Power Play
Page 41
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He was common now, only an ordinary man, no longer even young or strong. He wanted to howl with the loss, and with the fear he would remain common and powerless for the rest of his life.
It was cold. The old vagrant’s coat he’d stolen after he’d stuck a knife in his heart smelled musty, with a layer of fruit and chewing tobacco, probably from the old man’s crib. Blessed marveled at how easily the knife slipped between his ribs, directly into his heart. Of course, Blessed knew exactly where to slip the knife. His father had shown him and his brother Grace, pointing his old fingers with his sharp curved nails at what he called the X Spot. He remembered his father telling him and Grace, “If you boys can’t use your gift, then you will do what you have to do, but never forget, do it kindly.” He’d wondered whether how you killed someone would matter that much to that person, but he’d never asked. His father wasn’t one to ever question. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Father was dead now, as was his precious mother. And his brother Grace. And Martin. Only Autumn, Martin’s daughter, was alive, but that child of his blood would have killed him, if she could, and very nearly did.
He tasted the remembered fear, cold and acid in his mouth, and swallowed. A little girl had left him hollow, a shadow, a man of no account at all.
The old vagrant had given out only a short sigh, then slumped forward in Blessed’s arms. He’d gently pulled out the knife he’d bought at a pawnshop for five dollars, most of the money the orderly had had in his wallet. He felt a leap of energy fill him when he’d walked out of that cold, bleak state hospital filled with crazy people and blank-eyed orderlies and nurses and doctors who looked through you, never at you. He’d wiped off the knife, slipped it back into its webbing at his waist, laid the man against the alley wall and took the heavy old coat.
Blessed missed his father. Had he smelled a whiff of him on the old man whose coat was now on his back? No, maybe that was how old people smelled. Blessed would have preferred sending the old man walking off an overpass on Highway 75 with a look, but he couldn’t do that any longer. He wanted to curse until he remembered the old couple in Georgetown who’d seen him leap away from his down motorcycle and limp away. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, but he’d looked at them and said quickly, “You did not see me.” And he’d seen something in their eyes, something that reminded him of his old self. He wondered what they’d told the police, what they’d told Agent Sherlock.
She’d shot the motorcycle right out from under him. She was still alive and walking around and his mama was dead, with only him left to care, to remember her and his family, and what they’d all been to one another. Now both that damned agent and her husband were looking for him, he knew it to his belly. But did they know who he was? They would soon, he would see to that.
He thought again of that old couple and felt his pulse leap. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe his power was coming back. Maybe. But now that he thought about it, was it possible they hadn’t seen him clearly enough because they were too old?
Blessed walked back to his end motel room, unlocked the door, and closed it quietly behind him. The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fried chicken. He tossed the motel room key on the bed. He didn’t even have his stolen motorcycle now. Tomorrow, he’d steal a car, maybe an old Chevy Camaro. His daddy had loved the old Camaros. But it had to be close by. He rubbed his legs, raising one, then the other. They wobbled a bit. He had to work them more, but not tonight. He’d done enough for tonight.
He didn’t take off the coat, simply stretched out on the stingy mattress, crossed his arms over his chest. He remembered his mama stroking his head in her last moments on earth, whispering to him that she loved him.
“Blessed, Blessed,” she’d said, her voice wispy and soft, “I knew I would see you again. But I will have to leave you soon, Blessed, I don’t have much time. My heart feels like it’s slogging through thick mud and it’s hard to breathe. Those two terrible people who put us here—you must promise me you will make them pay for what they did. You kill them for me. You will give me revenge and peace. Will you promise me?”
He had cried, beside himself, the pain was so great. “No, Mama, don’t go, don’t die, you’re all I have left. Martin is gone. Grace is gone, Father’s gone. Don’t leave me. Don’t.”
The wispy old voice grew softer, as if drifting away from him. “I wish I could stay with you, Blessed, but I can’t. Your little niece, Autumn, is the only one who will be left of us, but I won’t send you after her again. She’s dangerous to you because she doesn’t understand. After you’ve taken our revenge, you must find a woman of power, have your own children. Make us continue. They will have your gift, and you can build our family again. You can become the Father.”
It was cold. The old vagrant’s coat he’d stolen after he’d stuck a knife in his heart smelled musty, with a layer of fruit and chewing tobacco, probably from the old man’s crib. Blessed marveled at how easily the knife slipped between his ribs, directly into his heart. Of course, Blessed knew exactly where to slip the knife. His father had shown him and his brother Grace, pointing his old fingers with his sharp curved nails at what he called the X Spot. He remembered his father telling him and Grace, “If you boys can’t use your gift, then you will do what you have to do, but never forget, do it kindly.” He’d wondered whether how you killed someone would matter that much to that person, but he’d never asked. His father wasn’t one to ever question. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Father was dead now, as was his precious mother. And his brother Grace. And Martin. Only Autumn, Martin’s daughter, was alive, but that child of his blood would have killed him, if she could, and very nearly did.
He tasted the remembered fear, cold and acid in his mouth, and swallowed. A little girl had left him hollow, a shadow, a man of no account at all.
The old vagrant had given out only a short sigh, then slumped forward in Blessed’s arms. He’d gently pulled out the knife he’d bought at a pawnshop for five dollars, most of the money the orderly had had in his wallet. He felt a leap of energy fill him when he’d walked out of that cold, bleak state hospital filled with crazy people and blank-eyed orderlies and nurses and doctors who looked through you, never at you. He’d wiped off the knife, slipped it back into its webbing at his waist, laid the man against the alley wall and took the heavy old coat.
Blessed missed his father. Had he smelled a whiff of him on the old man whose coat was now on his back? No, maybe that was how old people smelled. Blessed would have preferred sending the old man walking off an overpass on Highway 75 with a look, but he couldn’t do that any longer. He wanted to curse until he remembered the old couple in Georgetown who’d seen him leap away from his down motorcycle and limp away. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, but he’d looked at them and said quickly, “You did not see me.” And he’d seen something in their eyes, something that reminded him of his old self. He wondered what they’d told the police, what they’d told Agent Sherlock.
She’d shot the motorcycle right out from under him. She was still alive and walking around and his mama was dead, with only him left to care, to remember her and his family, and what they’d all been to one another. Now both that damned agent and her husband were looking for him, he knew it to his belly. But did they know who he was? They would soon, he would see to that.
He thought again of that old couple and felt his pulse leap. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe his power was coming back. Maybe. But now that he thought about it, was it possible they hadn’t seen him clearly enough because they were too old?
Blessed walked back to his end motel room, unlocked the door, and closed it quietly behind him. The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fried chicken. He tossed the motel room key on the bed. He didn’t even have his stolen motorcycle now. Tomorrow, he’d steal a car, maybe an old Chevy Camaro. His daddy had loved the old Camaros. But it had to be close by. He rubbed his legs, raising one, then the other. They wobbled a bit. He had to work them more, but not tonight. He’d done enough for tonight.
He didn’t take off the coat, simply stretched out on the stingy mattress, crossed his arms over his chest. He remembered his mama stroking his head in her last moments on earth, whispering to him that she loved him.
“Blessed, Blessed,” she’d said, her voice wispy and soft, “I knew I would see you again. But I will have to leave you soon, Blessed, I don’t have much time. My heart feels like it’s slogging through thick mud and it’s hard to breathe. Those two terrible people who put us here—you must promise me you will make them pay for what they did. You kill them for me. You will give me revenge and peace. Will you promise me?”
He had cried, beside himself, the pain was so great. “No, Mama, don’t go, don’t die, you’re all I have left. Martin is gone. Grace is gone, Father’s gone. Don’t leave me. Don’t.”
The wispy old voice grew softer, as if drifting away from him. “I wish I could stay with you, Blessed, but I can’t. Your little niece, Autumn, is the only one who will be left of us, but I won’t send you after her again. She’s dangerous to you because she doesn’t understand. After you’ve taken our revenge, you must find a woman of power, have your own children. Make us continue. They will have your gift, and you can build our family again. You can become the Father.”
