An Axis Oblique - Chapter Five

Recently, I finished 'cleaning up' the first thriteen chapters, or "Volume One" of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (please see the post-index for related entries), and, aside from querying various agents and/or publishers the 'traditional way,' I've also planned to package it into a Kindle Book for Amazon's increasingly popular e-book reader platform. A good friend of mine, (with whom I'm also collaborating on a comic book), has agreed to do a series of drawings for the final product, which I hope will not only enhance the material, but also help it to stand out in that highly-competitive marketplace. I should be putting it out there, so to speak, as soon as I have a good cover image.

Anyway, here's chapter five:


–– Five ––

Finally, some nighttime…
Keith was awake. Big surprise. No matter how hard he tried, his mind would not stop racing. His immediate surroundings seemed different somehow; almost as though he were seeing them with a whole new set of eyes; familiar, yet…strange…
What he needed was rest. The whole Pollack debacle had taken its toll, leaving him weak and disillusioned. And now out of the blue, there was this. More brutality. More innocent blood. Honestly, how could any man sleep?
Being there, at the McAllister residence that afternoon was simply too much, much too soon. What a waste. Just some ordinary everyman; husband and father, going about his life the way all should have the right to. The wife was a mess. The image of her collapsing to the ground; that little boy in her arms, he would not soon forget. Poor woman. Poor family.
I could sure go for a snack…
Rummaging through his half-empty fridge, he grabbed at anything edible…and found some leftover chicken tucked way back behind the econo-mayo.
Plopping down on the sofa, he spread out and went for the remote:
Nope, no…please no…not in a million––wait––nope, no…crap, shite, next, ah-ha… ‘Croc Bounty’––with that Aussie bloke down in the Outback. Keith watched awhile, feasting. Just looking at those cold-blooded carnivores laying merciless waste to whatever suited them seemed to stir something primal inside; those cold, empty eyes, oozing ‘fear me; for I eat everything’ were a true inspiration.
Lest we leave out the million-dollar grin…
The grand ballet that was nature danced all up and down his head, sending his body all atingle as he tore into that chicken…and yet, somewhere in between ruthless images, there was her––the young nanny. What was her name again? Samantha…? No. Cindy…? No. Cynthia…that’s the one… She had to have been…oh, at least half his age; (maybe not quite). Still, the thought of her getting out of her crappy blue car to face him with those majestic brown eyes under not-quite-dark enough sunglasses...made him horny as hell...
Hm. Hardly satisfying…
Ten minutes later they were scraps.
A wave of fatigue overtook him. Food, much like thought, needed space to digest.
* * *
The telephone was in mid-ring. Keith found himself still in front of the TV. There were chicken bones in his lap, which fell between the cushions as he reached for the phone. “Yeah…”
“Merrimac. What in God’s name were you up to? Phone must’a rang six times.”
“Hmm? I’m sorry…sorry about that, Captain, I…what time is it?”
“Almost ten. Officer Sparks says there’s someone here to see you.”
“Christ,” he said, rubbing the excess sleep from his eyes. Mary-Ann McAllister. That’s right. He did say ten. What was he thinking? “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
“Okay but that better not be a load’a––”
Keith hung up, standing to go brush his teeth. Luckily, he was already dressed from the night before, so he splashed on some warm water, followed by a dab or two of generic cologne, and rushed out the door.
* * *
The sun seemed stronger, more formidable a presence as he stepped out to greet the new day. The older he got, the more time played with his burnt-out perceptions. Sleep was a mere means to replenishment, nothing more. Without it, there would be no separation of one day to the next. Sure, there was night. But the hours themselves stretched on endlessly, forever...
Yet somehow, not today.
For the first time in ages, the morning felt fresh and brand new, like when he was a child. The sky looked clearer; the breeze more refreshing…
On the way to the station, he listened to 104.7, the generic fogey rock station, catching some Credence Clearwater in mid Revival...
– ust got home from Illinois.
Lock the front door oh boy.
Got to set down take a rest on the porch.
Sure don’t make’em like this anymore…
…magination sets in, pretty soon I'm singin
Doot doot doot lookin out my back door…
* * *
“Tell me something, Detective. Do you enjoy keeping people waiting? Is it like a power thing for you?”
“No, Ma’am, of course not. The traffic was just––”
“Oh please...”
“I’m sure you have more pressing matters. If you’d like to reschedule––”
“No. No, please, let’s just do this...” She cut him off, shaky, and at last, he could see what was really there. Not anger; (at least not just anger), but…loss. Fear. A part of him took comfort in it. And pleasure. “So, is there someplace we can go, Detective? Like your office maybe?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, absolutely; and please, feel free to call me Keith...” He swerved somewhat sharp, heading toward his locked office; the woman dragging behind...
Away from prying eyes, she softened considerably. “Would you like a tissue?”
“Please.” She accepted.
“Mrs. McAllister,” he began, all business, “can you think of any particular reason your husband might have been involved in an…altercation…of this nature…?”
Her eyes, barely dry, broke into a scowl. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your husband. I know this is difficult but do you know of anyone who––?”
“I thought you said this was a random act, Detective.” Her voice was rising back up toward angry. “Murdered? Henry was no saint by any means, but––”
“Mrs. McAllister, I’m just trying to––”
“I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating, Detective Merrimac.”
“Keith. Please. I’m not insinuating, Mrs. McAllister. Your husband was…involved, so to speak, with a previous investigation of mine, that’s all; one, which could conceivably be linked to the recent Richard Pollack––”
“Richard Pollock? You mean the rapist? But I thought he was––”
“He is. But we haven’t yet ruled out the possibility of some…superficial connection.” It seemed to take a moment or two before the admission could penetrate.
“I can’t…I can’t hear this...” She stumbled, regrouping. “The, um, investigation, to which you’re referring is, I assume, that of Miss. Todd…and I doubt you have any idea of the fresh wounds you’re salting…”
“Ma’am, I’m not trying to––”
“I need to be home…need to be with my babies…” she babbled. “…if you’ll excuse me, Detective…” And turned tail…
“No, of course not, and please it’s just…Keith…!” he called, wondering if perhaps he’d gone too far.
Bite your tongue…
crept a thought from seemingly nowhere.
*
Mary waited until completely shielded by her frosty fortress of solitude, then cried. Slow tears, she found, could be perfectly suited to pain. The slightest inclination of one and more were most certain to follow. For a good five minutes, she just let them come. “Bastard…” was all she could manage, grateful no one could see her.
It was a long drive home; lonely. She used the time to think.
What will I do now? she considered, a wide array of angry possibilities running through her grief-stricken mind. Though difficult to accept, it remained the only relevant question left.
–––––––––––––––
¿Qué ahora haré?
The question dogged her mercilessly as she sat in the dark, empty bedroom. It would never be changed; not one square inch for as long as she lived in this house. “Sonny...” she whispered, tears welling up. “Sonny, Sonny!” The welcome numbness was beginning to wear off. Her only son was gone: Sonny Luis Duvaliente––dead at twenty-eight.
Her aging grey eyes bounced off the light coming under the door. Sonny’s bedroom was like a boy’s of high-school age; posters plastered all over the walls, shelves stacked with track trophies and other mementos from a still-fresh adolescence. There were years unaccounted for, and she wondered, as she’d done so often in the past, how well she truly knew him.
He was always a quiet boy, but still active in his way; particularly when it came to appearances; things like sports, school, and occasionally girls. There were times, however, when he’d look at her with a dark, chilling vacancy, as though he were not even there. It was a look she’d seen before; knew all too well from her days in the old country. ‘Menos que ser humano,’ were the words she had silently spoken on that dreadful day––less than human; terrible for someone to think of her own flesh and blood.
“Juanita…” Paulo was calling her from the alcove. She ignored him.
Sonny had been her ‘child of miracle,’ or so they had proclaimed. It was the only way they could accept his bizarre introduction to this world: the emergence of life in the midst of so much death and suffering. She and a handful of others were saved somehow, spared the unspeakable fate of their fellow detainees at the hands of the Militia.
She gave birth to him hastily, atop a filthy slab of metal used for slaughter and converted into a gurney by her husband, Cesaro and a handful of others; family, friends and strangers. All were as one under the weight of such tyranny. A man stood guard outside the tent, but could do nothing to hide her screams as she berthed her baby boy. And when finally, he was born, the first sounds to fill his untainted ears were of gunfire, spiked with anguish––and terror.
Apart from his mama’s bloodied sweat, Juanita was convinced Sonny’s first sights were of the animal who’d attacked them mere moments before; General Sanuela; the man responsible for most of the carnage on that horrific day. It took several deep gashes into his leathery skin before he had finally seen fit to let go. Cesaro discovered them shortly thereafter, neutralizing him crudely with the Louisville Slugger he’d stolen from the commissary storehouse. Perhaps if he had been more of a monster, and finished the evil degenerate before he could strike back, her kind and gentle husband would be with her today––and so might her Sonny...
Juanita was on her feet at last, unable to stand the sight of this room a moment longer––and took her first step toward the door––into a tiny wet discoloration on the carpet. Curious, she looked down and noticed another such spot almost right next to it; wet, sticky…and dark. Then another…tiny drops of what she could only assume was water had formed an inconspicuous trail. Without thought for what she might encounter, she followed it to the paint-chipped closet doors and slid them apart as if to get a sweater.
A wave of nausea came up and, before she could suppress it, vomit spilled out all over his faded turquoise carpet. This was the first true confirmation of one of her most carefully-guarded fears. The first solid evidence of Sonny’s mysterious other side. And she wished like hell she hadn’t found it; or done something sooner.
The point was of course, moot; an empty wish to begin with, and far too late for wishful thinking. However she chose to rationalize; whether she liked it or not, those eyes, much like the closet doors in front of her face, had been opened for good.



I'm still trying to get the translation just right, from my original Wordfile to this. Call it a work in progress.

D.A.