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.
Juan returned with the shoes and left them on the chair near the door. He watched as Boomer put the ratty, disgusting clothes in the trash next to the door. He didn't miss the brown skin wrinkling in puzzlement. He watched as several bugs tried to flee from the rags, now that their home had been taken away.
"I don't remember seeing him before, I know most of the regulars."
"He ain't from around here," Boomer replied, getting out the bandages and ointment. "He ain't gonna cause a fuss, he seems okay."
"Why won't he talk? He seems confused by the fact he can't speak. I mean if he was mute, he'd know that, wouldn't he?" Juan thought aloud.
"Never mind about that now, go scare up some bacon and eggs for him. There's some biscuits and coffee ready."
Martin lay back, resting the edge of his neck on the lip of the metal tub. The water was starting to cool but he'd scrubbed the grime away. He stared with curious eyes at the torn fingernails on his right hand. Two of them were broken as were three on his other hand. What had happened? Why was his eye cut? Why did his throat hurt so much? He closed his eyes and thought hard. The only thing he saw was the black underside of his eyelids. He smacked the water in frustration, sending a wave onto the floor. A tap on the door drew his eyes open.
"Ya okay? We got some food waitin'." Boomer heard the noises as the body left the tub and stood back. A few moments later, the door opened. He smiled at the startled young man, whose brown hair was curling up. "Well now, ya look a lot better." He noticed that the slim young man was still shivering. "Soon as ya eat, ya can rest up under a pile of thick blankets, nice and warm."
Martin padded softly behind the large man, his eyes taking in every inch of the room. There was a large medical room, several cots in a room just next to it and then the hallway. Across the hall to one side, he heard noises. He cocked his head at the sounds of muffled voices.
"That'd be Maria and Agnes gettin' the breakfast ready. The men'll be up and wantin' their food. We got a couple dozen stayin' with us here at Holy Cross." Boomer answered the quizzical eyes. He saw the cut clearer and moved closer, causing the young man to back up in a hurry. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, son, I just wanna look at that eye."
Martin frowned and touched the area over his eyebrow. It was sticky and he winced as his finger touched a sore spot. His breath was unsteady and labored and his head hurt. He was awfully tired but had to eat first, he felt weak. The brown fingers gently probed the area around his cut and the old man nodded.
"Looks worse, don't need no stitches, but after ya eat, we'll put a bandage on it." He frowned when he saw the harsh bruises marring the pale throat. There was no mistaking those bruises; they were from a pair of very strong hands. The newcomer's hand moved, seeing the area he was staring at.
Martin shuffled past the old man, touching his sore throat. He felt achy all over, especially his head. He wondered if he was sick. Juan put a plate of bacon, eggs and biscuits on the table for him. There was a steaming mug of coffee and he sat down, eager to fill his empty stomach.
"Somethin' ain't right," Boomer said to Juan. They were standing several feet away. He recalled the hand he shook and now observed. "He ain't got any street marks, his hands are soft and unbroken," he noted, then recalled a few torn fingernails. "He put up a fight."
'Si, Amigo, I think you're right," Juan agreed, his dark eyes capturing the remnants of a brutal struggle evident on Danny's neck. "Somebody got real serious."
"Yup," Boomer agreed of the severe bruising on the neck. They both watched as the hungry man made quick work of the plate. He stood and leaned over, reaching for the sugar. The sweatshirt rode up, revealing significant bruises on his side.
"Those aren't new," he noted of the extensive purple and blue bruises along the ribcage. "You think he got jumped?"
"Could be," Boomer replied, eyeing the fingers now wrapped around a hot mug. "Or maybe he's on the wrong side of the law. I know them hands been fussed with," he noted of the manicured nails. "And that haircut too, whoever he is, he ain't from the street."
"You want some more?" Juan asked, moving over to sit across from him. The damp head shook negatively. He saw the blue eyes were owlish, the fight to remain awake was being waged. "Danny? Are you from around here?"
Here? Martin didn't know where 'here' was, or where he belonged. He thought for a moment and shrugged, then sneezed s several times. This caused his already throbbing head to protest and he clenched his eyes shut, dropping his face and rocking a bit. He felt a strong hand on his back and looked up but Boomer's brown face was blurry.
"Come on, ya'll feel better in that bed. I'm gonna fix that first, then ya can sleep for awhile."
Martin was more than a little dizzy now and the food he thought he wanted was churning below. The quicker he got this done, the sooner he'd be under a pile of blankets in a soft bed. He stood up and his knees buckled. Both men scrambled to his aid. He got annoyed and shoved them away, he wasn't helpless.
"Hey, watch that temper!" Juan warned of the flashing blue eyes. "You don't bite the hand that feeds, Amigo." He saw the annoyed face turn to him and then the eyes regarded him sheepishly.
"Apology accepted. I gotta help out front, I'll check on you later. Here, you ring this if you need us, okay?"
Martin took the bell and nodded, opening his lips to thank Juan but nothing came. His brow creased in frustration and he sighed, coughed and sneezed so hard his shoulders jumped.
"Man, you're a mess, don't be sendin' your germs all over me," Juan laughed, leaving his new friend to Boomer's care.
An hour later, he returned to the back area, watching Boomer unpacking some boxes of linens. He eyed the body beyond on the bed, moving closer to inspect the injured man. His friend joined him, pausing to lay his gnarled hand on the reddish cheeks. Danny's face screwed up and he pulled away but remained asleep.
"He's got a fever comin'," Boomer noted, frowning at the cough that persisted even as the young man slept. "No tellin' how long he was outside in the storm." He moved a large basin nearer to the cot. "He threw up his breakfast. Could be he's got the flu or somethin'."
"I'll finish the order, you help out front," Juan offered. "Maria and Agnes are busy, looks like we'll have a full house for breakfast."
"Alright," Boomer replied, pausing to pull the blanket up a bit tighter. He rested his hand against the flushed face and the eyes cracked open "Hey now...ya rest easy, boy, we's tendin' t'ya."
God he was thirsty, it was so cold in here. He shivered and sighed hard, blinking at the large man looking down at him. His vision was blurry but he saw a scatter of very short white hair clinging to a dark brown head. He licked his dry lips and coughed again and felt his head lifted. Another blurry blob appeared with a soft voice. Did he know them? Why was everything so fuzzy?
"Easy now, Amigo, I have some water. Sip, don't gulp," Juan ordered, gently pressing the straw in the mug to the gaping lips.
Martin's heavy head sagged against the strong arm. As he slowly sipped the cool water, he hand roamed on the sheet. Clean sheets, a clean bed, clean clothes, that horrible stench was gone. His eyes peered over the young man's arm and he saw a small room. It was immaculate and in the room beyond, he could see medical equipment. He didn't know where he was but he knew he was safe. The straw was withdrawn and the other man lowered his head onto the pillow. He frowned up at the stranger's face. Dark hair and eyes set in handsome olive skin. Did he know this man? He began to shiver then and felt his stomach lurch.
"It's okay, if it's gotta come out, you just let it," Juan encouraged, holding the basin near. About half of the water came back but a good portion stayed down. "I'll get you another blanket." Martin nodded and watched the young man leave the room. He kept his eyes trained on him until he noticed the cabinet door across the room. The back of it held a long mirror. He could see the face looking back at him, a bruised face with brown hair and large blue eyes. He moved his hand, touching the swollen cheek. Then he gingerly fingered the horrible discoloration on his throat. The stranger in the glass followed suit and was just as puzzled. Then the other man returned, blocking his view.
"Here you go," Juan put a thick wool blanket on the shivering soul. He rested his hand on his patient's face. "I think maybe Boomer's right, you have a fever. He saw the puzzled face and smiled. "I'm Juan, remember? We met before outside. You got cleaned up and ate some food. This is the Holy Cross Shelter, Danny." The panic appeared briefly in the eyes and head began to shake a bit. He winced again at the awful marks on the pale neck. Whatever fear was chasing him, he would help to dispel it. "Hey, man, don't worry, okay? Whatever shit happened to you, whoever did this to you, your back is safe here. You get some rest, Father Joe'll be back soon and he'll check you out. He's a good man, you can trust him. He saved my ass, took me off the street, gave me a home here. I'm in college now..." He paused when he saw the mouth opening and closing and the hand move to the marred neck. "Yeah, that's gotta hurt. You're lucky, Amigo, you could be in the big blue room downtown," he noted of the morgue. Again the lips moved but no words came out. The wavy brown head cocked at him and the eyes were so desperate to seek him out, yet again there were no words. "Can you talk?"
Talk
Sure he could, he could speak. Martin frowned and his lips moved but nothing emerged. Talk? He could talk, couldn't he? Maybe he couldn't...maybe he was mute. He couldn't remember if he could talk or not. How dumb was that. Frustrated, he balled his hand into a fist and pounded the bed. A soft laugh drew his now angry eyes back to the smiling ones of his benefactor.
"You better not curse like that around the Padre, he don't like it," Juan teased of the angry eyes. "It's okay, Amigo, I can hear you fine. Are you still thirsty?"
Thirsty? Martin thought a moment and his queasy stomach lurched. He shook his head and laid back, somehow comforted by his new friend.
"Okay, Danny, I'm gonna see if they need help out front. You know how crowded the breakfast run is, I'll be right back okay? You stay in this bed!" He ordered and pointed to the bell. "Don't forget, you just ring that if you need me."
Martin nodded and watched the young man leave. Danny? He'd called him Danny. How did he know that was his name? He caught his reflection again in the long mirror. His eyebrows drew together and he stared hard into the glass. He studied every inch of that man's face intently. Then he left the image briefly to examine the room again. He didn't know this place, or the kind people tending to him. He came to rest on his own image then and a cold fear gripped him. The talons dug into his tender insides fiercely. Who was the stranger trapped inside his body?
The shrill ringing caused him to moan, clutching his face. He blinked lazily at the television trying to see the tiny clock in the corner. He eyed the phone nearby and decided to let the machine come on. He was miserable, having suffered through what seemed to him to be a ghoulish ordeal with the dentist that had taken hours. Jack's voice came on the answering machine and he reached for the phone.
"Awahmupfh?"
"Danny?" Jack wrinkled his brow and pressed the phone closer to his ear. He sat forward, picking up the remote control. He turned down the television and used his full concentration to hear the distorted voice.
"Yef?"
"It sounds like you had a happy visit with the dentist. You okay?"
"Yef." Danny paused, shifting the phone to his other ear. His jaw was swollen and he lowered the ice pack. "Hults t'took."
"Okay, I won't make you talk then. Did I wake you?"
"Nuh. Voith dopey dwugged up."
"Happy pills? It sounds like you need them. Listen, I'll keep it short. I just wanted you to know that Simmons checked in, they haven't found Hilliard yet but he's been spotted twice in the same area. Also, the coroner confirmed the TOD on the Schoate kid. It was around 10 a.m."
"Confum?" Danny frowned at the time of death. Confirmed how? He'd not heard it before.
"Yeah, I called you yesterday and left a voicemail on your cell. You did tell Martin didn't you?"
"No... bibmut no..."
"Bibmut? Bibmut?" Jack repeated, trying to figure out the garbled speech. "No...you didn't know? You didn't get the message?"
"Yef... sowwe."
"That's okay, Danny, go back to bed. You take those pills and rest up, I'll see you Monday."
"Hellwood cupped co."
"Hellwood?" Jack repeated. "Hilliard? Oh, yeah if I get word on him, I'll call. Get some shut eye."
Danny replaced the phone on the cradle and stood up, shuffling across the room. The infection below the bad tooth was severe. He was on two antibiotics and there was a drain inside the infected gum. He would have to have root canal. He replaced the ice in the bag and took his medicine. He slipped back onto the sofa and pulled the blanket up. The old gangster movie faded away and his eyes closed.
The dream began in full color, a bright sky over a large group of people. They were all walking towards him, thousands of them. He was fighting the tide, trying to walk the other way, forcing his way against them. He was lost, trying desperately to find a way home. They wore bright colored shirts and some were emblazoned with baseball team logos. They were loud and the multiplicity of their voices caused his ears to ache. They pressed harder and he felt his heart began to hammer. Someone took his hat and other hands grabbed at his jersey. He struggled in vain against the mob and began to fall. He couldn't breathe and they pressed closer, kicking him and striking out.
He awoke with a startled gasp, sitting up and sending the damp blanket to his waist. His head was plastered in sweat and it ran down his face. He swung his legs over and took several steadying breaths. He didn't understand these disturbing dreams or why they left him drained to the core. What the hell was wrong with him? Could the infection be doing this? He eyed the clock and noted he'd been asleep for almost three hours. His empty stomach roared and he managed to get his shaky legs moving towards the kitchen. He dreaded taking the pills before bedtime, fearful of another nightmare descending.
Martin was bent in half, leaning weakly on the sink. He raised his face slowly, letting the drops of water run from his flushed face. He'd thrown up again and had watery diarrhea. His head was throbbing so hard it made him dizzy. He heard a voice from the other room and pulled himself upright. With a wavering hand over his queasy stomach, he turned back to the infirmary.
He was exiting the bathroom, when the priest entered the room. He vaguely recalled meeting the man earlier, but his mind was fuzzy on the details. He wondered about that. Why his memory was so poor. He frowned and shifted his eyes, trying to recall exactly what had taken place. He chuffed out a very annoyed breath and heard a gentle laugh. The strong hand tapped his back in support.
"That's okay, Danny, you need not worry. We met earlier this morning after mass, remember? I'm Father Joe." He saw the brown head dip and he nodded towards the kitchen area. "I was just about to have a bowl of soup and some hot bread. Would you like some?"
Martin paused, eyeing the bathroom door and sighing hard. He shook his head and pointed to the bathroom, then moved his hand over his abdomen.
"Were you sick again?" he asked and the solemn face nodded. "Both ways? Very well. But I don't want you to lose any more fluids, especially with a fever. How about if you just eat some broth and sugared black tea?"
Martin nodded and ran a hand over his fickle stomach. As he shuffled behind the priest towards the kitchen, he thought on his long day. It had been an odd day; he knew he'd slept through most of it, but recalled images of the young Hispanic man and the older black man visiting him. He followed the priest to the kitchen, peering anxiously through the door. He didn't realize his relief was visible until the priest chuckled and pointed him towards the table.
"It's okay, I understand your uncertainty. We're all alone. Young Juan has a date tonight and Boomer is over at the church finishing some painting on the wood trim." He ladled out two bowls of steaming chicken soup, one loaded with tiny bits of carrots, celery and some rich egg noodles. He sat them down and gave the downcast shoulder a tug, placing the bowl of broth before the infirmed man. "Go on, it's just what the doctor ordered."
Through the steam rising from the bowl, Martin reflected on his day. He watched the priest cutting some warm bread and also filling two mugs with hot tea. He took a tentative spoonful and worried about his odd sojourn to this place. He didn't know who he was, where he was or how he came to be here. He was thankful that these kind souls had taken him in and felt safe here but safe from who? Why did the strange dreams about policemen with badges in a crowded area cause his heart to race? Where they after him? Was he running from the law?
His headache seemed worse when he sat up, throbbing without mercy. Actually there weren't many areas on him that didn't hurt like hell. It was a struggle to breathe and the congestion in his chest was getting worse. But the worse pain was not knowing who he was or where he belonged. Was he always this way? The harder he thought on it, the more it hurt. The only memories that came back were the angry policemen with badges screaming at him.
The soup was very good and the warmth spread though him. He eyed the napkins a few feet away and rose to get them. The toaster was on the shelf over the napkins and he stared at the reflection in the chrome. He touched the face of the stranger, trying desperately to know who held those blue eyes.
Father Joe winced at the utter desolation in his young friend's eyes. He saw the trembling hand touching the reflection and there was no mistaking the fear held there. He put down the tea and returned for the bread. He'd had two brief conversations with the young man, but both times he'd been very groggy. Boomer suspected this man was not from the area and had been a victim of foul play. Juan hadn't said much, and he knew by how his young charge hovered close to Danny, that he felt protective of him. After hearing Boomer's theories, he'd contacted the local police, but no one with this man's description was missing. He also knew that the injuries could have been sustained by an illegal action. The area surrounding the shelter was full of empty houses that drug lords used. But, something inside him told him this young man was not that type. Perhaps as the days passed by, his memory would return. In the meantime, he was sick and needed care, something that he'd vowed to give when he opened the shelter many years before.
"Danny?" he called out softly and the slim body turned. The eyes were so full of woe it pained him to gaze upon them. "Sit down, son, your soup will get cold."
Martin reclaimed his seat and reached for some crackers. He crunched them up, tossing a small bit into the soup. He chewed thoughtfully, trying to find a way to cut through the black curtain that covered up his memory. Frustrated, he dropped the spoon and shoved the near empty bowl way.
"Temper? That won't help." He issued and reached over lightly touching the blue sleeved forearm.
"I know how frustrated you are. You can't remember anything?" He saw the Adam's apple go down hard and the head shook once. The bottom lip was bitten slightly and one fist hit the table. It's very possible you'll wake up tomorrow and you'll know who the man in the mirror is. In the meantime, you're safe here. You've still got some recovery time coming. Lots of rest and good food is the key."
Rest? Martin chuffed out an annoyed breath and shook his head, giving the cot in the far room a nasty glance. He'd done nothing all day but rest. He was tired of resting. He wanted answers and that wouldn't come from resting.
"There is a Psalm I'd like to share with you, Danny. 'There shall no evil befall thee neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For He shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways.'"
Martin considered the words and wondered on them. Hadn't evil already befallen him? Weren't his injuries proof of that? He grimaced and pointed to his eye, head and chest, shoving away from the table and rising. He walked to the window and peered into twilight. The snow had stopped and the street was quiet. The outer room was noisy; the men were eating their dinner. He didn't need a babysitter; the priest didn't have to quote the bible to him.
"Let go of that anger, Danny," Father Joe urged, joining the flaring eyes at the window. "It serves no purpose. What drew you here? Why were you curled up outside my door?"
Confused, Martin turned, his face screwed up in thought. Why had he come here? He cocked his head and looked outside again. The quiet of the snowy evening was disturbed by the pain in his head. He cried out and gripped the window as evil images descended, quick footsteps, rough hands on his body and pain. But something else was there too, a white cross in the sky.
"Danny? Are you dizzy? You should stay in that bed for a few days," He paused when the young man's hand moved and touched the cross on his neck and then pointed to the roof. "The cross outside? You saw that? A wise choice, the Lord never turns away a needy soul. You hold onto that hope, Danny. You might try praying to God for some of those answers, He's a pretty good listener."
Martin nodded and eyed the dishes in the sink. He pointed to the empty seat and took the towel. He tried to turn the priest towards the chair, urging him to sit and rest but Father Joe would have no part of that. The coughing fit that consumed him then quickly chased away any dishwashing action.
"That's very kind, Danny, and I appreciate the thought. But right now the best way you can help me is to get back to bed. When you're stronger in a few days, I'll find some work for you." Martin glared and tried to take the towel but the priest just chuckled and clapped his back lightly. He didn't hide his annoyance, he wasn't helpless. He could clean up after himself. But the older man was persistent and he shuffled back to the bed. By the time he got there, his legs gave way and the priest grabbed his arm. The headache exploded unexpectedly and he rolled in the bed, clutching both sides of his head. He heard the priest's soothing words and felt the hand remain on his shoulder, even as he began to fall away. The last image he had and held onto was that cross. He didn't feel the kind hand tap his cheek and pull the blanket up. He didn't hear the blessing that followed or the prayer. But the kindness and grace covered him as easily as the blanket and with that he slept soundly.
The sun reflected off the snow, causing a blinding light to hit his face through the window. Martin dropped the spoon, clenching his eyes shut and waiting for the pain to go away. He heard a voice behind him and slowly let out a long breath. Tentatively, he peeled his eyes open and gripped the sink hard.
"Something about stay in bed you don't understand?" Juan pressed, seeing the unsteady figure by the kitchen sink. He tapped the downcast shoulder and saw the eyes flashing at him. One wavering hand pointed to the chalkboard. Displayed on it were the lunch orders, including sandwiches to be made. A handful of utensils were floating in the soapy water. "You're stubborn, you know that? Go sit down!"
Martin made a face and tried to turn back to the sink but the young man persisted. He chuffed in annoyance and shook his head. He was no baby and wouldn't be sent to bed. He'd spent too much time there already. He did his best to defy the young man, thrusting out his jaw and glaring, but the dark eyes crinkled up in mirth and he laughed.
"You couldn't shoot a fly with them eyes, let alone a Sanchez. You want to help? You can wrap the sandwiches. You ain't that steady on your feet yet."
Martin didn't like it but realized when he'd been beat. He took his place at the table and began tucking the dozens of sandwiches into baggies. As he worked, he listened to Juan telling his tales of the night before. He liked the sound of the soft accent and the confidence the young man had. He didn't mind that Juan seemed to talk a lot, it made him feel welcomed. He was lucky to have found this place and the kindness of the three men.
Boomer's cranky tone and gruffness didn't fool him; he knew the fatherly concern behind that. Father Joe was a very kind man but as much as they'd made him feel at home, this place wasn't home. He didn't belong here. Once he felt a bit stronger, he had to leave. He didn't know where his path was, but he knew he had to try to find it. He looked up when the hard working priest entered the sunny room.
"Well that's what I like to see; you know idle hands are the devil's workshop."
"You know Padre," Juan teased, his eyes bright, "I kept that in mind last night. These hands and lips were far from idle." He eyed his new friend whose face was split into a wide grin. The brown head shook in a very negative fashion and the right hand formed a fist with the thumb down. "What? You don't think so? Rosita will be writing songs about me, you mark my words."
Martin kept the warmth that Juan seemed to exude and tucked it away. He lifted the tray of sandwiches, moving them across the room to where a larger cart was waiting. As he turned back, he heard the priest discussing him with Juan.
"I appreciate your concern, Juan, but the fact remains he needs to find out who he is. We have to consider going to the police. What if he's involved in criminal activity?" He saw the dark eyes flash with anger and the head shook. "You know as well as I do that area his tracks led to is a very dangerous one. Boomer was right about his hands and haircut; he's not from the street. He could be a very dangerous drug dealer who was attacked."
"And he could be a guy who lost his way. What the hell is the cross on the roof for?"
"Alright, alright, calm down!" Father Joe ordered, gripping the tense shoulder. "I didn't mean to upset you. But we have to consider all possibilities. What if you're right and he was a man who lost his way and was attacked? He might have a family worrying on him."
"I guess..." Juan admitted. "Maybe you're right." He saw the fearful blue eyes on the other side of the table wide as saucers.
He waited until the priest moved away and he crossed the room. He laid a hand on the troubled neck and gave a solid tug. "I know you're scared, that's natural. Man, it's gotta be scary as hell not knowing who you are. But the Padre is right. What if you have a wife worrying or a little girl by the window waiting for her daddy?" He saw alarm and distress rising quickly and led the shaken man towards his cot.
Was Juan right? Was there a family out there somewhere worried about him? Was he a businessman of some sort who'd been attacked far from home? Or was he on the wrong side of the law? He'd not shared his nightmares with his friend Juan. The distressing images of man in badges shouting at him and the pain it caused in his delicate brain. A cold fear gripped him hard at the thought of police intervention. He gasped as the thought rose again, causing his knees to buckle. He heard Juan's soft, soothing tone as he was placed back on his cot. He felt the blanket come up and rocked in pain, until he felt himself slipping away. No, he wouldn't let them take him to the police, he'd have to leave.
While James Cagney was giving orders to his men on the television, the troubled Danny Taylor slept fitfully. With strong antibiotics coursing through him, he was a prisoner of his own body. Try as he might, he couldn't stop himself from falling asleep. Drool lolled lazily on the corner of his lip before slowly trickling down onto his damp shirt. He frowned in his sleep and tossed his sweaty head on the soggy pillow. The Sunday paper covered his midsection like a bizarre loin cloth and a melting glass of iced soda waited patiently on the coffee table next to him.
The boat was back, fighting the mighty waves and trying to find safe harbor. It didn't know where to go and wavered unsure on the breakers, seeking a beacon to guide it to safety. The sky was an angry shade of black and lightning cracked overhead. The gusty wind coughed fiercely, sending more waves against the body of the valiant sailing vessel. But it was clear that the little boat was in desperate trouble. It was taking on water and losing its battle.
The papers fluttered and the Entertainment section slipped away, joining the Travel and Sports sections in a puddle next to him on the floor. With his heart beating wildly, his eyes shot open in a hurry. They remained unnaturally wide and his body trembled slightly as he regained his bearings. His jagged breathing finally regulated and he slowly sat up, reaching for a napkin covered with doughnut crumbs. He shook the napkin and used it to wipe his face. He took several deep breaths and eyed his living room.
"Shit!"
The damn dream was torturing him. He took a long gulp of soda, belched twice and jiggled the ice in the glass. He'd never been so affected by dreams before. Despite the long number of stolen hours asleep, he was robbed of rest and exhausted. He sighed hard, got to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen. Yawning hard, he scratched his bronzed chest peeking through the open flannel shirt and opened the freezer door. Sighing deeply, he rested his face there, absorbing the cold mist that blew onto him.
He didn't like this feeling. His gut was a mess, troubled by the invisible demons attacking him while he slept. He had no idea why he was so plagued. Was it the dead boy? No, he'd lost MP's before to far more gruesome endings. He shifted his face and decided on frozen macaroni and cheese. Tugging the box from the freezer, he took the plastic case out, peeled the cellophane away and shoved it in the microwave. While the blue digital numbers ran off, he peered outside his window to the snow covered streets.
He couldn't believe it was only four p.m., it seemed like it should be morning already. He'd been restless all day, unable to concentrate. The troubling dreams left a gnawing ache inside of him and he had no idea why. He eyed the dirty snow outside and cars making their way through the streets. The bell on the microwave nudged him and he retrieved his meager meal. He grabbed a fork and took his dish back to the sofa. As he gingerly ate the soft macaroni, he used his free hand to surf through every channel. Nothing suited him and he tossed the remote control down, chuffing in annoyance.
He tried to read the paper but couldn't concentrate, needing to reread paragraphs of simple words and still unable to absorb their meaning. He retreated to his bedroom, taking a full mug of soda and settled in bed, reaching for the murder mystery he was half-way through. That lasted ten minutes and he was trapped on page 180 the entire time, unable to get to the next page. He gave up and tossed the book away. Shivering, he threw the comforter over himself and glared at the clock.
"Five fuckin' forty five..." he rasped, yawned and laid back, trapped in a lethargy he was strangely unable to combat.
With a shuddering gasp, Martin sat up his wide eyes darting fearfully over the room. The pounding drums in his head were on overdrive. His hammering heart and sweat encased body only added to his discomfort. Wheezing heavily and disturbed by the annoying aches that shrouded him, he left the damp bed. The dreams or rather violent night terrors, didn't allow him to rest; strange faces in crowded places all converging on him with the overpowering presence of policemen. Not just any policemen, angry ones with bright badges. He couldn't see the invisible threat but felt the icy hands on his neck. His rubbed his sore throat and rose, shuffling through the dark room towards the kitchen.
It was late, the silver shadows from the lingering moon played tag with him as he reached into the refrigerator for some cranberry juice. He'd just drained a large glass when he heard an odd noise from the outer room. He'd only been in there once, just before dinner. It was the room where the men staying in the shelter slept. Dozens of cots were lined up and most occupied by stilled bodies. Martin squinted and saw a tall, muscular man trying to overpower a young man on one of the cots. The young man tried to shove the bigger one off and got a beefy fist in the face. Martin reacted without thinking.
"What the fuck?"
The intruder's complaint was sounded just as the lights came on. The men that weren't awoken by the crashing of the table near the bed were now out of their own beds. Some remained in place while others rushed to the area where the newcomer that Father Joe introduced only as 'Danny' was forcing a much larger man against the wall.
"Attaboy Kojak, you show him!"
Father Joe's eyes went from the group gathered behind Danny and he heard their shouts of encouragement. He moved quickly through the room and saw that Danny had a large man shoved against the wall with his arm twisted up his back. With his other hand, Danny used his forearm to press the intruder's neck and face hard into the wall.
"What's going on in here?" he asked, parting the throng like Moses entering the red sea.
"He come in through the window and jumped Tony." The old black man pointed to Danny then. "Then Kojak come bustin' through the place, he grabbed that guy and shoved him against the wall. He took care o'business, sure enough, he surely did."
"Alright Leonard, thanks." Father Joe rested a tentative hand on Danny's shoulder, just as Boomer joined him.
"I got this Padre," Boomer announced, "You call the police. I think this is the trash that's been bustin' into the stores around here."
"Tony, are you alright?" Father Joe inquired as Danny reluctantly released the intruder. The young boy on the cot was a teenager that had been staying with them on and off for a few months.
"Yeah, I heard him tryin' to bust into the office. I tried to stop him and he threw me down. Then he came outta nowhere and grabbed him." He nodded to Danny and offered his hand. "Thanks, man."
Martin shook the boy's hand and drew his gaze away nervously. He didn't like the way the other men were staring at him. He watched as Father Joe used the office phone briefly and then returned. He didn't understand why he reacted the way he did nor why despite his smaller frame, he was able to easily apprehend the intruder. He stared at his hand curiously as the room faded away. A crowded street appeared and a stocky man with sandy hair was running towards some stairs. He heard the whoosh of a train and more people moving toward the doors of the train.
"Danny?"
He blinked and his shoulders jerked, the room reappeared and he turned to see Father Joe's concerned face. He suddenly felt confined, there were too many people too close by and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. He swayed a bit and the older man grabbed his elbow.
"Come on, you shouldn't be up. That flu has left you weak."
Martin nodded in appreciation but pulled his arm free. He could get back to the cot on his own. He stopped in the kitchen, turning on the faucet and using both hands to wash his face. He had a coughing fit and sent a wad of yellowish muck into the sink. Wrinkling his face in disgust, he washed it away and peered through the window. Dizzily, he clung to the sink, sweat rolling down his face. Red flashing lights and wailing sirens announced the arrival of the police.
His head exploded in pain then, causing him to nearly double over. Images of the night terrors that plagued him reappeared very unwelcome. The thick crowd of people and police were running at him, screaming harsh words. His gut instinct told him he had to leave. He couldn't let them find him. He blinked rapidly and saw that the red lights were not distant anymore, they were right outside! Then a group of the policemen turned towards the window as they approached the door. His heart lurched and he stumbled badly, twice falling to his knees.
"Whoa!" Juan grabbed Danny as he fell a third time but his newest friend was full of fear. The weak arms were flailing at him in panic and his eyes were wide with terror. "What? He followed the terrorized gaze through the large window and spotted someone with the police. "Him?" He asked Danny whose panic had turned his breathing into dangerous gulps of air. The wet head bobbed once and a shaky hand went up to his brutally marred throat. "Did he hurt you? That bastard put his hands on you?"
Martin didn't hear what Juan said next, his ears were full of a whispered threat in a dark alley. More scattered pictures appeared in quick succession without warning. A knife was pressed to his throat and the deadly threat was brutally issued. His face was slammed hard into the bricks and then the strong hands went around his throat. There was no more air, he was dying.
"Hey!" Juan slapped the trance-like face when the harsh gasping stopped. "Cut that out, breathe, come on man, breathe." He dragged Danny away then, finding his cot in the back and sitting him on it. He squatted down and rested a hand on the trembling shoulder. "Look, that bastard's a real creep, his names Petruzzo and he's not a cop. He's a security guard that works at the store down the block. He don't like homeless people and I've heard he's gotten rough with some of them." He paused and winced as the trembling hand went towards the throat again. He intercepted it and got the alarmed blue eyes to focus on him. "I won't let him hurt you, okay? You're safe here." He saw the eyes dart then with more fear at the police. The dazed head began to shake and the breathing became ragged. "The cops? Whatever you did, I won't let them take you away. Not until I find out who you are and what the deal is. You stay put, you're sick and hurt. You need to rest." Juan felt Danny tense up and turned to see Boomer and a cop entering the kitchen. "He's gonna ask you what happened, that's all. You stay right there." He tugged the quilt up and remained on guard in front of the bed.
"Juan, Danny, this is Officer Davis. He wants to ask Danny about the intruder." Boomer saw that Danny was indeed not well and turned to the policeman. "He's got the flu pretty good, he's really sick."
"It's okay, pal," Officer Davis noted, "You just nod, okay? Father Joe told me you can't speak is that right?"
Martin nodded once and listened as the policeman asked him about the man that broke in. He nodded in all the right places and relief flooded through him in waves as soon as the cop thanked him and turned to leave. It was as Boomer said; this guy had been breaking into local businesses at night. Boomer and Juan both urged him to rest, but he was afraid. The silver badges on the uniforms scared him.
He closed his eyes and dozed fitfully, his fevered mind tormented by the dreams about red lights and angry men with badges in a train station. He thrashed around in his bed, seeking rest. Then a pair of hands found his throat and began to choke the life out of him. His eyes bugged open and his jaw worked, desperately seeking air. He clawed in vain at the murderous man over him, but the madman's eyes glinted evilly. He was going to kill him!
Martin woke up and continued to claw the air, battling the space where the very realistic murder had nearly taken place. His confused mind swirled like a vicious eddy, churning up debris in the current. His hand went to his throat and he thought hard about what had happened. Was Petruzzo the would be killer? If so, why had he attacked him? Was it as Juan had told him? Or was there another reason? His eyes clenched in agony as his headache flared, causing the room to spin for a moment. Then the face of the security guard appeared, just as it had in the room with Boomer and the others earlier. What if he came back? What if the gruff whispered threat issued in that alley came true? What about the other policemen? What if they got suspicious of him and came back? They knew where he was now, what if the cop that took his statement updated them after he left? What if Petruzzo knows he's here? He felt those hands on this throat again and the glint of the knife. He couldn't remember the words but the threat issued gutted him to the core. What if Petruzzo came back to act on that threat?
He sat up, throwing the blanket off and tugging on his sneaks. He padded quietly into the next room, washing his face, neck and chest, ridding his upper body of the wet fever. He paused for a moment, eyeing the man in the mirror. He leaned in close, brows furrowed in concentration and breathing heavily through his parted lips. He sought an answer in the sky eyes that were looking back at him. He pressed hard, pleading with the one dimensional stranger but his life remained locked inside that man's head. Angrily, he raised a fist to the bold image, desperately wanting to shatter its useless face. Chuffing in anger, he left the nameless alien trapped in the glass and moved away.
He went into the room where Juan got the clean clothes from. He got a new sweat suit and also tugged a gray hooded sweatshirt on. He pulled the hood up and reached for a warm jacket. It was a little big but that was fine, it had large pockets. He took sandwiches, small packages of cookies, a few candy bars and two bottles of water. He spotted a pad and pen on the counter near the telephone and walked over. He thought for a moment, and then wrote a note.
With his bounty tucked away, he paused in the doorway. He felt a lump in his sore throat, watching the bedrooms in the back where Father Joe, Boomer and Juan were asleep. They were his only real friends and he was very grateful for their help. His right hand went to his chest, where under the coat and sweatshirts, was the silver medal that Father Joe gave him that very morning. It was an image of Saint Michael, with his sword raised against the evil doers, the very symbol of justice and courage. The kindly priest told him to think of that as he battled through his darkness. Keeping that thought, he left the sanctuary, heading into the unknown.
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