette smoke. The yellow linoleum was peeling at the edges. Garrett stepped out into the hall and gently closed the door. He licked his lips and looked both ways before striding forward. Soon he was proceeding briskly toward the next ward. The elevator pinged and Garrett slid into the shadows.

  The doors opened and an octogenarian strapped to two different IV rigs came shuffling out into the hall, looking down at his paper shoes. His scalp was peeling and covered with sores. A chubby Hispanic orderly waited impatiently until certain the old man was headed the right direction, then punched another floor and left. Garrett let the patient pass before continuing on to Room 407.

  Garrett paused outside the door, mind racing, and nervously fondled the .38 in his pocket. I can do this…

  The room stank of antiseptic and decay. Old Hack was sitting up in bed with his eyes shut. The big man, once so imposing, had been whittled down to bones and pale parchment skin. His jaws were clenched, grinding; knuckles white from enduring another bout of intense pain. Tom Garrett watched him drink some water and relax into the stained pillows and fought off a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to turn his back, just run away. Then it was too late because Hack saw him and grinned toothlessly.

  "Hi, kid." Despite the agony, Hack's eyes still burned brightly with the spirit of the vital man he'd been. His voice was brittle, frail but suffused with affection. "Damned good of you to come."

  "You know I had to."

  "Did anyone see you?"

  Garrett shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

  "Did you bring it?"

  Lie to him. Just say no. But Garrett couldn't do that, take the easy way. So he walked closer in his wet shoes and reached into the pocket of the raincoat with his gloved left hand.

  "No fingerprints, no serial number," Garrett said. He surprised himself by offering up the gun without hesitation and in one, smooth motion it was done. Hack took it without comment, wiped it again on the bed sheet. He reached into a stack of thick books by his bedside and extracted one that was hollowed out and filled with some bills and a little spare change. He set the weapon inside and replaced the book.

  "I'm obliged."

  The two men stared awkwardly at one another, their tired eyes reddening. Garrett broke contact to pick at his fingernails.

  "Hell, I ain't decided yet," Hack said.

  "I know."

  "I won't do it unless things…unless it gets so bad I got nothing else left but the choice itself, you know?"

  "I understand."

  "I appreciate you keeping your promise."

  "Sure."

  Hack contorted, moaned and a dark pink froth appeared on his lower lip. Clearly embarrassed, he wiped it away with a tissue. "Guess you got places to go, people to see."

  "Yeah. Maybe I'll call you tomorrow."

  "You do that."

  The younger man backed away. He turned and looked down and to his left, both to find the doorknob and to hide his tears. "I'll see you."

  "Not if I see you first."

  Garrett smiled in a minor key and went out into the hallway. The floor was as still and shadowed as before. He walked to the emergency exit, checked again and went out into the stairwell. As he trotted down the steps he surprised himself by emitting a barking sob. He gripped the railing and moved faster, though he could barely see. He paused at the foot of the steps to compose himself.

  Outside, time expanded and briefly froze and cubed. The rain had stopped and the air was perfumed by renewal, the scent of things fresh and clean. The cosmogonic cycle was at work, and he was still alive. At once guilty and grateful, Garrett pictured the arriving multitude of brand new children, tender plants and animals; all destined to come apart again in the harsh way of things. It seemed a miracle and a tragic paradox, both bitter and sweet, to be a human and alive. And glad to be alive.

  When the metal door slammed behind him with a bang, he began to run.

  THE SECOND DEATH

  "On such

  The second death

  Hath no power."

  —Revelation 20:6

  Frank Norville hated traveling with a puddle jumper l
ike East Nevada Air. Jesus, who could feel safe in an airplane as fragile as the DC-3? They should have gone out with the Wright Brothers. A man couldn't even stand up in the fucking thing. Norville was six three in socks, so he had to bend down and sideways to get to the back to take a piss. Once back in his seat, the claustrophobic spacing forced his knees up into his chest and made the 357 Magnum dig unto his right love handle. He'd almost had to check it at the airport, but his time moonlighting as an Air Marshall had gotten him through.

  "Mr. Norville," the teenaged girl said, "I'm scared."

  He patted her shoulder. "I am too, Jennifer, but we'll be fine, you'll see."

  Meanwhile, the storm raging outside clawed at the winged tin can like a hungry monster.

  All the passengers were nervous as hell, so they had gotten acquainted pretty damned rapidly. Norville eased past Bernie, a salesman who was doing his best to mix a vodka Collins without spilling. He sat down heavily next to his prisoner.

  "You look like you could use a drink," Gordon said. When he smiled the gap in his yellow teeth seemed wider. "I don't think flying agrees with you."

  "It doesn't."

  Robert Lewis "Call Me Bob" Gordon was wanted back in Reno for a double homicide. While in a drunken rage, he'd used a shotgun on his ex-wife Betty Lou and then turned it on his parole officer, an idiot named Harvey Peterson who had recently been her lover. After that, he'd posted bond and skipped town. Norville had caught up with him in Dry Wells, less than an hour from the border into Utah.

  "And if you were to buy me one last shot of bourbon, I wouldn't object."

  Norville reached under the blanket and checked Gordon's cuffs for the third time. "Nice try. Trust me, Bob, you won't be sipping much whiskey where you're going."

  "But I didn't do nothing."

  "And I'm the fucking Pope."

  The grumpy stewardess caught the profanity and gave Norville a stern look. Her name plate read JANET. She looked like the kind of tight ass who'd resent being called anything but a flight attendant. Janet went back to pouring soda for the two women passengers, the chattering mother Lucy and her daughter, Jennifer. To Norville, they looked like they'd been carrying on the same argument for twenty years.