18 Journeys
By
Brian Montgomery
Copyright 2004
Brian Montgomery
Published by Brian Montgomery at Smashwords
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Cover Art
By
Debi Cates
The Bargain Hunter
In 1836, it was officially declared that throughout all of America and the Canadian Provinces not a single “Wild Indian” remained unconfined. The confirmation of the Rhys-Johnson Act in 1833 made this a continental law and in an astounding three year period, 773,219 indigenous people were interred on 7,000 reservations. Having determined that “the savage Red Men” were incapable of being integrated into society because of their centuries of incivility, the dominant culture had no choice but to corral the entire race. Needless to say, their hostilities ran high when White men entered their domain. By 1839, more than 20,000 Indians were executed for allegedly escaping and “warring” against the country or killing the Whites that came onto their reservations. Most Whites, by rule of thumb, stayed at least twenty miles from the border of any reservation. Some weren’t so smart.
David Bettencourt dealt in Beaver and Bear pelts mostly, but wasn’t opposed to tracking the nomadic herds of Buffalo if a dealer paid in advance for a dozen or more hides. This month’s trek was for fifty Beaver skins for a Saskatchewan dealer that he’d never even met. He was thirty-seven Beavers into his quest when he thought about his surroundings. He knew that he was probably very near to Micmac Reservation 14 but how close he didn’t know. He had nine traps left to check before he’d move on east and be far out of Micmac range.
The four traps that he’d set by the abandoned damn came up “empty”. He had caught a ten point Deer buck and two Wolves that had come to feed on the trapped Deer. The Wolves were gone leaving only their front paws to prove that they had been there. The Deer was still mostly there. The local scavenging Bears, Foxes, and birds had eaten a good deal of the now rotten flesh of the once proud buck. The fourth trap had been dragged into the river. It was chained to a stake that had been pulled almost completely out of the ground. He pulled the chain but it wouldn’t budge. Whatever had been caught had been strong enough to drag the trap to the river and take it underwater. It had probably died in the water and been pulled under the damn by the current. Regardless, that was a twenty-dollar trap and nobody threw that kind of money into the river. Bettencourt removed his boots. He unsheathed his skinning knife and waded into the river while holding onto the chain. He quickly ran into the submerged tree, then dove under to free his trap.
The Bear’s paw was much tougher to cut through than the other Bear paws that he had cut off before. The bloating from the water had hardened the skin and the trap had sprung at an odd angle. This was the first time that he wished that he had used the spring release traps that allowed the trapper to simply depress a lever on the bottom to remove his prey. Of course, spring release traps cost twelve dollars more than sure kill traps and sometimes a very strong animal could pull itself free. After half an hour, Bettencourt had recovered his trap and was ready to go further upriver to check the last five traps.
He put the barren traps on his pack mule and began his two-mile venture in hopes of collecting at least three more hides. He never noticed the growing look of fear in his mule’s eyes. In fact, the further they walked, the more skittish the mule became. Bettencourt kept his mind only on the traps and the money lost by the Bear, buck, and Wolves. As they neared the area of the traps, the mule stopped and began to snort and swish her tail violently. Bettencourt knew this to be a sign that she refused to go another step. She had done this twice before and no matter how hard or how long he beat her, she would not budge. Knowing that she would probably get her way again, he tried to persuade her just in case. He broke a long thin green branch from a nearby tree and stripped the leaves. He pulled her reigns and slashed her across the neck so hard that her skin split and began to bleed down her leg, but she only dug in with her hooves. He cursed her and kicked her rump, then took his rifle from his saddlebag and left her where she stood.
Bettencourt neared the river’s edge where he had left the traps. Each one lay exactly where it had been set, but each had been sprung. There were no tracks of any kind in the soft mud near the traps nor was the bait removed. He sat by the river and began to reset the traps. Suddenly, a loud pop like the sound of a gun shattered the quiet of the river’s edge. Bettencourt grabbed his rifle and fell to the mud beside his traps. Thirty yards away a small family of Beaver played in the river. The largest of this family stood on the bank and again slapped the water with its tail. They seemed to be taunting Bettencourt. He stood up and pointed his rifle at them, but they dove simultaneously. He aimed the gun in their area and stared down his sight until they resurfaced. He stood as still and quiet as a hungry predator. Several minutes passed, but he remained frozen. The sound of beaver laughter echoed through the forest on the far side of the river. He looked across the river and saw a congregation of Beaver that literally made his mouth fall open. He had never heard of more than one family of Beaver in any particular part of a river. Now, he was witnessing a gathering that none of his trapper friends would ever believe. There were at least three-dozen adult Beavers staring back across the river. Beyond them was a dense forest, which he thought an odd thing with so many Beaver in one place. He knew that from where he stood, he could shoot anywhere between ten and twenty before they scattered through the river. He only needed thirteen more pelts, but the thought of a possible bonus for any more than fifty set his mind in motion. He quickly devised a plan to drive them into the forest behind them where they would be easy prey because they run very slowly on land. He held his rifle above his head and began to wade into the water. Just before he reached the opposing bank, the entire company of Beaver scampered single file through a narrow opening in the forest. He swam as quickly as he could for the shore with a smile so broad that an observer would have thought that the man had just discovered a gold mine.
Bettencourt raced from the river and made his way slowly through the small opening in the forest. He was swallowed in the darkness of the overhanging trees. He found it very difficult to follow the tracks in this darkness, but he pushed onward. The further he went down this Beaver trail, the smaller the path became. The thorny bramble bushes on the sides of the passage closed in and created a narrowing tunnel shape. Before long, he was on his hands and knees, then eventually down on his belly and elbows. He dragged his rifle through the increasingly dark burrow that seemed to go on forever. He could only vaguely make out the Beaver prints on the ground here because the dirt was much harder than the mud by the river’s edge. In fact, the tracks on the dirt didn’t look much like Beaver anymore. They seemed to be of a much larger animal, but that was impossible considering the restrictions of the trail. Up ahead he could see a beaming yellow light. As he neared the strange light, he thought of his situation. He was almost at the end of a very long and dark trail, but completely unsure of what he might find in the light. He was bathed in sweat and dirt and very cold. Turning around now was impossible because of the small area and the thorns of the bushes. He had no choice. He crawled on still smiling, sure that he had discovered some Beaver kingdom that no man had seen before. The eerie light that shone on his face transformed him into a glowing mad man.
He reached the end of the thorny tunnel and dragged his long lean frame from the Beaver trail. His rifle lay at the opening of the passageway. The light circled him from above and radiated everywhere. It flickered and pranced over him. Bettencourt slowly stood, shielding his eyes with his hands. The light had an accompanying heat that filled his lungs and burned his skin. He groped in the light until he touched something all too familiar - a Beaver pelt. He jerked his hands back and fell to his knees to search for his rifle. He pounded the ground with his fists where the rifle had been, then pulled his skinning knife from its sheath and held it out in front of him. A tall dark figure stepped into the circle of light. As Bettencourt’s eyes began to adjust, he saw an eight-foot tall Beaver standing upright like a man not ten feet from him. He began to back away from the figure, when he stumbled into another man-sized Beaver behind him. He fell to the ground and began to lash out with the knife. He cried out “Mama,” just before he found himself in utter darkness again.
Hours passed before he regained consciousness. The night air had chilled him to the bone. His feet were bound to his hands and he was sitting upright. There were several Micmac children seated around him giggling. They were surrounded by two dozen teepees arranged in a rectangle. The center of this rectangle bustled with Micmacs. His head swam and pounded. There was dried blood on the left side of his face from the blow to the head that he had received. He tried to smile back at the children but that only made them laugh more. He closed his eyes and put his head down in an attempt to clear his mind when he heard a shout from a deep voiced Micmac. He looked toward the voice and saw one of the Man-Beavers sitting at the door of a teepee in the distance. The Man-Beaver stood and waved his arms violently. The children quickly scampered away and the other Micmacs cleared a direct path to Bettencourt. The Man-Beaver walked toward him with a regal sweeping stride. It wasn’t until the Man-Beaver was standing directly over the quivering captive, that Bettencourt saw the titanic stern faced Micmac beneath the enormous Beaver skin. He wore a primitively woven costume made entirely of Beaver pelts complete with headpiece. Nonetheless, Bettencourt tottered and fell over to one side in fear. The Micmac-Beaver reached down with one powerful arm and set him upright. He spoke to Bettencourt in a voice so deep and angry that he was afraid to look the furious Micmac in the eye. Bettencourt had no understanding of the Algonquin language but he knew the tone well. He knew that he would be ruthlessly murdered by this band of savages. He had heard of their thirst for blood and he knew that the only way to escape with his life would be to offer them something or the promise of something more valuable than the pleasure that they would gain from killing him. As he saw it, his problems were that he had nothing to offer and no way to communicate with his captors.
“Beaver skins is what you want, my friend, not me. I can give you skins,” said Bettencourt, trying to sound unafraid.
The huge Micmac looked down at Bettencourt and smiled so broadly that the trapper could see every gleaming tooth in his formidable skull. He shouted a bloodcurdling call and raised his arms to the heavens. He appeared as the angry god of the Beaver-men to the shuddering prisoner. As if from thin air, a small boy appeared from behind the mammoth Micmac. He stepped to Bettencourt, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the behemoth.
“Ten Men wishes to know what it is you can say to him,” the boy said softly.
“Tell him my name is Bettencourt and I’m a hunter who got lost,” he said in the friendliest tone that his fear would allow him to muster.
The great Micmac looked Bettencourt directly in the eye and growled his instructions through his clenched teeth to the boy. Saliva spewed from his mouth and his eyes teared with anger. He pointed at Bettencourt throughout the speech and shook his fist several times.
“Ten Men says he does not wish to hear your lies because he can see them on your face. He says he knows you, your traps, your mule, and your greed. He wants to know what it is that you can say to him now?” The boy relayed.
“Tell him that I did not know that I was on your land and that I only want to give you the gifts of my mule, half my skins, and half my traps,” Bettencourt said smiling up at the gigantic Beaver-Man.
Ten Men straddled Bettencourt’s outstretched legs and called out to a nearby Micmac woman. She quickly handed him Bettencourt’s skinning knife. Ten Men stooped down to Bettencourt’s level and held the knife firmly against his captive’s face. Suddenly, he stood again, then threw the knife high into the air. As it came down directly over the trapper, tumbling end over end, he let out a scream and tried in vain to move out of the knife’s path. With a catlike reflex, Ten Men plucked the hurtling knife from the air, a mere inch from Bettencourt’s head. There was an audible whoosh and a lightning quick flash of moonlight across the blade that seemed to momentarily enlighten every face, as he swung it down swiftly cutting the rope between the frightened man’s hands and feet. With the taught rope suddenly severed, Bettencourt flopped backwards into the dirt. The moment that his head hit the ground, the knife came whizzing down to slash his forehead and implant itself in the Earth beside him. He looked quickly to the knife and saw that the blade was buried to the handle.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I was just out hunting for my family. Please take what you want from me but let me go,” he pleaded.
Ten Men reached down and took Bettencourt by the throat and lifted him until they were face to face. Bettencourt dangled a foot and a half from the ground. The blood from his forehead ran down his cheek and dripped from his chin. Ten Men glared into his eyes and pulled him so close that their noses and lips touched. The one handed grip that the mighty man had on Bettencourt’s throat completely cut off his breathing. Ten Men reiterated the growling message that he had said before. Bettencourt could feel the man’s words rumbling in his own mouth.
“Ten Men wants to know what it is you can say to him now?” The boy said softly.
He could hardly open his mouth in answer let alone speak. He tried to wring himself free but Ten Men’s grasp was impossible. Feeling that he would surely die in the powerful clutch, he kicked the Indian twice in the groin. Ten Men smiled broadly and tightened his grip. Bettencourt tried pulling the man’s arm from his throat, but in his weakened state the arm felt as thick and as hard as a tree trunk. Ten Men howled louder than any Wolf the trapper had ever heard, and then threw him to the ground.
“You have answered Ten Men’s question. There is nothing that you can say,” the boy said.
“What are you people going to do to me?” Gasped Bettencourt.
“We wait for Silver Spur to return. He will decide what will become of you,” said the boy.
Ten Men gave another bloodcurdling call and raised his arms to the heavens as he strode away from the beaten trapper. The boy followed him.
“Boy, wait. Don’t leave me,” begged Bettencourt.
The boy called softly to Ten Men. They stood in the center of the encampment for several moments and spoke to one another in hushed tones. The giant man returned to his teepee and the boy returned to Bettencourt. The rectangle of homes once again bustled with Micmacs.
“What did he say to you?” Bettencourt asked.
“He said that I must not trust you,” the boy answered.
“What does he plan to do with me? Will he let me leave here?” He asked.
“It is not for Ten Men to decide what will become of you. Silver Spur will answer your questions when he returns,” the boy replied.
“Is Silver Spur your chief?” He asked.
“We have no chief. Silver Spur is our decider,” the boy said.
“Does he kill Whites too?” He asked.
“The Micmac do not kill. If Silver Spur chooses to free you, it will be so. He will return soon and you will know,” the boy said.
“Where is he now? Is he warring on another tribe or the Whites?” He asked.
“Silver Spur is above the heavens today,” the boy said.
“Above the heavens?” He asked.
“He swims with the Salmon on days when the river is rough. He runs with the Buffalo on days when the wind blows hard. He hunts with the Wolf on nights when the moon is bright. He flies with the Hawk on days when the clouds are high. Today the clouds are high,” the boy said.
“He’s flying?” He asked.
“This day he is a Hawk,” the boy said.
“Okay boy listen, I’ve got to get out of here. Can you help me? I’ve got some very good Beaver pelts that I’ll give you,” he said.
“Your trapping of the Beaver is why you are here. You no longer have the skins. They have been burned on the pyre along with the dead Beaver that you have skinned,” the boy said.
“You can have my mule. She’s a good animal. I’m sure a smart boy like you could use her,” he said.
“The mule is a White man’s bastard. She has been set free to graze and die on her own because she cannot make foal,” the boy said.
“I’ve got some gold hidden away in a place not far from here. If you get my knife back for me and turn your back on me for a few minutes to let me escape, I’ll tell you where I hid it,” he said.
“What use have I for gold on a reservation? Why do you trade with me things that you do not have? Ten Men said that I must not trust you and I obey him,” the boy said, then turned his face toward the sky.
The Micmac encampment suddenly became completely silent and every face turned to the sky. They cleared the rectangle by standing at the entranceway of each teepee. The boy stood quickly and ran to the teepee where Ten Men stood staring upwards. The entire rectangle darkened as if covered by an immense and ominous shadow. A wind began to blow through the treetops. Bettencourt stared to the sky half expecting to see a Micmac Hawk-Man descending upon him. The wind shifted and began to blow through the middle of the rectangle. Though none of the Micmac seemed to be affected by the strong wind, it rustled Bettencourt so thoroughly that he was forced to shield his eyes with his hands. In a matter of seconds, he was coated in dirt and leaves. The wind stopped just as suddenly as it had started. Bettencourt began to dust himself off when he noticed that all eyes were turned to the man who now stood beside Ten Men. He was as tall as Ten Men, but broader and more muscular. Bettencourt could not make out the features of the man’s face from his distance but he seemed to look very much like Ten Men. Ten Men pointed toward the captive trapper and the second giant Micmac glared in his direction. With a royal stride, the goliath Micmac approached Bettencourt. He stood over the frightened man. His thick black hair and eyebrows were windblown. He smiled so broadly that Bettencourt was sure that he saw blood lust in the Micmac’s face. There was a perfect crescent shaped scar that started above his left eye, curved around the temple, and ended in a deep gouge in his left cheek. Other than the scar, he was the mirror image of Ten Men.
“I am Silver Spur,” he said without the slightest hint of an Algonquin accent.
“My name is David Bettencourt. I’m a hunter-”
“Trapper is what you are, Mr. Bettencourt. What is it that you can say to me?” Asked Silver Spur.
“Nothing,” said Bettencourt.
“I can tell by your answer that you have spoken to Ten Men. What is it that you want to say to me?” He asked.
“Nothing,” said the trapper, shifting his gaze to the ground.
“You don’t want to know why I look like Ten Men or how I got this scar or why I speak English so well or if I was really out flying with the Hawk or... what will become of you?” He asked.
“Are you going to kill me?” Asked Bettencourt.
“I do not kill men, not even White men. You are a trapper and trappers live by the rule of the bargain so I will give you a choice of fates,” he said.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
“I will present you with three choices and you must choose one. I will talk it over with Ten Men and return with your choices very soon,” Silver Spur said, then turned and walked away.
Bettencourt watched the towering Micmac walk to the teepee where Ten Men stood. Before they entered the teepee, Silver Spur called the boy, then pointed to the trapper. The boy walked toward Bettencourt as the two immense Micmacs disappeared into the teepee.
“What choices will he give me, boy?” Bettencourt asked.
“That is Silver Spur’s knowledge. I am sure that one of the choices will be to face the Manitou in the forest,” the boy said.
“Manitou? What the hell is that?” He asked.
“The Manitou is the God of Nature. It sets things right in the world. The Manitou will do to you what you have done to nature,” the boy said.
“What is it, some kind of monster?” He asked.
“I do not know what a monster is. The Manitou is a God,” the boy said.
“Jesus, will all my choices be so cruel?” He asked.
“That is Silver Spur’s knowledge. He will make your choices no crueler than you are,” the boy said.
“I can understand why you call Ten Men by that name but why do you call the other one Silver Spur?” He asked.
“They are brothers born at the same time. There were three of these same brothers, but one was killed by the cowboys that scarred Silver Spur,” the boy said.
“What did they do to him?” He asked.
“Silver Spur lived in the White village. He went to school there and his brothers worked in the village. Ten Men worked in the White stable. Two cowboys came to the village one day and told Ten Men to brush down their horses, then they went to the hotel. They saw Silver Spur when they got to the hotel and they thought he was Ten Men. They beat him for not brushing down their horses when they told him to. One of them held him down as the other cut his face with his silver boot spur by kicking him in the face. My father, Wind Wolf, came to help Silver Spur and they shot him,” the boy said.
“So Ten Men and Silver Spur are your uncles? Triplets. There were three giants like that. Can he really fly with hawks and all that?” He asked.
“What do you believe?” The boy replied.
“No one can do those things. If White men can’t do it, then it can’t be done,” he said.
“That is why you are White men. You are what you believe you are and you believe you are White men. We are a part of Nature and all things are possible in Nature,” the boy said.
Bettencourt looked into the boy’s eyes as he spoke, but he no longer saw a boy. There was Silver Spur sitting where there was once a boy. The same windblown hair, regal face, and unmistakable moon shaped scar. Silver Spur began to smile his haunting smile when his scar disappeared and he became Ten Men. Within the moment of a smile he had transformed from a rational Micmac into a ghastly Redskin. An instant after, the boy stared back at the trapper.
“I believe I am everything. What do you believe?” The boy asked in Silver Spur’s voice, then quickly walked away from David Bettencourt.
The boy crossed Silver Spur’s path as they passed one another. Silver Spur walked to Bettencourt and knelt on the ground beside him. He drew three circles in the dirt with the trappers skinning knife. He etched three trees in the first circle. He wrote the word “Nature” in the second circle. He dug a small hole in the third.
“Your choices are to be tied to the impossible trees and have your knife returned so that you can have the opportunity to free yourself,” he said, pointing to the first circle. “Or you can take the fate that the Manitou chooses for you in the forest or-”
“What is this Manitou thing?” He asked.
“The Manitou is the spirit of Nature. It will punish you justly and exactly as you deserve for the things that you have done to nature in your lifetime,” Silver Spur said.
“I mean is it some kind of creature or monster?” He asked.
“Do monsters frighten you?” Silver Spur returned.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“For you, it will be a monster,” the Micmac decider said, then smiled.
“What’s in the third circle?” He asked.
“This is Ten Men’s thought. He wishes to put you into a deep hole and stampede a herd of Buffalo toward you. If no Buffalo fall into the hole and kill you, then you may leave with your life. You have until tomorrow morning to make up your mind,” Silver Spur said.
“What if I don’t make a decision?” He asked.
“To choose nothing will be choosing everything. Think about it for a while, then get some sleep. We will ask for your decision at dawn,” he said, and then walked away.
Silver Spur crossed Ten Men’s path as they passed one another. Ten Men walked to Bettencourt, then tied him firmly with a heavy rope. He lifted the captive with one brawny arm and carried him into a teepee. He laid the bound man face down in the dirt inside the teepee, then left.
The following morning, Ten Men returned and carried the trapper out to the center of the rectangle where the entire tribe had gathered. Every face stared at the tear streaked face of David Bettencourt. Silver Spur cut the ropes that held the prisoner and Ten Men lifted him to his feet.
“What shall we do with you, Mr. Bettencourt? Have you made your decision?” Asked Silver Spur.
“Yes, I have,” he said feebly.
In a clearing just outside of the Micmac encampment, Ten Men pulled a taught rope that held a young Spruce treetop. He pulled until the treetop touched the ground. Silver Spur drove a stake into the ground, then tied off the treetop. Ten Men pulled down a second treetop and Silver Spur tied it to a stake four feet from the first. The boy escorted the trapper to the stakes and tied his ankles to them. Bettencourt sat in the dirt staring at the tightly arched trees that were tied to the same stakes that held his feet. Silver Spur knelt beside him as Ten Men tied a taught rope between the two stakes.
“Lie down now,” said Silver Spur.
“Why? What are you going to do to me?” The captive trapper asked.
“We must stake your hand also,” Silver Spur said.
“I thought you said you’d give me back my knife. How can I hope to get free if my hands are tied down too?” He asked.
“One hand will be staked and one will be free. You may hold your knife in your free hand,” the towering Micmac answered.
Ten Men took the trapper by the left hand and stretched his body out. He pulled Bettencourt’s arm out to the left and slightly above the head until the shoulder separated partially. Bettencourt screamed in agony as Ten Men smiled down at him. Silver Spur drove a stake into the ground next to the trapper’s outstretched wrist. Ten Men tied the wrist to the stake. Silver Spur put the skinning knife into Bettencourt’s right hand.
“Try to cut the rope that holds your left hand,” Silver Spur said calmly.
“I can’t reach it,” he whimpered through his shoulder’s pain.
“Try,” Silver Spur repeated.
Bettencourt reached as far as his bound body would allow. The knife point would only reach to his left forearm. He winced in pain and flopped back in the dirt.
“I can’t reach it. You tied it too far away,” he cried.
Ten Men tied a length of rope to the stake at the trapper’s left hand and stretched it to the taught rope that stretched between the two stakes at his feet. This new length of rope rubbed roughly against his left thigh.
“What’s that for? It’s too tight,” he said.
“If you try to pull the stake from the ground with your left hand, the rope will loosen and cause the rope between the two leg stakes to jerk. If that rope tugs, it will pull out the stakes and the trees will return to their standing positions. Your legs will go North and South. The left hand stake must remain in the Earth. You must know that if you cannot reach your other hand, you also cannot reach either leg,” said Silver Spur.
“How do you expect me to cut myself free? You said that I’d be able to escape,” he said.
“I said that you’d have the opportunity to get free. Just as the Wolf and the Beaver have the choice of getting out of your traps, you too have this choice now. Once you have freed your hand, you must remember to cut only the rope at your ankle and not the rope that stretches between the stakes. The trees must remain tied to their stakes or you will see the Micmac Reservation from a bird’s eye view,” Silver Spur said, then the entire Micmac tribe left Bettencourt with the impossible trees.
After hours of crying, screaming for help, and praying for a miracle, David Bettencourt finally accepted his fate. A large family of Beaver and two three legged Wolves watched from the bramble bushes that created the clearing in which the bound trapper now found himself. He heard the Wolf howl and the Beaver laughter as he began to cut through the flesh of his left forearm.
Final Purge
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Drexel. It’s…amazing to say the least. I’ve never seen or even heard of a cancer being so…rapid, so encompassing. The only organs that have been spared are your heart and your left kidney. This is…I don’t have the words to tell you how rare something like this is. I saw you less than a year ago, let me see here,” Dr. Schmidt said, then glanced quickly at Mr. Drexel’s chart. “Yes, a bit over ten months ago. You were the picture of health then. It’s like you’ve spent the last ten months under a radioactive lamp or an x-ray machine. Have you had many x-rays over the year? That’s ridiculous anyway. You couldn’t possibly have been subjected to the amount of x-rays that it would take to cause this kind of thing. I don’t know anything that would cause this kind of metastatic growth over so many organs and glands.”
“And you don’t think it could be something in my food or something like that?” Mr. Drexel asked.
“Not unless you’ve been eating…kryptonite or something. No, it couldn’t be any kind of ingestion that caused this. If you ate anything that had the capacity to do this much damage, you would have vomited it out or it would have been lethal, to say the least,” Dr. Schmidt said.
“So, we’re at a point where…what can be done?” Drexel asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to recommend, Mr. Drexel. Chemotherapy would do you no good now. It would only make you feel sick on top of what’s already going on inside you. Surgery is also not a viable option. We’d have to cut out at least three-quarters of most of your major organs and remove your lymphatic system entirely. Your bloodstream has spread it so thoroughly throughout your…I’m sorry, Mr. Drexel. I have the names of a couple of other doctors that you may want to see but I don’t think even they can give you much more hope than I have,” Dr. Schmidt said.
Drexel slid his long wiry frame off of the doctor’s paper lined table and buttoned his open shirt. Veins stood out on his forehead and his disheveled sand colored hair hung lank across his face. He reached up and swiped the hair back into place. He moved with balletic grace and had a physical strength that belied his physique.
“Frankly, Mr. Drexel, I’m astounded that you’re not in tremendous pain,” Dr. Schmidt said.
“I have days that feel like I’ve been hit in the gut with a wrecking ball. I get migraines now too. I’ve always had a high threshold for pain, I guess,” Drexel said, smiling.
“I can prescribe something for you, if you want. No doubt, you’ll need something really strong really soon. I can prescribe something powerful for you,” Dr. Schmidt said, then reached into the pocket of his smock and took out a prescription pad and a pen.
“No, I need to be clear headed, doc. I can’t afford not to be sharp,” Drexel said.
“You’re going to need some morphine in the coming weeks and months. I’ll write the prescription and you fill it when you need to,” Dr. Schmidt said and began writing out the prescription.
“Morphine?” Drexel asked.
Drexel sat in his comfortable massage recliner in his living room. The television was on and a three-piece chicken meal sat untouched on the table beside the chair. The sound was muted on the television and Drexel sat with his eyes half closed. He wore headphones and listened to a relaxation CD while looking at the inane sitcom images on the television.
The dying man pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket. He ripped the letter open from the upper left corner and a slip of folded paper fell onto his lap. He unfolded the paper, looked at the five neatly typed names with their corresponding addresses, then refolded the paper and placed it back in his pocket beside his morphine prescription. He turned the television off and closed his eyes. He thought about how Dr. Schmidt had told him that he would need a licensed nurse to come to his home soon and administer the morphine injections. He couldn’t allow anyone into his home, his world. He‘d have to deal with the pain himself.
Drexel sat at his computer and plugged in his headphones. He put his relaxation CD into the computer’s drive and cued up his favorite tracks – babbling brooks and rain forest sounds, while waiting for the computer to connect to the internet. Once connected to the internet, he deleted his e-mail, then typed www.purgethescourge/miami.org in his search window. The site’s blank opening page quickly lit up his screen. He typed in his password and his personal membership window opened. The first name on the screen was the same as the first name on the list that was neatly folded in his breast pocket. The screen read:
Davis, Allen M.
1191 Valley Cir.
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 215 lbs
Hair: brown
D.O.B. 2-17-67
Crime(s): armed robbery; assault with a deadly weapon (baseball bat); crack cocaine sales; attempted murder of a peace officer; murder
“Al” frequents Nate’s Billiards on Provost Drive. Can be found at Mid-City videos usually on Friday and Saturday nights. No scheduled appointments at this time.
Has been known to carry a 9mm Beretta pistol in an ankle holster.
Considered armed and dangerous
Glassel, Victor D.
237 S. Coverdale Rd.
Apt. 3
Height: 6’ 04”
Weight: 240 lbs
Hair: brown
D.O.B. 11-28-59
Crime(s): rape; extortion; robbery; aggravated assault/mayhem; child molestation
Victor works Mon. – Fri. at Jackson’s Lube ‘n Oil on the corner of Caster and Bleaker Ave’s. No scheduled appointments at this time.
No known weapons of note.
Considered dangerous.
Pyle, Glen W.
9047 Goldenrod Ave.
Apt. E
Height: 5’ 10”
Weight: 165 lbs
Hair: bald
D.O.B. 3-13-71
Crime(s): murder; arson; murder; murder
Glen is a bagger at Shopright Value Market on Carlisle blvd. Hours vary. No scheduled appointments at this time.
Has been known to carry concealed weapons – variety of guns and knives.
Considered armed and extremely dangerous.
Rexford, Martin S.
75521 W. Almond Rd.
Rm. 618, 6th floor
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 200 lbs
Hair: black
D.O.B. 6-12-69
Crime(s): cocaine sales; heroine sales; armed robbery; assault with a deadly weapon; manslaughter
“Marty” currently deals cocaine to wealthy clientele – doctors, attorneys, etc. Appointment (deal) with Dr. Benjamin Summer D.D.S. in the Moreno Medical Building every Friday at noon.
No known weapons of note.
Not considered dangerous.
Gale, Pervis C.
2055 Palmer Ln.
Height: 5’ 6”
Weight: 135 lbs
Hair: blonde
D.O.B. 1-22-58
Crime(s): Assault with a deadly weapon; murder; attempted murder; murder for hire
Pervis works Mon. – Wed. at Ride the Fire Auto Body Shop on Canal St. and Thurs. – Sun. at the Sunny Daze Car Wash on 5th and Stevens Rd.
Has been known to carry concealed handguns.
Considered armed and extremely dangerous.
These men should be handled with extreme caution. Quick and deliberate action is suggested. With the exception of Rexford, these men will act/react with murderous aggression. Purging them is best done at their homes as opposed to their places of business.
Estimated gross payment:
Davis - $950.00
Glassel - $17,000
Pyle - $4,800
Rexford - $62,000
Gale - $1,200
He printed the two pages and looked them over as if they were merely text and not five death sentences. He left the internet and unplugged his headphones from the computer. He turned the volume up on the computer’s speakers so that the soothing sounds filled the room. He got up from his chair and went to his closet. He laid out his clothes for the coming day.
Drexel took his nickel-plated nine-millimeter pistol out of his dresser drawer, inserted the full clip of bullets, took off the safety, and blithely put the heavy gun into the pocket of his overcoat, which hung on a wooden hanger on his closet door. He took his brushed metal black .45 pistol from the same dresser drawer and inserted it just as casually into the inner pocket of the same coat. He reached once more into the drawer and removed a twelve-inch, shining ebony handled filet knife. This he held deftly in his right hand. He practice jabbed and swirled it in the air of the bedroom.
The ruddy orange setting sun sent its light through the window while Drexel practiced his knife wielding skills. The sound the blade made as it cut through the air was like a whip at high speed. For a dying man, this slender man possessed a speed and precision like a man half his age and twice his strength. He was a predator of the highest order. A dying predator.
Fragments
Through a green section of glass, I can see myself on the empty playground with the five other boys who then made up the now famous Strathmore Street Club. I was not the leader, but even Donald knew that I had what it took to make the others do what I wanted. Mike, Roger, Silvio, and Keith respected me but, as a rule, they listened to Donald. We all had matching aquamarine Ferrara Bicycles and wore similar maroon hats. Donald had called this early Saturday morning meeting to discuss the possibilities of recovering crazy Old Man Covington’s stolen strongbox.
The story that was in all the papers and circulating at all the breakfast tables was that Mr. Aldus Covington (the wealthiest man in the state) was robbed on his way home from the Bank of Paradise. He said he had just withdrawn his strongbox filled with an undocumented amount of cash, gold, jewels, silver, government bonds, and unsigned property deeds. Secretly, he was attempting to start a run on the bank by withdrawing his assets, then he would save the bank just before they went under by buying a controlling number of shares (this is how he became the richest man in the state). In the midst of his squeeze play, he was foiled by three masked robbers who shot out the tires of his black limousine as his driver drove him home with his precious lead strongbox. They stole the box and drove off on three yellow motorcycles (one of which had a sidecar that the box rode in). There were no fingerprints or other clues as to the identity of the banditos.
Old Man Covington offered a five thousand dollar ransom for the return of his box, but that just made everyone in town know that there was probably ten times that amount inside. The police and the FBI were baffled and had no leads (or rather, the banking and other legitimate business people in town persuaded them not to look too hard for the old swindler’s scamming equipment). It seemed that they had completely disappeared and that no one would ever find out the identity of the robbers or the whereabouts of the gray metal box.
It seemed that way until Donald called this meeting. You see, while visiting his blind grandmother on Thursday night, a man knocked on her door and asked to speak to her. She spoke to him for several minutes, then handed him a Western Union telegram that had come for him earlier that day. When he left, Donald asked her who the strange man was. She said that he was a new tenant (she ran a small bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town back in those days). He and two other men had come to town for the week and had decided to stay until Monday. She said they were nice young men, but their motorcycles were very loud. Donald asked her which room they were staying in and she said that they were in the top floor. It seems that they had rented the entire top floor and had paid the weeks rent on Friday night (the night of the robbery). Donald was smart enough to put two and two together, but that was the limit of his smarts. His plan was to go straight to the police and have them stake out his grandmother’s inn.
I can still remember my first thought upon hearing this plan - how will we benefit from Donald making five thousand dollars? In the moments following this thought, Donald lost the reigns of the Strathmore Street Club and a new leader was recognized. I told them about my plan that would make us all rich, famous, and be the colorful adventure that would make us all men. The first thing we did was ride our aquamarine bikes to the street where crazy Old Man Covington was robbed and we searched the road’s shoulder for tire tracks. Before long, Keith found three sets of motorcycle tracks in the dirt. Roger took out the instamatic camera that he kept in his brown backpack and took pictures of the tracks.
By the time we got to Donald’s grandmother’s inn, it was just getting dark. We hid our bikes in the bushes on the side of the inn and went to the garage. Donald opened the door for us and we found our jackpot - the yellow motorcycles. The tire treads matched the pictures. Mike and Donald were beginning to back out of the plan and wanted to go in the house and call the police, but I talked them into going through with my plot. I told Donald to sneak into the inn and steal the master key to the top floor. It took him almost half an hour, but he returned with the key. He had an unsteady look in his green eyes and he was becoming unglued. I went ahead with the scheme and prayed that he’d pull through without cracking up on me.
We crept up the stairs toward the top floor, carefully avoiding each creak in the steps. There were two doors that led into the adjoining rooms on this floor. I listened at the first door and heard two men talking and laughing. I listened at the second door and heard the steady snore of the third man. I quietly opened the door. Silvio, Keith, and I went in and began looking for the gray strongbox, leaving Roger, Mike, and Donald in the hall to run interference if necessary. After searching the bedroom thoroughly, we checked the bathroom. We thought that maybe we had the wrong three guys until we looked in the bedroom closet. The beautiful gray lead strongbox was three feet long by two feet wide by one foot deep and it took all the strength that three boys can muster to carry it. When we reached the hall, the other three boys helped and we carried it quietly down the stairs and into the dark backyard. We were all bathed in sweat and our hearts raced like trip hammers. We set the box down to catch our breath and Silvio asked if I had shut the closet door when we left the room. I said no as did Keith. I could see the panic rising in their eyes, so I told them to go on with the plan and take the box into the garage and try to pick the lock without damaging the box itself. I ran back to the inn and silently climbed the stairs again. I opened the bedroom door and walked past the sleeping bandito. I closed the closet door and hurried back down the stairs. When I opened the garage door, they appeared disordered and scared. They hadn’t been able to even find anything to pick the lock with.
I took control of the situation again and within ten minutes, I had the strongbox open. I simply put my thumb over the lock’s keyhole (to create a pressure seal) and had the boys hold their red cigarette lighters beneath the metal box. The heated air within the box expanded, but the air inside the lock remained constant. I removed my thumb quickly and the pressure that had built inside the lock burst out causing a great whistling sound and (of course) the lock opened as easy as you please. We stared into the modern day treasure chest. There was an amazing amount of cash and jewels, but very little gold and silver (apparently, crazy Old Man Covington had lied about the government bonds and unsigned property deeds). We left twelve hundred dollars in cash, four obscure jewels, a small piece of gold, and an even smaller piece of dirty looking silver in the box and relocked it. We put two million six-hundred dollars, forty-one large and brilliantly colored jewels, and the remaining gold and silver in three dingy brown potato sacks that Donald’s grandmother had in her garage. Silvio and I carried the much lighter box back upstairs and placed it in the closet. We wiped the lead box clean of all of our fingerprints. My plan was perfect. Our friends were out burying our booty and we were getting away with this Scott free, or so I thought.
The door opened and the other two robbers came into the bedroom. We stood in the pitch black closet, barely breathing. They woke the third man and they all sat on the bed. Silvio was beginning to sweat and shake. I thought he would go nuts. I was so calm that the reality of the situation didn’t occur to me. It was like some weird game for me. It was like I wasn’t really all there. The men talked about going out for dinner, while I calmed Silvio. They got dressed and left the room about an hour later. Silvio was almost a pool of jelly by then, but we were able to leave right on their heels and caught up with the boys down by the secret place where we (I) had decided to bury the loot. We rode from there to Keith’s house and told his dad to call the police on the three guys who had moved into Donald’s grandmother’s inn. We said we had a strong hunch that they might be the same three guys who robbed Old Man Covington. The police busted the three guys later that night and we were instant heroes. Old Man Covington said that there was much more money and jewels than were recovered. They say he lost his mind that day. The police said that the guys had probably hidden it away. The banditos denied that they had ever opened the strongbox. In any case, it was never recovered. And it won’t be until I finish my windows. The boys agreed to wait.
When I look through red glass, I see the horrors of the mole holes. We had just crashed the beach and taken the city of Tianinsy, when the chopper landed with sealed orders. The grunts and the short timers don’t care about sealed orders because they know they won’t be sent on missions of any kind, but guys like me and Dorian (guys with unique skills, training, and crazy enough to do anything) know we could be called upon to do whatever suicide duty the higher ups can dream of. But this one was no dream, it was a nightmare.
It seemed that they wanted three guys to go into the tunnels dug by the enemy and map them out. Personally, I thought it best to just drop grenades into the holes and blow them all out, but for some insane reason, somebody with a bunch of gold stripes couldn’t rest until he had a map in his tight little fist. So me, Dorian, and some kid named Carlos got the detail. Me and Dory don’t sweat it because we’ve been through hell together a few dozen times, but we both know this kid won’t be an asset underground. He was too fresh and would end up being carried out of the holes or buried in them. The pink faced sergeant who read the orders didn’t see it our way and insisted that we take this Carlos down with us to break him in. Well, we had Carlos pack our lanterns, grenades, food, water, and ammo. We treated him like he was our fraternity pledge. He did all the preliminary map work and readied us to go into the tunnels.
On the following morning, when we were supposed to take our rookie into the pits of hell, the red faced sergeant was entirely pissed off to find him bound and gagged at the entrance of the first tunnel. That was the least we could do for the kid. We knew we’d be in hot water when we returned, but we figured that there was a good possibility that we wouldn’t return anyway so what the hell.
The first thing we hated was the constant drip of water from above. The ceiling of the tunnel system was like a dripping wound. The walls were muddy and the whole place felt unsound. We pushed on into the tunnels and marked every turn. Our buzz lights gave off a weird green light that killed reality and made my mind feel like it was moving in slow motion. At the third turn, we saw our first black snake. The enemy placed black snakes all throughout these dark caverns. They carried little blue vials of the snake bite antidote with them in case they were bitten. The weapons of war are varied. We killed the snake quietly and continued on. Ahead, we heard faint talking. We turned off our light and went on toward the sound, all the while clinging to the cracked walls. We realized the talking was coming from one of our radios and we carried on until we found it. Another one of the enemy’s tricks. They got one of our radios and left it on in order to slow down our pursuit. It worked. This was also a signal to let us know that they knew we were on their trail. We turned on our green light and stepped up our pace.
There were seven black snakes at the next turn. We shot them all, which was our signal to let the enemy know that we were there on business. After two and three quarter miles of mapping and killing innocent snakes, we finally encountered the enemy. There were four moles waiting for us. Dory took out two of them as soon as we rounded the corner. He was shot in the face by the third. I cut the third down and chased the fourth for several yards before capturing him. I went back to Dorian and dressed his wound. The bullet had hit him square on the cheekbone and ricocheted off. He had blurred vision and he bled a lot but he was okay. We then took the snake bite antidote from the dead enemy and questioned the one that I had captured. He lied with every movement of his quivering purple lips. We took him along for the ride to the end of the tunnels. We heard more of the enemy ahead of us, but we never caught up to them.
We exited the tunnels and headed back toward the beach. With the camp in sight, shots rang out and we were all dropped in our tracks. I called to Dory, but he never answered. I had been shot in the small of the back and I could see that our prisoner was dead. The enemy swarmed over us and shot the dead prisoner again. I could hear Dory moaning. I tried to crawl toward him, but they kicked me. I could see from the corner of my eye, one of the enemy beating Dory over the head with the black butt of a rifle. The one who kicked me shot me twice (it was hot like the solder and lead), then they all disappeared. I woke up in a hospital with a collapsed lung, one kidney, and partially paralyzed. Dorian never left the war. I imagine he’s under a smooth beveled stone, much like my glass.
“What’s the chart on the guy over there who just sits and tells stories to himself?”
“We don’t know much about him yet. The report is that he was an artist. He used to make stained glass windows. Apparently, he slowly began to go insane and his windows got stranger and stranger the more deluded he became. He started to lose work because nobody would commission him anymore. Now he imagines these wild stories and then the stories become new windows in his mind. We don’t think he knows reality from his fantastic imaginary windows. I guess life is what you make it after all.”
Abuser
Gisele landed with a thud. She had somehow managed to get her right leg awkwardly folded beneath her and her ample rear bounced on her ankle, causing a new excruciation. Her body bobbed forward and she toppled over, her pained nose banging now against the hardwood floor. She felt the air rushing at her a millisecond before the closet door slammed inches from her head.
She pushed herself up into a seated position onto her already numbed right leg. She pulled her leg free with her hand and saw that there was blood splattered across the back of both hands. She leaned back and let both legs sprawl out in front of her. A bubble of snot rose from her left nostril and a bubble of blood rose from her right. The running snot and blood mingled on her chin and dripped pink and sticky onto the floor between her legs.
Gisele could see through her watery eyes that Frank was indeed on the other side of the door with his feet braced against it so that she couldn’t open it. Her husband was outweighed by a good thirty pounds by her but he was stronger than he looked. Yes, Frank had popped her in the nose, and then slammed the closet door on her. Gisele slid forward and put her own foot against the door. She lay on her back, stared up into the darkness, and now put both dirty bare feet firmly against the closet door.
In her mind, Gisele knew that this would be the last beating. She understood that since no police report had ever been filed after the years and years of beatings, it would be her word against his as to what happened in their home on this final night of their marriage. She also knew how it had to look for the police and she knew that the worse she looked at the moment, the better it would be for her in the long run. She closed her eyes and blew through her nose to let more blood flow onto the floor.
Frank had proposed to Gisele on her birthday and they were married on Valentine’s Day the following year. Neither wanted children and it was only discussed once before he got a vasectomy. Like most marriages, it was flowers and candy for the first six months. Frank was sweet and she was loving. Time and familiarity were unkind to them. He soon became distant and she became unreasonable. Gisele and Frank were a dysfunctional machine before they celebrated their first anniversary, which they neglected to celebrate.