In the old days—a mere week ago, before my life was ripped apart—I used the drive home after a day at the office to decompress from the sessions, so I wouldn’t take my work home. That wasn’t going to happen this time.
I thought about what Gus had said earlier, that a mystery man was asking about me, wanting to see me. What if he wanted to make sure that I was dead? Did Father James’ have a confederate after all? Rick Arno fit Gus’s description and I’d already established he met other clients in my waiting room. Had he hooked up with Father James to form a more sinister alliance? Steven Gray, Green’s goon Jonathan Blue, and even Wolf Paxton could fit Gus’s general description.
I should have felt better. Kris’ killer was in custody. Bottom line, I was back where I started. But Kris was still dead, and it was five a.m., and I was alone in the dark with wild thoughts in my head.
It seemed like I was missing something. Nearly everything Father James had said surprised me, but I knew saying things for shock value was his style. Yet there were things that still didn’t make sense. Maybe I’m overthinking it. I’d been under the most intense pressure imaginable. Half of what had transpired remained a blur. But still….
Gus never called.
First round goes to you, on points.
I thought of my tie around Kris’ neck. I thought of my parents on safari. Family ties. As I walked from the garage into my kitchen, the revelation washed over me like I’d fallen through a frozen pond. The man asking for me at the office.
I could make a run for it in my car, but looking behind me for the rest of my life isn’t living. I’ve never believed in guns for home protection. Too many tragic, accidental shootings. I grabbed a baseball bat from the garage and a knife from the kitchen. The living room was clear, undisturbed. Then I saw it—a glint of reflected light from the foyer floor. One of the vertical glass panels parallel to the front door had been broken from the outside. The front door stood open. I stood behind a living room chair, the bat in one hand and the knife in the other. In a loud voice I called out, “I know you’re here and I know who you are. Show yourself!”
When the lights went out and blackness surrounded me, I nearly came out of my skin. A famous voice howled from my surround-sound system, the volume amped to the max, rattling the windows. Jumpin’ Jack Flash!
My grip tightened on the knife. I took excess, rapid gulps of air, oxygenating my blood system, preparing for fight or flight.
The lights flashed on and off, at last remained on. A thin figure appeared from behind the wall leading to the bedrooms. Six foot one, wiry build, feral-looking, brown hair long and wet, a pack slung on his back, the camouflage muscle shirt he wore revealed a myriad of tattoos. Up and down his right arm were the lyrics to his signature song, on his left the famous Rolling Stone’s tongue logo. A writhing, fire-breathing dragon head poked from the upper part of his chest. Syringes and skulls adorned his arms and upper torso while a pack of Camels were rolled up in the sleeve of his shirt. The tats were all new since I last saw him. He held a .38 in his right hand and my bottle of Bombay Sapphire in his left. He tapped his foot to the music as he stared at me, then turned down the song with my stereo remote.
“You always liked dramatic entrances, Jack.”
In a raspy, raw voice like he wasn’t used to speaking, he said, “You brought a knife to a gunfight.”
“Never would’ve guessed those would be your first words to me.”
He fired up a cigarette, blowing a smoke ring. “My brother told me that if anything happened to him last night I was to kill you. Make your death painful and slow. If I could figure a way to disgrace you at the same time, even better….”
Please, no more duct tape.
“You’ve been on the road ever since.”
He nodded.
“That’s where you want to be. Even now.”
He took a long pull of gin and said, “Beats the hell out of being a sober, frightened, little boy molested for years in that pissant town. She liked when it was our turn, kept him off her for at least a while. The college scene? Never wanted it.”
“You created your own inner world, to survive.”
“Uh-huh.” He cranked the volume as the music built up to the next lyrics and he sang along off-key, in a voice coarse as sand.
“Straps across your back, crowns and spikes. You sat in the chair, too,” I said.
Jack looked surprised. “Jimmy told you about the chair? I’m impressed. We never told another soul about our times in that locked room. The old man’s hobby was torture devices from the Inquisition. His favorite was the interrogation chair, iron chair, whatever you want to call it. He built one in our basement from pictures he’d researched in the library.” A hard look washed over his face. “Sometimes he’d lean his weight on us in the chair. There’s no going back to the real world after years of that. My ink helps cover the scars, the memories of that room. Jimmy still wears his.”
“That’s why you like getting high on the open road,” I said.
“Sit,” he said, waving the gun. “Some people don’t want to be saved. I’m one of them. Accept it. I have.”
“How did you survive the fall into the river?”
“Broke my wrist and nose when I crashed. Nearly blacked out and died from hypothermia after landing in the river. Stealing a pickup got me outside their search area. I lived on the open road, hitched rides with truckers, and did what I had to do for my ink and chronic. Passing through St. Louis last winter, by pure chance, I was in a soup kitchen downtown. Saw my twin wearing a Roman Catholic collar. Thought I was coming down off a bad trip. Life’ll do that to you. He thought I’d died years ago. He begged me to stay. Seeing him brought back the memories. Memories I don’t want.” He shook his head. “No way could I stay for that. He insisted we keep in touch. Gave me a pre-paid cell phone, made me promise to answer it whenever he called. Almost threw it away a hundred times. Then he contacted me, said he wanted me in town this week. Told me to bring a vial of China White and supplies. He grilled me about technique and dosing. I assumed he wanted to get high, to feel the experience. I knew nothing of his plan until he told me to kill you if he failed. I went to your office.”
“He electrocuted Dr. Mendez.”
He nodded, emotionless. “If it helps, you did everything you could to save Jack Parks ten years ago, but he died when he was just a little boy. Jack Parks never made it to St. Louis, but Jumpin’ Jack Flash did. I’m living the life I know and want. You know the saying, live free and love hard. Die early and leave a beautiful corpse.”
“Your brother also created an inner world.”
“He conformed, or at least put on a good front. Following the old man’s career path warped him again. Maybe seeing me sent him back into the chair. I know relivin’ that will fuck you up. Maybe he’s just like dear old dad and likes to give pain more than receive it. Either way he needs to be locked away where he can get help from people like you. But if he’s the old man reborn, he should be put down.”
He finished the Bombay, wiped his mouth, and tossed the empty onto the sofa. “Haven’t had the good stuff in a while. Also used your shower. They can be few and far between on the road. I am going to walk out your front door. I will not hurt you. I don’t want your money or your car. In return what I want from you is silence. Do not to tell a soul I was here. All you know, Jack Parks the mental patient died nine years ago in an icy brown river.”
“He did, but he remade himself. Jumpin’ Jack Flash can do it again.”
Jack grinned and said, “You never know. Maybe some day.”
“You have my word,” I said.
“Sorry about your window. And my brother.” He left without a sound.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep, curled into a ball on the sofa for thirteen hours. When I woke, I was certain I’d dreamed of meeting Jumpin’ Jack Flash. Until I saw the broken glass at my open front door.