flesh.
A burn scar in the perfect shape of a nine-millimeter shell casing graced my left cheek, and beneath the rope bruises on my forearm, a faint pink outline of Christ’s Monogram still remained. Other than that, physically I was on the mend. Emotionally, however, I still wasn’t entirely sure what kind of damage had been done. Daily visits from a psychiatrist didn’t do much to determine that fact, either.
I had given them my description of the killer shortly after waking up from a twenty-four hour sleep. To the best of my ability, I had relayed the events to Ben, and he had filled in some of the blanks for me.
Detective McLaughlin’s daughter had arrived home completely unscathed shortly after I had set out in pursuit of the killer. The present theory was that it was he who had called Charlee’s husband with the ruse. This theory only served to create more questions about how he knew who to call and where he might have obtained his inside information. Rumor was already bandying about that an internal investigation would be forthcoming.
My only other question had been how they had found me. To that, the answer had been simple. When the killer had knocked the cell phone from my hand, it had remained on and broadcasting. With the help of Special Agent Mandalay and the cell company, they had managed to triangulate the general vicinity of the broadcast. Also, a motion sensor at the end of the bridge had alerted the authorities that someone had passed by the locked gate on the grand Old Lady. And finally, a phone call from the night watchman at the water treatment plant who had noticed dim lights from the vehicles headlamps served to pinpoint the frantic search.
The first officers had actually arrived on the scene in time to hear the report of the Glock when I had fired it.
“Still too much ice in the river ta’ drag, but we did a full search of the surroundin’ area,” my friend continued. “The bastard’s body’ll prob’ly end up on the rocks in a month or two. Or maybe downriver with the floodin’ from the thaw… Hey, Row… You listenin’ to me?”
Ben’s sudden silence wedged its way into my ears, and his words registered in the moment that followed. “What? Yeah…” I croaked in a pained whisper. “Yeah, I’m listening.”
“So anyway,” he proceeded, “looks like we might not be able to identify this asshole unless we can find the body and come up with a dental record match. That’s assumin’ he’s had dental work. Of course, eventually there’s gonna be a house turn up empty with all that shit in the basement you described. If we’re lucky, whoever finds it’ll think it’s weird and call us. Maybe that’ll give us a clue about who this prick was.”
“You won’t,” I forced my voice through the dull ache.
“Won’t what?”
“Find his body.” I slowly shook my head. “He’s still out there.”
“Yeah. Suckin’ mud from the bottom of the river.”
“No. He’s still alive.”
“Get real, white man,” my friend objected. “You shot the bastard point blank.”
“I shot him in the arm, Ben,” I returned in rebuttal.
“With a high frag round that contained Teflon gel,” he detailed. “At point blank you prob’ly blew the fucker’s arm clean off, and besides, that gel’s toxic. Not ta’ mention that from your description of the events that followed, he fell off the bridge and into the river. No way he coulda survived.”
“I know all that, Ben, but it’s a feeling. He’s still out there. Alive. And he’ll be back.”
“Can’t go with ya’ on this one, Kemosabe. You’re just rattled. You must not be doin’ that groundin’ thing or somethin’. The asshole is toast, no two ways about it.”
I didn’t belabor the point. Maybe Ben was correct. I hadn’t exactly been walking a very balanced path over the past month, and what had occurred on that bridge a mere handful of nights prior was still pounding in the back of my skull. Guilt over not being able to stop this miniature Inquisition in time to save the lives of several innocent individuals, Pagan and non-Pagan, was an ever-present tingle along my spine as well. My intuition in this particular instant could very well be wrong.
At any rate, I could only hope that it was.
Three Months Later…
EPILOGUE
It was obvious even to the casual observer that the man was favoring his left arm. Whenever he would move it, he would do so stiffly and occasionally reach over with his right hand to give his shoulder a quick massage. Other than that minor point, he seemed non-descript enough. Long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a neatly trimmed beard, and glasses. Less obvious and only upon closer inspection would you notice the odd pink scar on his forearm or the brooding gaze beneath his brow.
Sun shone brightly down upon the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge, and a warm spring breeze playfully wove itself through the green painted trusses that made up the superstructure of the Old Lady. The man lingered for a long while at the join of two of the metal beams where they created an inverted triangle. His gaze held fast across the muddy brown waters of the Mississippi river to the rock levy that caused them to roil and whitecap in a shallow defined arc across the full width of the river.
Nearby, a strikingly beautiful woman clad in a photographers vest commanded a pair of leashed canines to sit and stay. Brushing back her unruly mane of long red hair, she then brought a camera to her eye. Carefully bringing it to bear on the nearest of the pair of gothic looking water intake towers that rose majestically from the river on the south side of the bridge, she depressed a button and the shutter clicked, followed by the whirring motor drive as it advanced the film within.
The man cast a glance in her direction and allowed himself a brief, thin smile as she gazed back at him. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a stone and worked it in the palm of his right hand with his fingers. If one listened close, he could be heard whispering softly as he looked hard at the smooth rock.
“In you I place my fears, my regrets, and my guilt,” he almost chanted. “From you I retain my hopes, my dreams, and my strength. With you I cast away the negative and keep only the positive. I am one. I am whole. I am free.”
At the end of the third repetition, the man drew back his arm with a twist of his body then thrust it rapidly forward, casting the stone into the spring air. He watched on as the burdened rock fell in an arc until it disappeared from sight and made the tiniest of imperceptible ripples in the water below.
The woman had moved close and now slipped her arm in about the man’s waist and laid her head against his shoulder. The man allowed himself a short relieved sigh as he hooked his own arm around her and pulled her tight.
With a short whistle they called the dogs that had been waiting obediently and continued lazily across the span of the pedestrian bridge. Among the faded graffiti that marred the asphalt, a fresher, brighter grouping of spray painted lines, only months old, resided where the man had been standing.
A circle, decorated with hash marks along the side arcs, and encompassing a large letter X that was bisected by a large letter P.
