The Archangel Drones (18 page)

No, everybody was better off if he just faded away - ceased to exist.

His resolve was bolstered by adolescent analysis, mental exercises that predicted years of surgeries, tons of pain, and months of being confined to a bed that was, in reality, nothing more than a prison bunk.

Jacob moved slowly to the display of trophies covering a specially mounted shelf. He gently touched a few of his favorites, the metal’s cold surface unyielding under his fingertips. A grimace formed on his face, a wave of disgust welling up inside. Why had he wanted these useless trinkets so prominently displayed? Why had he felt a sense of pride and accomplishment over such meaningless symbols celebrating something so unimportant? So fleeting? So immaterial in the grand scale of life? He was embarrassed by how naïve he had once been.

He limped to the bed, managed to bend and sit without the ever-present crutches. Reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand, he began swallowing three or four pills at a time, the handful of tablets taking several gulps to consume.

He lay on the pillows, the fresh smell of dryer sheets bringing a smile to his face. Mom was at it again, laundering his bedding while he’d taken a shower. “I’m doing this for you, Mom. I am doing this for you, Dad, and for you, too, Manny. You’ll all be better off without me,” he whispered. “I love you all.”

Sleep came before any effect of the narcotic, Jacob’s troubled mind finally finding comfort with the act of taking control of his own destiny. He had made a decision. He was in command, and it felt good. It had been so long since he’d experienced such a state, and now the pain would finally stop.

Manny cursed her stupidity, noting her phone’s battery was dead after exiting the school’s main entrance. Rushing for her bus, she was worried, knowing that Jacob would be upset when she didn’t text him right away. Her stress doubled after remembering he was being interviewed by the cops early that afternoon.

She rushed into her house after the 30-minute bus ride, yelling a quick “I’m home, Mom,” and heading directly for her room and the cell’s charger.

Trying to decide which was faster, booting her computer, or getting enough charge on her phone, she chose to juice up the mobile’s batteries.

Back down the stairs she galloped, making a beeline for the refrigerator, pausing momentarily to give her mother a hug. The two girls chitchatted about the day’s events while Manny downed a large glass of orange juice.

“How’s Jacob doing?” Amanda asked, bringing her sometimes scatterbrained daughter back to reality.

“Oh, crap. My phone. Be right back!”

It took a bit for the cell to boot, another few moments for Jacob’s message to show up on the screen. “Now that’s weird,” she whispered, reading the odd text for the second time. “He must have had a really bad day.”

Manny wasn’t sure how to react to her boyfriend’s unusual words and phrasing, something troubling about the finality of his last statement. “I better let mom look at this,” she mumbled, bouncing back down the stairs with urgency.

Amanda took one look at the message and grew pale. “Call Gabe and Sandy, right now!” she barked, scaring her daughter with the outburst.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Just call them. Tell them to go check on Jacob…. Never mind. I’ll do it.”

In a flash, Amanda pulled her own phone out of her purse, fingers flying through her contact list until Sandy’s number appeared. It seemed like an eternity before Mrs. Chase answered.

“Hi, Amanda, how are you?” the cheerful greeting piped through the line.

“Manny got a really weird text from Jacob this afternoon. Sandy… you better go check on him… it sounded… well… troubling.”

“Oh. No. Oh, Lord… thank you, Amanda,” and then the call went dead.

Gabe saw a look of sheer terror cross his wife’s face as she set down her phone. “What’s the matter?” he tried to ask, but she was already darting for the stairs. He followed, some sixth sense telling him why his wife was in such a rush.

When Gabe crossed the threshold, Sandy was leaning over Jacob’s bed aggressively shaking her son with the strength of desperation. “Is he breathing?” the boy’s father managed.

“He’s cold, Gabe. Oh my God…. Oh, my God. No, Jacob. Noooooo!”

Gabe’s phone was out of his pocket, his shaking fingers managing the 9-1-1 buttons. “Yes, this is an emergency! My son… I think he’s tried to kill himself….”

Sandy’s uncontrollable screams and hysterical sobbing made it difficult for Gabe to manage his own home address. “Okay, sir, I’ve got an ambulance on the way.”

“What do I do?” he pleaded with the emergency operator. “Tell me what to do.”

“Please be calm, sir, and be ready to let the EMTs in when they arrive,” the hollow words echoed in Gabe’s mind.

Officer Kirkpatrick walked into the restaurant, immediately spying the large table of cops at the back of the dimly lit dining area.
It’s never difficult to find your party when in uniform
, he mused.

Zigzagging through the occupied tables of diners enjoying the locally well-known Tex-Mex fare, Dole was surprised to spot a few different faces at the table. His apprehension was further elevated when he noticed quite the assortment of “stripes and pipes,” a reference to the rank insignias represented among the gathered throng. 

The normal crew of “dawn patrol” cops had been supplemented this evening, some incident evidently holding the second shift boys over. After a few nods and hellos, the patrolman took the last, open seat and began perusing the expansive menu.

The table’s in-process conversation consisted mainly of frustrated remarks by the second shifters, a semi-trailer full of hazardous material having overturned on I-45 just as rush hour was in full swing. It had been a mess, half a million angry commuters joining a dozen fire trucks and a small army of DOT cleanup experts in the gridlock.

The waitress appeared, stopping the in-progress rant dead cold. Policemen didn’t like outsiders hearing their private conversations, no matter how innocent the interruption. It was a habit, born of hard lessons, and the never-ending isolation men wearing the badge experienced every day.

With all the separate-check orders taken, the attractive server hustled off toward the kitchen, apparently unfazed by the burden of tallying one ticket per diner.

After watching the gal sashay away, one of the two-stripers smirked and asked, “Hey, Big Jim, is that gal that just took our order the holster bunny you were telling me be about?”

Several heads at the table turned quickly to double check the waitress’s backside as she disappeared around the corner, a few heads nodding in approval. All seated knew the reference, a “holster bunny,” or sometimes “holster hugger,” being a woman who sought sex with men in blue uniforms.

“So I hear,” Jim answered. “According to a couple of the constables I know, she’s damn friendly on occasion. One of them even went so far as to claim she intentionally kept a headlight out just so she’d get pulled over.”

Everyone cackled at the remark, one of the third shift patrolmen pretending to pull his notebook out and scribble a reference. The banter and subsequent laughter continued.

Kirkpatrick didn’t have any funny anecdotes or clever comments to add. Besides being the junior man at the table, he was a naturally quiet soul. Instead, he chose to study the older, more experienced cops around him. Especially those he hadn’t worked with in the past.

Big Jim Marwick was there, the sergeant’s attendance at any sort of social gathering both unusual and intimidating. Rumor had it that the large-framed cop was up for a promotion, which translated into most meals being taken with his superiors, not the precinct’s lowly patrolmen.

“Hey, Jim, do you remember that kid that tried to evade you a few months back? You were working our shift on a swap,” asked one of the owls.

“Yeah… I remember getting my ass chewed,” growled the big man. “Internal Affairs is still looking at the cluster fuck, so I’m not out of the woods just yet.”

“Well, I heard that kid committed suicide yesterday. Overdosed on pain meds.”

The table grew quiet, many of the men seated having processed the scenes of teenage suicides. Such events never resulted in a pleasant day. About the only thing worse was when one of their own decided to end it all, which happened more often than any cop wanted to admit.

But Jim didn’t seem to be concerned, waving off the foul air that had suddenly formed over the table. “Doesn’t surprise me. He was weak. Most of those rich, white kids are a bunch of uppity, privileged little shits who think the world owes them a smooth sail. They grow up believing that mom and dad will bail their little, spoiled asses out when the occasional wave does rock their boats. When life introduces them to the real jungle, a lot of them crack up and go over the edge.”

“Aren’t the parents threatening a civil suit, Jim?”

“Yeah… just like everybody else we put cuffs on these days. You look at them funny, and they scream abuse. Fuck, what’s this world coming to? I’ve gotten in trouble for supposedly beating up a couple of punks. Those pussies wouldn’t have lasted a week in my old man’s house… if you crossed him, you learned what a true ass whooping was all about.” Marwick replied with a grimace. “Nowadays, my dad would probably get brought up on child abuse charges. Yet all my brothers and sisters have done well in life and managed to stay out of the prison system. Imagine that.”

The discussion paused, many of the men sitting around the table unsure of what to say next. The long dissertation was unusual for any senior cop, especially on a topic such as pending litigation. Big Jim sensed the uneasiness, quickly deciding to move things along with a joke. “Do you guys think I should send flowers to the funeral?”

The attempt at humor fell flat, a few polite guffaws and grunts sounding around the table. Dole nearly choked on the mouthful of iced tea he’d just sipped.

Kirkpatrick was stunned, by both the news and the sergeant’s reaction. He had been the one working the kid’s hotfoot that night, a passing wave of guilt by association then replaced by an empty knot in his gut, all driven by the memory of that incident.

That wave of nausea was quickly surpassed, however. A surge of disgust began filling Dole’s core, the revulsion fueled by Marwick’s reaction. It was beyond cold and cynical – the man sitting at the end of the table was bigoted and tyrannical.

It was a blessing when the food came, the discussion, or lack thereof, interrupted as the waitress placed steaming dishes in front of each cop. Dole was no longer hungry, but welcomed the opportunity to stare down at his plate instead of into the faces of the men around him.