Ryan Jahn - The Dispatcher

‘Donald.’

‘What the fuck are you doing h-’

But the last word catches in his throat, the question apparently no longer of concern now that he realizes he can move neither his arms nor his legs. He looks down at his wrists. They are held in place by duct tape. As are his legs. He is still a moment. Then he shakes violently in the chair, trying to pull himself loose. His face purples in concentration and exertion, his hands form fists, his toes curl. He cannot get loose. His body relaxes again and his chest heaves. He swallows and looks at Ian.

‘So what do you want?’ After that display of violence his voice is surprisingly calm.

‘A man after my own heart,’ Ian says. ‘Skip the chit-chat. How about that weather, did you hear what Cora did to an eggplant at Albertsons, John Roberts has been arrested again. I want information.’

‘What?’

‘Information. You know what that means?’

‘Go to hell.’

‘If there is one, I suspect you’ll get there first.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Where’s your brother headed?’

‘What?’

‘Your brother. Henry Dean.’

Ian pushes himself up to his feet, feeling lightheaded but trying not to show it. The pain is tremendous, the pain-killers pumped into him at the hospital finally wearing off. He stands motionless a moment, thinking he may be sick. He isn’t.

Once he’s sure of himself he picks up the hatchet from the end table on which he set it and walks toward Donald. He simply lets it hang from his fist.

Donald looks from the hatchet to Ian.

‘You can’t do anything with that.’

‘No?’

Donald smiles, shaking his head.

‘And why is that?’

‘You’re the police.’

‘I’m just a dispatcher these days.’

‘You still can’t-’

‘There may be consequences, but I can do whatever I want, Donald, because those come later, and right here, right now, tonight, it’s just you and me alone with an axe.’

Donald swallows, the smile gone. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘But I don’t know-’

Ian sets the hatchet blade down on Donald’s bare leg. Donald flinches. It must be cold. Ian drags it gently across the pale skin from the inside of his thigh to his knee. It’s not quite sharp enough to draw blood from pressure of its own weight, but it draws a thin pink line across the flesh.

‘Thing is,’ Ian says, ‘what you know and what you don’t know-that’s less important than what I think you know. Less important for you, I mean. You may be telling the truth right now, Donald. It’s possible. But I don’t believe it. And what I believe is what matters. Again, it’s what matters for you. Because I’m going to take you apart one piece at a time until I get the information I want. The information I believe you’re hiding from me in that thick fucking noggin of yours. Do we understand each other?’

Donald licks his lips. They’re dry and chapped. He looks from the hatchet to Ian’s eyes. Ian looks back. He can tell Donald is sizing up the situation, deciding what he will say, and Ian hopes, for Donald’s sake and his own, that the man says the right thing.

Instead what he says is, ‘Maybe I don’t believe you either. Maybe I think all you got is talk, and maybe talk don’t intimidate me.’

‘Questioning my sincerity right now would be a mistake, Donald.’

‘You’re lying. You don’t have the sack to-’

Ian slams the hatchet down into the floor, and lets go of it. It stays there at an angle, held by the wood into which it’s been imbedded.

Ian watches Donald’s face. For a moment he does not seem to realize what’s happened. Then he looks down at the floor. The hatchet’s blade is stuck between Donald’s right foot and his two small toes. The small toes lie on the green carpet looking like grapes that have been hiding under the couch for the last six months, shriveled and ancient, practically yellow raisins. Then the blood begins to flow.

Donald’s breathing gets strange and heavy. He does not scream, but his breathing gets labored and a series of groans escapes him, and he looks at his foot unbelievingly.

‘You can’t do that!’

‘Do what?’

‘You just cut off my fucking toes!’

‘I was just trying for the pinky toe. Hatchet isn’t exactly a precision tool.’

‘Put them back. You can’t fucking do that. You’re the police .’

‘That’s the kind of thinking that’s going to get you into trouble tonight, Donald. You need to understand that I can do whatever I want, and you need to understand that I will.’

‘I don’t. .’

He closes his eyes. He breathes in and out.

Ian watches him, feeling strangely detached from everything that is happening. There have been times when merely seeing an old man struggle down the sidewalk while pushing a walker in front of him has broken his heart: thoughts of the man sitting alone at some cockroach-infested diner eating a three-dollar bowl of soup, the only dinner he can afford on his pension; the pictures of his dead wife that surely litter the small house in which he lives; the house itself in disrepair; the lonesome bed; the going to sleep without knowing if tomorrow will come; the hope that it does not. Nothing more than a liver-spotted hand gripping a walker has broken his heart, but here he is staring down at fear welling in a man’s eyes and he feels nothing but contempt. Contempt and hatred. This man knows where his daughter is and he’s not talking.

Soon he will be.

He leans down, picks up the toes, wraps them individually in torn pieces of paper towel, and sets them in a glass bowl into which he’s broken several ice cube trays. Then he pulls the hatchet from the floor. Blood drips from the blade.

Very soon he will be.

‘Sooner you talk,’ Ian says, ‘sooner you help me get back what I lost, sooner I stop chopping-and you get to the hospital and have a chance of getting back what you lost.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Donald says.

‘Have it your way,’ Ian says.

He swings the hatchet.

Ian stands in the bathroom staring at his own reflection in the toothpaste-spotted mirror above the sink. He looks very tired. He looks very sick. He’s having a hard time breathing. He turns around and looks over his shoulder at his back in the mirror. There is a red spot about the size of a dime on his orange button-up shirt. The place where the bullet came out. He tore the stitches while swinging the hatchet. It hurts like hell, especially since whatever they gave him for pain at the hospital is wearing off, but mostly he’s glad he did not tear the catheter from his chest.

He sits on the toilet lid and puts his elbows on his legs and his face in his hands.

He has taken all of Donald’s toes and the man has still not talked. He has to start on the fingers next. But first a moment of peace.

He sits silently and thinks about nothing.

Somewhere a tumbleweed rolls through desert sands.

‘Okay,’ he says after a few minutes, and gets to his feet. He opens the medicine cabinet and looks through the bottles there, knocking several into the sink below before finding some 50-milligram tramadol tablets in an orange prescription bottle. ‘Take one tablet by mouth every four hours, as needed, for pain.’ He thumbs the cap off and pours three or four pills into his mouth. Then turns on the water, brings a palmful to his lips, and swallows. He pockets the bottle and wipes at his chin before heading back out to the living room where Donald waits and bleeds.

‘For all I know he went down to Florida to try to catch a fishing boat to Cuba.’

That’s the sentence that loses Donald the pinky finger on his right hand-the hatchet also cutting halfway through his ring finger. He swings the hatchet down into the arm of the chair, taking off a small chunk of wood along with the finger. The finger drops to the carpet like a dead bird.