Redemption Road(89)

Of course they did.

They were the ones who broke him.

“That’s not me, anymore.”

But it was.

Memories. Nightmares.

“Stop it.”

It could have been a scream, but wasn’t. Awake or asleep, it could happen anytime. Memories marched in from the dark: the table and the rats, Eli’s death and the questions that came over and again. It was part of being broken, how the horrors rose like water.

“That’s not my life.”

But it felt like it.

When the final wave receded, Adrian was still on his feet, alone in a field he’d known as a boy. There were no walls or ceilings or cold metal. It should have been over, then; that was the pattern.

But then he saw the car.

It rolled past the field and flashed red where the road met the drive. He heard the engine, the tires. Then it went dark.

“Motherf*ckers.”

He cut through the field without thinking, and when he reached the road, he stopped. They wore plainclothes, but he knew them. Stanford Olivet and William Preston. Adrian recognized the haircuts, the movements, their faces when a cigarette lighter sparked. They brought it all back, and for an instant, the memories almost rode him down: their smiles like a flicker, their thick hands on his wrists and ankles, holding him as the straps cinched tight, then reaching for the blades, the needles, the sack of rats that moved as if it had a life of its own.

Adrian wanted to pull them from the car, to pound their faces and break his hands doing it if that’s what it took. He told himself to move, to do it now; but another image rose. He saw the same men and the same faces, but there when he’d spilled like a dead man from the boiler in subbasement two. Something like pity had been on their faces, a whispered Jesus Christ as they’d shaken rats from his skin and carried him to a place with light and air and water.

Poor bastard, they’d said.

Poor sorry, stubborn son of a bitch.

Suddenly, it was too much, the rage and fear, the weight of submission.

Do what you’re told.

Eyes down.

And that was just regular fear, regular prisoners. Adrian’s damage ran deeper, and only now did he grasp its magnitude. He was a free man, yet nothing that mattered had changed. He saw their faces turn his way, their eyes as they recognized him. Olivet said something, and Preston smiled again, a thick man with pale lips and small, round eyes. The smile was knowing, and why not? He knew every inch of Adrian’s body, the smell of his blood and the sound of his screams, the places cut and uncut. Adrian felt a rush of blood, then a click as some part of him shut down. Heaviness. Numbness. He saw the car doors open, but from a distance. The world went nearly black, and when light returned, Officer Preston had a retractable steel baton in his hand. “What are you doing, prisoner Wall?”

Prisoner …

“You think you can just walk up on us like that? You think you’re entitled to that choice?”

Adrian’s lips moved, but no sound escaped.

Preston tapped Adrian’s chest with the baton. “I want to know what he told you.” He raised his voice the littlest bit. “Eli Lawrence. You know what I want.”

“We’re just supposed to watch him,” Olivet said. “Just in case.”

“Quit whining.”

“This is not the place, man. Come on. Cars could come by. Witnesses.”

Preston flicked his wrist so the baton snapped out. He swung it in a blur; struck Adrian in the neck, then hit so hard on his kneecap that everything went away but the pain. Adrian ended up on the ground with gravel in the back of his head. He wanted to move but couldn’t, tried to breathe but his lungs were frozen solid.

“Damn it, Preston,” Olivet’s voice came down. “We’re supposed to watch him.”

“Just hang on.” Joints popped. Adrian saw Preston’s face, and a thick hand that came in to slap his cheek. “Are you in there? Hello. You in there, you stupid bastard?”

“Come on, man. This is just pitiful.”

“Hey!” Two more slaps. “Where is it? Huh? What did Eli Lawrence tell you?”

Adrian rolled on his side. Preston put a foot on Adrian’s throat. “Inside or out, it doesn’t matter. You talk to me when I say.”

Adrian felt the pressure, but it all seemed distant. The stars. The pain. The man was right. Inside. Outside. There was no winning.

“He’s dying, man.”

“No, he’s not.”

“I think you crushed his throat. Look at him.”

The foot backed off, and air leaked in. Adrian was spread in the dirt and unmoving, his vision down to a spot of color.

“I’m tired of this Mickey Mouse crap.”

Pressure returned, and as Adrian’s heels scraped in the dirt, a part of him dug for the fighter he’d once been. He used to fight. On the block, in the yard, the first time they strapped him down or shoved him in the pipes. He believed in the fight, but this time he was dying; he felt it.

But the world, it seemed, was not entirely done with him. Crybaby Jones hobbled from the dark like the ghost of brave old men everywhere.

“You leave that man alone!”

His cane swung up and down, hit Preston on the nose and burst it like a plum. He swung again, and Olivet danced back. Crybaby tried once more but there was no third chance against men like these. The old lawyer was almost ninety and dropped like a dead man from a single blow.