A fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Danny yawned and stretched, letting his stiff back flex. They were staking out Frank Hilliard's house. Two cops from the Hartford P.D were dressed as utility men just across the street in a city truck. An empty bag of donuts and two large empty cups of coffee were lying in a grave on the seat between them. He shifted his eyes sideways and peered at Martin again. The tense rookie hadn't spoken more than a handful of words all day. By the worn face and bloodshot eyes, it appeared he'd gotten little sleep the night before. Could be the cocky rookie got knocked down a few pegs by the disturbing turn of events?
"Hey, heads up, guys, we got movement."
"Roger," Martin replied into the radio in reply to the voice from one of the cops. "Yup, that's his car." Fitzgerald peered through binoculars at the license plate of the car pulling into the driveway.
Danny waited until Frank Hilliard was unlocking his front door and then slowly got out of his car. He saw the two cops crossing the street. He was several feet behind Hilliard, when he noticed that his partner wasn't with him. He turned and glared harshly, prompting the slow moving Fitzgerald to move from the vehicle. First he's all gung-ho, rushing off without assistance; now he's going to turn timid?
Martin ignored Danny's perturbed face and gingerly made his way around the car. His lower back was stiff and his chest hurt but not nearly as bad as he thought it would. Danny finally turned back, joining the police by Hilliard.
"F.B.I., Mister Hilliard," Danny identified himself and nodded to the policemen. "These men are two local policemen. We need to talk to you about your brother Henry."
"Hank?" Frank frowned, nodding to the lock "Okay to go inside?"
"Sure, just slow and easy," Taylor replied. "You mind if we look around?"
"No."
"Okay, you two search the place, see if you find anything." Danny let the two cops go by him and wondered what Martin's problem was. He just stood on the steps without saying a word. "You coming inside?" he snapped.
"Yeah," Martin rasped, terribly uncomfortable. It had gotten worse with each passing hour. Danny was now a stranger to him; the words issued last night were burning inside his gut still.
"Mister Hilliard," Danny inquired of the sandy-haired forty-ish man. There was a passing resemblance to his brother. Henry was taller and a bit heavier. "When was the last time you saw your brother?"
"Uh...let's see," Frank sighed, scratched his chin and frowned. "A couple weeks ago, no, closer to three. I came down to the city for a Rangers game. We ate, saw the game, had a few beers and I took a train home."
"Has he called you?" Martin asked, looking beyond the home owner's shoulder. They were standing in Hilliard's living room. The kitchen looked empty but a single drawer was opened halfway and some folded papers were sticking out.
"No," he answered and eyed his answering machine. It wasn't blinking. "Doesn't look like it. I've been out of town. The construction company I work for has a gig upstate. I left Sunday night, just got back."
"You can verify that?" Danny asked.
"If I have to, yeah, you can check with my foreman."
"Did you leave your drawer like that?" Martin asked, nodding to the doorway.
Both Danny and Hilliard turned and peered into the kitchen. Hilliard moved first, dropping his jacket and car keys on a chair by the entry. He paused at the drawer and shook his head. He went to touch it and a voice halted him.
"Don't touch that," Danny said, using a pencil to pry the drawer open. "We'll dust it. Anything missing?" Taylor noted the inside of the drawer was very neat, everything was orderly.
"Yeah," Hilliard replied, using a pen from the cup near the phone to push several transit schedules aside. "The train schedule, it's always on top." His eyes went to the top of the refrigerator where four canisters stood. One was sideways with the lid off. "The money's gone."
"What money?" Taylor asked walking to the refrigerator.
"I keep house money in there, about a hundred bucks or so. He must have been here," he replied, eyeing the two agents. "FBI? What the hell did he do?"
Twenty minutes later Danny and Martin were entering the train station. The Hartford police had been updated and were sending some men over to help. They went to the ticket counters first and were relieved to find out that none of the tellers recognized Hilliard. They checked with the various vendors and porters near the platforms as well. When the local police arrived, they had photos and began to circulate around the area.
The next several hours proved to be a waiting game and Danny hated that. He leaned his throbbing jaw against the cold marble wall near the doorway where he stood. He'd already read both newspapers and discarded them. It was almost five and he was getting hungry. Martin, of course, was his usual frosty self. The pensive profile was across the station, stoic and distant. He couldn't put a finger on what was wrong with Martin but something had changed. He only replied when spoken to and even then kept it to minimal input. This Martin was as bad as the cocky one. Danny pulled out his binoculars and scanned the large area again, pausing on his partner. He wasn't looking very good today, very withdrawn. There were at least three wrinkles in the collar of shirt. He moved the glasses upwards and peered hard at the face. His eyes were almost blank, as if the life had been sucked out of them. Maybe he had a conscience after all. A voice behind him brought his glasses down.
"Agent Taylor?"
"Yeah?" Danny turned to a man his own age with light hair. The jacket moved revealing a badge.
"Tim Simmons, local FBI. Sgt. McGeever filled me in and I spoke with Malone. Listen, you and your partner have been here all day. Why don't you take a break and get some food. We got this place blanketed pretty good."
"Okay, thanks." Danny nodded.
Martin continued to stare into the crowd, blinking to keep his focus from shifting. So many people moving quickly and a face like Hilliard's could easily blend in. Today had not gone badly, he hadn't screwed up yet. But the awkwardness was increasing and he didn't like the growing gap he felt. He saw Danny approaching and moved his eyes across the other side of the station.
"You hungry?"
Martin shrugged and looked at Taylor. The perturbed face was back and that soured his gut. He'd not raised his voice and they had not quibbled all day. What could Danny be pissed off at now? He began to get irritated and felt a scowl forming.
"Tim Simmons checked in," Danny updated, trying to call Jack, "He's the local fed, over there where I was." He saw Martin flick a glance there, "I'm gonna get some grub. They got this covered if you want to eat."
"Okay," Martin eyed the men's room. "I'm gonna hit the men's room first."
"I'm checking in with Jack," the dark-haired agent replied, "You need him?"
"No," Martin managed, heading for the bathroom.
"Great!" Danny hissed. "Now I get Mister Freeze."
The call wouldn't go through, Jack must be out of range or the tower was down. He would have to try later. He got a sandwich and a bottle of ice tea and found a small table in the concourse. As he ate, he kept looking for the suspect. Once finished, he was heading back to the terminal area, stopping to tie his sneaker. He was dressed down today, in jeans, turtleneck, sweatshirt and a short wool jacket. He could smell Chinese food and eyed the small sign above him with a Red Dragon. There was a short wall next to him and he heard a familiar voice from the other side of it.
"Yeah, dad, you're right!" Martin snapped, feeling a headache explode. Funny how often that happened around his father. "It is pretty hard to see with my head that far up my ass."
Danny covered his mouth and hid a chuckle. It sounded like the old man had found out what happened.
"Look, dad, if you'd just let me..." Martin tried but the angry voice didn't let up. "It wasn't my fault... If you'd just listen to my..." He finally gave up, what was the use? His father was only interested in berating him. He never truly heard him, just what he wanted to hear. If it wasn't the answer he expected, he never heard it. Finally, he had enough; he shoved off from the table, feeling the pungent food churning inside him. "You know what dad? You haven't heard anything I've said since I told you I was going to Quantico. You never supported my decision to carry this badge, why should it change now! I'm sorry I'm such a big disappointment to you!" he hollered into the phone and hung up. "Goddammit!" He kicked the wall.
For a minute, Danny's smile faded and he felt sorry for Martin. He hadn't realized that side of the story before. Being Victor's son was not all that it was cracked up to be. He turned the other way, back to the bathroom.
Martin threw his trash away and cast an eye over the area, looking for Danny. He sighed hard, rubbed his throbbing temples and tried to rid his aching skull of his father's voice. He walked a for few minutes, his eyes scanning the crowd. A homeless man approached him, his age was hard to determine. The grimy face was bearded and a wool hat was pulled down low, under a hooded sweatshirt. There were several layers of clothing covering him and he reeked. He asked for money and Martin gave him a disgusted look and moved away. The guy shuffled off and found a friendlier face nearby. He chuffed and moved closer, just as the fool parted with his money.
"Here, get yourself some hot soup, maybe some coffee and some sandwiches for later," Danny offered and gave the man a ten dollar bill.
"That'll go right up his nose," Martin muttered, just as Danny's head swiveled.
"What? You think you're the fuckin' expert on everything, huh? You know all about life on the streets. Is there anything the Amazing Fitzgerald doesn't know?" The arrogant tone returned and again Martin was judging him and using that cocky voice. It really rubbed him the wrong way and he didn't like the insinuation.
"I know he's not gonna buy food with that," Martin snapped, his mood still fired up by the heated discussion with his father.
"You know what, Martin?" Danny seethed, his whole jaw was throbbing now, the abscessed tooth was screaming at him. He jammed an index finger into Fitzgerald's chest and bared his teeth. "I've had it with you and your fuckin' attitude. You got no right to judge that guy. You don't know who he is, where he came from or what happened to him."
"I know the statistics prove my point," Martin shot back, flexing his body to quell the pain in his lower back which was singing in harmony with his pounding head. "The odds are in my favor. He's gonna buy himself a trip with that."
Danny's face screwed up with incredulity. He couldn't believe Martin had the audacity to make a statement like that and preen about it. Fitzgerald turned away and began to walk into the station. Danny jogged up behind him, catching him when he paused to let several elderly people cross in front of him.
"I can't believe you! Who the hell do you think you are? Placing judgment on another human being you know nothing about? Not all of us were lucky enough to suck on a silver spoon on Easy Street!"
That struck a nerve and whatever resolution Martin was holding onto was unraveling quickly. Danny had no right to make a comment like that. He'd tried all day to placate Taylor, letting him make all the decisions and take the lead. He'd not crossed him once, not on technique or questioning the brother. His frazzled nerves snapped; he was done.
"Back off now, Danny, I'm warning you," Martin seethed, resisting the urge to shove the offensive body away. "You're way out of line again."
"I'm out of line?" Danny's eyebrows rose along with his voice. "You don't know shit about living on the streets. While you were feasting on the finest with sixteen forks by your place setting, I was flickin' flies off cold pizza I dug out of the trash on Thanksgiving." The wound had opened and when the blue eyes rolled and a grim line formed over the square jaw he saw red. Now Fitzgerald was mocking his background and nobody got away with that. "Oh, really?" He addressed the disgusted look, "You ever had to dumpster dive for your food? How many nights have you slept in an alley with a piece of cardboard for your blanket and rats pissin' on your face? Huh? Smart boy? I didn't have no fuckin' moneybags funding my way through life, I earned it!"
"Fuck you, Danny!" the irate rookie growled, shoving the angry Cuban away just as Henry Hilliard strode by on the level above them.
Danny jumped on the radio and alerted Simmons and the others. He and Martin set off, splitting up and each taking a half of the divided stairway. The top level was crowded and they had to work their way through a throng of people. Danny felt like he was being compressed as the thickening crowd grew. He heard Martin's voice ahead and he craned his neck when several voices screamed in alarm.
"Freeze, FBI, Hilliard!"
Martin pulled his gun out and trained it on the suspect. Hilliard kept backing up and there were too many people between them. Martin motioned for them to move and ordered them out of the way, but the area was too narrow and there was no room to maneuver. Hilliard had his own gun drawn and kept backing up, looking for an exit.
"We got the place covered; you won't get out of here. Drop the weapon now!" Fitzgerald ordered.
"Fuck you, cop!" Hilliard replied. Just as he edged his way past the restrooms a group of teenaged girls burst from the room, laughing and chattering. He waved the gun at them and Martin froze as they began to scream and panic.
"Calm down, it's okay," Martin issued but Hilliard shoved them hard into Martin, sending them all into a heap. The terrified girls got up and ran to the closest store. Martin hit the corner of the newspaper box hard, right in the delicate area that had been abused earlier. He saw stars literally and gasped in pain, it was as if a white iron poker was shoved into his kidney.
"Martin!" Danny hollered and saw Fitzgerald on the ground. A janitor waved to a door that said 'Staff Only'.
"He went in there!"
"Thanks!" Danny called out, entering the maintenance room. He went to the windows and cursed, kicking the wall. The large window was open and the room was vacant. He kicked the wall and felt the red surge rising again. He turned around and found Martin in the doorway, his face reflecting fear and pain.
"What the hell happened?" Danny roared, holstering his gun.
"I had him cornered, but..." Martin began and shifted as the janitor tried to enter. The doorknob hit him in the back and he went to his knees. The strong smell of the cleaning fluids nearby was overwhelming. His gut was already churning due to the questionable fare at lunch. He doubled over as he felt the Chinese food rising back up.
"FBI, Stay out of here!" Danny ordered and went to the struggling body. "Are you sick? You're kidding me? What the hell were you thinking coming here today? Why didn't you tell Jack you were sick? He would have sent Vivian or Sam with me." He paused over the pale faced and trembling body. He sent the next words dripping in acid, the same venom that was coursing through him. "A partner I could count on."
"That's not fair," Martin coughed. "I didn't..." He never finished his defense, Danny jumped in to finish it.
"No, you sure as hell 'didn't'! Twice in twenty-four hours we had a raping, murdering dog and you let him skip." He was so angry and disgusted he didn't want to look on the shaken rookie anymore. "Just get out of my sight, Martin."
"You don't need a partner," Martin wheezed, rose and stood eye to eye. "You got enough balls for a whole fuckin' team, don't you. You don't need anybody. You sure as hell won't give me a break. Why the hell did I think today would be different?"
"So go!" Danny issued waving his arm and exiting the room. He saw the area was cleared and half a dozen policemen were interviewing witnesses. "Who the hell is stopping you? This team survived fine for a lot of years before sorry ass got transferred in. I don't need you now and didn't from day one. "
"Really?" Martin snarled, his eyes flashing heat, "Fine. You're the senior agent, you're dismissing me? That's how I'll write it up."
"You do that, Martin and I'll be sure to include the part where you blew it again. "Your old man got you that desk, but he can't keep it for you. Hell, maybe you're adopted." He spat out, referencing the lack of Fitzgerald in him that Victor had in swaggering amounts.
"Fuck you, Danny!" The livid Fitzgerald vented, shoving the other man hard. "I've had it with you, you want me gone? Fine, I'll take the train home."
"Do us all a favor and don't come back on Monday!" Taylor shot back, watched Martin flinch a bit and turn away, disappearing into the crowd. He had no way of knowing it, but those words would return to haunt him, festering inside of him..
Martin paused long enough to check in with Tim Simmons and give him a full statement. Twice he had to pause because he felt sick. He felt the other agent's eyes appraising him and felt a bit uncomfortable. Was he thinking like Danny too? But the other man gave him a firm handshake and told him the witnesses supported his story.
"Listen, you look awful, man. We got this covered, why don't you head back home?" Simmons suggested.
"Yeah, Danny already dismissed me. I just wanted to make sure you had my statement."
"I'll call Malone, go on, maybe you can catch the six o'clock local to New York."
"Thanks," Martin replied, wiping his now sweaty face with a napkin he'd shoved in his pocket. When did it get so hot?
Simmons moved a bit to keep his eye on the unsteady rookie until he saw him talking to the clerk at the ticket counter. Then he turned back to address the cops approaching and advise on the manhunt to catch the suspected killer.
Martin closed his eyes twice while the clerk was assisting the person in front of him. He made the wrong decision getting Chinese food for lunch. An unwelcomed image of a lurking urban legend appeared in the guise of a cat pelt. Also, his back and ribs were throbbing. A sharp voice brought his eyes open.
"Sir? Can I help you?"
"The... uh... train... to.. .Manhattan... New..."
"Are you okay?" the clerk asked. She was frowning at the pale face now sweating.
"It's awfully warm in here," Martin decided, yanking at the flannel shirt under his cashmere sweater. "What time...uh...is...the train?"
"The next one isn't until six thirty," she answered.
"Okay, I'll uh...be back. I need some air." He gripped the rail hard and headed up the long staircase to the street. Through the glass door ahead, he could see the streets were crowded with passangers entering and exiting the busy station. It seemed like forever before his rubbery legs finally hit the top step. Panting slightly, he eyed the rotating doors ahead, on the other side of which was fresh air. He got through the doors and sucked the air loud. The cold autumn wind rushed up to greet him. He closed his eyes and let the icy wind caress his hot skin. The burning pain inside was ready to explode. He walked slowly along the building, holding onto the scalloped edging and sucking in air. His head was reeling and whatever he ate for lunch wasn't going to stay put much longer.
Gus Hassett kept his eyes moving as he turned the corner. A veteran cab driver of over thirty years, he knew this time of day was his bread and butter. The sidewalk was packed with people, a seeming throng of humanity spilling from the building and crowding the narrow sidewalk.
"Rush hour, never changes," the balding cabbie muttered.
He slowed down behind two more cabs that were pulled over waiting for customers. He saw an elderly woman slowly trying to make her way to the curb and jumped out to help her. She was holding onto the edge of the building. As he made his way around the cab, he noticed a pale young man fighting against the flow. He recognized him as one of the FBI agents he'd talked to a few hours before. His eyes were too wide and a startling shade of blue; he looked a bit panicked and unsure. His face was covered in sweat and he seemed to be gasping. He had to step around the unsteady figure to get to the old woman who was tottering towards him.
"Here, ma'am, I got it," he said, grabbing her arm and steering her through the crowded walk. He opened the door and assisted her into the back seat. He shut the door and turned back, but the young man had vanished from sight.
Danny Taylor eased his weary body onto a park bench and tugged the collar of his jacket up. What started as an annoying drizzle a couple of hours before had turned into steady freezing rain. The tiny needle-like precipitation bit into his neck and face. Along with several teams of cops from the local police department, they were canvassing the large park in the downtown area. Several witnesses reported seeing a man matching Hilliard's description entering the park.
The forty-one acre park was founded in 1861, making it the oldest publicly funded park in the United States. Its founder wanted to create a sanctuary of green in the center of the city, importing over 1100 different varieties of trees and plants. Over the years it grew to house War Memorials for fallen heroes, graceful arches, a Victorian carousel and many other beautiful images.
Danny popped another Advil and carefully drained the last of the water. He trotted over to the recycle bin and put the plastic container inside. Pausing for a moment, he laid his hand over his swollen, throbbing jaw and closed his eyes. He was about to turn back to hit the trail again, when Tim Simmons, the head of the FBI team assigned to assist him approached.
"I got Malone on the phone he's been trying to reach you."
"Huh?" Danny frowned, pulling out his phone. He thought back and noticed it hadn't rung much all afternoon. He took the offered phone, "Thanks. Jack?"
"Where have you been all afternoon? I've left four messages."
"I'm sorry, Jack, I didn't know my phone was acting up."
"Listen, I want you to head back here. Hilliard's in their jurisdiction now and they're the primary. How's the tooth?" He heard a pause and didn't wait, "Simmons told me and you should have mentioned it, Danny."
"It's history as of nine tomorrow," he replied. "It's not a big deal, Jack; it's only a damn toothache."
"What happened to Martin? Simmons said he got sick."
"He should have stayed home, he blew it again. Twice in twenty-four hours he let a prime suspect escape. That's it; I've had it with him."
"Hold it!" Jack interrupted. "Hilliard's escape today wasn't his fault, he didn't have a choice."
"Oh, so you're on his side now? Great! He must practice hypnotism on the side."
"I'm gonna chalk that up to your infected tooth and being tired. Simmons sent me a copy of the report and the witness statements. He didn't have a choice, Danny, you know that. What did you expect him to do? Shoot through the schoolgirls?"
"Schoolgirls?"
Danny ducked under the edge of a hot dog vendor's canopy to keep dry. He saw Simmons giving him a harsh glare. He suddenly realized that he'd left the scene with the cops in the station in hot pursuit of the suspect. He'd not thought of the event since.
"The ones that came out of the bathroom just as Hilliard was passing by, the ones he grabbed as shields." Jack sighed hard, "You didn't interview them?"
"Well, no, I went after Hilliard..."
"So how did you make the assumption that it was Martin's fault?"
"Well, when I got there he was on his knees, heaving and gasping and Hilliard was gone."
"Uh huh... that's great detective work, Danny, top notch. Did you even ask him?"
The silent wall that met his ear gave him his reply. "Okay, you get back here. You're not 100 percent and it's their ballpark. When they catch him, they'll transport him. I left a message with Martin, but his voicemail said he'd be away this weekend. Maybe he's heading to his folks place in Newport."
"I don't think so," Danny muttered, "not the way his old man nailed him on the phone."
"Victor's a jackass," Jack commented, "and I'm sure Martin wouldn't go if his father was there. I don't think they use the place that much. Martin mentioned it's going up for sale. Anyway, I'm gonna talk to him Monday. Maybe some time alone away from here will clear his head."<,/p>
The horrific storm raged on, high winds screaming fiercely caused the small boat to be tossed without mercy. There was not even a moon in the black sky to assist the wayward seaborn vehicle. It was thrown violently to and fro, nearly capsizing. It struggled and struggled against each mighty wave crashing into its delicate body. It was lost, fighting in a strange storm without any help. Yet it fought onward, even when water began to spill onto its tattered deck. The heavy rain and wind sent the sea into a frenzied dance. Then the boat began to go under and his heart lurched.
"NO!"
Danny sat up covered in sweat. His face was a wet mask of fear. Perspiration covered his chest as well, emphasizing the depth of his fear. He threw his legs over the side of sofa, letting the remnants of the newspaper slip away. Twin trembling hands covered his face as he tried to collect his scattered breath. He hunched forward, reaching for the now empty ice bag that was pressed to his jaw. His heart was hammering and a naked fear encompassed him. He had no idea what the dream meant or why it affected him so much. He didn't even like boats. Yet as he stumbled to the bedroom, his sweatpants riding low on slim hips, the disturbing images clung to him. He reached for Excedrin PM, seeking a way to rid himself of the night terror. The narcotic in it would give him a deep sleep, a dreamless state that he now sought. He eyed the shaken man in the mirror and shivered, gasping softly as the image of the boat going under the water enveloped him. He turned away from the disturbing reflection, seeking to lose himself in a deep, dreamless sleep.
Danny leaned against the cold tiles, pressing his throbbing jaw hard. He let the steaming water cascade hard down his body, inhaling the steam that caressed him. Three hours, that wasn't so long. In three hours his pain would be gone. He'd had toothaches before but not like this one. He shoved off the tile and picked up the soap. As he scrubbed down, his thoughts kept being interrupted by the fragments of the disturbing dream of the night before, the damn little boat fighting a losing battle in dark and strange water. The battered boat was lost and just on the dark horizon, its fate seemingly sealed.
"Shit!"
He turned and let the water hit his face full force, hoping it would take the troubling dream away. It nagged at him, giving him queasiness inside. He couldn't figure out what it meant. As he reluctantly shut the water off, toweled off and dried his hair, the boat nearly appeared in the mirror. Try as he might, he could not rid himself of the disturbing dream nor could he explain why it left him full of worry.
Father Joseph Maziak tugged his collar up and eyed the gray sky above. The snow that had begun overnight was getting heavier. The fifty-five year old priest moved from the doorway in the kitchen and stepped outside to the alley. It was only a short walk to St. Michael's where he would be saying Mass at six thirty. He enjoyed walking, along with a good diet it kept his trim body in shape. He couldn't afford to be out of shape. Running the shelter for homeless men and tending to the needs of the parishioners was a trying job.
He tugged his gloves on and turned toward the end of the alley, where the snow remained free of car tracks. A clattering of metal from behind him caused him to stop and turn.
"Is someone there?"
He waited and was about to return to his trek, when he spotted a snow covered object moving. Then part of the object turned pink through the snow. He hurried his pace and peered down into the area next to the trash dumpster along the side wall of the shelter.
"My God," he whispered, eyeing a slim body curled up.
The skin was not yet covered in snow and he eyed the uneven tracks in the area that lead to the back of the alley. This area was not the safest one and he wondered how this man came to be here. The long coat that he wore wasn't very heavy and an undeterminable shade between gray and brown. It was covered in urine, fecal matter, food and other unknown grime. The stench that rose assaulted his nose. The coat was torn and old as were the filthy corduroy pants that once appeared to have been tan or light brown. One foot was encased in an old boot and the other in a torn shoe. He turned the body onto its back and the face was revealed. It was a young man, in his late twenties perhaps with dried blood covering the left side of his face under a gash by his eyebrow. There was a large bruise under his left eye and it was swollen. He was wearing a ratty dark green hooded sweatshirt with gaping holes surrounded by vomit and other filth. The clothes were far too large and he reached through the grime to find the neck. As his hand touched the young man's skin, the eyes shot open. They seemed unnaturally large under the hood. They were far too wide and frantic, darting fearfully all around; twin pools of blue that already were seeking to escape.
"Easy, son, I'm Father Joe, I won't hurt you. Can you stand?"
Father Joe
The words hung suspended before Martin, twirling around in the falling flakes. He wanted so much to reach out and snag the images of hope. The kind voice and soft gray eyes under a cap of thick white hair were beseeching him. He peered around the older man fearfully, his heart hammering. He didn't know this place, or this priest. He was so tired and cold and his head hurt so very much. It was all so confusing. He moaned and pressed his face into the hand near his neck, desperately seeking the warmth and comfort of the human touch.
"It's alright, son, I can help you. What's your name?"
Before a reply was given, the door several feet behind him opened and a Spanish accent was heard. Juan Sanchez was in his mid-twenties and working his way through college. He volunteered at the shelter on weekends. Father Joe was proud of the young man, who he'd found a few years before homeless and angry.
"Hey, Padre, you better get moving. Who's that?"
"I'm not sure, Juan, can you give me a hand with him? I think he's injured."
He turned back to the victim then and gently reassured him. "I won't hurt you, I just want to check to see if you've broken anything, okay?" The hood nodded but the eyes continued to dart in fear. A quick check assured him nothing was broken, although the rib cage was tender, as was the lower back. His gentle ministrations caused the young man to tense up and moan. He had no doubt there would be more bruises under the large, tattered clothing.
"Hey man, let me help you up," Juan offered, bending down. But the battered man tried to back up into the wall. "It's cool, brother, I ain't gonna take nothin' from you. How 'bout we get you a hot shower and some breakfast? Okay?"
"What's your name?" Father Joe asked again and noticed the blue eyes were now riveted to Juan's dark brown eyes. They seemed to be seeking something very important judging by the intensity he saw there.
Martin got up too quickly and the whole alley began to twirl. It was as if that axe in the back of his skull had turned into a jackhammer. He moaned and fell forward, blinking fuzzily at the blurry face that belonged to the person holding onto him. Dark hair, tan skin, dark eyes and a slight accent.
"Hey man, I'm talkin' to you!" Juan issued in stern voice, hoping to keep the sagging eyes alert.
Martin felt himself slipping away then, just as a name formed in his throbbing brain. Something in the middle of the thick mud that was his brain knew that tone and he tried to call out. He used what little strength he had to try to whisper it, before he passed out.
"Danny?" Juan guessed, reading the man's lips. "Well at least we know his name. Go on Padre, I can take care of him. Boomer's here, he'll help."
"Alright, I'll call to Boomer," the priest offered as he rose, hurrying to his church. He paused by the door and hollered in to Boomer Jackson. The six foot six muscular body shuffled into the doorway. The seventy year old African American man was a former boxer. Homeless for years himself, he was now Father Joe's right hand in running the shelter.
"We got us a new'n?" Boomer asked, stepping outside.
"Juan will fill you in; I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Go on, Joe, we'll be fine." Boomer had known the kind-hearted priest for almost ten years. He'd been one of his first customers and quickly found a home.
Father Masiak had doubled as a medic in the Army unit where he had been Chaplin for many years. After over twenty years of service, he retired and came home to Hartford. He'd opened the shelter ten years ago and ran it well. They fed dozens of men three meals a day and had beds for thirty. The large kitchen was well stocked and the four bedrooms in the back were used by the sick or injured. The small medical room was empty this morning.
Boomer and Juan got the stranger inside and on an examining table. Together they got the coat off the young man. While Juan got a basin with soapy warm water, Boomer began to examine the cuts and bruises he saw. Just as he gently washed the dried blood from the stranger's face, he began to moan.
"Easy now, boy, Old Boomer ain't gonna hurt ya none," he soothed. But then the moans turned into coughs. Blue slits peered up at him and the coughing victim sat up. Fear filled his eyes and he began to fight them.
"Ya hold on a minute son," Boomer warned, grabbing the weakly flailing arms. "We're only helpin' ya. Lord knows them clothes need the trash heap. We got clean ones after ya shower."
"Trust me, man, you need some soap and hot water," Juan teased and wondered why the newcomer was staring at him so hard. "Do you need some help?"
Help? Martin saw the young man point to the bathroom and slipped off the table. He began to follow, then turned back to the large black man. He shuffled over, wincing at the bright light and held out his hand. He tried to apologize and offer thanks, but no words would come out. Why couldn't he speak?
"It's okay, son, ya go on now and get cleaned up."
Juan worked quickly, filling the large tub in the bathroom off the medical room with hot sudsy water. He left a clean navy blue sweat suit on the sink, with thick socks. He watched as the mismatched shoes came off and judged the foot size.
"I'm gonna find you some sneaks, okay? You gonna be okay in here?" He saw the hooded head bob once and gave the shoulder a slight pat. "I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. You sure you're not dizzy?"
Martin was dizzy but he didn't want any help in here. He held out his hand and felt a flush rising. He took the firm grip and the warm smile, it took the chill away. He wondered if he knew Juan for he seemed familiar somehow. The door closed and he was alone. He took the disgusting clothes off, gagging at the rotting decay that clung to them. He opened the door a crack and tossed them outside. Then as he turned back towards the tub, he spotted the mirror. He gasped and fell back, startled at the image. He touched his face and watched the reflection mimic him. He moved closer, transfixed by the face trapped there. He studied every feature closely, and with every passing second without a flicker of recognition, his body slowly began to go numb. The eyes were wide and a shade of blue just on the other side of panic. He was mesmerized the blue pools clouded in fear. The reflection's hand trembled as it moved over the exposed throat. He gasped in horror and shook his head in naked disembodiment. He leaned to within inches, begging the blue eyes to speak the truth. His silent pleas fell on deaf ears, sliding over the sink and shattering by his feet.
Who was the man in the glass?
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