A Smudge of Gray (18 page)
Trevor towered over Brian. The
businessman grinned as he pointed his pistol between Brian’s green eyes.
Through the confusion, April crawled to the back of the train.
“You see, you and I are not that
different,” Trevor said.
Brian gripped the seat trying to get up,
but pain shot through his leg, pain that he had never felt before. Trevor used
his teeth to remove his left glove, and then tossed it at Brian’s tormented
body. Then, he placed the gun in his left hand and did the same to his other
glove.
“We both are family men. Have a great
wife and loving children. Actually, you seem to be having trouble in that
department, haven’t you?” Trevor teased. “If you think about it, we really are
the same. Perhaps, we are the same person.”
Brian felt his body shut down. Any
movement twisted his nerves and sent excruciating pain throughout his body.
Blood poured from his leg and drenched his hands. Brian tried to lift himself
up, but he kept sliding in the pool of his own blood.
Trevor stood over him. He held his
weapon loosely as he controlled the situation like a board meeting. Then, he
reached deep into his trench coat. His hand held for a moment, and then he
removed it as his bare fingers held a picture of Laura, Katie, Kevin, and the
keystone of the Malloy family—himself.
“Do you know what today is?” Trevor
asked.
“The day they put on your tombstone,”
Brian lashed back.
“Today is a very special day. We
actually have it in common. It’s the ten year anniversary of our father’s
death.”
“How do you know about my father?”
“I know
all
about him. I know how
he blew his brains out inside a hotel room from the pressure. I know that was
the day that you knew you had to be a cop. You see, I was there too inside that
room, and that was the day that I knew I had to be a businessman.”
“Who are you?” Brian asked as he looked
up into Trevor’s eyes.
“You still don’t get it, do you? Or
perhaps you do get it, and you don’t want to admit it.” Trevor smirked. “Look
in the mirror! You’re not here. I’m you, Brian.” His green eyes were now red.
“And there’s one more thing that I remember our father saying, his last words. You
know them. They torment you every day; they hold you back from kissing your
son; they taunt you when you sleep; they make you go soft when your wife wants
it. Go on, Brian, say them.”
Brian froze. His mind screamed. Brian
knew he was sleeping; he had to be, and he had to wake up from this nightmare.
“I have to get
them
out of my
head. You remember our father saying that, right? He suffered just like we are
suffering now.”
Trevor clutched the silver gun in his
right hand. He gripped it tighter than he had with Dante, Max, and even Janice.
He eyed Brian’s greasy hair, the covering to the detective’s control unit.
Brian knew this was it. This bizarre
nightmare riddled with a man, a creature in a trench coat, proved he had one
foot already in hell. He realized that he was about to face his demise. He had
given it a shot, and he knew his family would miss him, at least he hoped they
would. We often wonder what last image we will see when we take our last breath
of life, and for Brian it looked as if it would be the image of his own blood
painting the metal floor of an abused train car. Although Brian lost his badge,
lost his identity, lost his soul, he knew he was still a detective, still a
cop. And cops were trained the moment they entered the police academy. For
Brian, his academy instructor had ingrained something into his mind, something
that he had done every day he went to work, something that would save him from
his devastating fall.
Brian heard a click from the pistol
above him. But almost instantly, he defeated the pain and twisted his arm
behind his back, grabbing at that something—the second weapon that his instructor
had told him always to carry, a small pistol tucked in his belt.
Two quick gunshots echoed in the train
car. At first, both men stood motionless, not knowing where the shots had originated.
But then, one of the men felt blinding pain, pain that took his breath away.
That man looked at his shoes and saw two holes where patches of white leather had
been.
The passengers collectively gasped. They
saw the single man in front of them shoot his own feet.
Trevor toppled over. His gun flew from
his hand and his photograph ripped in two, tearing Trevor from his family. Two
lead bullets had pierced his shoes and had busted the bones in his feet, and
now the businessman was on the floor squealing.
“I know the hidden gun trick too,” Brian
replied as he mustered the strength to stand even with his busted leg.
Trevor crawled on the floor and reached
for his gun, but Brian kicked it farther away toward the passengers witnessing
evil. The yuppie, in particular, couldn’t look at the battle. All he could do was
to stare at the security camera on the ceiling. And the yuppie did not know it,
but the 55” flat-screen monitor at Brian’s precinct displayed the camera feed
for Lt. Foster and the two techs, frozen in fright. The three of them watched the
black and white video of one man acting out two parts. He was talking to
himself, struggling with himself, shooting himself. The passengers, the techs,
Lt. Foster all knew that what they were seeing was beyond insanity.
Blood and grit now covered the
businessman’s white shirt and polished trench coat. He had lost his shine.
“I’m sorry,” Brian whispered. He missed
his family. He knew at that moment that he was not a cop, not a detective
striving to be captain. He was a father, a husband. But as he saw the color red
covering himself, he realized that his recognition might have been too late.
As Brian reflected, Trevor raised his
hand and entered Brian’s open wound with his finger. Lights flashed inside
Brian’s mind as his pain receptors screamed. The detective collapsed again on
the ground, his second gun sliding under the chairs, the picture falling.
Evil consumed Trevor’s eyes. His hair
was tousled, his face spotted with blood, and his polish now dulled. The
businessman raised his fist, and then unleashed it into Brian’s head.
Brian’s skull bashed against the metal
seat, and his brain rattled inside his head. Brian flexed his right leg, and
using his heel, he chopped Trevor’s foot. Trevor stopped, yelled, and crumbled.
As Trevor lay on the ground, he saw a
boy in the crowd of onlookers, a boy who Trevor did not remember inside the
train car before the detective had arrived, a boy who trembled on the ground,
hands gripping his knees, a boy who reminded Trevor of his own son. As Trevor
lay there bathing in blood and pain, the boy locked eyes with him. It happened
for only a second, a second in time never again to be lived, but it did happen,
and that connection, lasting only a second, frightened Trevor. He wondered what
was going through that boy’s mind, what thoughts, what images, what sounds were
burning into memories that would cause that boy restless nights as a teen,
would make him consider dropping out of high school, would prevent him from becoming
a father. Trevor looked past the pain and saw Laura, Katie, and Kevin. He
missed them, but he knew it was too late to go back now. And then the demon
pushed his family away and regained its grasp on his mind.
Brian stood up and saw his 9mm only feet
away. He stumbled toward it, but Trevor elbowed his leg. Brian plummeted to the
ground. A metal armrest on the chair cut his temple as blood seeped down his
face. His eyes rolled back as a blinding ache consumed him.
Trevor rose to his knees. He looked
around and saw the disoriented detective. His eyes shifted to Brian’s gun.
Trevor wobbled toward it. He picked it up, his hand trembling. Trevor turned and
saw his chance, saw his shot, but the reflection in the window stopped him.
Trevor saw himself as Brian.
Brian blinked and realized he was now
standing, holding the gun. Trevor was on the floor, trading places.
“I’m in your mind, Brian,” Trevor’s
voice whispered inside Brian’s skull.
The detective closed his eyes and
pounded his head with his fist.
“I know everything about you, Brian. I
know that you like to fuck your wife doggy style. I do too.”
“This is Detective Brian Boise. Shoot
the suspect!” Brian’s voice yelled inside his brain.
Brian punched his head harder as the
voices shouted. He felt Trevor inside his mind, felt his eyes, felt his breath,
felt his memories, felt his evil. Brian realized that those black holes in his
mind were holes filled with Trevor. He realized he was Trevor. It all made sense
to him now, but at the same time, it made no sense. He wanted to wake up—he
needed to.
The sight in the train car made April’s
body clench. She was terrified beyond words.
Brian clutched his gun. He placed the barrel
on his temple, and then looked into the window. He saw not his own reflection,
but the reflection of Trevor holding the gun against his temple.
“I have to get
them
out of my
head,” both men said at the same time.
Trevor’s life flashed before his
eyes—his son’s jump shot, his daughter’s girlish laugh, his wife’s supple
touch. Then he regressed to a child. He shot free throws with his dad; he rode
on his father’s shoulders in the deep end; he felt the strong hands of his
father holding him.
Brian’s family filled his thoughts—his
son playing video games, his wife’s whisper. Then the detective flashed back to
a teenager. He played catch with his dad in the backyard; he sat in the front
seat as his father parked in front of the ice cream parlor; his father’s
protective hands hugged him.
It all flashed before their eyes in a
split second, a split second we all will face one day.
The train entered a tunnel, darkness
stealing the light. A blast of energy erupted inside that train car, lost in
the dankest, darkest part of the city’s underground. April saw only the flash
of light from the gun and heard the echo of the discharge. Then she closed her
eyes and listened to the howl of the train.
Chapter 27
Hundreds of bodies filled an auditorium.
The place looked like a high school assembly, except for the police uniforms and
news reporters filling the seats. The audience sat under bright lights. Two
cops scurried down the aisle like two tardy jocks, one was chubby, the other
skinny. Both officers searched for a seat and grabbed two near the side exit,
two they always had grabbed to guarantee they were first in line if there was cake.
The audience quieted down as their eyes
fixated on the stage. Lt. Foster walked out first holding a folder and wearing
his best dress. He ensured the single silver bars pinned on his shoulders
glimmered in the lights.
“Before I answer any questions, I’d like
to make a statement. This great city has seen its share of crimes and
criminals. And over the past ten years, one man had made this great city a
better place, a safer place. He had sacrificed his time, his family, and his self
for the better of this city. That man’s name was Detective Brian Boise. Detective
Boise followed the footsteps of his father, another man named Detective Boise,
who was a damn good cop. I had worked with him on several cases some twenty
years ago, and I probably wouldn’t be standing here today if it hadn’t been for
that man. But the reason that I am addressing you today is because of Detective
Brian Boise. While this cop fought crime, he fought demons inside his mind. He
was sick, suffering from things beyond me, beyond anyone in this room. And I
want to be
precisely
clear, that Detective Brian Boise was, and always
will be, a great man with a great name.”
The room was silent, but then a hundred
reporters raised their hands. “Captain! Question! Here! Over here!”
The captain took a moment. He looked at
Lt. Foster as both men shared a frown. Finally, the captain selected a slender
male reporter.
“Is it true that Detective Brian Boise
was both the detective
and
the suspect in a murder case?”
“That’s correct,” the captain replied,
his voice deeper echoing throughout the auditorium.
“A detective inventing his own suspect!
What’s next!?” someone yelled out as the reporters all hollered for another
question. The captain selected a young woman with glasses.
“Did the detective pass his
psychological evaluations? And was he insane?”
The captain did not answer. He closed
his eyes.
Lt. Foster looked down and opened the
folder in his hands. He stared at the photograph that the detective named Brian
Boise had given him, the photograph of one man standing in front of a
basketball court—one man who was insane.