The Forsaken (3 page)

He cracked his back and slipped on a t-shirt and a pair of beat-up jeans. The events of last night were vaguely starting to blend together properly, so he walked into the kitchen, catching his reflection in one of the hanging mirrors he kept opposite the mattress.

Kevin’s poker-straight hair favored a rugged, spiked style. Even rolling out of bed at nearly noon left it so. He had a thin build, and he had played running back in high school for three seasons. But he wasn’t any good, so he dropped it. The left side of his face had a scar too. Not from football but from a car accident when he was nine. It left its mark from his upper eyelid to his cheekbone. Most girls thought it was sexy, and he usually ran with the wounded-soldier-on-leave routine. Never hurt his game, and the girls fell in love with the fantasy of who he should’ve been. Stubbles of facial hair were starting to grow in thickly. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but it suited him fine.

Kevin walked around the kitchen space. He turned the television on. News. He hated the news, slanted and manipulated and controlled as he knew it was. But what kept him coming back for more was knowing someone else had it worse than he did. Some smuggler got caught in Colombia. A mother drowned her two kids. Military extremists got taken out in Libya. Story after story of tragedy; tragedy
he
didn’t have to experience. He could soak it all in and remain unscathed.

In no time, the morning jitters started, though. This he had to bear. Every morning, without fail, the addiction returned. And several times during the rest of the day. Where had he put the plastic bag? Sometimes he hid it from himself, thinking he was doing himself good, but all it did was aggravate him, and the result was always a messier kitchen. It wasn’t in his jeans or in the cabinets or the bathroom. Storming back to the open space where the bed was, he found Crystal’s purse and stole some of her powder.

Vivid images hummed through his subconscious. How many lines had they done the night before? He wanted the flavor in his mouth, his teeth, his nostrils. He wanted the drug living inside his veins. He opened the bag and used his pinky to draw some of it to his lips and rubbed it across the surface of his teeth. The feeling was nearly electric. He then poured the powder onto the nearest countertop and divided the drug into thin lines. Seconds later, every line lived in his bloodstream. He’d gotten the cravings to settle him down. Shortly after, Kevin stuffed the tiny bag back into Crystal’s purse and wiped his nose. Then he heard a knock on his door.

He was sure Crystal would wake up. To his surprise, she only tossed a bit then dragged a pillow over her head. Kevin walked toward the door and opened it slightly.

“I told you I’d have the money—”

“It’s not your bookie,” came Jude’s stern voice. “Got something to hide, baby brother?” “Oh, it’s just you.”

“Yeah, it’s me. Let me in, scarecrow.”

Kevin hesitated. “There’s this rule about inviting the damned into your apartment, so I think I’ll pass,” he said.

“C’mon, I’m here to see how you’re doing. Just wanna catch up.”

Kevin sighed. In a matter of seconds, he removed the locks and let Jude come inside, twitching his nose about a hundred times. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I told you, just wanna talk.”

“You look like hell.”

“Yeah, well, when you’ve been around it long enough….” Jude’s voice trailed off.

Kevin tried to keep his focus off the bedroom mattress, but it was hard, near impossible. He scanned the room, knowing his brother would have his opinions, especially when he noticed there was a woman wrapped in his sheets, again.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Jude said. “You’ve really spruced it up.”

“You know me.” The sarcasm was difficult to hide. “Listen, Jude, I’m not really in the mood to play reality-T.V. family right now.”

“Your hospitality never gets old.” Jude opened the refrigerator, only to slam it closed again because of the putrid smell.

Kevin stood with arms crossed.

“You only get defensive when you’re hiding something.” Jude noticed the red bra hanging off the chair. “Real classy. What’s this one’s name?”

“Crystal,” a voice called out from the mattress in the other room. “Morning, stranger.” It didn’t take long for her half-naked body to come out of the sheets to claim her brassiere. “Try not to stare,” she said in a low voice.

Jude turned away while she put it back on. “What are you doing here?”

“Kevin’s real nice,” she replied, lighting a cigarette.

“Crystal, don’t—”

“What’s the matter, Kev? Can’t stand up to your big brother?” Crystal blew a ring of smoke into Jude’s face. “Just ’cause you got a badge doesn’t make you any better than us.”

“You know, I thought this place smelled funny,” he seethed.

“Drop dead.”

“Talk nice to all your clients?” Jude replied, unflinching.

She bit down hard, frustrated, before escaping into the bathroom to take a shower.

“That’s cute, Kevin. Now she’s bathing here? Do you like it when people take you for a sucker?”

“You would know.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is,” Kevin said, reaching for a smoke. “Newsflash, Jude, you don’t run my life. That stopped when Dad died.”

“This is classic. You have strange women sleeping in your bed and taking showers in your apartment. Man, really carved a solid path for yourself. You know, it’s like, just when I thought you’ve done everything in the book to surprise me, you prove me wrong.”

“Happy I didn’t disappoint you,” Kevin scoffed, finally lighting up.

“What are you doing with trash like that, man?” Jude asked, sounding concerned all of a sudden.

Kevin, a few inches shorter than his brother, looked up with disdain. “Shut up. You think you can come in here and call her trash? What do you know about it? Nothing. So stay out of my life.” He took a long drag. “At least I don’t wake up alone, like you.”

Jude scratched his neck tensely. “How long? How long are we gonna do this?”

“I don’t know. But I guess it’s me. I’m the bad guy, and you’re just trying to save me, is that right?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Kevin hopped up onto the counter and leaned over, shutting the television off. “I don’t want you coming here anymore, Jude. It’s not fun for me, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, it’s a real party for me too.”

“Good,” he said, taking another drag. “Looks like we finally agree on something.”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” Jude confessed. He handed Kevin an envelope with cash in it. “This should hold you off for a little while.”

Kevin took it and counted the bills before stuffing them back inside. “What is this, guilt money? I’m not a thug or some snitch you can pay off to give yourself a clear conscience. I don’t need your money.”

“Then burn it. I don’t care. You’re unbelievable.” Jude rushed toward the door.

“That’s what you’re best at, right?” Kevin said, giving Jude the finger. “You love walking away. You know, I really
missed
this.”

It was abrupt and bitter, the way unannounced drop-ins usually ended up. Jude didn’t say a word, but he left a dent in the apartment door as he exited.

Hangovers were nothing compared to the gut-wrenching nausea Kevin felt when he and Jude fought. He hated it, but it was like there was nothing he could do. Like the future, past, and present were all already written and they were born to be cruel to each. It wasn’t what his mother would want. It wasn’t what Dad would’ve wanted either. But days like today, it was what
he
wanted.

Kevin breathed in the solemn fumes of his slow-dying cigarette and hopped off the counter. He placed a few hundred dollars in Crystal’s purse, picturing her naked one last time. He’d be gone by the time she finished with her shower. He never could handle watching her leave.

4

NIGHT HAD FALLEN. JUDE
felt more comfortable with the dark, even though most nights were damp and often drifted in cold. But after hours of mindless paperwork and playing nice with coworkers, the nights were a welcome reprieve.

If the chief even allowed him to participate in a case, they were the boring ones with neat endings and slow plots. Nothing intense. Nothing that could make a real difference. Just a crap ton of papers to scribble in and forms that needed filing. It was better for the department, the chief claimed, for him to remain out of public attention. And that’s what the chief, the commissioner, and most of the dimwitted pencil pushers at the office wanted—for him to become a ghost. The gritty street assignments, the unique and sometimes open-ended thrills of the city, that’s what kept him alive. He preferred losing himself in the disturbances of a city that needed him, content to be the skeleton in everyone’s closet or the secret at the back of their minds.

Thoughts like these were dangerous. He had to keep them at bay if he wanted to find any form of contentment. The brooding, arctic stare he put to work above his half smile grew more calloused every day. Perhaps the solace of a cool cup of coffee at nine o’clock in the evening could’ve offered him some comfort, but the fact was that he was still thinking about his terrible relationship with his brother. Each bitter sip of coffee tasted like the fights they often brought to life.

To distract himself, Jude studied the few quiet souls in the diner. They weren’t much to look at, but he did it anyway. It was part of the profiling technique he never could quite turn off. The waitresses with too much lipstick and heels that made it hard to walk. Two factory employees, disgruntled about the recent layoffs. And one lonely priest in the corner finishing a plate of eggs. These were the people he worked for. These were the faces in the dark that pointed the finger when he’d screwed up. Deep down, he hated them. But he needed them too. It was sick.

Another sip and the silence ended.

“You shivering, hon?” his waitress asked, offering to pour him another cup.

“I’m not,” he denied, glaring at her.

“Okay,” she returned, offended. She spilled some of the hot coffee on his wrist. He pretended not to flinch. “Sometimes all you need is a little warmth to kill the cold.”

“Thanks.” He sneered. It felt like his eyes were extra weight in his skull, and his bones began to ache. He finished his cup of coffee, placed a few dollars on the counter, and moseyed outside.

The city air filled his lungs as the darkness wrapped his body. All seemed so quiet. Too quiet. He was reaching for his keys when the sound of a shattered window echoed from across the street. Glass showered from a run-down apartment onto the city floor, and he caught an exile leaping from a fire escape. Gunfire split the night.

“Great.” Jude gritted his teeth, racing after the runner. The sound of gunfire continued from the above apartment until Jude flashed his badge and pursued. “This is Officer Jude Foster. Stop running now!” he ordered. “Freeze!”

All he could see of the young kid was that he wore a set of Nike originals—the kind he often saw Kevin wearing. Jude panted, feeling the sting in his sides. Then he reached for his weapon.

Out of the dark, a shot fired back at him. It was strange how gunfire sounded in real life, like it was literally putting holes in the air itself as the bullet sped closer. He’d been fired at before, but Jude was past the point of caring, past diplomacy. Before this moment, all he’d wanted was to make sure the kid was all right and find out what had started the commotion, but the game had changed. Luckily, the kid was a horrible shot, or Jude would’ve fired back.

“I repeat, this is Officer Jude Foster. Stop running!”

Jude kept his rapid pace, ignoring the limitations of his thirty-seven-year-old body. He swore his joints were exploding. The second guessing always came at this point in the chase. But Jude wanted a confrontation. He wanted someone to rub him the wrong way, push him to the edge a bit. He wanted to make sure he was still a detective and not some document-filing has-been.

The runner peeled a sharp right and fired once more. He was losing his cool. It was Jude’s now to claim. The shot missed again, but a bakery window shattered behind him. Sweat blanketed his neck. Jude’s lungs were weak balloons preparing to pop. He was gaining, though. The runner’s footsteps now paralleled his own, his breathing almost in sync, and soon, he wondered if the throbbing in his ribcage would pattern itself with the frightened runner’s as well.

A young girl stood on the street corner and screamed when she heard the bullet pierce the air and then crash into glass. Jude hadn’t noticed the baby in her arms until he fled past her. He’d seen eyes like hers, listened to screams like hers, for years. They were posters on the wall of his subconscious.

Jude cut through a line of traffic when the runner darted into the street and swerved in and out of lanes. He wondered whether this man, young by the looks of him, might’ve been a champion athlete. Jude could feel the gun get tighter in his grip.

Why is this punk still running? Why do they always run?

The honking of horns and the cursing of bystanders were reason enough for Jude to flash his badge. It was always the ones who had something to lose who created the loudest stir. His forehead turned slicker with sweat. His jacket felt like a noose around a tired body. The tie could almost strangle him.