Paul Cleave - Blood Men

The pain is instant when I stand; my leg throbs and I almost collapse. All the blood drains in one direction and I get light-headed. The nurse pushes me back toward the bed but I regain myself and straighten up. “See?” I say, pointing at my face. “A happy smile. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I will be.”

It takes me longer than usual to get dressed, and instead of walking out of the hospital they push me out in a wheelchair. All the people that seemed to be around this afternoon have gone home for Christmas. We pass only two nurses on the way out and an orderly and nobody else, not even any visitors. Everything that was in my pockets is handed to me in a white paper bag. I don’t bother opening it. At the hospital doors I leave the wheelchair behind. My leg is tight with all the new stitching.

Schroder is parked in one of the handicapped spots close to the door. The parking lot is empty except for two other cars. I think he’s about to put me in the back of the car, but he lets me ride up front. He knows I’ve killed two people within the last twenty-four hours, and I’m sure he’ll try to prove it once he gets me into an interrogation room. I have no idea how, but the day has stretched into night. I’m no longer wearing my watch-I don’t even know if it’s in the paper bag, or if I lost it in the excitement of the day, or maybe one of the paramedics stole it. It must be around 9:30.

There’s a warm breeze. Clear sky. Perfect weather conditions for Santa, and if I were home with Sam, if I still had a family life, we’d watch TV together and watch Santa’s approach to New Zealand, her excitement building at the presents to come. I still haven’t got anything for her, but Nat and Diana took care of that, picking up and wrapping some gifts. The malls are closed and I’d like to have got her something myself. Jesus, I’m a bad father. How can I have not made an effort to pick her something up? Some toys, a doll, something to make her feel better. I’m focusing on revenge and not on the things that matter.

Revenge matters.

“You talk about defending the city like this is a war,” I say, staring out the windows as we drive through town where drunk teenagers are roaming the streets.

“I could rant on about this city for the next five hours and it wouldn’t be anything you didn’t already know,” he says. “There are thousands and thousands who live here, ignorant of the violence that is seething in the soul of this city, until one day it reaches out and pulls them down. You probably knew about it because of your dad. But it wasn’t until last week that you really cared.”

“I always cared. No matter what you think, I hate my father for what he did. I hate him for this inheritance he left me.”

We reach my in-laws’ street and approach the patch of ground where the man I ran over was shot and killed. There isn’t any crime scene tape up anywhere. They probably had to roll it up as quick as they could and use it somewhere else. There would have been media and cops all over the place, but now they’re gone, and there’s nothing here to suggest what happened this afternoon. It’s too dark to tell, but I’m sure the blood has been hosed away. I wonder if they picked the dead man up first, or his leg. I wonder how much a leg weighs.

From the paper bag, a cell phone rings.

Not my cell phone because I don’t recognize the ringtone.

“You gonna get that?” Schroder asks.

I unfold the top of the bag and reach inside. The phone I took from Kingsly is lit up.

“Hello?” I say, my heart thumping.

“Listen carefully. You say one more word and I’m going to kill your little girl.”

“Who. .”

“Shut up,” he says. “One more word and she’s dead. I’m not kidding around. Now, tell me yes if you understand.”

My mind goes completely blank, then everything rushes at me from the darkness, the bank robbery, the bodies, my daughter. . my daughter what? “Yes,” I say, the word hard to form through my dry mouth and I have to catch my breath. My hand is shaking and Schroder is too focused on driving to notice. He pulls in behind the cop car.

“Your girl, she’s ours now. We own her. And unless you do exactly as I say, you’ll never see her again. You get what I mean?”

“Yes,” I say. I break out in a sweat.

“Good. Let me know when Schroder gets out of the car.”

“Wait here while I have a quick word with the officer,” Schroder says, mostly to himself because I’m not really listening to him. I nod.

“He’s gone,” I say.

“In a moment he’s about to run into the house. I want you to go with him. When he reaches for his cell phone I want you to take it off him.”

“You understand I’m in police custody.”

“Of course we know, we’ve been watching you all afternoon,” the voice says. “All the more incentive for you not to miss the right moment, Eddie. Don’t mess it up. You’ll get more instructions once you’re inside. Now go!” He hangs up as Schroder runs back toward me.

Jesus, it’s bad. Real bad. A dead officer out here and who knows how many dead people inside. Blood all over the inside of the patrol car. There should have been two cops watching tonight, hell, should have been four of them, but the budget didn’t allow for the man-hours required, and nobody wanted to pull that shift on Christmas Eve, and damn it, goddamn it, he should have done more because this officer’s blood is on his hands and so is the blood of anybody dead inside. His training tells him to wait for backup, but his instinct is to go inside, into the unknown. Either way, now he knows he has to as he sees Edward limping toward the front door.

“Get back in the car,” Schroder yells, but Edward is ignoring him. He breaks into a run and grabs Edward at the front door.

“Get back in the car!” Schroder orders again. He tries to lift his cell phone to his ear while keeping Edward under control. He gets the phone about halfway up when Edward spins around and grabs it out of his hand.

“What the hell?” he says, but doesn’t say anything else before the phone is snapped in half and tossed onto the ground. “Jesus, Eddie, what the hell?” he asks, and he shoves him against the side of the house.

“Sam isn’t in there,” Edward says.

“How do you know that? We haven’t searched the house yet,” Schroder asks as he presses Edward against the front door. “How would you know that?”

“They called me and told me. And they sounded impatient!”

“We need all the help we can get,” Schroder says. Something isn’t right, but he can see the fear in Edward’s eyes and knows he’s telling the truth.

He lets Edward go and opens the front door. All the lights are off. He goes inside and turns toward the living room. Edward follows him but there’s nobody else here. He keeps flicking light switches and nothing appears out of place.

“The cop outside,” Edward asks. “Where is he?”

“Dead,” Schroder says. “Why’d you break the cell phone? Who called you?” he asks.

Edward doesn’t answer. Schroder opens the hallway door. The only light on down there is coming from the bathroom. “Stay behind me,” he says.

The bathtub is full of water. On the surface is a plastic tray, floating there, one corner nudged up against the side of the tub. On top of the tray is a brick of cash. Schroder steps into the bathroom and looks down at it, and he knows, he immediately knows he’s made a mistake, a very costly one, and before he can try to rectify it he hears a shotgun being primed.

Schroder doesn’t move. He keeps facing the bath and his face scrunches up, waiting for the gunshot. He wonders if he’ll outlive that blast by a few seconds and will get to see the front of his chest spraying across the tile wall. When nothing happens, he slowly raises his hands and turns around. A solid man with tattoos on his hands and a thick black jersey covering the ones that probably continue up his arms is pointing a shotgun that covers both him and Edward.