IN THE MIDNIGHT OF HIS HEART
by Al Bruno III
rev 6.0
Copyright Al Bruno III 2011
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In The Midnight of His Heart
By
Al Bruno III
For My Father
prologue
Thirty-five years.
Thirty-five years crippled. Thirty-five years trapped.
Thirty-five years since the betrayal that robbed him of everything. Thirty-five years of despair, knowing that with every night’s passing he was growing weaker. That the fire burning within him was failing and he was too old, too wounded to rekindle it by himself. He didn’t fear death, but the realization that all his dreams would die with him weighed heavily. Dreams were all he had now, dreams and memories.
Thirty-five years and the world moved on around him. Empires rose and fell, the world grew smaller, the stars drew nearer. One by one the great questions were answered and new ones rose up to take their place. He learned as well, he learned that no palace or prison is absolute.
Someday, someday soon, he would be free again. All he had to do was wait.
Thirty-five years had taught him how to wait.
one
February 23, 1993
“Goddamnit! Where the Hell are we going?” the thinner of the two old men scowled. His name was Philip Adorskil and he was seventy-eight years old. His face was lantern-jawed and clean-shaven; he protected his nearly hairless head from the sun with a battered baseball cap.
John Sig exhaled heavily. He was the alpha to Phil's omega, short and stocky with shoulder length silver hair and a thick handlebar moustache. He walked with the aid of a plain oak cane “I told you already. “
“I said I'd take a walk with you not the goddamn Battan Death march!”
“It’s not that far.”
“We should have driven.”
“I said, it’s not that far.”
“You didn't say it was uphill!”
“I'm the one with a bum leg here.”
The gentle decay of Troy, New York’s residential district, with its refurbished Victorian-era houses, was at their backs. The cookie-cutter dormitories of the community college lay ahead. It was almost noon and the road was filled with the cars of students travelling to or from the campus. The music from a dozen different radios and tape decks mingled together into something John found to be a pleasant disharmony. He only had to look over at Phil’s expression to know that he was thinking something very different.
“I don't see why we just couldn't have lunch where we usually do.” Phil grunted.
“We can't eat at McDonald's every day.”
“Why not?”
John shook his head with disbelief.
“I like McDonald's,” Phil said, “I don't need to go to some damned diner in East LaBumfuck!”
“If you want to go McDonald’s you can turn right around and go.” John pointed back down the hill. The early spring heat and Phil’s constant griping was starting to wear on his nerves, “I'll even give you a push to get you started.”
Phil stared back the way they had come, grinding his false upper bridge against his real bottom one, “If I don't like the food you're buying.”
“I was going to buy anyway you damn fool.”
“Really?” Phil raised his eyebrows.
“Really.”
“Well, lets get going then.”
They started walking again. In a few minutes they crested the hill and their goal was within sight. John doubled his pace. Phil hurried after him, “Bum leg my wrinkled ass.”
*
The Troy Diner was decorated in shades of burgundy and white, with a long counter dominating one end and a series of booths along the other. Piped in music accompanied the lunch crowd bustle, which ranged from raggedy students with their noses in books to businessmen that were constantly checking their watches. John Sig stood in the entranceway and inhaled deeply, taking it all in. “Very nice,” Phil commented, “we should only have to wait about eight or nine hours for a goddamn table.”
“No we won't.”
A fat man with menus under his arm approached them, “You're early.”
“Just came by to see if the lunch menu is as good as the evening menu.” John smiled, “Owen, this is my friend Phil.”
Owen offered his hand, “Welcome to my restaurant Phil, any friend of John's is a friend of mine.”
“Great.” Philip took his hand and gave him a curt nod.
“Well gentlemen, will it be a booth or a counter?”
John stroked his moustache thoughtfully, “Any spots in Angie's section?”
“Of course.” Owen's grin widened further. He led them to a booth near the window and handed them each a menu, “She'll be delighted to see you.”
“Thanks.” John called out after him as he headed off to greet more customers.
“Very classy joint.” Phil commented, “All the menus smell like the owner's armpit.”
John glanced at the daily specials section, “Better than the smell of your soiled Depends.”
Phil’s eyes widened comically, “Oh, you wanna play dirty do you?”
A red-haired slip of a woman walked up to their booth, her expression brightened at the sight of them “Johnny! What are you doing here?”
“Just came by to see how you were handling the day crowds.” he grinned.
The menu dropped from Phil's hands, “Did she just call you... Johnny?”
“And I know who this is.” She gave Phil a playful poke in the shoulder, “Johnny's told me so much about you.”
Phil was shaking his head, “Johnny?”
“I wish I could chat with you two but the natives are restless,” she whipped out her pad and pen, “What can I get you gentlemen?”
“Two coffees I think.” John suggested, Phil made no protests, “Black for him and I'll have the usual.”
“Six sugars, six creams on the way.” she gave him a wink and continued on her circuit of her tables.
“Johnny?”
“Did you just have a stroke?”
“You hate to be called Johnny.”
“No.” he corrected, “I hate it when you call me Johnny.”
Phil raised a hand, “Explain something to me Romeo, how does she know you? And how does the owner know you?”
“I've been coming here for almost a month now.” John inhaled deeply.
“When?” Phil leaned closer. He and John had been having lunch together for almost five years now, and Zara, Phil's better half, had long ago issued a standing invitation for dinner. An invitation that John, more often than not, took them up on, “For breakfast?”
“No. I come up around midnight and have a cup of coffee. Maybe a snack.” John said, watching the kitchen door.
“And when pray tell do you sleep?”
“Here and there.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I told you, a month, give or take.”
Angie returned with their coffees, she set Phil's down before him, “One black.”
He grunted a thank you.
She set down John's, “And sweets to the sweet.”
“Flattery will not affect the size of your tip young lady.” he grinned, trying to avoid Phil's blistering gaze.
“So, have you gents decided on anything?” the pad and pen where in hand again.
John began, “I'll have the deluxe burger, make that-”
“Up and walking, yes I know. And how about your quiet friend here?”
“I'll have a BLT, hold the T.”
“Okay.” she scribbled it down, “And listen, I'll see if I can get the cook to give you a little extra bacon to make up for the tomato.”
“Thanks.” Phil didn't speak again until she was well out of earshot, “What in the Holy Hell is going on here?”
“Try the coffee, it's good.”
“Fuck the coffee, I wanna know what you’re up to.”
John shrugged his shoulders, “I can’t sleep. I come up here to kill some time.”
“Is that all John?” Phil leaned in closer, his voice an angry whisper, “Is that really all?”
“Yes.” John frowned and took another sip from his cup.
“I can’t have you drawing attention.”
“Don't worry.” John said, “I’m all right. I’ve been on my best behavior. It’s just insomnia.”
Phil took a swig of coffee, “It better be.”
*
John Sig lived in a squat, fortress of a house that he had paid for with cash many, many years ago. A tall iron fence surrounded the large yard. His neighbors were all young and well to do and he knew that they regarded him with a touch of suspicion. But John understood how the game was played; he made all the right gestures, the normal gestures. Every year he bought Girl Scout cookies from the Jones' girl and every 2 weeks he paid one of the neighborhood boys to keep his front lawn neatly trimmed. He was generous to the carolers when they stopped at his door, he was even more generous to the children on Halloween. Hell, he was even nice to the Jehovah’s Witnesses!
Because of that, his neighbors paid no mind that he let his backyard grow wild and unkempt, with knee deep grass and thick brambles. They turned a blind eye to his comings and goings at odd hours.
His bedroom, like the rest of his home, was scantly furnished. John lay on the bare mattress he used for a bed, staring into the darkness, trying to will himself to rest. The darkness seemed to shift his already acute senses into overdrive. A treebranch scraped against the side of the house. Cars passed on the street, their exhausts spraying foulness. A cat was in the trash, rustling though the empty tins of Spam and chicken salad. Damn things, they never learned.
His hair hung about his face in thick sweat-clumped locks. When he sat up, the squeal of mattress springs filled his ears. He stumbled to the window, his cane forgotten, and threw open the sash. Cool air washed over his naked body. Rain was coming, John could almost taste it, cold and sweet.
A bird fluttered through the air someplace nearby, the sound of its wings like the heartbeat of a frightened animal.
A voice long gone echoed through his mind, “Everything you were- Everything you are- Everything you could have had- All of it gone!”
two
February 24, 1993
Banks. There was something about them that always made John Sig uneasy. The false sincerity of the tellers, the lines that wrapped back over themselves like the queue to a slaughterhouse and the cameras, the cameras everywhere. That was why he preferred the simplicity of his checking account. As long as he was careful he only had to visit twice a year, and that was just so he could transfer a few thousand dollars from one of his safety deposit boxes into his account.
Phil however, kept several pots boiling at once, IRAs, offshore accounts, 501k, Christmas club, bonds and Money Markets spread over a handful of identities. To the state of New York he was Phillip Dowd, but he had licenses and passports for over a dozen states and nations. He made poor Zara jump through the same hoops as well.
As far as John was concerned it was overkill. After the terrible events of 1958 he had taken the name John Sig and in the years since he had remained John Sig. He smiled to himself, perhaps in a way he had become John Sig, become the ordinary man he was pretending to be.
“Eight windows and two fucking tellers. I hope whoever runs this bank gets fucking cancer.” Phil glared at the line ahead of him, one of Phillip Dowd’s Social Security checks tucked into his front pocket.
“It is noon.” John shrugged.
“Thanks, guess I don’t need a watch as long as I’ve got you.”
“You get yourself worked up over the littlest things.”
“Better not show me your pecker then.” A woman somewhere line behind them gasped at the remark. That seemed to cheer Phil up to no end.
“You’re making a fool of yourself.” John said as he noticed the security guard nearest to the door giving them an icy glare.
Phil raised his voice, “I’ll do a damn sight worse if the line doesn’t start moving! Are they too cheap to hire enough staff of is their manager just an idiot?”
“This isn’t going to make the line move any faster.”
“In fact-” Phil directed a shout to the security guard standing near the vault door, “where is the manager? Is he on duty or is this a golf day?”
The security guards looked like ex-cops to John, retirees probably. They still had their training but they were starting to go soft.
A woman stepped out of one of the back offices, she was middle –aged and haggard looking. The gold badge she wore named her as the assistant manager. She walked right up to Phil “Is there a problem sir?”
“I said I wanted to talk to the manager, not a friggin’ teller with the front door keys.” he spat back.
John wondered idly to himself how fast he could take both guards down. In my younger days? John thought, In my younger days they’d both be dead in seconds.
“Sir.” the assistant bank manager’s smile was holding strong but her eyes were starting to fill with venom. “We’re a little short-staffed here I admit but we’ll get to you as soon as possible.”
Phil sneered, “Tell you what cupcake, how about you get behind one of those friggin’ windows and pitch in until the lines goes down. You can count can’t you? They sure didn’t hire you for your looks!”
Now? The one nearest the vault would go down easy but by the time I was finished the one near the door would have gotten off a shot, maybe two. John let his train of thought peter out at that, going any further would just ruin his mood, and Phil was doing that quite well on his own.
*
It was down to just Angie, the other waitress Teresa, the night manager Tom, a police officer named Bernie, a cook, a dishwasher that doubled as a busboy, and a trio of heavily made-up, tired looking girls. Alone in a booth, John sipped his coffee and watched Angie banter with the other customers. It was almost One A.M.; things were starting to wind down. For the next few hours the only customers would be cabbies, insomniacs and people coming from or going too mischief. Angie passed him on her way to the kitchen and flashed him a exaggeratedly serious scowl, “Staring problems?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay then.” she shrugged and continued on her way.
The first time he’d found his way here was by accident. Night after night he would pace his house; sometimes he wandered into the back yard, sometimes he masturbated joylessly as he crouched on the edge of the mattress he used for a bed, and sometimes he sat on the kitchen floor eating box after box of animal crackers. That January night he’d tried all three and still found himself yearning for what he’d lost. The rumbling emptiness never really left him, but on this January night it had been enough to drive him out to prowl the streets. He’d gone out in just jeans, boots and a long-sleeved shirt. The bitter cold had numbed him and that was fine. It dulled the images that flashed before his eyes that were one half memory, one half longing.
John glanced briefly over to Tom and the cop as they sat at the counter and spoke conspiratorially. I was going to kill someone that night. John recalled, I was going to kill the first human being that crossed my path. In fact he’d had his target picked out. All bundled up and walking down the street towards the bus stop. John knew that bus stop, there was an alley nearby, an alley dark enough to give him the time to do what he needed to do. His quarry had suspected nothing, glancing back all she’d seen was an old man walking with a cane. Fine. John remembered thinking at the time, Just what I want you to see.
“Need me to freshen up that coffee?” Angie asked, coffeepot in hand.
John smiled, “I’m fine for now. How have you been doing lately?”
She rolled her eyes, “I’ve been going nuts is what I’ve been doing. My stupid roommate is moving out so I’ve got three weeks to find another roomie or I’m screwed.”
“Why not leave a flyer over at the campus? College kids- ”
“Drink to much and run back to Mommy and Daddy when they drop out halfway though the semester.” she said with a shake of her head.
“Sounds like you’ve been down that route before.” John took a swig of coffee.
“It’s a real long story Johnny.”
He smiled thinly, “I’ve got all night.”
The cook rung a bell and set two plates out. Angie set the coffeepot back down and brought the food out to her customers. Teresa was sitting in an empty booth, counting her tips. She was twice Angie’s age and worked two jobs, here and at a supermarket three blocks away. When her shift at Hanniford's Groceries ended she would change clothes and walk to the diner. John had been following her that night, he’d already killed her in his mind. He already knew where he was going to conceal her remains when he was done. No one would see her vanish from the bus stop on a night like this.
Luckily for her she wasn’t going to the bus stop. He’d almost cried out when she’d crossed the street and headed into the Troy Diner. For a few moments he’d stood there in the shadow of the bus stop kiosk, trembling slightly. Once he’d regained his composure he’d gone into the diner, thinking Maybe the quarry isn’t lost yet. I can always make my move when she’s walking home with her belly full. That will make it even better. When he found his quarry working there, he’d slumped into a nearby booth. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, he didn’t know what he wanted, and he didn’t know what he was. That terrible final curse reverberated through his skull, “Everything you were- Everything you are- Everything you could have had- All of it gone!”
Sudden warmth had encircled his quivering hand. “Jesus, you’re freezing!” Angie had said.
Disoriented and startled John had looked up, and fallen in love.
Angie and the three girls were sharing a quick laugh as she set the trays down at their table. One of them complemented Angie’s hair and started asking her about how much she made here. The cash register beeped as Tom rang Bernie out. Fran and the busboy were folding napkins. It was all so ordinary, so mundane. John wondered what they would think if they knew about the things he had seen, the things he had done.
“Well, that was an intriguing offer.” Angie sidled back over to John’s booth. She was blushing slightly.
“What happened?”
She pointed surreptitiously to the other table, “They said I should come and work with them.”
John stroked the edge of his moustache, “Are they from some other diner?”
“No.” she leaned in close, for a sudden disorienting moment John thought she was going to kiss him, “They’re strippers.”
“Uhh, what?”
“They work up at the Bunkhouse. They said I could make a lot more money dancing.” she giggled.
John knew the Bunkhouse, Phil had dragged him there almost a decade ago. All he remembered was an outrageous cover charge overpriced drinks, raucous music, bored-looking girls and Phil getting kicked out for licking one of the dancers. “You don’t belong in a place like that.”
“No kidding.” she turned to go, “I couldn’t dance to save my life.”
*
He’d gotten home at three am but there was no way he was going to get to sleep. Instead of wandering his house John sat on the back porch steps, watching the stars fade. The air was frosty and quiet. There was something magical about the tinge of purple that swept across the sky before a sunrise. His faith taught him that the moment before any transformation was divine.
Try as he might to keep his thoughts on a spiritual level he kept finding his imagination returning to Angie and the Bunkhouse. John knew that she would never work in a place like that but he couldn’t stop fantasizing about her dancing naked just for him. He knew her skin would be smooth, pink and warm to the touch. He ached to touch her, the ache left him unable to think of anything else for some time. It was like he was a teenager all over again.
Except of course that now he could control himself. Victor Kovatch, his Father and Master, had taught him how to curb his desires, taught him discipline.
What would Victor think of me now? Haven’t I suffered enough? Isn’t thirty-five years of masquerading as something I’m not punishment enough?
An alarm clock went off in the house next door. John heard his neighbor groan and hit the snooze alarm. It was time to get back inside; they’d all be waking up soon. It wouldn’t do for someone to see him sitting naked in his back yard on a cold February morning.
three
February 25, 1993
“Phil’s not ready yet John. He overslept.” the starkly middle-eastern features of the woman at the door had been softened by age. She wore her long iron-colored hair in a bun, a pair of bifocals rested at the end of her nose. Zara Kovatch stepped aside, “Have a seat. Would you like a soda? Some juice?”
“A soda please.” John stepped inside the three-story Victorian brownstone Phil and his common-law wife had called home for almost thirty-five years. The walls were painted an eggshell white, the floor was covered with a plush blue carpet, there were no pictures on the wall. The smell of incense filled the air. John could just hear the sound of the shower running. A small color television occupied one side of the wall, a large salt water fish tank occupied the other. These were all Zara’s little touches, if Phil had had his way the place would have been furnished like a barroom.
“I don’t know why he stays up so late sometimes.” she closed and locked the front door.
John sat on the couch, facing away from the fishtank, he always found it a little too distracting, “It must be something in the air.”
“You too, hm?” she crossed the parlor and stepped into the kitchen and beginning rummaging through the refrigerator. Neither she or Phil drank soda but she always kept some on hand for John.
“I finally dropped off around five am.”
She brought him a can of soda and then sat on the couch beside him, “Well you don’t get as exhausted from it as Phil does. He gets grouchy when he doesn’t get at least eight hours of rest.”
“He gets grouchy when the sun comes up.” the coffee table was piled high with newspapers and magazines. Her scissors, glue and scrapbooks were off to one side.
“I wish he’d come with me to Tai-Chi. He needs to get some exercise.”
“Never happen. It would be too much like work.”
She laughed at that. “I think sometimes the only way I can get him to do something is to ask him not to do something.”
“You got him to quit smoking. That’s something.”
“A minor miracle.”
John found his attention drawn to the front page of the newspaper before him. The black and white photograph showed a man in prison fatigues being led from a courthouse in chains. Government agents surrounded him, there was something familiar about the man standing to the prisoner’s left. John tapped the picture, “Is that-”
“Lionel’s son? I think so.” Zara’s expression became solemn, “The man they’ve got there was a cult leader. He would meet young girls at the shopping malls and tell them he was an alien ambassador masquerading as a human being. He told these girls, the youngest was twelve, the oldest was seventeen, that he was interested in recruiting them.”
“What happened?”
“Well, he got most of them in bed, except for the one that went to the police of course.”
The gullibility of the human race never ceases to amaze me. John thought as he sipped his soda, enjoying the sweetness and the bubbles. “Why would the Project have taken an interest in him?”
Zara shrugged, “I don’t know. I do know this though, our randy alien visitor hung himself in his cell the very night he was arrested.”
“You think Lionel’s boy was responsible?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Zara had collected dozens of scrapbooks over the years and in them she had articles ranging from detailed examinations of the Kennedy assassination to one-paragraph obituaries. “Things are moving more quickly now, the Monarchs are very close.”
John bristled at the very mention of them, “It doesn’t matter. As long as Victor is alive they don’t have a way in.”
“Do you know how old Victor is?” Phil stood at the foot of the winding staircase, his hair was still wet. “Christ! She was married to him and even she doesn’t know.”
“He’s older than me.” John said.
Phil walked over to Zara and kissed the top of her head, “That narrows it down doesn’t it?”
“When was the last time someone checked on him?”
“The nursing home would tell us if anything had changed.” Zara reached up to stroke her lover’s cheek.
“We’ll be long gone before he dies or comes to.” Phil’s smile was venomous, “We’ll be in Heaven before the Devil knows we’re dead.”
*
“You never talk about your family. Why is that?”
Angie refilled John’s coffee cup, “You never talk about yours either.”
“Touché.” John smiled and poured a liberal amount of sugar into his cup and then as an afterthought added a dash more, “Me first then?”
Replacing the coffeepot she scanned the diner to make sure she’d taken care of everyone. There was nobody left but the regulars and most were more interested in talking then being waited on. It was that kind of night. “Yeah... I bet you’ve got an interesting family tree.”
“Not really. I was an orphan from the age of seven.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, what happened to your parents?”
John stirred his coffee, “Hunting accident.”
“What? Your mother and your father were hunting.”
“My mother put the men in the family to shame. She always kept food on the table. She died first.”
“I’m sorry.”
He waved a hand, “It was a lifetime ago.”
“What happened?”
“I was away from where we were sleeping. I was playing... another group of hunters took them down.”
“You make it sound like they did it on purpose.”
“Who knows? Maybe they did.” an edge of bitterness crept into his voice.
Angie patted his hand, the simple gesture set his heart hammering. “Sometimes I wish it had been that cut and dried with my family. My mom and dad divorced when I was young, I can barely remember them together. They married young, too young I guess. Both of them seemed all charged up to start their lives over. I don’t think I fit into either of their plans. It was like they wanted to forget their marriage ever happened and I just reminded them.”
“It couldn’t have been so terrible.” he sipped his coffee, “What is the saying these days? You were conceived in love.”
Tom stepped out of his office, his face looked flushed. He gave John a half-hearted wave. “Conceived in love?” Angie snorted, “I was conceived in the back of a sports car by two dumb kids with too much alcohol in their system.”
“How could you know something like that?”
“Mom told me once when she was drunk.” she said with a shrug, “Be back in a flash, I’ve gotta make the rounds.”
“Go.” John waved her away. He watched her check on her three other customers, reveling in the slim turn of her legs, the way the edges of her mouth curled up when she smiled. How could anyone not love her? He wondered Has the world really turned so far on its ear?
Teresa sat at her usual booth, half counting her tips, half-nodding off.
When Angie came back she refilled his cup and told him, “Your turn. Did you live at an orphanage?”
“No. I was taken in by an eccentric millionaire. He made me his ward.” John said simply.
Angie giggled, “What? Are you pulling my leg?” The men’s room door squeaked open, Bernie stepped back out into the diner. His fly was open.
“I’m serious.” John added more sugar and cream to his coffee, it felt good to tell at least part of the truth to her, “His name was Victor Kovach. He took me in and made me his personal assistant and when I was old enough, he trained me to be his bodyguard.”
“God! It’s like something out of a movie. What happened? Did you save his life?”
“Several times.” John glanced over to see Teresa was well and truly asleep now. Her head was down, she was snoring slightly.
“Good for you! I bet he left you a couple of million when he died.”
“Afraid not. He left me with a trade and the clothes on my back and that’s about all.”
“So what did you do?”
“I got a job. Working for the government.”
“Doing what.”
“Oh no.” John set the spoon down beside his cup, “It’s your turn now. What happened after your parents divorced?”
“I lived with my Dad until I was fifteen-sixteen but he was a little to bossy. I needed room to breathe.” her smile began to fail, “He was short-tempered. He would get physical, never punching just slapping or if you turned your back on him he would give the hair on the back of your neck to get your attention.”
John shook his head, “Some people aren’t cut out to be parents.”
“He wasn’t cut out to own pets.” Angie said, “We used to have a dog, he beat the poor thing to death for messing on the carpet.”
“What?”
“I don’t think he meant to. He must have gotten carried away, but I wondered how long it would be before he got carried away with me. You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“So, I insisted my mother take me to live with her and by insisted I mean that I ran away from home and refused to leave her doorstep.”
“Are you saying didn’t she want you?”
Angie rolled her eyes, “Mom had just hooked up with a handsome young stud ten years younger than her. She had no interest whatsoever in me.”
“It must have been rough.”
“It was a fuckin’ nightmare. Pardon my French.”
“Cuss all you want. You make it cute.”
That got her smile back, briefly, “Flirt! Anyway, it turns out she hadn’t even told her boyfriend she had a daughter. I think she was afraid that I would make her look like damaged goods.”
“Incredible.”
“She let me live in her spare bedroom until I was eighteen and then she gave me the old heave-ho.”
“Have you talked to them since?”
“No. My Dad left a message on my machine once but I never returned his call. He probably needed one of my kidneys or something.
“Good.” John raised his cup in salute, “Screw’em.”
“Cute.” Angie said, “Not as cute as me but still cute.”
*
Just a few hours before sunrise, John paced his house like a caged animal, his bare feet slapping the floorboards. The crescent moon hung low in the horizon, outside on the street traffic had become low ebb. His memories were like a pack of well-worn cards, he shuffled through them. How many lives had crossed his? How many deaths? In the end what had it all been for? They’d fought a war and against the darkest powers but in the end they had changed nothing. They’d merely delayed the Monarchs, not defeated them.
Of course back then things had been different. Back then he’d believed in Victor Kovach, believed so passionately that he’d killed for the man without remorse or hesitation. John padded across the bare floor and opened one of the closets. A dark cloth bag hung on the inside doorknob; he retrieved it and made his way to the empty parlor.
If only the writhing in his gut would let him sleep. It gnawed at him in the darkness, an addict's crying need.
Standing alone in his unfurnished parlor, John reached reverently into the bag and pulled out a handful of his ancestors' bones. They were yellowed and cool to the touch. He began to arrange them in a circle around him. This was his legacy, this was all he had left to remind him of what he had been. If not for these he might have gone mad might have doubted the veracity of his memories.
How sad. John thought, How sad that my bones will never be used in such away.
Such was the way of things, in this age of genocides.
The old man with the scarred leg knelt in the circle of his ancestors’ remains and prayed aloud.
four
February 26, 1993
Zara, Phil and John watched the news with growing horror and disbelief. On the television screen black smoke poured out of the World Trade Center as sirens howled and rescue workers struggled to get people to safety. John ran his hands up and down his cane, remembering the old days. He had only to glance over at Zara and Phil to know their thoughts were with his.
“I just can't believe it.” Zara shook her head.
“Do you see anyone you recognize?”
“No, but there are Pharos Agents there. They have to be there.”
Phil shook his head, “Somebody fucked up big time. This would never have happened in the old days. Never.”
“It was inevitable.” John said, “And we got lucky, it could have been a lot worse. The whole building could have come down.”
They fell into silence for a while, hypnotized by the spectacle unfolding on the screen before them- the victims with their smoke-blackened faces, the smooth talking newsmen, the harried paramedics and police. Chaos had always threatened to consume the human race but to John is seemed as though humanity was rushing headlong into Chaos' maw.
Phil shifted in his seat, “Goddamn sand-niggers.”
“Philip David Adorskil!” Zara scowled, color rising to her cheeks.
“What?”
“You damn well know what.” Zara said, “My father was one of your so called sand-niggers.”
“Yes dear.” Phil agreed, “But at least your mother was civilized. If your father had had his way you'd probably be slaving away in some toothless Arab's tent with your clitoris cut out.”
“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” Zara wondered aloud.
“No.” Phil said, “But they are looking for Victor.”
Using his cane for support, John stood “I should be going.”
“Are you sure you won't stay?” Zara asked, “We're having pot roast.”
“Maybe next time.” they exchanged understanding smiles. He turned to his friend, “I'll see you tomorrow at Mickey Dee's... unless of course she wises up and kills you.”
“Stay out of trouble.” Phil said without looking up from the TV.
*
The bombing was the main topic of conversation at the Troy Diner. Even now, at a quarter to one in the morning, the conversations wound round and round. Bernie the cop mentioned that there had been an increase in security everywhere from the state capitol to the shopping malls. A group of students were discussing possible culprits, one of their number speculating it was nothing more than the work of a lone psychopath.
“You're pretty quiet tonight.” Angie said as she refilled John's coffee cup.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“The bombing.”
She handed him six creamers, for a brief second her fingertips brushed his palm, “No surprise there.”
“The Nazi's tried the same thing.” he spooned in six helpings of sugar.
“What? To blow up the World Trade Center?”
He laughed, “You're kidding right?”
“What?”
“The World Trade Center wasn't built yet. It was built in 1972.”
A blush crept up her pale cheeks, “Oh boy. You must think I'm dumb as Hell.”
John glanced over at Tom, he was talking on the phone, his tone was angry. “Never.”
“So what were those Nazi's up to John?” she propped her elbow on the counter and leaned in close.
Once again, he drank her in, burning an image of her into his mind, the curve of her lips, the laughing blue pools of her eyes, “They tried to do a little terrorism around the start of World War Two, but the G-Men sorted them out.”
“Really? That's kinda neat. If they'd have covered stuff like that in High School I'd have paid more attention.” she lowered her voice to a conspiratory whisper, “So how do you know so much Johnny? Were you a G-man?”
He grinned widely, “Deep cover.”
She tapped the side of her nose, “Your secret's safe with me sweetums.”
“I never doubted that for a moment.” John shifted uneasily in his seat, “Have you had any luck finding a roommate?”
“No, and this months rent just about ate up my savings. I started looking for a smaller place but most places I can afford won’t take pets.”
“You have a cat right?”
Angie nodded, “A gray Persian cat named Lucifer.”
John blanched, “Lucifer. I bet that’s appropriate.”
“Yeah right. He’s dumb, he’s housebroken and he’s neutered. He’s the perfect man.”
“I never liked cats. They’re so… so...”
“Aloof? Not this cat. If you ever come over he’ll rush up to you and roll on his back so you can rub his belly.”
“I just don’t like cats.” John opened the six creamers and added them to his coffee, “I never did.”
“Why not?”
John shrugged as he stirred, “I don’t know. They have this way about them, like they know more than they’re telling.”
Angie rolled her eyes, “You’re nuts! Cats are sweet and they’re a lot less trouble than dogs.”
“Tell that to the residents of Ulthar.”
“What?”
“At least a dog knows its place.” he sipped his coffee, “Man’s best friend and all.”
Someone signaled Angie from the other end of the counter. She turned from John with a wink, “Yeah but every dog has its day.”
“Not in this world.” He sighed sadly as he watched her walk away, “Not in this world.”
*
The tile floor of the kitchen was cool against John’s bare skin as he sat with his back against one of the cabinet doors. There were three empty boxes of animal crackers between his legs, there were twelve more in the open cabinet beside him. He pulled one of the boxes out of the cabinet and tore open the top and began to eat the cookies one by one.
Taking to Angie had given him an idea, a crazy idea. He had room to spare here, he could invite Angie to come and live with him. She could live in the master bedroom, he never used it. The acoustics of it made him feel insecure.
Phil of course would blow a gasket but when didn’t Phil blow a gasket? Besides he wasn’t the one who’d spent every night for over a quarter century living alone in an empty house. Phil would have to get used to the idea.
Chewing mechanically, the sounds of his jaw working filling his head, John wondered if she would take the offer. It wasn’t like she knew him as anything more than a passing acquaintance but she might be desperate enough. At worst all he was to her was a harmless old man.
That’s all I am now. he thought bitterly, A harmless old man.
Another empty box dropped between his legs, he opened another.
If she did move in he would have to make some changes. Brushing crumbs off his thighs he realized he’d have to start wearing clothes around the house.
And furniture, he’d have to buy furniture. Zara always did his meager laundry, for Angie would have to get a washing machine. There’d be no more pacing the house at all hours, he’d have to go to bed and stay there.
She’s got a cat, don’t forget that. He frowned at the thought of living under the same roof as one of those conniving balls of fur. That would be the hardest. Over the decades he’d learned to sate his more unpleasant urges by pouncing on the felines as they rummaged through his trash.
I’ll adjust. John told himself, Victor’s training will come back to me. It’s not so hard to pass for human, especially not these days.
five
March 25, 1993
They sat on the front porch of the modest two-floor house that Phil and Zara called home. “I went to check on Victor today.” Phil said.
John gave him guarded look, “How is he?”
“Alive.” Phil shrugged. “I paid the nursing home for another year of quality care.”
A car passed, the stereo pounding out rap music at an ear-shattering level. There was a butcher shop across the street, the scents of blood and meat filled John's nostrils. “I can't believe the bastard's still breathing.” he said, “I can't believe we’ve let it go on this long.”
“Beats the alternative.”
“Maybe Victor was bluffing.”
“Maybe.”
“Even now that bastard’s got us guessing and jumping at shadows.” Phil tapped his pocket thoughtfully, “Funny isn’t it?”
“I’d kill him now if I could just be sure that it wouldn’t make things worse. We might give the Monarch’s just what they want.” John ran a hand through his hair, “It’s at moments like this I wish I could see the future.”
“That talent didn’t help August very much did it?”
John gave Phil a sharp glance, “I didn’t want to kill him.”
“You loved it. The look on his face, like a deer in the friggin’ headlights.”
“I did not love it. I was following orders.”
Phil glanced through the screen door, like a boy afraid of being caught at mischief. Seeing they were unobserved he slipped a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from his pocket. “Yeah, and five minutes later you nearly killed the man who gave you those orders.” he commented.
“It’s not that simple. In those days I had just two things, Victor and my hatred for the Monarchs.” John was staring intently at the butcher shop. They had the back door open and were feeding scraps to the neighborhood dogs.
“It is that simple. You obeyed him for as long as it suited you and as soon as you could you fucked him over.” he lit a cigarette and puffed the smoke greedily, “Just like me and Zara.”
John shook his head, trying to clear it, “We didn’t have a choice, we never had a - What the Hell are you doing?”
Phil tried to look innocent as he tapped ashes away, “What?”
“You're smoking!”
“There's no fooling those razor keen senses is there?”
“What about your blood pressure?”
“Keep your Goddamn voice down!” he jerked a thumb at the house and mouthed the word Zara.
“If she knew you were smoking she'd have me hold you down so she could break your fingers.”
“I don't need you to tell me that.” Phil said, “Besides its just a little thing, a little pleasure to get me through the day.”
“I don't think-”
“Just like you and that waitress of yours.”
“What are you talking about?” John stood, his cheeks reddening.
Phil raised a hand “Sit down.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Sit down.” Phil tapped more ashes away.
John sat down. “You better explain yourself or it won't be the smokes that'll kill you.”
“I didn't mean to say that I thought you two were fooling around.” Phil chuckled to himself, “Hell even if you could get your hands on those little flapjack breasts of hers I know you wouldn't... you're too goddamn chivalrous.”
John glared at a crack in the pavement, rolling his cane between his hands. The sweet yet pungent odor of the cigarette smoke hid the butcher shop from his all-too sensitive nose. Flapjack breasts! His mind growled, How dare he! How dare he!
“But I know you're in love little Annie aren't you? It wouldn't matter if they were selling filet mignon or monkey-shit soufflé you'd still be there because she's there.” he patted his friend's shoulder, “Am I right? Am I?”
“Her name,” John said icily, “is Angie.”
“Whatever.” a car sped past, its tailpipe dragging noisily, “But the thing is she's what gets you through the day, or night in your case. If not for her you'd have probably gone back to your old ways by now.”
“I can't go back. You know that.”
“You'd try though, and it would be nineteen sixty-three all over again.”
“nineteen sixty-three was a long time ago.”
Phil grinned and inhaled the last few puffs from his cigarette, “It's understandable, don't think that I don't once in a while get the urge once to go back to what I was.”
“What you were and what I am are two very different things.”
“Can't argue with that, but my point was-”
“Oh good.” John grunted, “I was hoping that there would be a point to all this.”
“I was getting to it.” Phil crushed his out his cigarette and flicked the butt into the street, “My point is that your waitress and my smoking are the same thing. It's something to look forward to... they help keep us sane.”
“There's a difference,” John shook his head, marveling at how he always got his arguments turned back at him, “those cigarettes will kill you.”
Phil's smile became bittersweet, “I'll take a dose of cancer over love any day.”
*
“Eggs over easy. Sausage and hash browns on the side.” Angie set the plate down in front of John, it was almost three in the morning and she looked tired. A single strand of red hair had slipped from her hairnet and hung unnoticed along the side of her face like a trail of blood. Eyeing his cup she asked, “More coffee?”
“Yes thanks.” he grinned, he wasn't hungry but he ate anyway, “So what's new with you?”
“Since last night?” she refilled his cup, and then gave him a handful of creams and sugars, “Not too much.”
“Still looking for a new apartment?”
“Yup.” her smile faded, “I'd have found one by now if not for Lucifer.”
“What about the place in Watervilet?” he took a bite of sausage. His mind was racing, was he really going to go for it?
She shook her head, “The place was a dump! There were mushrooms growing out of the bathroom ceiling... and not the fun kind either.”
He laughed gruffly, “Well, you could always...”
A pair of wired-looking truckers waved Angie over to their booth. She gave John a “Be back.” and approached the men. “Have you boys decided what you’d like?”
The trucker with a moustache nearly as thick as John’s gave his buddy a nudge, “Yeah but I bet it ain’t on the menu.”
“Oh brother.” Angie said with a roll of her eyes, “Here we go.”
John chewed in silence, his smile faltering.
“You got some beautiful red hair there.” the other, clean- trucker flashed her a grin that looked like a bad fence. “Ain’t her hair beautiful Ed?”
Ed nodded with agreement, “Red on the head, good in bed. Ain’t that what they say?”
John felt his hackles rising. Sounds and images flashed though his mind, the glint of flesh ripped from bone, and the soft hiss of an arterial spray.
“I think the both of you need to calm down.” Angie tapped her notepad with the tip of her pen, “Now what would you...”
The clean-shaven trucker interrupted her, “We got a Jacuzzi in our hotel room. One come by after work and try it out?”
“I don’t think- ”
“Actually,” Ed explained, “We don’t really have a Jacuzzi but if you want you can get into the bathtub and we’ll take turns blowing bubbles between your legs.”
Steadying himself with his cane John got up and headed for the men's room. Alone in the bathroom John splashed cold water in his face and studied his reflection. He was starting to look shabby, his silver locks spilled over his shoulders, his handlebar moustache was in danger of becoming a goatee. Phil had been right of course, he was smitten with the girl- hopelessly so. While he truly cared for Phil and Zara, this was an intensity of emotion that he'd only experienced before in his devotion to Victor Kovach. And who was he fooling? She could never see him as anything more than a friend, if she even saw him at that. For all he knew she just might be putting up with him because he was such and extravagant tipper.
Was it worth then toll it was taking on his self-control? He'd almost lost it back there, over those imbeciles! Even now he could still feel the Metastasis shrieking, trying to tear free of its prison.
One of the truckers, Ed, brushed past on his way to a urinal. John pretended to wash his hands, all the while he scrutinized the man in the bathroom mirror.
It would be so easy.
One swing of his cane was all it would take, he knew just the spot to aim for.
John dried his hands with a fistful of cheap paper towels and headed back out to his seat. It's now or never. He thought as he Angie came back.
“Everything okay sweetums?” she asked surveying his plate, “You've hardly touched your eggs.
“Everything's perfect as always.” he flashed her a grin, “I was just thinking, you need an apartment and I have a whole two-story house all to myself...”
“Uh-ah.” she waggled a finger at him, “You said you hate cats.”
“I do, but I'm sure that Lucifer and I would learn to get along.”
She sighed heavily, “That's a sweet offer Johnny but...”
“I wouldn't try anything funny, we'd just be roommates.”
“Oh, I know that.” she patted his wrist, “But after what I've just been through I really don't want another roommate. I’ve always lived with someone else. I just want to be on my own for a while.”
“I can understand that.” he nodded.
“Besides,” she gave him a wink before heading back to the kitchen, “a handsome bachelor like you probably needs his space.”
John nodded in agreement, smiling dumbly. He picked at his plate, but his appetite was gone.
*
John slept fitfully and woke before the dawn. His dreams had been filled with the half-remembered songs of his people and the odor of the butcher shop. He didn't want to sleep but he didn't want to get up, so he just lay there staring at the ceiling. There was a spider in the corner, dutifully toiling over its her web, he wondered if spiders knew anything of longing. Probably not, animals had no need for guilt or religion or conspiracies.
It was just as well that she'd said no. He knew that in his heart.
But still...
Oh, to have her so near. John could almost imagine the sound of her footfalls, the way her laughter would echo off the walls. Exchanging good mornings and good nights, having conversations far deeper than idle waitress-customer chatter. They would work on projects together, restoring the places in the house that had fallen into disrepair. Birthdays, holidays, exchanging gifts- he would shower her with gifts. Passing in the hall, exchanging a smile. Walking past her room. Hearing her getting ready for bed. An open doorway. A glimpse of flesh. Her gaze meeting his. A whispered invitation. Her arms enfolding him, taking him in.
With a hoarse cry John roused himself from a state somewhere between waking and dreams. His heart was hammering, a vertigo-like feeling held him in its sway. Every time he closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, he saw her.
six
April 24, 1993
They sat in a booth near the just-completed McDonaldland Playground. Ordinarily they would have sat near the back but the restaurant was crowded, even by the usual lunch-rush standards. These had been the only available seats. The air was alive with the din of playing youngsters as they ran from the jungle gym to the slide and back again. A four year old boy sobbed as his parents finally dragged him from the ball pen. A girl coached her younger sister up the slide. John watched them play wistful traces of a smile tugging at the corners of his handlebar moustache. “This is the Goddamn biggest waste of space I ever saw in my life!” Phil growled, oblivious to the reproachful stares of the parents sitting around them, “Why the Hell aren't these kids in school?”
“I think it's nice.”
“When exactly did your brain turn to pudding?”
John poured his coffee from the McDonald's cup to the jelly-jar he'd brought with him. He enjoyed McDonald's coffee but there was something about the taste of it in a Styrofoam cup that he found disconcerting. He added six sugars and six creams and stirred lazily. One of the older boys was hanging upside down from the jungle gym, whooping with delight. “Are you sorry you and Zara never had kids?”
“We’ve got you don’t we?”
“Seriously.”
Phil shook his head, “There's too many fuckin' kids on this planet as it is!”
There were several angry gasps and a frenzy of whispers. John found himself slinking down in his seat, “Language please Phil.”
“Medical science has doubled the average human life span and people are still turning out kids by the truckload. We already have more people than we can support now!”
“Uh, Phil would you-”
“Who cares about the environment? Who cares about the economy? Who cares about feeding and clothing all these people?” the old man's voice was rapidly rising in pitch, “At the rate things are going all those little twerps in there are going to have to eat when they're my age is each other!”
A woman stormed into the playground and dragged her son out with such speed that he didn't even have the chance to utter a cry of protest.
John tried to let some menace creep into his voice, “You are embarrassing me.”
“Hell! Everyone is so all-fired up about those Branch Dividian kids that got killed yesterday. I say good riddance! One less hunk of white trash! One less minimum wage nobody!”
Several more parents forcibly removed their children from the playground, glaring at the old men as they passed. John shrugged apologetically.
“What we need is some kind of a plague. Not this AIDS baloney- all it kills is butt-bangers anyway. No, what we need is an all-out-don't-give-a-fuck-who-you-are-leave-you-dead-in-the-street plague.” Phil slammed his fist down on the table for emphasis, “Now Polio- there was a plague!”
The last mother left, her bawling toddler flailing in her arms. She paused to shout at them, “You ought to be locked up you... you... jerks!”
Alone in the booth near the McDonaldland Playground, John gaped as Phil stretched and grinned, enjoying the silence.
*
Angie had a roommate.
A male roommate. He could smell him on her, wisps of strange cologne clinging covetously to her skin. They weren’t doing anything yet but they would soon. She practically glowed with arousal. John felt the kick of adrenaline flooding his system. He wanted to scream with rage. He wanted to find the man that had touched her and rip his heart out. He wanted to fall to his knees weeping.
“Hey handsome.” the waitress flashed him a smile five times more sincere than anything the other customers received, “The usual?”
“Yes.” his voice came out as a whisper. Visions of carnage flashed through his mind. How could she do this to him?
She scribbled on her pad and then gazed it him, her brow furrowing with concern. “You ok?”
“What?”
“Are you Ok? You're so pale.” she reached out to touch him, “Have you got a fever?”
He flinched away as though he'd been burned. He didn't trust himself, not when he was so angry and her hand was so delicate “I'm fine! I just need some coffee.”
Looking very surprised and a little hurt Angie retreated. John stared at the countertop feeling sick to his stomach. The Metastasis felt so close. The urgency ripped though his veins, a howl echoing in the silence between his heartbeats. He would have found it laughable if it wasn't so tragic- his every muscle was tensed in preparation for something that could never happen again.
The sound of the coffee cup being set down startled him, “You sure you don't need some Advil?”
“I-” he could feel himself about to tip over the edge and for a crazy moment he considered giving in. It would mean his death of course, but what did he have to live for? Why shouldn't he join the rest of his race?
“John,” tentatively Angie let her hand settle over his, “you're scaring me.”
“Maybe...” he swept a lock of silver hair from his face and mustered a smile. The stirring in his gut subsided to a low ebb, “maybe, I will take that aspirin.”
She grinned with relief and patted his hand, “That's Advil, it better than aspirin.”
“Sounds like just what I need.”
“Be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.” Angie said, scooting back into the kitchen.
John watched her go and drank his coffee with shaking hands.
*
Four men with huddled near the doorway of an abandoned hotel passing a crack pipe amongst each other. Richie had suggested they go inside and check the place out for something saleable. At first Jerr, Ken and Bri had been more than happy to follow along. Richie was always good at getting money to fuel their habit, he always seemed to know what cars didn’t have alarms and what apartments where the best to break into. The man had a gift.
Once they got near the building however their nerves started to go south. Everyone started getting paranoid and seeing cop cars that weren’t there. It made Richie crazy, he wanted to go in there and find something to sell. Jerr was the one to say what was on their minds, that he thought the place was haunted.
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