She looked
down to Austin at all the people on their way to work. She envied
their routine and their normalcy.
“
Do you think I’ll ever have a job?” she was still looking
down.
“
A job? Right now we have to focus on getting away. Money and
work can come later,”
“
But seriously. Do you ever think I can be normal?”
“
No,” he sounded harsh but he didn’t mean to. “I think you’re
too good for that,” and he joined her by the window.
He wrapped his
arms around her and they both looked out to the world.
“
If it wasn’t for everything…. This would be a perfect day,” he
thought out loud.
“
It is a perfect day,” and she turned round to kiss him. “So
what now?”
“
We need to get a bus,”
“
But how do I get over the border? I don’t have a
passport,”
“
It’s ok. I have an idea,” and he held her tighter. “I’ll make
sure you’re safe.”
~
Jorge and
Jerry had spent all night searching the Richardson neighborhood but
found nothing at all. For a moment Jerry had looked up to an
abandoned apartment and wondered if they’d been in there but he
thought they probably hadn’t. It looked to him as if they were long
gone. After a fruitless evening they had returned to the car and
sat in the sunshine. Jorge had his feet poking out the window and
he studied the way the sunlight glinted off the scales of the
snakeskin. He lit his fourth cigarette of the morning.
“
This is kinda nice,” he relaxed back in his seat.
“
Yeah for you maybe, I’m exhausted AND starving by the way. We
should get outta here and find breakfast,” he yawned.
“
Then what?”
“
Fuck I dunno, we can’t go back to Angelo without a
result,”
“
No we cannot,” Jorge blew out smoke and watched it drift
across the front of the car.
A heavy
silence was settling inside the car. Jerry was picking at a nail
nervously and making furtive glances all around.
“
Fuck!” he eventually lashed out and punched the
dashboard.
He instantly
regretted it and winced in agony as he cradled his hand. Looking
down he saw that it was definitely broken. Feeling livid Jorge
watched as his face became redder and redder.
“
Yo man what’s happened to you?”
“
I’m just so fucking frustrated. Where could he have gone? He
gotta be around here!” and he stepped out of the car and kicked at
the dirt on the side of the road.
The wind
wafted it across the bonnet of the car and it made Jorge fume.
“
Mind the car you asshole!” he shouted as he tossed his
cigarette end out the window.
Jerry clapped
his hands to his head and looked up to the sky.
“
We’re fucked,” he whispered. “If we don’t find him we’re
fucked,”
Jorge was
watching his breakdown from inside and he watched as the chubby man
in the sweaty, crumpled suit walked away down the road. He let him
cool off for a few minutes and then started the engine and drove
forward. Catching up with Jerry he talked through the window.
“
Hey…. Come back won’t ya? We’ll not find him if you throw a
hissy fit,” Jorge tried to reason.
But Jerry was
too frustrated, too angry to care about what he was saying. Instead
he just kept walking while staring at the ground. Jorge found it
amusing watching the big Mafia henchman act like a spoiled kid. He
humored him for a while and then eventually braked and reached over
to open the passenger door.
“
Get in you dummy,” he laughed.
And Jerry got
back in the car with a furrowed brow and a pout. He leant against
the window and held his head in his hand. All he had was Carl’s dog
tags and he couldn’t go back to Angelo with just that.
“
If you were a Navy-Seal and you were tryin’ to escape… where
would you go?” he asked his new partner
“
Hmmm…. California? Ain’t there a base there?” Jorge
suggested.
“
How would I know?”
It looked like
they’d hit a dead end. Jerry sighed heavily and looked to the dog
tags that were hanging from the rear view mirror.
“
And you’re telling me that he didn’t even bite at his old man
gettin’ a beaten?”
“
Nope…” Jorge shook his head in disgust. “Either he didn’t get
the message or he doesn’t care.
“
Harsh stuff,”
“
Yuh,”
“
I wonder what happened between the two,”
“
None of my business,” Jorge shrugged.
CHAPTER 19
John Reiner
had the most pain in his right side. That’s where the Puerto Rican
had kicked him the most. He was certain he was close to death and
after a few days he had resigned himself to it, thinking it was a
punishment for not loving his son enough. He’d suffered greatly
this last year and more than ever he appreciated what it meant to
be a father.
He was still
in the basement on the floor and despite the fact the sadist in
snakeskin had cut him free he still hadn’t moved. Thinking back to
that very moment made him shudder… The way he had pulled a knife
out from his boot and brandished it in his face, and John
remembered the exact moment when he saw the look in the young man’s
eyes change. It looked as though a light flickered inside him as he
was reminded to own a conscience. Instead of plunging the knife
into the old man’s gut like he promised he slashed the blade
through the rope and John had tumbled over. Free at last he felt
his wrists regain blood flow as he watched his captor walk away and
not come back.
Now all Reiner
Senior had to do was summon the strength to sit up. If he could sit
he could stand. If he could stand he could walk, and if he could do
that he could tackle the stairs. The rest would follow. The pain
was indescribable as he wrapped an arthritic hand around a water
pipe to hoist himself up. Finally he was resting against the wall
and he felt the chill of the concrete. It soothed him momentarily.
He then gripped the same pipe again and with all his strength,
pulled his weight up from the cold floor and stood up.
Feeling dizzy
at first he leaned against the wall to steady himself. It was in
this moment that he appreciated the pain in a warped way, because
it was the only thing stimulating his mind enough to keep him
awake. Three days without food and only the occasional glass of
water hadn’t kept him in good health.
And in those
first few moments of being vertical the thought of food and water
propelled him to walk. Taking it inch by inch in baby steps he
shuffled to leave the wall. He wobbled at first but he was
determined to keep going despite him being certain he had at least
one fractured rib and a broken nose he could barely breathe
through.
He shuffled a
little further and soon he was at the halfway mark to the stairs.
Blinkered vision developed quickly as he kept his eyes on the
prize. The stairs would lead him from this squalor. They would take
him to the bathroom, to the phone, to food and water and most
importantly to his son.
John didn’t
know what trouble his boy was in but it had to be serious and every
second he was away from him made him more impatient and terrified
for his safety. He may have been an old man but he loved his child
and he would die for him.
So close to
the stairs now he could almost smell the fresh air that came from
above. With a mighty exertion of effort he made one last big step
and he was at the bottom. He clung onto the bannister and readied
himself for the climb. It may have only been his basement steps
that he’d walked up a thousand times, but in the moment they looked
like Everest.
He placed his
right foot out first and he winced in pain as he felt a twinge in
his side. Looking down to his sweater he saw crusted, dried blood
on the matted wool and it angered him. He was outraged that such a
degenerate could enter his home and hurt him because he felt like
it, because he somehow felt entitled to.
The rage
motivated him. He was going to find out who these bastards were
before they got to his boy and he was going to make them pay.
Before he knew it, he was five steps up and then another one, and
another one, until he was at the top of the staircase looking
down.
The
achievement that was aglow in his heart was immeasurable, and he
looked down to the corner of the room that became his dungeon. It
looked pathetic and he wondered why he had let himself stay there
so long.
Managing to
shuffle himself along the walls he found his way to the kitchen
table. He collapsed on one of the chairs but was proud to get
there. A week old bottle of warm, orange juice was sat before him
and he threw it down his throat. Despite its sour taste it
revitalized him enough to stand up and make his way to the
sink.
He bent over
with his head under the cold tap and drank freely. Then he let the
water glide over the injuries on his face to numb the pain. It felt
good as it cascaded over his nose and washed away the blood.
Drying himself
with a tea towel he looked down to his pants and was aghast to see
that he had soiled himself. He thought that he may have done it on
the first day of him being captive but he wasn’t sure. Fear can do
strange things to your mind and body. He decided his next port of
call was the downstairs bathroom.
He edged his
way through the corridor and before he knew it he was almost there.
The pain was constant in his mind but he managed to imagine it as
living outside his body. He visualized seeing it as though it was a
flaming, red orb outside of his body and he could control it at
will. It was a technique he learned many years ago when working
under cover. He sadly remembered having to teach it to his wife
when her body was gripped by the cancer.
As he entered
the bathroom he was instantly hit by the sight of her things still
on the counter. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them away, and
as he ran the shower he brushed his fingertips over a pair of her
earrings. She had removed them before taking her last bath in the
house and they’d sat there ever since. That was six months ago now
and as he tentatively picked them up, he noticed they were starting
to get covered in a fine layer of dust.
He placed them
back on the counter and removed his clothes. It was agony as he
bent down to take off his shoes but he’d come this far and wasn’t
going to let himself be defeated by a pair of Hush Puppies.
Climbing into the shower and pulling the curtain across, he let the
warm water caress his body. He had never felt a pleasure like
it.
However he’d
always been fond of water. No water where or who you were, water
washed away your troubles. It never judged you, made you feel bad
or asked anything of you. It was merely there day or night. It
could give you life or wash away your sins. Either way John
imagined it to be proof in some way of God’s existence. Yet as he
stood naked and bruised, he wondered if there really could be a God
with all the terrible things happening in the world. He sure hoped
there was.
As he reached
for the soap his eyes caught sight of the little, ornate bottle
with pink writing. This was Miriam’s favourite shampoo. She’d been
buying the same brand since she was nineteen and all John had to do
was open the bottle, and he’d be right back on their first date at
the drive-thru. How much he longed to see Miriam even if it was
just one last time to say how much he loved her. Not that she
didn’t know this. John had given her the best life any woman could
have wanted and treated her like a princess. He hoped if he passed
down one trait to Carl it would the way you should treat a lady. He
imagined his son would someday make a great husband and father, and
for all he knew he could be already.
He placed the
shampoo bottle back on the side of the bath and sighed solemnly.
More than ever he missed Miriam. But in a way he was thankful she
was dead. That way she would never have had to live through the
ordeal he did. Despite working in law enforcement for his entire
adult life he tried his best to shelter her from what happened in
the world. He hoped she went to the grave thinking everybody’s life
was rainbows and lollipops.
As John dried
himself he focussed on feeling better. His strength was coming back
to him along with his motivation and he was eager to get on the
road. But he needed to formulate a plan. As he dressed in clean
clothes and looked into the bedroom mirror he noticed the liver
spots on his hands, his thinning hair and of course his injuries.
For a moment he doubted himself. Who did he think he was? He was no
spring chicken and could barely walk let alone save his son. But he
could at least try. He could never live out his remaining years
knowing he didn’t try.
Carl thought
his father didn’t know him at all but John knew that was wrong. He
knew his son more than he knew himself because he’d created him
hadn’t he? He was made in his father’s image and as he grew up he
saw the young man grow up to be a spitting image of him. He sat on
the edge of the bed for a moment to gather his thoughts.
So the kid was
in trouble but where would he hide out? And why wasn’t he fighting
his way out of trouble? The questions perplexed him and he felt the
need to look through his old photo albums for inspiration. He
picked out one labelled Mexico ’88. He saw Carl’s smiling face in
each photo as he ran through the landscape of Monterrey.