Lone Rock Page 3

  “So. You’re awake now.” A deep voice, sounding vaguely annoyed. A shadow moved into the light, white became blue, gold badge shiny on the figure’s chest. “We’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “Sorry,” Adrian whispered. A memory of people falling—falling on him—a sense of regret. “I’m sorry,” he said again, to the cop and the memory.

  The cop left. The light slid down the wall unseen, becoming shadow, becoming darkness. A lamp came on and bathed him in a dim glow. The cop came back with another man, a detective in plain clothes. He came to the side of the bed and stared down at Adrian with an expression of mixed curiosity and dislike. Brown eyes, thick black eyebrows like bugs over his eyes, heavy jowls and a toothpick between fat lips. He held a Styrofoam cup in one hand, a notepad in the other. He set the coffee down on the bedside table and took out a pen from a shirt pocket.

  “How did it start?”

  The uniformed cop went to the opposite bedside. “Did you know the girl?”

  Adrian silently turned his head to the left - there was that white thing again. He swirled saliva on a dry tongue and was about to speak.

  “You take that bus often?” the detective asked. Adrian turned to him. “Why’d you fight them?”

  “What?” Fight with who? Carefully he poked around his mind, looking for some trail to the past. A picture of the book again, this time swinging in a wild arc. He saw while knuckles clutching it as it flew.

  “Why’d you fight with them?” the detective demanded.

  Adrian shook his head. His vision blurred. “I don’t...remember.” he said. His voice sounded like a snake, dry and harsh. What had happened? Did he fight with someone? A very clear flashback of a fistfight in seventh grade with Bobby Spader. They were both sent to the principal’s office. The principal had a red chair, the leather peeling up from the corners. Or it was blue.

  “You don’t remember?” the uniformed cop said incredulously.

  Sure, he remembered. Bobby had blackened his eye, the teacher was mad, the principal was mad, his father...

  “I got grounded.” Adrian said, with conviction. That, he knew. Dad had thrown the book at him. Principles of...Principles of...something. The Principal had been mad.

  “What?” said the detective.

  “Grounded,” Adrian said with intense sadness. He tried to slow down, to explain carefully, because he wanted them to get it right. Cops were apt to get things wrong, and they would hold it against him in a court of law.

  “My father grounded me for a week.” He looked from one cop to the other, his eyes pleading with them to understand. Bobby Spader had started it! “Dad said...he told me....” He turned to face the other cop but the white thing was back again. Annoyance and frustration and memories and effort were threatening to overwhelm him. Adrian felt tears burning in his eyes.

  “No TV,” he explained. “I missed...”

  “What? Missed what?”

  “The Flintstones.”

  “What?”

  “What did he say?”

  “The Flintstones? Norm; what’s he talking about?”

  “Dunno. He doesn’t look like he’s with us, Carl.”

  “He’s fine.” The detective leaned closer to Adrian, his face growing in Adrian’s vision like a full moon with jowls. Sweet breath that smelled like Lemon Pledge. “Listen. Beck, we need answers from you.”

  “Sure.” Adrian said. Whatever. Already the sadness was fading away, replaced with euphoria. What were these drugs? The detective’s eyes were a light brown, the color of mahogany, the color of the shingles on his parents’ house. He stifled an urge to throw up. “Sure,” he said again, watching those eyes carefully. The color of root beer.

  “Why’d you attack them?”

  “He can’t understand you”

  “Sure he can. He can understand just fine. Can’t you, Adrian?”

  “Let’s go. Carl. He’s too drugged up. The Flintstones, my ass.”

  Adrian would have spoken but he was hypnotized by the detective’s eyes. There were flecks of yellow in the midst of the brown, but the brown itself...? Adrian was just beginning to relax when he saw the eyes were gone. Confused, he looked for them, saw the uniform cop pulling at the arm of a reluctant detective. Saw the detective resist and look back at him.

  “Beck? Do you know the name of the kid you killed?”

  His name was Jesus Gallegos. He was fourteen when he died, killed on the number 29 bus during a gang initiation.

  Killed by Adrian Beck.

  The newspaper headlines named him the “Vigilante Killer” and printed extra editions with big headlines. The public debated it in letter pages and call in radio shows. Television news reporters discussed the event with solemn voices.

  The police posted guards at the hospital door, keeping out all but the most persistent reporters, but the cops themselves had free access and used it. The first two cops returned. They alternated a paternal interest in Adrian and an angry demeanor that left him drained and trembling.

  The doctors came and went, adding drugs, making bandages, peering myopically at the chart, shaking heads. They came in twos and threes, and once in a flock of medical students, staring at the patient’s fame as much as his injuries. Nurses hovered like moths, the TV on the wall stayed off, the crowd outside in the hall surged and muttered, denied entry by a very large officer.

  One afternoon, just after lunch, a small tired looking man came into the room. He wore a blue suit and carried a brown briefcase; the overall impression was no personality at all. He set his case on the edge of the bed and shuffled through it, emerging with a pair of forms that he handed to Adrian.

  “I’m Carlton Weebs. I’m from the D.A’s office.”

  Adrian stared at the forms in the man’s hand and said nothing.

  Carlton Weebs paused uncertainly before lowering the papers to the bed. “The D.A sent me with these. He’s not going to prosecute. He says it was probably self-defense and so he doesn’t want to file charges.”

  Adrian continued to watch, his expression unchanged. The drugs had worn off but his emotions had been rubbed raw.

  “That’s good news, you know,” said Carlton Weebs. He watched Adrian for a reaction, shrugged and patted the papers. “You’ll need to sign these. I’ll leave them here.”

  He watched Adrian for reactions.

  “Since you’re here alone, let me just say this. I don’t agree with the D.A. on this one. I think you’re a killer and you deserve to go to jail. ’Course, that’s just my opinion, and most of the cops don’t agree with me.”

  He leaned closer until Adrian could see the hairs in his nose. “You’re lucky I’m not in charge. You’d be in jail right now.”

  He waited for a few moments and said finally, “Well; all right.” And left.

  Adrian slept and woke with few moments of comprehension between them. Once he heard the click of the bedside light and rolled his head to the right. A woman perched forward on the chair with a pad on her lap and a pinched bird like expression. In the dim yellow glow, she seemed predatory.

  “Adrian;’ she said. She held a pen in one hand, poised over the paper. “I’d just like to ask a few questions. How did you feel about the deceased? Is it true you stood up to a gang of ten toughs? Did you know the woman? Were you intimate?”

  Adrian closed his eyes and when he opened them again she was gone. Later he sensed the bright lights of a camera crew and heard sounds of a scuffle.

  Inevitably the police returned. They were in uniform and Adrian was almost conscious.

  “Can you hear me?” One leaned over the bed, an avuncular figure with a skinny nose and an air of good humor. Adrian nodded slightly.

  “Good. We’re glad to have you back with us. Right, Brody?”

  “Yep” agreed another voice. Adrian glanced over to look at him. Blond hair, California tan, blue eyes, square face. A cleft chin and wide grin; large white teeth.

  “We’re here to tell you, you’re our buddy. Never mind
what anybody else is saying. We think you were great. It took a lot of nerve to go after those guys.”

  “You’re a hero,” agreed Brody.

  “The kid you offed was a real scumbag. Had a rap sheet as long as Toledo. He won’t be missed.”

  “You’re a good guy, Beck. Don’t forget it.”

  Adrian watched the sun as it drifted across the wall until the room grew dark. A nurse bustled in to turn on the lamp. He lay upright in his bed, breathing shallowly to lessen the pain in his chest.

  “Do you want the television on?” the nurse asked the same questions as all the other nurses. “Do you want any medication? Are you feeling all right? Can I get you anything?” Adrian, silent, would just shake his head.

  Eventually she left him alone. The night grew still and the room shrunk. That’s when Jesus Gallegos would come by to visit. Every night, around eleven thirty.

  Adrian saw him as he was on the bus; baggy pants, black jacket, thick black hair covered in greasy gel. He’d been wrong thinking of Jesus as the gang leader. The cops had been vocal about that. Jesus was new to the gang. The night on the number 29 was his initiation. He didn’t speak to Adrian, he just sat on the low green vinyl chair in the corner, the one beneath the TV, in the shadows. Sat there in his street clothes staring. He didn’t have the gun he’d used in real life, only the face of a young boy, dead at fourteen.

  That’s when the tears came, burning his eyes. They stayed until Jesus left.

  4 – You Can’t Go Home Again

  They let him go home after two weeks over the doctors objections.

  “You’re not ready,” they said. “You can’t even walk; but the HMO’s firm. Your policy, well; what can we do?”

  The nurses were ambivalent. They agreed with the doctors, but it was good to get the police out of the halls. They seemed divided on Adrian’s notoriety.

  Adrian, numb and mute, was wheeled to the lobby. Timed for very early morning, a yellow cab waited while he slid into the backseat. The cab drove away from the curb, taking Adrian home.

  He watched streetlights go by and was reminded of the night he boarded a bus, full of himself, happy with his life. Had that smugness been his downfall? There had to be a reason for what had happened. Guilt suggested the reason was pride.

  The cab driver pulled to the curb and said, “seven-sixty.”

  Adrian fumbled in his tan work slacks and searched for his wallet. He unfolded it and found that he had no money, “I don’t have the money,” he said.

  The driver turned around. He glared at his passenger, staring at the bandages and his expression relaxed. “You’re that Vigilante guy,” he said. “Beck, right? The vigilante guy.”

  Adrian decided “vigilante” was better than ‘baby killer.’ This was his future. People would gape and chose, Jekyll or Hyde, vigilante or hero. Silently he nodded.

  “Well. O-kay.” The driver grinned as if he had a celebrity in his cab “I really liked what you did. Way to stand up, man! No charge for the ride.”

  “Thanks.” Adrian fumbled for the handle. The cabby jumped out and pulled open the door for him.

  “Really, when I saw you on the news, I said “there’s a stand-up guy; don’t take no shit from nobody, you know what I’m saying? That punk got just what was comin’ to him, you ask me. Say; you need a hand?”

  Adrian shook his head. He struggled out of the cab, bouncing on one foot. Stuck a crutch awkwardly under his right armpit and swiveled to the curb. His right wrist was shattered, and his right ankle as well, so he couldn’t use a crutch normally. He had to swing it with his body, place it and pull forward, all without using his hands. Three hops to the sidewalk had his heart beating faster, his face flushed.

  The cabby asked, “You gonna be OK, man?” When Adrian nodded he leaned out the window.

  “You just remember,” he said. “Don’t take no shit from nobody for what you did. That kid got what he deserved. He’s dead, you know; and you’re not.”

  “Sure,” Adrian said. “He’s dead and I’m not.” But the thought of a dead fourteen-year-old stayed with him long after the cab was gone forever.

  Down the sidewalk, across the sparse lawn, up to the entry foyer. Adrian sat down to pull the door open, crawled into the lobby and had to sit on the stairs, scootching up one at a time. By the time he reached his apartment he was sweating profusely, his breath ragged.

  My God, he wondered, how am I ever going to be able to live like this?

  A pile of newspapers sat on the hallway floor outside his door. Adrian ignored them. He unbolted the door and limped inside. The room was dark but through the shaded window in the living room he could see the beginning of dawn.

  The apartment was small: just two rooms and a small alcove for a kitchen. A fat couch squatted in the living room, mostly covered with technical books and articles. A desk and book case sat against the middle wall, and a thick stuffed chair beneath a floor lamp.

  The refrigerator held no food; he’d have to shop.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said aloud. “I’ll get better. My body will heal. People will forget. I’ll get back to work. Everything will go back to the way it was.’ Thinking this, he fell asleep in the chair, and didn’t wake up until noon.

  Blinking in the brighter light, hungry and more tired than before, he reached across to the table, picked up the phone and dialed. Two rings, three, and a voice answered.

  “Techtronics, may I help you?”

  “Sheila,” Adrian said. “It’s me.”

  “Adrian! Where are you?” Her voice sounded uncomfortable, as if his was the last call she’d expected.

  “My apartment. I left the hospital this morning.” He shifted the phone and it brushed the thick bandage on his cheek. “Listen, I need some help.”

  “Adrian, wait. I can’t talk to you. Let me put you through to Jack.”

  What the hell? Adrian sat up, clutching the telephone tighter.

  “Adrian, is that you?’ Jack Southerland, owner of Techtronics

  “Jack.” Adrian felt a rush of relief hearing his voice.

  “Adrian,” said the familiar voice. “You’re fired.”

  Jack said more but Adrian barely heard him.

  “I have to do it;” Jack said, not for the first time. “We run a lot of government projects—we can’t afford to lose them you know? There’s a lot of pressure...the newspapers, television and radio...we’ve gotten hundreds of calls—hundreds. I’ve tried to keep you out of things but there’s just no way...I’m sorry...”

  Jack was still talking when Adrian set the receiver back on its cradle.

  The sun cast a slender beam of bright light across the floor. Dust glowed in the air and Adrian was suddenly shockingly—aware of the sound of emptiness. He’d never been in the apartment on a workday before. The stillness was unnerving. Like being fired was unnerving. Having no food was unnerving. Being beaten half to death or unable to even fucking walk was unnerving. Killing a fourteen-year-old was... unnerving...

  He dropped his head onto his left hand, and felt a stab of pain shoot through his cheek. His eyes watered with reaction and the tears returned.

  Adrian woke to the doorbell ringing. Startled, confused, not aware that he’d fallen asleep in the first place, he waited for reality to come to him. The room was dark, the sunlight vanished. A digital clock on the stove said 7:35. At night? His stomach growled and the door chime sounded again, a strident demanding blat. His stomach turned over, empty and complaining.

  “Go away,” Adrian yelled.

  “Adrian, it’s Sheila.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Adrian, come to the door.”

  “Go away.” I don’t want to see anybody, he told himself, though he knew he did, desperately.

  The doorbell blatted again. Adrian growled but twisted out of the chair. “I’m coming!”

  Slowly. He hopped precariously to the couch, picked up his crutch, nearly fell down trying to use it, threw it to the floor and bounce
d left footed to the door.

  Sheila stood in the hallway, dressed in her usual garish outfit, a blue and white dress with a wide silver sash like belt. Below she wore light colored stockings and tan work boots. She looked like she’d just left cheerleader practice at a gunnery range. Adrian leaned heavily on the doorframe.

  “My God, Adrian.” Her eyes traveled from his leg, in a cast, to his arm, in a cast, past the bandages showing through his thin shirt, to the white gauze on his face. She saw the bruises on his right cheek, the black and blue blotches around both eyes. “I didn’t realize...”

  “How bad is it?” Adrian said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure. How bad is it?”

  She looked flustered. “Not so bad, really.”

  “Liar.” He hopped backwards and she slid past into the dark room.

  “There’s a light over by the chair,” Adrian said. He watched her with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you’d been let go,” she said. “I mean, Jack told me you’d been...”

  “Fired.”

  “I’m so sorry. You look tired. Shouldn’t you sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re so pale,” she said.” When did you eat last?”

  “Last night, I think. Dinner, maybe.” He fell back against the cushion, feeling weak and drained of energy. His pulse raced and his breathing was ragged.

  “I’ll get you something,” Sheila said, eager for something to do. She went to the kitchen. “There’s nothing here,” she said.

  “I meant to go shopping before.” They both knew what before meant. “But I didn’t get to.”

  “I’ll go out and get some, Ok?”

  “Yeah, sure. There’s a deli on the corner of 54th and Harris, a couple of blocks away.”

  “I’ll go right now. What do you want?”

  “Anything. Turkey and Swiss, a BLT, anything at all. But get two, huh? I’ll be hungry tomorrow.” When she left Adrian lay back on the sofa, breathing shallowly. What will do?

  She returned with two large bags filled with sandwiches, two bottles of orange juice and a candy bar. She plainly needed reassurance and Adrian had none to give her. She put the juice in the refrigerator and the candy on the table near his left arm.