Catharsis Part 2

[curvestone]

–– Catharsis Part Two: On Edge

For what it’s worth, I had, at this point in my childhood, only committed two crimes. Theft was the first. I had never committed a murder. I hadn’t ever broken in to someone else’s house. I had never raped a girl. In point of fact, I had only ever done one other thing that could actually be considered a crime. I had underage sex, but, due to the fact that it is a common practice among teens, I’m sure nothing legal could have come of it. No one was getting hurt, or so I had come to believe.

It was seven-thirty in the morning. I remember because I was on an early morning walk and constantly glancing at my watch. I had been there a near total of two years. In that time, I had laid countless girls and won countless youth literary awards. It was the high point of my stay, and as far as I'm concerned, when something is as good as it gets, it's run out its welcome.

The morning felt like a scene from an M. Night Shyamalan movie. The morning seemed to carry that kind of quiet, frightening sense with it. It was stiff, still, and cold. A heavy fog had settled on the city. I guess it didn't help much having sunglasses on. Over all, things felt different, yet comfortable. The setting seemed to feel right for April.

I was just walking out of a computer store that I regularly visited. Hanging from my left arm was a brand new carrying case for my laptop. I liked this one for two reasons: it was amazingly durable and the straps could be easily changed so you could wear the case on your back, perfect for a good run.

An unexplainable sense of personal satisfaction seemed to be coming over me as I walked past the coffee shop where I had met a group of five young ladies who had become my prey the night before. In a single and swift incident, I was cut down from my pride. Across the street at the coffee house I saw my aunt being led at gunpoint through the swinging doors through which I had led a group of girls the previous night.

Two things were in my way: a taxi and an average biker. Dodging them with ease, I hopped onto the curb and confronted the doors. My fingers were literally a centimeter away from the door when something struck my attention... and my left shoulder. I was knocked back immediately.

Clenching my wounded shoulder with my right hand and my computer case with the other, I sat up aiming to face my attacker. Indeed, I did. My aunt only laughed at me like a possessed hyena and shot me again in the arm.

“Dear Lord, someone call an ambulance!” someone shouted from behind me. “Are you okay?” asked another. A swarm of people began to hover around me, the oh-my-gods and get-some-helps ringing in my ears.

Inside the shop, my aunt seemed to be facing her own difficulties with the man that had led her in, but I can't very well say I was rooting her on. Each was aiming a loaded gun at the other. He had made his way behind the counter; she was flailing wildly about inside the shop.

Shaken, I forced myself to my feet. Finding my balance, I swung open the door of the cafe. There was a large sound that could easily be mistaken as gunfire. It was. On impact, my left arm flung around.

“Holy shit, woman! I might not be left handed, but I still use that arm! Jiminy Christmas!” The veins in my neck were roughly the size of sewer pipes. I did not like being shot in the arm. I wasn't much one for pain.

I stood in front of my aunt panting heavily and clinging on to my left arm. My aunt, like the incompetent, delusional freak that she was, just stared me like a deer at the headlights. Honestly, I was more than terrified; I was confused.

After a long pause during which the mysterious man probably finished several cups of coffee, my aunt finally started to move. Like an executioner lifting his ax, my aunt raised her gun, but I was ready for her. With one swift movement of my good arm, I had sent a chair flying across the room. It her like a wrecking ball.

As she toppled over, I let out a cry like none you've ever heard, and, feeling a rush of energy, I flung a second chair over my shoulder and above all the tables. It shattered the glass and nearly struck a young woman on the sidewalk. Returning my right hand to my wounded arm, I smiled. It was cathartic.

Now, it wasn't my intention, but I at least expected my aunt to be unconscious. Turning to behold my enemy, I noticed that she was getting to her feet. Though the force of the chair had knocked her down, she seemed utterly unharmed.

Slowly, confidently, I advanced on my aunt. In her own cat-like action, she scrambled for her gun and turned to aim. I was unready, but from the behind the counter, the mystery-man fired his own shot, knocking the gun from my aunt's hand.

As could be expected, she bolted.
The man who had up to that point stayed behind the register, leaped on top of the counter and began to fire at my aunt. He clipped my aunt in the side, but she didn't stop. Running across the street, she pulled over a cab and was out of sight.

“Where are the frickin' police?!” shouted a man hiding in the corner of the room.

“damn good throwing arm,” said the man, hopping off the counter.

Staring blankly at the man, I asked, “Why in the hell wasn't she shaken by that chair or when you shot her?”

The man scoffed. “She's drugged up like a sick dog. She won't feel the chair or the bullet for another fifteen minutes,” he groaned. “You're Sebastian. I'm Reese.” He held out his hand.

In the distance we caught the sound of nearing sirens.

“No time for that,” I chuckled. “You got a way out of here?”

“Car in back,” he answered as he sprinted for the back door.

The morning hadn't seemed to change in the several minutes I had spent in the cafe. Outside there waited a brown SUV. I hoped into the passenger seat. Reese dug through the backseat of his car and pulled out a small medical pack.

“Might want to patch up your arm,” he said, handing me the box.

I took it, slightly confused. As I wrapped up my wounds in medical tape, I asked, “So, just a couple questions: why are you helping me, and why am I letting you? Oh, and why were you leading my aunt into the cafe at gunpoint?”

As I looked at him, I could tell I wouldn't like the answer. He just grinned at me for a moment, scoffed again, and punched the gas.

“Your aunt is one tough cracker,” he said, swinging around the corner. “She has in her possession a jump drive containing incriminating information having to do with the mob I work for. She's drugged up and ready to hand that drive to any Joe Blow that finds her. I need to keep that drive out of the hands of our adversaries. They've sent out some buddies of theirs to find her. You and I need to get to her first. As for me helping you, I have no reason not to, and you seem okay.”

“Well,” I sighed, “that answers two of my questions, but why am I letting you help me?”

“Maybe you don't like your aunt.”

“Could be,” I answered, shrugging. “Hold on. Why do you refer to your people as a mob? Wouldn't it make more sense for a mob not to think of itself as a mob?”

“Nah. We're a mob. No point denyin' that.”

From under the dashboard, Reese grabbed a small GPS device. On the screen there was a small red dot being followed by a small green dot. As far as I could tell, my aunt was the red dot, and we were the green dot.

“Really came prepared, huh?” I asked, gawking over the GPS. “So, how did you get the tracking device on her? She dropped her purse and I'm pretty sure it would have gotten brushed off of her clothes by now.”

“Kept on the safe side,” he said. “'Member how I said she's drugged up and can't feel nothin'? I stuck her in the back with it. It's not coming out any time soon.” He paused for a moment, watching the screen. “Looks like she's heading for the river. Let's head her off.”

As we made our way down the Philly streets, all the questions that should have been answered before I even got in his car swam over me.

“How did my aunt get her hands on this drive?”

“She got it from an enemy the mob I work for. One of our less worthy men heard her rambling about it while sleeping with her.”

“Sounds like my aunt,” I took a deep breath. “Are you gonna' kill her?”

“That's what it looks like,” he paused, there was an air of guilt in his voice. From the glove compartment he removed a small, brown envelope and handed it to me. I was reluctant. “Take it kid,” he said.

Judging that there couldn't be anything harmful in there that wouldn't hurt him, too, I opened the envelope. Inside I found thirty to forty pictures of myself. There was me outside the movies; there was me in the movies; there were pictures of me with many women; there pictures of me with one; there were some with me ; there ones of me drinking coffee. At the very bottom, there were about fifteen of me writing.

“The more I see, the less I understand,” I said, shoving the pictures back into the envelope and into the glove compartment.

“We've been watching you for three months,” Reese said, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “My employer's impressed with your work. He wants to meet you.”

“So, is it just happy coincidence that we met this way, or is this staged?”

“Why would we stage this by leaking out information about our mob? But it isn't any coincidence.”

He reached into the glove compartment once more, this time removing a small folder. “These are files having to do with a friend of your aunt who is, coincidently, the father of one of the girls you've slept with.”

“One of the usuals or a one night stand?”

Reese chortled, momentarily losing control of the wheel. “Oh, she's definitely a chronic. I'd say once every other month. She's part of how we found you.”

Slightly embarrassed, I turned away to the window. Outside I saw nothing but building after building.

“Are we close to the river yet?” I inquired, growing a little anxious.

“Your aunt is coming close. Let's see if we can funnel her straight into the river.”

Quite frankly, I was up for that.

“So, really quick,” I said, “explain to me how you found out about me.”

“Well,” Reese started, pulling a sharp corner, “this friend of your aunt that I told you about is an arms smuggler that owes us money and arms. His name's Harry Fink. He's been working for another enemy of our mob who lives down in Jackson, Mississippi.”

“Ah, and he connected you to my aunt how?”

“We figured out she was sleeping with him, so we did a background check on her. In doing so, we found you.”

“Convenient,” I groaned. “So, I take it that the jump drive fell into her hands through that arms dealer?”

“Smuggler,” Reese corrected me.

“Gotcha', and he wants to use that information to get you guys put away?”

“That's about right.” Reese answered as he turned one final corner.

Ahead of us, I could see a cab pulling steady stop. Out stepped my aunt, shaken and confused. She crossed the street, heading toward the river.

“Hilarious,” chuckled Reese. “She actually thinks he's going to be there waiting for her.”

“Why wouldn't he be?” I asked.

Reese just couldn't stop laughing, “One of our men shot him late last night.”

I looked at the clock in front of me. It was barely eight in the morning. Reese was inching up to where my aunt was. Then, when she turned and caught us in her sight, he floored it. As he had predicted, she turned around, stopping dead at the river.

“Wait in the car,” Reese commanded as he got out, gun in hand.

“Hand me the drive!” he shouted.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she yelled back. I could tell by the look in her eyes that the pain was returning to her.

“We just went through this. You've got it and I want it!”

“I swear, I don't know what you're talking about.” Judging how drugged Reese made her sound earlier this sounded rather reasonable.

“Inside pocket,” he shouted, pointing to her purse.

Hesitantly, she reached into her purse. Slowly, she pulled out a small, black jump drive.

“Throw it to me!” Reese shouted.

My aunt suddenly adopted a look of distress and offense. “Harry gave this to me. He told me not to give it to anyone.”

Reese cocked his gun. I knew he didn't really have a choice. I just wondered what was taking him so long.

Remembering the file on Harry Fink, I opened the glove compartment once more to return it to its proper place. Along with a large assortment of papers, I saw something that definitely caught my eye. Back in the very back, there was a black automatic pistol.

It struck me then as I looked back and forth from Reese to the gun: Reese wasn't going to shoot. He had been standing in front of my aunt for too long, and she had shown no signs of wanting to give him that drive. Also, if she lived, she could give his description to the police... and my name! All the factors would have justified murder in the eyes of any mobster, but he tapping that trigger.

Pulling the gun out of the glove compartment, I swung open the door of the car.

“It's funny,” I said as I walked up to Reese. “You spent all that time in the car laughing, but you really aren't very happy about any of this.”

I was.

First, I took a moment to look once more upon my aunt, and I smiled, but this wasn't smile of love. Taking a step forward, I pulled the gun from behind my back and fired. I fired relentlessly. One bullet after another after another punctured my aunt's chest until there were no bullets left. It was only then that she seemed affected by their power. She fell back into the river, and there she just floated limp as a dead fish.

The entire ordeal was so quick and so simple.

I wasn't scared. I wasn't breathing particularly hard. There wasn't even that feeling of satisfaction I had gotten when I threw the chair at her. I was cool.

Quite honestly, I was entirely unmoved. My repeated shots were merely an insurance of the effectiveness of my deed. It was all very routine. At fourteen years old, killing my aunt, for some reason, felt like killing a total stranger, and I reacted as though the stranger had it coming.

As I lowered my weapon, Reese came running up. He stared wide-eyed at my handy work, kneeling at the river. Bowing his head, Reese whispered something. Though I couldn't make out exactly what he was saying, it was obvious: he was praying.

It was in this moment that I realized four things: there were no sounds, I hadn't seen a police car since the cafe, the wind was blowing harder as it carried the sun from behind the clouds, and I now had no home.

“Reese,” I said in breathy voice, “I want to join you guys. Please, take me to him.”

Reese turned slowly. Braking his whispering voice, he asked, “Take you to who?”

“The Boss. There's got to be one. Take me to your employer. He's the one you said was impressed with me. Am I wrong?”

Getting up, Reese dusted of his pants, which makes no sense to me; the ground wasn't even dirty. He walked up to me calmly. “I guess none of us have a choice, right?”

I nodded.

Reese stared down at his feet. “You can't see the boss today,” looking me directly in the eyes he whispered, “but you'll both talk tomorrow.”

Suddenly, I felt a deep pain in my left arm. All I can recall from when I fell is Reese's strange look of approval and shame as he stuffed the needle back into his pocket, which must have hurt at some point during the day.

© 2007 by Nathan Cook