A Guardian of Innocents (38 page)

“Easy, easy,” Aaron said as he placed a hand on my shoulder, “My point is it all just seems too convenient. There’s always the possibility they were real, maybe paid actors—“

“Oh, please. You know I would’ve picked that up. No, they were just another one of his damned illusions. That’s why he STALKED me all those years. Did you figure that out?”

Aaron furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“The first time he appeared was when I took out Jack. He didn’t appear again until I was getting ready to go after Galen. And when things started to go south he
helped
. And when I was in Milton’s mansion, he kept helping. Again and again…”

I looked Aaron squarely in the eyes. “Louis is an egotistical, narcissistic sociopath. He cares nothing, I mean, not a damn thing, for anyone but himself. Why would he
help
anyone?”

“I get what you’re saying,” my friend replied, “In you he saw a means to an end.”

“Right,” I said, nodding my head in quick spastic movements. “The spell barred him from doing anything even remotely hostile towards Milton. He couldn’t touch him, cast against him or order anybody to hurt him. With me, all he had to do was let me know where the party was.”

*          *          *

The first time I was handed my meds, I couldn’t help but laugh. They were in this little plastic cup, off-white and translucent. It reminded me so much of the plastic cups of bread and water we received during the Sacrament service in the Mormon church that all I could think was,
My God, how apropos
.

The more I denied being anorexic the less they believed me. All I said was when I get depressed, sometimes I forget to eat. The bastards actually made me stand on a weight scale
backwards
every morning when they checked my vitals. It was infuriating. I wanted to scream at them that I wasn’t some bulimic teenage girl.

After breakfast was Community Group, where we all sat in a circle and shared our problems, thoughts, feelings and the like. This was the part of my daily routine I dreaded the most. Public speaking ain’t my thing. Whenever I got called upon and everyone turned to look at me, I just wanted to crawl right out my skin.

“So I’m going to tell you right off the bat what I think you have,” Dr Fitzgerald, my assigned psychiatrist stated bluntly, “Now if you disagree, please feel free to say so. First and foremost, is your PTSD. Do you know what that is?”

“Yup,” I replied.

He flipped through some sheets on a clipboard. “That of course stems from what your father did—“

“My
adoptive
father. My bio-dad is actually a pretty good guy.”

“Ah, okay. Sorry about that. My apologies.”

I shrugged, “No worries.”

“The second major issue, of course, was the death of your girlfriend. She, uh… Oh, she died in 9/11?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sweet mother, I am so sorry.”

I waved a hand in dismissal as I stared down at the piece of floor in between my shoes. “It’s been three years.”

*          *          *

Televisions weren’t allowed in patients’ rooms. Instead there was a large tv set up in a common rec center. It was meant to encourage the patients to interact with each other and be social, something which offended my very nature.

I was there one evening after dinner when one of the orderlies (commonly referred to as techs) wheeled in a woman whose mental impairments were obviously far greater than those of the rest of the patients, at least the ones I’d already met. Her head lolled to one side as her eyes casually perused the room and its occupants. She kept both of her hands up high against her chest, fingers curling and sometimes pointing outward in random patterns.

“Your favorite show’s coming on in a few minutes, Miss Betty,” the tech said as he set the brake on her wheelchair, “I’ll be back for you in an hour, okay?”

The woman angled her chin upward and replied with “Ahhheennnn…”  The tech clearly understood she was saying “alright” and gave her a little wave goodbye as he walked off.

Curious, I touched her mind. Nothing forceful, just a slight passing glance into her thoughts.

Her posture immediately stiffened. She looked around for a second or two, until her eyes found mine. She regarded me for a moment. And then…

(hello)

I jumped. I knew that had come from her, but I couldn’t believe it was even possible.  Dumbfounded, I couldn’t think of a reply.

(are you shy? that’s okay. sometimes i’m shy too)

I looked down, my mouth fumbling for words. I could feel a wave of sadness emanating from her. She thought I didn’t want to talk to her, the same way most people didn’t.

My heart broke.

(my name’s jeshua)

She smiled. And as much as I hate admitting it, it was hard to look at. Though I tried my damnedest not to show it. Not one single tooth was straight, they all seemed to erupt from her gums at various angles. 

(betty)

I smiled back at her. (it’s good to meet you, betty)

(you’re new here)

I nodded, (yeah, i’m probably gonna be here a few weeks, maybe more)

She furrowed her brow, (you tried to hurt yourself. why?)

(i don’t know if you’d understand. it’s complicated)

(i understand a lot more than people think i do. but it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me)

(i was in a really bad place. life got really hard and i thought it was the best solution)

Betty tilted her head up and barked a short laugh; it came out sounding more like a hiccup.

(a hard life in a bad place? nahh I wouldn’t understand that at all)             

*          *          *

I never even heard the door open. I had my headphones in, with the volume on my portable cd player cranked full blast. Listening to metal before bed is still one of my nightly rituals. Helps me relax.

I felt her touch my mind just a split-second before I felt her jab her finger into my shoulder with a not-so-gentle poke. My eyes snapped open and I recognized the intruder.

“Tessa! Geez!” I said as I pulled off the headset and sat up.

Laughing, she leaned down and gave me a hug. “That shit sounds
terrible
!”

“Meh, to each his own,” I replied, hitting the pause button, “You’re supposed to be in college. This is your first semester.”

She shrugged. “I’ve only got classes Monday through Thursday. I figured I’d take a three-day weekend and fly up here to visit.”

I regarded her with a cautious scrutiny; if I scanned her, she’d know it. I offered up a weak smile and looked away.

“Just thought you’d shell out a few hundred bucks for a plane ticket, spur of the moment, just for the hell of it?” I asked.

She looked down and fidgeted with the bottom of her t-shirt, “I just needed to lay eyes on you. Make sure you’re okay, you know?”

I sat silent for a moment, fighting the tightness that was welling up in my throat, threatening to escape as a sob if I dared to open my mouth.

Finally, holding my breath, I whispered, “Yeah, I know…” It came out more troubled and raspy than I would have preferred.

“Tessa, look, I’m sorry you saw what you did. I had no idea that was going to happen—“

“Is that all you’re sorry for?” she snapped, “You
promised
me! You said you’d call if you ever—“

“I know, I know,” I pleaded as I sat up on the edge of the bed, hands mock-juggling in front of my chest as if trying to conjure up the right words to make this better, make this okay.

“I was just… I was just at my absolute limit of all I could take. It was too damn much. I just want the pain to go away…”

My voice cracked as I uttered those last few words. I couldn’t hold it in. The emotional dam broke and I buried my face in my hands. God, how I hate crying.

Tessa seized me with her hug, wrapping her arms tightly around the back of my neck and kissing the top of my head. We stayed like that for a while. I could feel her tears getting my hair wet.

“You have people in your life that love you, including me. You know that?”

“Yeah... Yeah, I do.”

“I want you to remember something, okay?”

“Okay…”

“When you hurt yourself, you hurt everyone that loves you. When you put a gun up to your head, you’re doing that to everyone who loves you. When you put a knife up to your wrists, you’re cutting everyone that loves you. Got it?”

“Yeah… I got it.”

Author’s Note 2

Writing
Open Grave
so far has been an unusual experience for me, primarily due to the book’s duality. It’s two stories within a novel that serves as both sequel and prequel to
A Guardian of Innocents
. I can’t seem to sit myself down and focus on one story at a time. Instead, I hop back and forth, taking potshots at each one during almost every writing session.

I extended Excerpt 1, stretching it out to include a scene with Tessa that I really like. But now it’s time for the other half of the story to get a little airtime, and for Aaron to find his voice…

Excerpt 2

I envy those who have no regrets. For me, regret is a ghost that stalks like an obsessed lover, shadowing my every step through this great city, unwilling to be shaken, refusing to be lost. But regret haunts me on a level that restless spirits can never achieve. The story of my life is not an easy tale to tell. But nothing worth doing is ever easy, or so we’re told.

I am Aaron Collins, son of a special agent in the F.B.I., brother to a beautifully gifted sister, and friend to a troubled young man who swears vengeance against an enemy we both share.

I want to get this all down, with all my thoughts in order, before my friend and I venture out in pursuit of our nemesis. Jeshua is anxious for the fight and doesn’t understand the patience that my family and I have been forced to develop when dealing with this adversary. We understand the dark nature of his corrupted mind more than anyone else on this earth possibly could. We know that failure to strike at the most precise, opportune time can have catastrophic consequences for everyone involved.

I don’t believe Jeshua realizes just how dangerous Louis Godwin is. But in order for anyone to understand, I’ll have to start from the beginning…

*          *          *

Freshmen are always prime targets for high school bullies. Their meek countenances seemingly give off the scent of blood, attracting predators from across the campus. This is especially true when the victim is gawky, quiet and has been placed in a brand new school where not one face is familiar.

Since my father was in the F.B.I., we tended to move to a different city every couple of years. During the latter half of my childhood, into my teenage years, he investigated local government corruption. It felt as though we had just finished unpacking in our new house in Denver, when the feds uprooted us again and dropped us in Dallas, where three city councilmen were facing charges of bribery and tax evasion, among other transgressions.

This put me in Nimitz High School in Irving, Texas, a Dallas suburb, in the middle of the school year, just after Christmas break. And I hadn’t been inside the school twenty minutes when a pack of sharks caught not only the smell of a freshman, but a freshman
new kid
.

They descended on me, following close behind as I walked through the crowded halls, trying to find Room 216A, where my schedule said my algebra class was. I could feel their approach, their intent. Having been the new kid in too many different schools, I’ve learned how to handle bullies. The scurry-and-hide method never works; they always find you eventually.   

It’s for moments like these I carry my backpack on only one shoulder. Just as I felt the pack being pulled from my left side, I turned around and nailed the bastard square in the teeth just as he was starting to form a smile. This split the skin over my knuckles and warm blood began to trickle over my clenched fist.

Two letter-jacketed football guys stood dumbfounded as their broad-shouldered friend went crashing onto the hallway floor. I knew I looked like a social reject with my acne and scrawny physique, but I was blessed with one genetic advantage. I was quite tall for my age. Even as a fourteen-year-old freshman, I stood at 5’11’’, so I was well-matched with the two guys that were still standing. Not so with the thick-necked Cro-Magnon throwback I’d just laid out on the floor.

“Son of a bitch!!” he roared as he scrambled back to his feet.

I threw another punch which landed just behind his ear as he was about halfway up, but with the element of surprise lost, the blow didn’t seem to faze him. I was tackled. With my own back to the floor, I was now getting pummeled. He did his best to get around my flailing arms as I did what I could to defend myself, hoping his two friends would remain too bewildered or too cowardly to join in.

But it was only a few seconds before a small pack of teachers broke up the melee. An odd thought popped into my head then, as my body was being pulled in conflicting directions by the school faculty. It seemed utterly remarkable how similar public high school was to prison.