A Guardian of Innocents (27 page)

“You make it sound so business-like,” I said, still suffering from the feeling of incredulity that shrouded this whole meeting.

He smiled, “Hmm, I suppose that’s because I’m really just a businessman at heart. I run several large enterprises. I’m worth a fortune by the way. And if you ever need money, just ask. I imagine you probably won’t want to stay in that apartment too much longer. I can get you a luxury suite uptown, if you like?”

I thought it over, then became disgusted with myself that I was even considering this offer. But his proposal was tempting for only one reason. I didn’t care about the money, or a nice place to live. What attracted me was the idea of never again feeling pain, or loss, or humiliation or helplessness.

“I can see that you need some time to think this over,” he said, “I’ll return to you in two weeks. I have to travel home anyways to pick up some things I’ll need for the ritual. Also take care of some business. Can I trust that, in the meantime, you will not try to jump from any rooftops?”

He stared at me, absolutely serious. The rain fell a little heavier, wetting down his dark brown hair so that it looked now to be pitch black. The drops rolled down his leather trench coat like falling stars.

“Sure,” I said weakly.

“Good, I’ll see you then. But let me give you something to consider before I go. Remember Halloween four years ago? All that you experienced that night was but a
sample
of what I have to offer.”

And with that he descended down the stairwell, into the apartment building. I sat where I was for a moment. When I got up, the pace of the throbbing in my neck quickened.

“How does he always know where I’ll be?” I mumbled. It was like he knew what I was going to do before I even knew myself.

I slowly got up and stared down at the street below. The smoke seemed to give the rain a burnt, coppery smell. The urge to jump was no longer present. I was so tired. All I wanted to do now was go be alone and grieve for Des. It was that grief, I realized now, that I’d been avoiding all day. Running around lower Manhattan, walking all the way back home in a semi-conscious trance, even my sudden conviction to commit suicide—it was all an attempt to dam the floodwaters. My life was changed, horribly and forever. I was never going to see Desiree again.

The tears were already welling up as I descended the staircase down into the building. I had to will my chin to stop quivering. I scanned the tenth floor as best I could. I didn’t want anyone seeing me leaving the staircase to the roof especially since the superintendent will probably find the now knobless broken door tomorrow.

When I arrived at my apartment door, I felt something.

(((a man is in there   he has a gun   he’s scared)))

I was about to back off and leave. Hell, let him take what he wants. I don’t give a fuck. I’ll come back when he’s gone. Probably won’t even bother calling the police.

Then I thought how ironic it was that I was so ready to kill myself earlier and now here I was, shying away from a man with a gun. I didn’t really plan to accept the Stranger’s offer, so why was I running?

“Fuck it,” I whispered as I turned the knob and opened the door I’d left unlocked.

I walked in and looked around the dark living room, at first not seeing anyone. But I felt him. He had taken one of the kitchen table chairs and planted it in the corner of the living room least visible from the door. He was holding his gun straight out with both hands.

In a brazen impulse, my hand hit the light switch.

He wasn’t what I expected. He appeared to be in his late forties, probably pushing fifty.

“So you gonna shoot me or what?” I asked with my slight, ever-developing New York accent. It’s thickness tended to fade in and out.

“Not unless you make me,” he answered, “Sit down.”

“I prefer to stand...” I replied, feeling utterly exhausted. “You know, I’ve had the most god-awful day and I’m really tired and don’t appreciate being fucked with.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, but then growled, “I think you better sit down. I’ve got a lot of questions for you, and we might be here awhile.”

I compromised a little and leaned on the armrest of the oversized chair, “So what do you want to know?”

Visibly irritated, he responded, “I want to know where your boss is? Where’s he hiding out?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I laughed, “It sounds like you think I work for the mob or some shit.”

But after I said that, a bad feeling developed in the bottom of my stomach. I looked down into the hollow black nozzle of his gun. A 9mm, probably a Beretta I guessed.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about, you little shit. Louis Godwin. Where is he?”

He recoiled when I scanned his thoughts.

“You’re a psychic aren’t you? A telepath?” He asked anxiously. “I figured you might be, if you’re working for him.”

“Yeah,” I whispered as I reviewed some intriguing information I’d plucked from his mind, “Tell me, Special Agent Collins, is this normal FBI procedure? Breaking into people’s homes and interrogating them at gunpoint?”

“Not hardly,” he conceded, “Door was unlocked. I entered without breaking.”

I detected no signs of surprise that I knew his name and profession.

“I know you’re the guy who did the Milton house, so I know you work for Godwin, so you can quit the damn charades.”

I thought for several long seconds about how I was going to respond. It was obvious he wasn’t here on official business, and I didn’t think a confession taken at gunpoint would be admissible in court.

I scanned him again as our eyes met in my moment of indecisiveness. He had me and he knew it.

“It’s possible that you’re right about Milton’s, but whatever I do, I do on my own and I’ve never heard of anyone named Godwin.”

He sighed, “I guess you probably don’t know him by his real name.”

Agent Collins took a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to me. I picked it up off the floor and unfolded it. It was a black and white photograph printed from a computer. The man depicted in the printout stared at me as if the paper were nothing but a window.

“Now do you recognize him? He runs a large crime syndicate. They’re not so much into drugs like most cartels. The vice they provide is sex. More specifically, sex with kids. For every internet kiddie porn website of theirs we take down, Godwin will create three more to replace it.

“They’re into sex slaves, child prostitution, videos, magazines. All sorts of sick shit. We know that Godwin’s organization provided those kids to Milton. We know that Milton and Godwin were in bed with each other a long time before Halloween ’97. I think Milton did something that pissed off Godwin. Something bad enough to send you after him with an UZI. Although why he would choose some kid from the suburbs with no criminal record was beyond me. Until now, I—“

“Before I answer any more questions,” I interrupted, “You need to answer a few of my own. And that gun is so unnecessary. I really don’t give a fuck if I live or I die right now; and you’ve roused my curiosity, so I’ll talk to you. Gun or no gun.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’ll keep my weapon pointed in your general direction just the same. For my own peace of mind,” he replied, just a smidgen of sarcasm leaking through.

“I can tell you’re not a mindreader, so how did you know that
I
was one?”

“I’ve been around enough of you to know when someone’s trying to pick my brain. What it feels like. And it doesn’t surprise me at all that Godwin’s enlisted another one.”

I frowned. “Another one?”

He sighed again. I could feel he didn’t want to divulge his life story to me, but felt he might have to. He was afraid if he gave away too much information, it would very likely come back to ‘bite him in the ass.’

“Look, I already know your name and that you work for the FBI. You know that I’m the Mansfield Gunman, and for some reason I’m getting the impression you’re the only one in the Bureau who knows that. So it looks like we both got shit on each other. So let’s talk.”

“Louis Godwin used to be friends with my son. They had a falling out. To get revenge, Godwin kidnapped my daughter. Her name’s Tessa. Now answer a question for me.”

“Wait. You said Tessa?”  

“Yeah—what? Did you see her?” he asked with hopeful excitement. I saw a mental picture of his daughter float up to the front of his mind as he thought of her.

“Not with my eyes,” I replied, “She was there at Milton’s that night, but I think you already know that. She was the only child there I couldn’t get to.”

“What do you mean
get to?
”

“I mean
rescue
. The whole reason I was there was to get those kids out, and waste every man there who was involved. I found three kids in an underground corridor built to look like a dungeon, but they were holding Tessa somewhere else. Two men in a cargo van took her away. I tried to shoot out the tires, but...” I paused, not sure how to explain the rest.

“He stopped you,” Agent Collins finished.

“I think so. Yeah. Somehow he took control of my hand and forced me to shoot what rounds I had left into the lawn.”

A light of understanding flashed in his eyes.

“That explains the patch of bullet holes in the lawn we found next to where you discarded the UZI. No one on the case could figure out why you emptied your clip into the front lawn, or why the hell you just threw away such an expensive weapon for that matter. I mean, sonnuva bitch, it was a fuckin’ UZI!”

I explained, beginning with my encounter at Dan & Bruno’s and ending with my discovery that the apparition, a.k.a. Louis Godwin had murdered a cop that had been trying to pursue me. I laid it out for him just as I had with Desiree, leaving none of the supernatural aspects out of my story. I thought of toning some of it down to make it a little more believable. But as I spoke I felt his instant acceptance of everything I said. None of it even made him blink. I was able to ascertain as I scanned him periodically (and lightly) that his own experiences with Louis had made him a faithful believer in the world of the invisible.

“Do you believe me now? That I don’t work for him?”

“Alright, but if you don’t work for him, then how do you
know
him?”

“He’s appeared to me occasionally over the past eight years. Every meeting has always been rather... enigmatic. I never knew his name until just now.”

I thought about advising him of the last such meeting that had taken place only about twenty minutes prior, but I didn’t want him leaving in a rush when I was certain he would never find him. 

I continued, “He’s offered me something. He wants to bestow upon me, or put a spell on me or some shit, some kind of dark gift that’ll supposedly make me invincible.”

His eyes grew large as he took in a long, slow breath, “Trust me, kid. Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want it... I think you need to talk to my son, Aaron. I can’t hang around here too much longer. The Bureau wants me back at my desk in DC tomorrow morning. I’ll have him call you. Will you talk to him?”

“Sure. Got nuttin else better to do, I guess.”

“Listen, here’s
my
offer,” he stated as he stood up and placed his gun back in the shoulder holster hidden beneath his windbreaker jacket. That jacket, along with his obsidian hair, gave him the countenance of a Brooklyn Italian. “If you help me catch this guy, if you can help me find out where he’s holding Tessa, if she’s still alive, I’ll make sure none of the evidence I’ve collected in my spare time ever finds its way into a forensics lab—

“You should also know that I’m fully aware you did that guy in the music studio and I have strong doubts that your Daddy was the victim of a random mugging.”

Absolutely unsurprised, I asked, “So how’d you find out?”

He grinned, “Maybe I’ll tell you some other time, when and if you ever earn my trust. But for now... I’ll just say that ever since a co-worker, a good friend of mine, let it drop one day that my daughter was probably there at Milton’s that night—“

He paused, a subtle tremor of emotion coasted through his system like a passing subway train.

“I’ve been tracking the Mansfield Gunman for a long time. The same gunman who for reasons unknown helped those three kids out of that house and allowed them to live when they were all capable of identifying him. I’ve spent the past three and a half years trying to find you. I tried for so long to get inside your head. But once I accomplished that, discovering your whereabouts was all routine work.

“The reason no one else in the Bureau knows your identity is because I’ve done all my investigative work in my spare time. I’m not allowed to officially work this case because I’m personally involved... Will you help me?”

“Of course,” I answered, “I’ll do everything I can to help Tessa. And you don’t have to blackmail me. Prison, getting shot, arrested. None of that shit concerns me anymore.”

He nodded in affirmation but internally shrugged off my last statement, not really buying it. To be diplomatic, he chose not to verbally express that opinion. How could the idea of going to jail not scare somebody?