Marked for Vengeance (17 page)

“Why
did
you?”     

He sighed and walked toward the older gentleman who motioned for
another drink. “The American dream, why else?”     

As she wiped the sweat from the glass with her finger, she
wondered why he would consider bartending in Atlanta a ‘dream’, and then looked
above the bar at the framed photos that hung beneath the shabby crown molding.
The photos captured him and celebrities in front of that very bar, one signed
by Clint Eastwood that read, “To my favorite bar owner.”
That makes more
sense
.

* * *

Four hours and seven mixed drinks later, Alyx paid her tab. The humming
neon clock that hung above the rows of liquor bottles read eight o’clock, reminding
her that the night clubs awaited.  Although, she might as well stay at the pub that
now crawled with young bar-goers. An empty seat couldn’t be found in the place.

The old bar had an entirely different atmosphere at night. It came
alive. A band had come in to play grungy cover songs, and people swayed to the
music, carefully holding onto their drinks so not to spill them. Inebriated
girls danced on the bar as the men at the pool tables ogled and jutted their elbows
into one another’s arms.

Because of the full bar, she and Agnosio couldn’t banter anymore.
He worked frantically along with his bar back to serve the customers, his rag
now slung over his shoulder that he would periodically use to mop the sweat
from his face if he wasn’t wiping the sweat rings from the bar.  In his
absence, she had chummed up to a group of women that were out partying after
one of them recently divorced. She clicked easily with them because the last
thing they wanted to talk about was relationships. She also had a conversation
with a man who visited the city on business and came to the pub because it was within
walking distance from his hotel. He was a sweet, middle-aged man, who wore a
red bow-tie and was in no way interested in picking anybody up. He only wanted scotch
and a slice of cheesecake while watching the intoxicated clientele.

After paying her tab, Alyx slipped down from the barstool and made
her way to the bathroom to powder her nose, concentrating on placing one
high-heeled boot in front of the other. As she walked, her legs shook like a
newborn calf from the three rum and cokes and four margaritas the bachelorettes
insist she drink. 

On her way there, a man sitting at the ‘obnoxious’ table – as the
older business man hailed it – stuck out his arm.

Whack!

His hand struck her across the butt cheek. She managed a few more wobbly
steps and stopped dead in her tracks, mortified as she listened to their loud,
annoying bellows echo over the steady noise within the bar.
He smacked… my
ASS!
? 

She wasn’t sure of what to do. Not being a usual bar hopper, and
never going to one alone, dealing with rowdy, vulgar men didn’t occupy a spot
within her list of talents. If Benjamin had been there, he would have asked the
offending butt-smacker to step outside and inevitably beaten him cross-eyed. But
because she was alone, she thought it best to ignore the rude idiot and
continued toward the bathroom when Agnosio appeared out of nowhere.

She cautiously turned around and watched in trepidation as he
stopped at their table and planted his fists down in the center, knocking one
of the frat boys’ beer mugs into his lap. “Whoa!” the boy shouted as he leaned
back in his chair, and their laughter died down.

“You men have had enough. It’s time you left,” Agnosio growled and
nodded toward Alyx. “And you also owe that lady right there an apology.”

One of the more obnoxious ones stood from his chair, scraping the
legs against the old, wooden floor. The rest of the bar’s patrons paused to
watch, awaiting a scuffle. “You gonna make us?” he countered with a puffed
chest.

Two bouncers made their way to the table, pounding their fists
into their palms. Their scarred knuckles told of their countless bar fights.

Alyx’s hand covered her mouth.
Uh oh!

“Not
just
me,” Agnosio replied, pointing toward them, “my
friends Scott and Bubba here too.”

Her hand moved to cover her eyes, her fingers parting only
slightly to peer through. She almost couldn’t stand to watch, all of this
commotion over Agnosio defending her honor.    

The cocky boy turned to size them up as they lumbered toward him,
and he stumbled into the table. They were twice his size and ten times as mean.
He pointed to his friend across the table with his thumb. “If Adam here
apologizes, can we stay?”

Agnosio shook his head. “You guys need to leave.”

He rubbed the patchy hair on his chin to consider his options. “It’s
not worth it, man. Forget y’all,” he snapped, swatting his hand in the air,
“let’s leave, guys. This place sucks.”      

They all mumbled in agreement and stood in unison to leave.

“
After
you pay your tab, of course,” Agnosio reminded them.
“And apologize to Alyx.”  

Alyx crossed her arms, glowering at Adam.

He tipped his ball cap. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, and they
walked toward the bar.

Agnosio followed behind them as though he herded a flock of
drunken sheep, and Alyx staggered to his side. She tossed her arms around his
waist. “Thank you,” she whispered, to which he patted her arm in return.  

She made her way to the bathroom – now slightly woozier than
before – and when she opened the door, a gasp escaped her lips. A man stood
behind a busty woman with his hands placed strategically on her naked hips, their
pants lying in a pool around their ankles. “E-Excuse me,” Alyx slurred and
slammed the door shut.

The couple laughed from behind the closed door, and she rested
against the wall, covering her mouth. Her last Margarita threatened to heave its
way up her throat. She clinched it shut to keep the cold chunks from spewing
out and wiped her sweaty forehead with the sleeve of her sweater. All of the
excitement coupled with the stiff alcohol made for one toxic cocktail.
I’m
not made out for this. I need to go home.

She stumbled through the backdoor of the pub and down the street,
using light posts and trashcans as props. When she made it to the bottom of her
complex stairs, her vision blurred as multiple footsteps hammered down on the
other side of the street. “That girl is wasted!” a man heckled.

She placed her right boot on the first step with a heavy thump,
and her arms wrapped around the rail in preparation for the fainting she knew
was to come. She rested her cheek against the painted wood and stared groggily
after the group of men who crossed the street. Her eyes rolled back, and before
the alcohol knocked her out for good, a pair of arms cradled her body as her
numb legs finally gave in.
Who in the…

She wanted to scream for help, but the sound got lost on its way out,
and she melted into the darkness.

CHAPTER
9:

Like
a Band Aid

Isaac
placed the last dirty dish into the washer after their late dinner of Salisbury
steak, while Micah played video games in his room. As he closed the door and
pressed the “Start” button, guilt of his distance from his son during their
meal took root. Micah had honed in on his distress, repeatedly asking him if he
was “ok” as they ate. Isaac’s quieter than usual demeanor gave him away as he
would continually drift off into thought, pondering over the details of his
dream. Of all the ones so far, this one felt the most real.

The
words of the Spirit Guide still echoed through his mind. That it was
about
to start
, and he
needed to be careful
. He couldn’t seem to shake the
worry that these words instilled, because if all of it were true, it meant that
Micah’s future was uncertain.

He
made his way to the fridge to grab another beer. He didn’t usually drink this
much during the week, but needed the help of the alcohol to calm his worries so
they wouldn’t overtake his reason. It never took him this long to shake a bad
dream.

He
wrapped his shirt around the top of the bottle, and it fizzed as the cap
snapped off. Just the sound of it comforted him. As he went to take the first
swig, he shook his head to ward off the Spirits Guide’s words, pushing them
into the back of his mind where he kept all of the other impractical worries.
He couldn’t stand to mull over it any longer.

In
an attempt to change his thought patterns, he opened the door to his studio to admire
his recent collection of paintings. While he shuffled to the center of the
room, looking over the canvases that sat neatly organized atop the glass shelf,
the image of the old man’s intrigued expression when he mentioned the paintings
barreled their way into the forefront of his mind. He glanced down at his ring.
Oman appeared to be incredibly interested in the large hunk of metal, as well.
He played with it between his fingers and looked back out the window at the
skyline. Why couldn’t he just forget all of it? Let it all go? It was only a
dream, after all.

He
turned the bottle up and took three more gulps, emptying it half way.

As
he gazed at the rooftop, Oman’s words of caution found their way back in again.
You are being
watched
. Despite Alyx’s protests to the contrary, Isaac
knew she had spied on him. But did that necessarily mean that the strange
visitor’s words held credibility? Or was his dream simply a manifestation of
his overactive imagination coupled with paranoia. To believe that his words had
credibility meant that his dream was real, and he couldn’t very well accept
that.
I’m just paranoid.

He
turned the bottle up to empty it completely and thought back over his
encounters with Alyx -- how nervous she had been, how evasive and rude she was
when he asked her questions. She clearly had something to hide. And why would
she spy through
that
window of all windows? He then remembered that Oman
ordered him to keep the room “locked tight”. What was she
really
after?

Ok,
I need to stop this,
he determined. Entertaining his fears would only make his dream
harder to forget.
He turned around and headed toward the kitchen. The
studio now encouraged his ‘impractical worries’.

He
tossed the empty bottle into the trash and leaned against the counter, resting
his forearms atop the smooth granite. His ring clanged against its surface, and
he looked down to study the engraving, this time thinking of his father. He glanced
at the clock on the stove.
Eight thirty.
There was a good chance that
his dad would still be awake. A conversation with him would definitely get his
mind off of his woes.

He
made his way to the living room to grab the phone,
hoping
his dad would feel well enough to speak this time, and if he was, would also
let Micah speak with him.

The
only grandparent Micah had ever known was ‘Grandaddy Pat’, and their distance
limited the relationship greatly. Rachel’s parents died in a plane crash when
he was an infant, and the only memories he had of them were what they showed
him in pictures and old stories. Isaac felt partially responsible for him not
knowing his only grandparent that well because he was the one who moved away
from Ireland, but he also knew that he wouldn’t have done anything differently.
If he hadn’t moved to Atlanta, he and Rachel wouldn’t have married, which also
meant that Micah wouldn’t have been born.

He
dialed the number to the hospice in Dublin, and the receptionist sent him
through to the nurses’ station yet again. “He’s actually doin’ better today,”
Bridget said. “So I was lookin’ forward to lettin’ you speak with him. Hold
on.” 

As Isaac
paced the living room, the phone rustled around on the other end. Her voice spoke
softly to him in the background. “Mr. Walsh, this is your son.”

After
a few more seconds of rustling, a noticeably weaker, scratchier version of his
dad’s voice greeted him on the phone. “Hello, me boy,” he croaked.

Tears
prickled his eyes. The devastation of hearing his dad’s waning voice, which
used to be so strong and husky, never got any easier. If his dad would allow it,
he would take the next flight over there and hug his fragile neck.

He
fought the sob back and inhaled a deep breath so he could answer. “Hi, dad,” he
said, lightly kicking the leg of the coffee table.

“Don’t
you worry yourself with me,” he said, sensing the grief in his son’s voice,
“I’m better than ever.”

Isaac
closed his eyes and smiled. “Of course you are.”

His
dad had a tendency to downplay his condition. If his arm had been cut in two, he
would more than likely say it was “only a scratch”. He never enjoyed a big fuss
at his expense.

“What’s
goin’ on with you this week? I’d like to hear about somethin’ that doesn’t have
to do with IV’s, narcotics, and catheters,” he said jokingly.

Isaac
wanted to give him a sympathetic laugh, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He
didn’t find any of what he said to be a laughing matter. “Oh, not much, just
the usual… work and paintin’. Micah’s doin’ well in school. Everyone is good.”

His
dad coughed a rattling cough. “Tis good to hear, son. ‘Tis good to hear.” 

Isaac
played with his ring again and paced between the living room and kitchen. “There
was something I wanted to ask you about, though.”

“Ok,
shoot.”

“That
ring you sent me, the heirloom. Is there any significance as to what’s on it?”

“Not
that I know of. When my father gave it to me, he told that it meant somethin’
prophetic, but that’s about it.”

His
words stopped Isaac short.
Prophetic?
“Are you sure?”

“Yes
son, I am. As a matter of fact, after he told me that I did a little research
on it me-self, and both the eagle and a tree are symbols that represent a
prophet. Why do you ask?”

 Holy
shit.
“No reason,” he said with an almost imperceptible crack in his
voice. “I’ve been wearin’ it a lot lately and was wonderin’ what it meant. I
haven’t seen that symbol before.” 

“Just
make sure it stays in the family. It goes
way
back through our
bloodline. It would be a shame to break the tradition, ya know.”

“I
know, dad. I promise.”

“Hold
on, son,” he said and covered the phone with his hand. The nurse’s voice in the
background spouted orders.

Isaac
clinched his jaw, irritated that they already made him hang up.

His
dad broke off into another round of chest rattling coughs and brought the phone
to his ear.  “They need me hang it up and rest some more. Ol’ Bridget here
wants to pump me full of Morphine. But don’t you worry about me, I’m doin’
good. Give the little lad a hug for me. Love you boys more than anythin’.”

Isaac
hung his head. “Alright, dad. Love you too,” he mumbled. The nurse had squashed
his hopes for Micah to speak with his only living grandparent, but for Isaac to
speak with him for
that
long was a touching treat.

He
placed the phone on the charger and rested on the couch to reflect. The only
sound in their flat came from upstairs as Micah peeled back the covers for bed.
The symbols are prophetic,
he mused. Maybe the old man’s words held
truth, after all. Now there were two revelations that aligned with what the
visitor advised him of; someone watched him, and apparently his family ring
indicated there might be more to his heritage than he realized – a bloodline of
visionaries, perhaps? And his dreams, his vivid, realistic dreams. Could that
mean that they were
,
in fact, a premonition of the future? Oman seemed
to think so.

He
found his former comfort in the assumption that his experience was ‘just
another dream’ dissolving, but with the acceptance of that also came the
acceptance that something might happen to Micah.
Maybe it’s all a
coincidence,
he reasoned and pushed off the couch to lock up for the night.
A paranoid coincidence
.

He
double
checked the dead bolts on the door, and on the way back to the couch he went up
the stairs to check on Micah. As he crept to the side of his bed, Micah peeked
up at him with one eye. “Not asleep yet,” he whispered.

Isaac
chuckled. “Alright, son. Sorry,” he said and headed downstairs to his own bed.

He
sat the cushions in the floor and unfolded the mattress. As he lay staring at
the ceiling, he debated whether or not to turn on the TV. Despite his fatigue,
he wasn’t keen on falling asleep just yet, so naturally, his mind wandered back
to Alyx. How earlier that morning she was -- what he had hoped -- a prospective
first date. She had gone from that, to a cold-hearted snob, to a possible window-watching
threat to his family. All of those things packaged into this beautiful woman. That
was one thing he still couldn’t reconcile – that if all of it were true, that
she
was this dangerous person that Oman had warned him about in his dream.
I
guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.

He
rolled to his side and kicked the blankets to his feet. It was only a matter of
time before he drifted off to sleep again, but he closed his eyes and
surrendered to it all the same.

* *
*

Sometime
during the night, Isaac’s mind drifted to the same dream, as always. He stood
amidst the open grassy field with a dark sky full of stars overhead. He held up
his arms to observe the cloak he wore; a purple, velvet robe whose sleeves hung
past his hands. As he examined this new addition to his recurring dream, a
light sobbing from behind startled him and he turned to see his Dark Angel
sitting in the grass, holding onto a man that lay naked in her lap.

Her
face looked different this time. He could actually
see
it now. She had
round lips and smooth alabaster skin that glistened as tears streamed down and
dripped onto the man she cradled. Her almond-shaped eyes that looked woefully at
his lifeless body weren’t an intense dark black as they were before. They were
a normal, dark brown with the whites showing. She reminded him of someone, but
the velvety haze of dreaming made it impossible for him to place it.

His
eyes wandered down to the man. Blood poured from the gashes in his stomach and
side, pooling onto the ground around them. His heart stopped when his eyes
trailed to his face – it was
him
.

He stared
in horror. His face lay in the crease of her arm and had frozen into a tortured
expression. His eyes remained open with no light within them, only the
unmistakable widened pupils of death’s hold. He lifted his hand to reach for
them, and when his sleeve slid back on his arm, he noticed that his own hand shined
with blood. He lifted the other and his fist clinched a gold dagger.

He dropped
the blade into the grass and attempted to turn and run, but found that his body
was numb, immovable. His lips parted to cry out as he had done before, but
nothing escaped.