Law and Order, page 15
“Not good,” Angela muttered.
Their situation got even worse when the person in the wheelchair picked his head up and flicked something by his side. A light came on and revealed the wheelchair user. Totally bald, with a narrow, unshaven face and skinny body clothed in faded jeans and a T-shirt, he had only one leg, his left. A blanket covered his lap, but an empty space existed where the calf and foot of his right leg should have been. His facial expression remained blank, unreadable, but he didn’t seem dangerous.
However, a second later, in a smooth and very fluid, practiced motion, the man pulled something from under the blanket—a very lethal looking pistol. At this range, he couldn’t miss. “My name’s Arnold Xavier,” he said. “I heard about you guys. Don’t move.”
* * * *
For a moment, no one blinked or breathed. Finally, Xavier broke the silence, and he waved his gun at the empty space in front of him. “Since you’re already in, close the door and take a seat,” he said. “I’m not going to shoot unless I have to…but from what I’ve heard, regular bullets don’t work on you.”
Right now, Paul wasn’t sure bullets wouldn’t hurt him. No sense in taking chances, though, so he gingerly took a seat on the floor with Angela next to him. She placed the unmoving Sandstorm beside her.
Once more, silence filled the air, broken only by the shouts of the partygoers down the beach. Hoping to reason with the man, Paul asked, “You’re not scared of us?”
“How old are you?”
“I’m almost eighteen.”
With a sigh, Xavier put the gun aside and leaned down to massage his stump. “I’ll start by saying no, I’m not afraid of you. Let me tell you a little story then you’ll understand why. I joined the army when I turned twenty-two, after I graduated college. Got basic training, stayed stateside for two years then went off to war—Desert Storm. This is what I came back with.” He pointed to his missing leg. “I can’t wear a prosthetic. It hurts too much, and the tissue in my stump swells. I’m better off without it, anyway.”
He spoke entirely without pity, as if going off to war was something a person did every day of the week. His voice spoke of acceptance, not anger or bitterness. His gestures, minimalist in nature, spoke of the maximal pain he’d endured. When he returned to the United States, no one had showed up to greet him. His parents had died long ago.
It didn’t seem fair, but then again, life never was.
“You asked me if I was afraid of you,” he continued in a quiet voice. “Like I said, I went over there when I was younger. I did what I was supposed to do, hunted for the enemy, did my duty. I was young, dumb and figured nothing would ever happen.
“I got hit my third month there. We were out on patrol and got attacked by six men. One of them tossed a grenade, and it blew me sky high. Blasted my nerves to hell, and I never figured out what happened to my other leg. I can walk with my crutches, just not very well.”
Xavier paused to lick thin lips and his grew more impassioned with each passing sentence. “You want to talk about fear? When I was in Iraq, I waited every night for the sound of the safety catches on automatics being taken off. I sat up, hoping no one would slither in and try to knife us in our sleep. I watched guys my age and younger get blown up by land mines or shot or knifed. They lost legs, arms or their eyesight. Some lost half of their heads and lived.”
He wiped a sudden burst of sweat from his brow. “One guy I went through basic training with—nice dude, married, had kids—he got his stomach blown open, and all he asked for was a drink of water before he died. I saw blood and guts and smashed bone. I’ve seen nightmares of what people looked like after they got injured. Seeing you doesn’t bother me.
“Besides,” he sighed, “if you were going to kill me, you’d have just busted in and done it. I heard about you guys running around the city and taking down crooks. I don’t think you’re the monsters everyone’s making you out to be.”
Angela had remained rigid during Xavier’s tale, and now an expression of sympathy came over her face. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” she said.
“I live with it,” he answered simply. “What else am I going to do?”
“Um, what happened… I mean,” Paul stumbled out his question, “after you got hurt?”
Xavier’s story was all too common. He’d come back to his hometown—“born and raised right here on the beach, and I still swim every day”—to a country not interested in his past service or the skills he could offer.
“I wasn’t asking for anything,” he said in a calm and quiet manner without a trace of pity. The way he relayed his thoughts, though, made the message of his return more intense.
“Stateside, unless you’re some high-ranking officer, you don’t get much. I was a corporal, so the pay was decent, but it doesn’t last very long after your hitch is up. I have a university degree, so I could have gone in as an officer, but I wanted to earn my way.”
He stopped to rub his stump again. “Anyway, rank doesn’t matter a whole lot once you get injured. I came back, and”—he gave an offhand shrug—“what you see is what you get. The veteran’s administration can only give you the basics. I got a few months of rehab, gained a little muscle tone and some mobility, and I get a check from the government every month.” He snorted. “I’d rather work, but try finding a job in this economy.”
When he mentioned not being able to work, he sounded bitter, but a second later he grew more philosophical. “I shouldn’t complain. Lots of guys I knew didn’t make it back. Lots of them came home with PTSD, drug problems, busted marriages…crap like that. I was single when I went over.”
“Did you have a girlfriend?” Paul asked.
Xavier arched his eyebrows, and Paul immediately realized he’d messed up. This guy had his own problems. Why bother asking anything personal? “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. You didn’t know. Yeah, I had one, and when I came back all messed up, she decided to move on.”
The other man puffed out his reply and shook his head, as if to clear it of unhappy memories. “I didn’t hold it against her. Others told me I got rooked. I did what I had to do. I’ve never regretted it. And”—he took in another breath and forcefully exhaled—“I never got hooked on drugs, either, or had nightmares about the battles…lucky me.”
“You live here all year?” Angela asked, as she slowly swiveled her head to take in the details of the room.
Xavier swept his hand around to show what he had. “Yep, the party bunch did me a favor and built me this place. I call it my refuge. The city ordinance guys came around and gave me a special zoning permit, so at least I got a place to live. I’ve been living here for over twenty years. I go swimming, get my meals at a local diner and cook here sometimes when I don’t feel like going out. It’s not great, but I make do.”
“What’s with the models?” Paul gestured at the glass case. “I think they’re really cool.”
The compliment earned him a shy smile. “Everyone’s got to have a hobby. That’s mine. It takes me about a month to do one ship. I sell ’em online… Make a little cash here and there. You really like ‘em?”
“Yeah, I do.”
A second later, the shy smile disappeared, and the veteran stared at them, his eyes seemingly weighing the pros and cons of speaking his mind. At last, he said, “If you tell me what’s going on, I’d be interested.”
“Why?” asked Paul.
Xavier snorted. “Look around you, kid. You think I have any visitors?”
Angela nudged Paul on the shoulder—gently—and whispered, “Tell him.”
So the story came out, starting with their origins and finishing off with being chased through the sewers. Xavier listened intently, never changing position, and finally, after about thirty minutes, he leaned back in his chair and looked at the empty space where his lower leg should have been. “Y’know, I can sometimes feel it,” he said. “The doctors call it a phantom limb. It’s like part of me is thinking that it’s still there. I know it isn’t, but all the same, I want it to be there.”
A sigh came from him. “But since I already told you my tale of woe, seems like your saga isn’t over yet. I believe you. I saw some footage of the others.”
“Footage?” asked Angela.
In answer, he wheeled his way over to the laptop and switched it on. A few seconds later, the screen lit, he typed something in, then the picture shifted to a news site. “Take a look.”
The footage… It was true. It showed Mason and Catherine breaking into an apartment house, one reputedly owned by a local drug dealer. A reporter, a young redheaded man, stood at the entrance and breathlessly intoned, “We’re here at Upton Heights in the eastern part of the city, a known haven for criminals. The Nightmare Crew has targeted the whereabouts of the recently released Melvin Salter, a known felon who has been linked to the Ecstasy drug trade as well as other illegal narcotics.”
A scream sounded from overhead. The camera panned upward, and the battered and bloody body of someone hurtled into the frame. The cameraman zoomed in to follow the body all the way to the ground. It landed with a splat on the pavement, two feet away from the reporter who yelped and hustled out of the way. “God!” he screamed out and stared at the body of the late Mr. Salter.
Blood ran in rivulets from the corpse, and a second later, Catherine flew down, holding onto Mason. They landed in front of the camera, grinning like maniacs. “Say hello to the new Nightmare Crew,” Mason intoned in a voice most triumphant. “If you break the law, get ready to face the consequences…”
Xavier shut off the computer. “This little incident took place a couple of days ago.”
Paul glanced at Angela. They’d been down in the sewer for two days? Time lost all meaning when you were sick and on the run…
“I take it those guys aren’t on your side?” interrupted Xavier.
“We don’t work like that,” Angela answered. A look of outrage appeared on her face. Her eyes shone an angry blue, and her fangs came out. “They’re scum.”
Xavier gasped when he saw her teeth elongate and began to reach for his gun. Immediately, Angela held up her hands as a sign of peace and retracted her fangs. “Sorry. I’m not going to bite. They come out when I’m angry.”
Her answer seemed to mollify the veteran somewhat as he breathed in a deep gulp of air, paused, then blew it out. He withdrew his hand, but his gaze went to the lump on the floor. “What is that?”
“It’s Sandstorm,” she said. “He’s living sand, full of glue, and we need to get him unstuck.”
“Give him to me.”
When both of them hesitated, Xavier’s voice took on a note of urgency. “C’mon. I haven’t got all night and apparently you don’t, either. I was a chemistry major in university. I may be able to help you.”
Reluctantly, Angela handed over Sandstorm, and Xavier hefted the lump, examining it from all angles. “They used some kind of glue on him?”
“He’s stuck,” she replied.
“I can see that.”
Swiveling around in his wheelchair, Xavier put Sandstorm on the nearby table and pulled out the chest from underneath. Inside, there were a number of chemicals and other paraphernalia, along with an old-fashioned microscope and some other tools of the analytical trade.
“Hmmm… This looks like industrial strength epoxy,” he said after he gently scraped something off the surface of Sandstorm’s body. He slid it onto a glass slide and put it under the microscope. Peering intently through the lens, he muttered, “They’re using some kind of petroleum derivative, but it seems to be a lot stronger.” He picked his head up. “Let me work on it…uh, him.”
Hope rose in Paul’s heart then taking a sniff, he smelled his own body odor. “Uh, you don’t have any soap, do you?” he asked. “I stink.”
Xavier grunted and jerked his head to indicate the rear of the house. “Take a look in the back room. There’s a shower there. You’re welcome to use it. And if you need to eat something, I think I’ve got some cold cuts and bread in the fridge.”
Grateful for the offer, Paul walked over to the door, opened it then found a shower rigged up with supports for the disabled. He stripped off his clothes and climbed in. The water was cold, but he didn’t care for any special amenities. Spotting a bar of soap on a tray, he lathered up and scrubbed furiously, washing two days of grime and sludge from his frame. After fifteen minutes, he felt much better and shut off the water.
Paul stepped outside. A rack of towels sat at chest level, and he pulled one out, drying his body and wrapping the towel around his lean waist. Clothes… What should he do about his clothes? Gathering his old duds up, he stepped outside, and Angela gasped and turned pink when she saw him.
What was going on here? She’d seen him with his shirt off before…then he realized the towel had a hole in the front which revealed his all-together in a very unsubtle way. Hastily, he twisted his body to one side.
Xavier observed the goings-on entirely without emotion. “So, are you two a couple? If you are, I can tell this relationship must be a platonic one.”
Angela muttered something and turned away. Paul felt the heat rush to his face and also mumbled something along the lines of taking it slow.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Xavier said and this time a small grin emerged. He pointed to a shelf above his bed. “I’ve got some clothes up there. They might fit. There’s a garbage can out back. Use it.”
Hastily walking over to the shelf, Paul grabbed a pair of pants and a T-shirt and ran into the shower room to change. They were a bit tight, but he wasn’t in any position to argue. Emerging once again, he took his old clothes, went out the back way and found the garbage. Checking the area, it seemed to be clear. The sounds of the partygoers on the beach had faded, though, and the bonfire had been extinguished. It seemed that the bash was over.
Inside, Angela’s embarrassment at seeing him half-naked had disappeared. Instead, she wore a smile. “He may be able to fix Sandstorm,” she said with a tone of mounting excitement.
“Good news,” Paul said, and he felt a different pang in his stomach, one of hunger. By his reckoning, he hadn’t eaten for at least forty-eight hours.
Xavier clearly also heard the sound of the stomach rumbles and waved his hand at the refrigerator. “Go ahead.”
Searching the fridge, Paul found a loaf of bread, some cold cuts and a jar of pickles. He took half of the loaf to make some sandwiches and three pickles, stuffed them down and felt sated for the moment.
When Paul turned around, Xavier was still working on the lump in front of him. “Before I do anything, I’m going to say right now that it’s a hit-and-miss proposition. This is something I worked on when I was a freshman. It’s a petroleum derivative, but much stronger.”
“Please,” Angela begged. “He’s our friend.”
A moment passed and in that moment Paul saw the possibility of someone who understood them for what they were. This man owed them nothing, yet he’d given them everything he had. Xavier finally sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Like I said, it’s a maybe at best. I need some time.”
Clasping her hands together, Angela nodded. “Please.”
“All right… I’ll give it a shot.”
Xavier set to work, gently probing the mass in front of him, murmuring something about petro-chemical compounds. Paul took the opportunity to gaze at the models inside the glass case. Beautiful schooners of old, battleships, yachts and more filled his view, all incredibly detailed right down to the masts and sails and gun turrets. If things were different, he’d take a voyage across the sea, sail along the waves with the wind in his hair, steering at night and using the sky as his compass…
The sound of the door being kicked open interrupted his thought. Six men, all armed with Tasers, entered the room and shot them at Angela. She only had enough time to turn around, so she received the full charge in her chest. Blue light danced all over her body, and she uttered a horrid scream before she collapsed, writhed in agony then lay still.
Xavier hastily wheeled his body in front of his worktable. “What do you guys want?”
One man stepped forward. In his forties, short and fat, with a pockmarked face, a double chin and a mean look, he held a pistol and flashed a grin. He seemed to be the leader, as the others stayed behind him, silent, waiting for orders. “We don’t want anything from you, mister. We want the monsters. We’re assuming that’s okay with you.”
In turn, Paul moved to face the fat man. “This guy didn’t know we were here. We broke in. We just wanted something to eat.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Xavier slowly reach behind him. The leader picked up on the movement and leveled his gun at him. “What are you holding? It looks like a giant turd.”
“It’s nothing.”
A look of pure meanness crossed the fat man’s face. “If it’s nothing, hand it over.”
Reluctantly, Xavier did. Once Sandstorm was in his hands, the fat man hefted him and nodded at the find. “Yeah, we were told about this.” He handed it to one of his cohorts. “Thanks.”
With a mounting sense of frustration, Paul saw the unwanted transaction, but he stood still and did nothing. This man was armed, and he wasn’t. The fat man backed up a step and said to Xavier, “You’re crippled up. Were you in a war?”
“I was in Desert Storm.”
“At least we have one patriot here,” replied the fat man, as he shifted his beady eyes to Paul. “Well, you had your lunch at Chez Soldier, so it’s time to go, teen wolf.”
“My name’s Paul. Who are you?”
The mean grin got wider. “If you have to know, we’re the welcoming committee. My name’s Parham Nichols.”
He tossed a look at his comrades, who also wore grins. Paul recognized the look. He’d seen it on the faces of the kids who used to beat him up at the orphanage. He’d seen the same look on the faces of the crooks and drug dealers he’d taken down in the past. The ages were different, but the thinking was the same. Prey on the weak. Make them hurt. They did it because they could, because they reveled in being part of a mob, the anonymity it offered and the power it held. They were the real monsters in this scenario. “Hey,” he said, “you can take me, but leave this guy alone. He didn’t do anything.”
