Part Five
When confronted with a certain death situation, the average human brain experiences four distinct cycles of feeling. First is fear, the initial recognition of loss of control; your mind and heart racing as one trying to put the pieces together as fast as you can. Second in line is denial, you attempting to rationalize that none of this could possibly be happening. Not to you, anyway. Panic, the third cycle, begins to set in when denial fails, as you realize that you are not dreaming and if you don't act fast, you never will again. The fourth and final phase of feeling is, at last, acceptance. You've run though every possible scenario, made every attempt to resolve the predicament, begged and pleaded for every conceivable way out of the situation. Nothing.
I was already on stage four of the cycle, my head still groggy from the earlier blow by one of the two men standing over me, standing over me with my own gun pointed at my head. A cut had opened up on the side of my temple, the blood dripping into and further contaminating the rain-soaked ground of the dirty alleyway. It's not that you want to give up or give in -- something that people in my line of work should never do -- but from where I lay, that option just seemed more realistic. It could all end in a matter of seconds: the fighting, the bloodshed, the rampage, the mystery. Whatever it was that Lara had pulled me into, whatever secret Jono was willing to kill for, would all be a distant memory to me: the final chapter written in what had become a twisted tale stranger than any fiction I had ever read. Where it all all began, how it all began, seems like such a distant memory now, a story written in wind and sand. Yes, it all could have -- should have -- ended right here. But it didn't.
"Hey! Hey, what are you two doing down there?"
It was a man's voice, perhaps a bystander who got a little too curious or some kind of modern-day do-gooder out playing part time superhero. This dark alley was little place for an amateur crusader but, for whatever his intention, his voice cut through the thick haze that had become my thinking. I snapped open my eyes and took in my surroundings for the first time. The two bodyguards were standing over me, positioned at my feet, their attention newly focused on the opposite end of the alley. RING. The one holding my gun had let his aim fall slightly, the barrel now much lower and no longer pointed cleanly at my head. The other now had his hand stuck inside his jacket, presumably ready to reach for a weapon of his own should this new development pose a threat. RING. For me, it was now or never. RING.
It was the third ring that jostled him from his slumber.
"Damn," muttered John Graham. "I always get woken up at the best part." He gave his head a quick shake in an attempt to clear the cobwebs and reached for the phone. "Graham. What is it?"
"Detective Graham, sir, we've got a fresh one. Homocide. A passerby found it a short while ago in an alley downtown. Its -- it's not pretty."
Graham sighed but hid his disappointment over another night of lost sleep. They were pretty hard to come by these days and he knew the rules. "I'll throw some clothes on and be right over." Throwing the covers off, he swung his legs around to the side of the bed and attempted to sit upright. The pain in his back was still there. Damn, he'd have to get that checked out sometime soon. With a yawn and a stretch, he felt somewhat human again. He didn't have time to shower or shave; serves those bastards right for waking me up out of a sound sleep, John thought.
Standing, Graham felt his 30-year old body resisting. He was going to have to take better care of himself if he wanted to see 35. Well, it would put me out of my misery at least, he thought darkly. Grabbing a shirt and some pants out of a rumpled pile of clothing on the floor, he quickly dressed himself. Without stopping to check his appearance, he was out the door. He really didn't care anyway.
John Graham had led a troubled life, his 30 years feeling a lot more like 50. His wife had recently left him, though the marriage, if you could call it that, was about as phony as Milli Vanilli's singing career. She kept joking about how she was going to run off with another woman. As it turns out, she was a lesbian and was only using him for his job benefits. Not really all that funny of a joke. It wasn't that he cared per se -- his life was hell with or without her -- but it's more the principle of the matter at this point. It seems that just about the only good thing in his life was his work, but the work itself was not good at all.
He joined the San Francisco police an idealist, ready to take on crime and fight corruption at any level; ideals that most new recruits share. Share, that is, until they actually begin working the streets. The city sucks the life out of you, the crime the goodness in your heart. He'd seen his share of horrific things; the dark side of human nature that causes us to do the inexplicable. John, like most in his precinct, turned inward and relied on booze to chase away his demons, while at the same chasing away just about everything but work. He rose through the ranks rapidly, his keen ability to know man's bad side made him a natural fit as a detective. When a position opened in homocide, he didn't hesistate to apply nor did they hesitate to accept him.
John drummed his fingers as Lynard Skynard played over the radio. He didn't really care much for classic rock but his broken down piece of transportation only got one radio station. A few years back, some street punks had beat him to near-death with a crowbar as they made off with his newly purchased Lincoln Towncar. Ever since, he had pretty much relegated himself to driving this jalopy, a half-restored 1986 pinto. Some guys on the force laughed at him but he didn't care. John didn't care about a lot of things.
"What the hell?" John uttered out loud as he pulled up to the crime scene, despite the fact that no one could hear him. The place, the environment looked all too familiar. It wasn't just the smirks from his fellow officers; the jokes about his car he'd long learned to ignore. John shrugged. He had been in this city all his life and he'd visited a lot of shady places during his tenure on the force. Probably just one of those things. Stepping out of his car, he was approached by the ranking officer on the scene.
"Graham? Hawks." He offered his hand.
"Good to know you, Hawks," Graham replied and gave the outstretched hand a quick shake. "What do we have? And what's with the huge crowd already? Is the press on to this?"
"The crowd is from Deluxe, an upscale club that neighbors the alley. I heard a lot about it but I have never been there. We've isolated everyone in line just in case someone saw something. They're none too happy about it so we aren't expecting much."
"Ok, keep me posted if you get any hits. Now, the alley?"
"Right. Well, we've got two bodies, both shot multiple times. Rather large fellows too. Very odd."
Parting the crowd, Graham stepped under the yellow police tape and made his way around the corner into the alley. The recognition came flooding back; the sense of deja vu hitting like a tidal wave. The side door, the rain soaked alley. The filthy stench of body decay. As he approached the two prone bodies, he noted that they weren't just large, they were outright huge; dressed in black suits and wires running to concealed earpieces.
"Oh my God," Graham exclaimed softly.
"What is it, Graham?" Hawks asked.
"I've know this alley. I know what happened. I was here."
"What? When?" Hawks said, stunned.
"Earlier tonight..."
To be continued...
When confronted with a certain death situation, the average human brain experiences four distinct cycles of feeling. First is fear, the initial recognition of loss of control; your mind and heart racing as one trying to put the pieces together as fast as you can. Second in line is denial, you attempting to rationalize that none of this could possibly be happening. Not to you, anyway. Panic, the third cycle, begins to set in when denial fails, as you realize that you are not dreaming and if you don't act fast, you never will again. The fourth and final phase of feeling is, at last, acceptance. You've run though every possible scenario, made every attempt to resolve the predicament, begged and pleaded for every conceivable way out of the situation. Nothing.
I was already on stage four of the cycle, my head still groggy from the earlier blow by one of the two men standing over me, standing over me with my own gun pointed at my head. A cut had opened up on the side of my temple, the blood dripping into and further contaminating the rain-soaked ground of the dirty alleyway. It's not that you want to give up or give in -- something that people in my line of work should never do -- but from where I lay, that option just seemed more realistic. It could all end in a matter of seconds: the fighting, the bloodshed, the rampage, the mystery. Whatever it was that Lara had pulled me into, whatever secret Jono was willing to kill for, would all be a distant memory to me: the final chapter written in what had become a twisted tale stranger than any fiction I had ever read. Where it all all began, how it all began, seems like such a distant memory now, a story written in wind and sand. Yes, it all could have -- should have -- ended right here. But it didn't.
"Hey! Hey, what are you two doing down there?"
It was a man's voice, perhaps a bystander who got a little too curious or some kind of modern-day do-gooder out playing part time superhero. This dark alley was little place for an amateur crusader but, for whatever his intention, his voice cut through the thick haze that had become my thinking. I snapped open my eyes and took in my surroundings for the first time. The two bodyguards were standing over me, positioned at my feet, their attention newly focused on the opposite end of the alley. RING. The one holding my gun had let his aim fall slightly, the barrel now much lower and no longer pointed cleanly at my head. The other now had his hand stuck inside his jacket, presumably ready to reach for a weapon of his own should this new development pose a threat. RING. For me, it was now or never. RING.
It was the third ring that jostled him from his slumber.
"Damn," muttered John Graham. "I always get woken up at the best part." He gave his head a quick shake in an attempt to clear the cobwebs and reached for the phone. "Graham. What is it?"
"Detective Graham, sir, we've got a fresh one. Homocide. A passerby found it a short while ago in an alley downtown. Its -- it's not pretty."
Graham sighed but hid his disappointment over another night of lost sleep. They were pretty hard to come by these days and he knew the rules. "I'll throw some clothes on and be right over." Throwing the covers off, he swung his legs around to the side of the bed and attempted to sit upright. The pain in his back was still there. Damn, he'd have to get that checked out sometime soon. With a yawn and a stretch, he felt somewhat human again. He didn't have time to shower or shave; serves those bastards right for waking me up out of a sound sleep, John thought.
Standing, Graham felt his 30-year old body resisting. He was going to have to take better care of himself if he wanted to see 35. Well, it would put me out of my misery at least, he thought darkly. Grabbing a shirt and some pants out of a rumpled pile of clothing on the floor, he quickly dressed himself. Without stopping to check his appearance, he was out the door. He really didn't care anyway.
John Graham had led a troubled life, his 30 years feeling a lot more like 50. His wife had recently left him, though the marriage, if you could call it that, was about as phony as Milli Vanilli's singing career. She kept joking about how she was going to run off with another woman. As it turns out, she was a lesbian and was only using him for his job benefits. Not really all that funny of a joke. It wasn't that he cared per se -- his life was hell with or without her -- but it's more the principle of the matter at this point. It seems that just about the only good thing in his life was his work, but the work itself was not good at all.
He joined the San Francisco police an idealist, ready to take on crime and fight corruption at any level; ideals that most new recruits share. Share, that is, until they actually begin working the streets. The city sucks the life out of you, the crime the goodness in your heart. He'd seen his share of horrific things; the dark side of human nature that causes us to do the inexplicable. John, like most in his precinct, turned inward and relied on booze to chase away his demons, while at the same chasing away just about everything but work. He rose through the ranks rapidly, his keen ability to know man's bad side made him a natural fit as a detective. When a position opened in homocide, he didn't hesistate to apply nor did they hesitate to accept him.
John drummed his fingers as Lynard Skynard played over the radio. He didn't really care much for classic rock but his broken down piece of transportation only got one radio station. A few years back, some street punks had beat him to near-death with a crowbar as they made off with his newly purchased Lincoln Towncar. Ever since, he had pretty much relegated himself to driving this jalopy, a half-restored 1986 pinto. Some guys on the force laughed at him but he didn't care. John didn't care about a lot of things.
"What the hell?" John uttered out loud as he pulled up to the crime scene, despite the fact that no one could hear him. The place, the environment looked all too familiar. It wasn't just the smirks from his fellow officers; the jokes about his car he'd long learned to ignore. John shrugged. He had been in this city all his life and he'd visited a lot of shady places during his tenure on the force. Probably just one of those things. Stepping out of his car, he was approached by the ranking officer on the scene.
"Graham? Hawks." He offered his hand.
"Good to know you, Hawks," Graham replied and gave the outstretched hand a quick shake. "What do we have? And what's with the huge crowd already? Is the press on to this?"
"The crowd is from Deluxe, an upscale club that neighbors the alley. I heard a lot about it but I have never been there. We've isolated everyone in line just in case someone saw something. They're none too happy about it so we aren't expecting much."
"Ok, keep me posted if you get any hits. Now, the alley?"
"Right. Well, we've got two bodies, both shot multiple times. Rather large fellows too. Very odd."
Parting the crowd, Graham stepped under the yellow police tape and made his way around the corner into the alley. The recognition came flooding back; the sense of deja vu hitting like a tidal wave. The side door, the rain soaked alley. The filthy stench of body decay. As he approached the two prone bodies, he noted that they weren't just large, they were outright huge; dressed in black suits and wires running to concealed earpieces.
"Oh my God," Graham exclaimed softly.
"What is it, Graham?" Hawks asked.
"I've know this alley. I know what happened. I was here."
"What? When?" Hawks said, stunned.
"Earlier tonight..."
To be continued...
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