Chapter 7
Scott was shivering and shaking, sitting on the top of a cold bench in Lincoln Park. It was well into the night and the sky had become clear, void of any clouds. Because there were no clouds to hold it down, any heat that the day had accumulated had risen into the clear sky and away from the ground. It was April but it felt like winter had snuck back around. He wished that he had grabbed a thicker coat, one with a hood to cover his iced over ears.
He knew it was late but refused to turn on his phone to see for sure. It might have been 3 a.m. give or take an hour. He felt fatigue setting into his stomach, creeping into his bones, mingled with the cold that already held residence. He had been in the park for what might have been over an hour, but he wasn’t sure. He would soon be moving on. Hopefully the search had died down some, but he didn’t get his hopes up.
Keeping his head down, Scott sat on the top of the bench with his feet hanging off the edge. He tried his best not to attract any of the vagabonds of the homeless village. There were many dirty and tired figures around him, lying in tattered tents, sitting on the dirt or grass, or standing near flaming metal drums, where anything burnable was being used for heat. Some had on less clothing than Scott himself was lucky enough to have. How could they must be. He couldn’t imagine living life always cold. He felt bad for them…for their daily struggle. The lost and forgotten would do whatever they could to be close to comfortable warmth, he noticed. He tried not to show it, but he was watching them. Many were drunk or high, numbed to the cold. Scott could smell alcohol and weed and had seen a few needles being passed around.
Lincoln Park might have once been a beautiful, green piece of land, consistently populated during a sunny afternoon by parents and their children. The children might have swung or climbed the jungle-gym or dug in the shallow sandpit while their parents sat on the wooden benches, conversing or reading. But those days were long gone. The swing set had become swing less. The jungle-gym was slowly crumbling, its wood disappearing back into the dirt. And the sandpit was nothing but mud. The sunny afternoons were no more.
Luckily for Scott, he only intended the park to be a pit stop, a moment to get off the streets and hide. He hadn't quit made it out of Youngstown, because he had to halt and gather his nervous, bouncing thoughts. The cops were out in full force, spotlighting dark alleys and crevasses, looking for a hole that Scott might be hiding in. If he didn't know the town and hadn’t managed a head start, he might have been picked up hours ago. But he had to pause his running. His legs were tired, his thoughts were scattered, and he wasn't sure what to do next.
What was his next move?
For the moment, Scott felt safe, at least safe from the police. They wouldn't walk into Lincoln Park after dark without back-up and shotguns unless they had a death wish. Which a lot of police officers seemed to possess, Scott admitted. He had known several of them that didn’t come across as being too bright when it came to danger, as if they lacked the instinct to keep themselves alive.
He suddenly felt a little less safe.
There was a part of him that wanted to turn himself in, to plead and beg for them to understand. But without proof, he would seem crazy. Without facts, he would never see daylight again. His own father would even view him as being confused, off the deep end, without any evidence pointing in another direction, illuminating another possibility.
Scott wondered if his dad had noticed the clues that were left for him. He knew that the hope was slim because the objects might not immediately stand out to his father…or to Oscar. But he had to have faith that his dad’s mind would look close at each piece of evidence left behind, including the clues. Maybe his father was already chasing down the truth. Maybe he was even running down the street as that very second.
Maybe. But Scott actually hoped against his father finding him so soon, because there was still so much to do. Dr. Ashe Walters would have to remain a few steps behind for the time being, following his own path while Scott dug his way forward out of the cold, hard ground.
The truth behind the curtain could be hard to fathom, almost impossible to believe in unless solid facts were in hand. His father would accept anything that he could touch and examine. But it was real. Scott would have to make sure that he had the proof he needed to make Oscar and his father see it for themselves. Seeing absolutely was believing. He knew that more than ever before. And even his scientific-minded father couldn't push aside the truth if he were able to set his eyes directly on it.
Bam was the key.
Bam had access to the proof.
Scott closed his eyes tight again. Far away, the dead man with the bloody halo floated in the dark distances of his brain. The macabre dance was stopping, becoming a memory. The only death that he could clearly see in his mind was Owen's shattered skull. He couldn't help but to feel bad, even sorry, about his roommate and sometimes friend. But Owen had been a junkie and unstable, and it was kill or be killed.
He had simply replaced one dead body with another. Or so he told himself. What he had done was entirely…human. Anyone with a rational mind and the knowledge that he had should respect his choice. But the police would never believe his reasoning. The only dead man they had seen had been Owen. That was the only death that mattered to them. It was not self-defense to them...it was murder...and Scott was a murderer who needed to be put down, like a dog who had gotten a taste of human blood.
He had to get to Bam and proof, before Oscar Harrison and Ashe Walters got to him.
Sliding from the bench, Scott slowly, cautiously, and quietly began to make his way across Lincoln Park. At the far side of the park was an old baseball diamond, which had long been overgrown with grass and weeds. There once had been a tall metal fence sitting around the diamond, but all that was to be seen were metallic bones. While sitting and observing, he had noticed an occasional group enter and leave the beaten down wooden dugout box. Drug deal? Bathroom break? Sex? He didn’t want to know, especially since the group always consisted of only men.
Scott set his sights on the abandoned baseball diamond and circled around a group of men and headed across the expanse of field in that direction. He would cut across and leave the park on the opposite side from which he had come, unnoticed, or at least that was the plan.
Two men with dark faces, wearing dark t-shirts came into view from dark places, and Scott couldn't for the life of him figure out where they had come from. They were just…there. And in the hands of the taller of the men was what looked like a common steak knife, black handle and steel blade. But the way the blade caught a glint of pale moonlight, Scott knew it had a purpose more than that of a common kitchen utensil.
Scott stopped as the two men moved in front of him.
“That is a nice coat,” the taller man stated. “Looks kinda warm.”
“Looks warmer than it is, to be honest,” Scott blurted, faking a slight shiver. He then rubbed his hands down the length of his arms in order to nail the act. The truth was that he was proud of his leather YSU Penguins coat. It had taken him nearly a year to save up for it. It had his name on it along with a few patches he had earned on the court. Outside of his team jersey, his leather jacket his most prized possession.
“You mind if I try it on?” the taller man asked, holding the knife so that the blade was pointing at the sky. “I'm a little cold. You know. Winter hadn’t quit left us, yet. Know what I mean?”
Scott could feel the bulge of the gun in the coat’s pocket. The last thing that he wanted to do was give up either his jacket or his gun, but things seemed to be going sour, rapidly and unexpectedly. He should have stopped at the park. He hung out for far too long with lower levels of humanity. What to do? He took a second to let his mind process.
He knew that they were planning to take the leather jacket and leave him lifeless. The intentions of the two men were clear. Could he avoid the coming confrontation? Should he
attempt an elusive departure? He could break into a sudden sprint and most likely outrun both of them. Or not. The two men looked to be in shape. Or maybe they were just thin from being on the streets. Scott could not size them up because of their soiled, baggy clothing.
Scott did not want to spill anymore blood, but he couldn't believe how quickly he was back in the same type of situation. Kill or be killed. Self-defense. And he didn't see it coming. How could he have? It would have to have happened twice. Could it happen twice? Could it happen repeatedly? How? Why? And to what end? To have that happen, would make someone a god or godlike.
Bam would know.
Bam was there at the beginning.
“Are you dumb or something?” the shorter man asked. He didn't seem to be carrying a knife. But Scott didn’t know for sure. The seemingly unarmed thug might be hiding something in his pocket, something more dangerous than a knife, something similar to what was in Scott’s own pocket. “My man here...likes your coat. Quit being rude and let him try it on. Doesn’t he deserve a little warmth?” The shorter man had been slowly easing himself to Scott's side while the taller man remained in front. It was movement Scott had missed. Being tired was making it hard to focus and think. It was a mistake Scott should not have made. He was becoming flanked.
“Okay,” Scott agreed. “Okay. It is getting a tiny bit small on me anyway. First, let me take my belongings out of the pockets.” Before the men could react, he had the pistol out and was aiming it at the taller man, the one with the knife.
“Hold on, man!” the taller man exclaimed, his tune instantly changing. “I was just admiring that leather coat of yours. That is all. That maybe I could wear for a second. I love YSU. I am a big Penguins fan, my man.”
“I thought you might like my gun a little more,” Scott replied. “It is shinier than that knife of yours.”
“Just having a misunderstanding is all,” the taller man assured him, but Scott refused to lower his gun. He put his finger on the trigger and gripped it tight enough to be ready to fire at any moment. He tensed his arm and prepared for possible recoil from the fired weapon. “Me and my boy here...like us some basketball.” the taller man continued. “Is all. Isn’t that right…Trevor.”
Scott was too slow to react when the man to his rear rushed forward, throwing his shoulder into Scott's side. The hit caused Scott's hand to clench up on the trigger firing the weapon in the direction the barrel had been aimed. It could have shot wide but it didn’t. The same instant that a bullet took the man with the knife square in the chest, leaving him gasping for whatever air could sustain his punctured lung, Trevor and Scott went tumbling to the ground.
Scott landed on his back and held on tight to the butt of the pistol, using his free hand to punch at Trevor, who had landed on top of him. The first punch missed but the second swing landed against the ebony skin of the man’s cheek. Scott heard the man groan and immediately thought about a follow up blow, but the dark skinned man quickly wrapped his hands around Scott’s throat and squeezed down tight. Scott felt his breath get trapped inside his throat. His mind began to fog up and his vision began to blur. Scott knew, however, that choking someone was always a desperate move, showing him that Trevor didn’t have anything to resort to besides desperate methods. Trevor definitely did not have a weapon anywhere on him or else he would be trying to use it.
Scott tried to focus. He was the only one with a gun. And as long as the piece of deadly design remained in his grip, he had the control. Instead of punching again with his free hand, he tried to position the gun against the Trevor’s head. The thug felt the barrel brush against his temple and withdrew a hand from Scott’s throat to swat at the pistol. The gun was immediately knocked away from Scott's obviously loosened grasp, tumbling away from the grappling pair.
Trevor watched it fall and at once began to scramble for it, but Scott was stronger and managed to quickly scramble across the ground and trip up the man by grabbing a hold of his ankle. Using his upper body strength, Scott managed to pull the man back his direction, away from the gun. After gaining a tight hold on the man’s leg and dark clothing, Scott tangled Trevor up. Scott was then able to get level with the dark man’s backside in order to administer a reverse bear hug. Frantically trying to get to the gun, the dark thug responded by sinking his teeth into Scott's arm. The teeth went in deep. Surprised, Scott's hold slacked and Trevor was able to squirm his way free.
Instead of trying to grapple the man again, Scott quickly sprang to his feet with a back handspring, something he learned and perfected during basketball practice. As Trevor reached the gun, but before he fully had the weapon in hand, Scott struck him hard with the tip of his tennis shoe. He kicked him a second time in the chest and felt a rib fracture, forcing the thug to cry out in pain.
Taking the gun, Scott considered his options. The man was injured and no longer posed a threat. But the thug would be a threat to someone else down the line. He needed to kill him before he hurt or killed someone else stupid enough to pass by or even stop at the park. He was conflicted but only for an instant. After that instant had gone, Scott shot the man twice in the face, guaranteeing his demise.
Running over to the other man, he looked down and watched the dying man’s struggled gasps, which failed to bring oxygen fully into the injured lung. Scott felt slight pity for the wounded assailant, whatever his name might have been. There wouldn’t be any ambulance coming the man’s way, no savior to the rescue. The thug was dead as soon as Scott’s bullet hit him. He just wasn’t going peacefully. He shot him in the head, rather than letting his attacker continue to suffer slowly and painfully. It was the only help that he could offer.
“Fuck! Shit! God damn it!” Two more dead bodies that the police would never see as self-defense, he admitted. Unless. Scott put down the gun and took off his coat, while eyeing the newly formed spots of wet crimson. He knelt down next to the man he had just killed and forced the coat onto him.
Colder than ever, he turned and ran across the remaining length of the park. He did not reacquire the handgun but let it lay. He didn't want the weapon anymore. It brought nothing but death, which, as Scott knew, was its reason for existing. The police would match the bullets to all three victims in time anyway. He chose to save them the effort and manpower.
They should thank him for taking the time to consider their needs. No. How foolish to consider such a thing. They would simply continue to hunt him. Fine. Besides, there was another reason to leave his belongs on and near to the dead thugs. They were, in fact, thugs and they might be known by the police. Having his jacket would possibly show robbery, self-defense. It was slim but he had to try. Also, leaving the Ruger behind would inform his trackers that he was unarmed and no longer dangerous, possibly getting the trailing officers to lower their own guns as well, or at least getting them to momentarily pause before they try to fire them in his direction.
As he arrived at the other side of the park, coming out next to a broad street, Scott realized that he had gotten rid of his gun but he had his cell phone in his pocket. It was still turned off. He thought about using it to call Bam, but promptly decided against it. It could possibly be traced, which was why it had remained off. He jogged across the broad street, watching out for any traffic, seeing none. He would take it apart and discard it in some random trash can along his long route. It would be one less trail for the police to follow.
He did have to find some form a phone, though. There was no way he could run all the way to Bam. He would never make it before sunrise, that moment when a ball of lit up the world and exposed the sneaking creatures.
It took Scott nearly another twenty minutes of slipping along the nearly empty streets before he found what might have been the last remaining payphone in the city. He was surprised that any remained. They were like dinosaur bones, remnants of an era that existed before cellular capability.
He picked up the receiver and found it sticky. He kept it an inch from his skin and deposited the few coins he had on him. While keeping his eyes on the street and any possible law enforcement presence, he dialed Bam’s number. After several rings, she answered the call and her voice was the sweetest nectar Scott had ever experienced.