Touching Eternity (Touch Series 1.5) Page 6

  Isaiah stayed in the back, not really sure what his presence was supposed to bring to the table when Bruce and Lew seemed to have everything under control.

  When Garrison had asked him to take care of a problem, Isaiah had assumed the guy owed him money or just needed a talking to. He was a solider, not a mercenary. He didn’t kill people for sport or hurt them to settle a score. His job was to keep the peace. So when he’d gone down and found Bruce and Lew waiting for him, he was almost certain he’d missed something in his talk with Garrison the night before.

  “We’re here to discuss your…loyalties,” Lew said, removing ham-sized hands from the bowels of his jacket pocket. Each knuckle on each hand was a blistering shade of white.

  Bruce grabbed Mortimer by the collar, yanked him up and shook him. Mortimer made a choking sound as he was rattled like a ragdoll.

  “I don’t know what you want!” he wailed, struggling to be free of the abuse.

  Bruce released him. Mortimer scrambled back several steps that brought him directly into a wide opening that yawned into a much larger room. A set of stairs cut up on the right. A kitchen glistened on the left. At the bottom of four steps, a lavish sitting area sprawled in front a wall of glass that looked out into a dimming twilight. A cheerful fire swayed in the fireplace, glinting off the single goblet of red wine resting on the coffee table, next to a stack of open folders.

  “Dennison, get the blinds,” Bruce barked, jerking a head towards the wall of windows.

  Isaiah maneuvered around Lew and hurried over to snap the switch on the wall next to the rolling rows of plastic blinds. The room dimmed. The shadows were kept at bay solely by the dangling lights over the kitchen counter and the leaping flames.

  “Now,” Bruce began, cracking his knuckles as he descended on Mortimer. “What do you say we talk?”

  As if that was the code word, Lew grabbed Mortimer’s right arm, Bruce grabbed his left and together, they dragged him kicking and screaming into the living room.

  Glass shattered. Wine splattered everywhere as Mortimer was thrown into the coffee table. Papers were soaked with the drink, drenching them in crimson.

  “Dennison! Don’t just stand there! Grab his feet!” Lew barked, struggling with the upper body.

  Isaiah hesitated, liking this situation less and less with every passing second. “I don’t think—”

  “You’re not here to think!” Lew snarled, reaching into his back pocket and coming back with a thin, black object. “You’re here to do what we tell you!” He flicked his wrist and a gleaming blade flipped into view. Isaiah’s stomach dropped. “Now grab his legs!”

  It was Garrison’s words in his ear that propelled him forward. “I only trust you to do this, Isaiah. I know you won’t disappointment me.”

  Mortimer’s foot almost caught him in the nose when the thrashing man kicked just as Isaiah bent down to anchor him at the kneecaps. He grabbed both legs and pinned them to the ground. He used his weight to keep them there. It was like trying to restrain a very large eel.

  “Now.” Satisfied Mortimer was going nowhere, Lew turned back to the man’s flushed and clammy face. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. I want you to answer them. Simple enough for a scientist, right?”

  Mortimer made a strangled sound and nodded.

  Lew beamed. “Great. For my first question.” The cold edge of his blade nicked Mortimer’s jowl. “What happens when a certain brainiac’s mouth gets too big for his own good?”

  Mortimer’s eyes grew wide, their irises mere pinpricks against the ashen contour of his face.

  Lew traced a lazy curve under Mortimer’s chin. Nicked him once, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Mortimer flinched, but remained rigid with terror.

  “See, my employer, we’ll call him Bob, is very displeased with the way you’re running your mouth, talking about things you shouldn’t and, well, becoming quite bothersome. He sent us,” he said as he waved the tip of the blade between himself, Bruce and Isaiah, “to try and reason with you.” He rested his elbow on Mortimer’s chest, leaned in close. “Now, you look like a reasonable kinda guy, Morty. You are, aren’t you?”

  Mortimer’s head barely moved, Isaiah guessed the knife at his throat had a lot to do with it, but he made an agreeing sound that was the mirror sound of a mouse being trodden on.

  Lew beamed. “I knew it! The moment I saw you, I said to Brucy here, ‘See, that guy there, he looks like a reasonable guy.’ I’m never wrong about these kinds of things. In my line of work, it pays off to be…observant, which is why I know that when I tell you, one friend to another, to mind yourself, you’re going to listen, right? Because I would really hate to have to come back here and have this talk with you again, do you get me, Morty?”

  “I…I get you!” Mortimer gasped.

  Lew smacked him on the chest, straightened, but kept the blade precisely in place. “Excellent. So, what did we learn today, Morty?”

  “K…keep my mouth shut?”

  Like the proud parent of a slow child, Lew puffed out his chest, rapped Mortimer sharply on the cheek with his fingers and grinned at Bruce. “See, Brucy? I told you we wouldn’t have any trouble with this guy.”

  Bruce didn’t seem to care one way or another. “I still think we should make it so he doesn’t forget the lesson!”

  In saying so, he stuffed his thick fingers into Mortimer’s mouth, sending the man retching and writhing like a worm on the line, as a slip of pink was fished from between his lips. Isaiah gagged.

  “That’s not necessary!” Lew protested. “Morty’ll keep his word, won’t you, Morty?”

  Eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, Mortimer nodded, making sounds that were close to ‘I will! I will!’

  “See?” Lew said.

  “Well, a precaution then,” Bruce decided. “He can’t talk if he doesn’t have a tongue.”

  It was clear they’d done this before. Every word was too perfectly scripted, too much like a choreographed dance. They were the epitome of good cop/bad cop. Isaiah only hoped the good cop won this round.

  Lew suddenly turned his head, pinned Isaiah with a raised eyebrow. “What do you think, Dennison?”

  Isaiah fumbled. “Er…” He caught himself. “I think he’s learned his lesson. He won’t talk.”

  Lew stared at him a moment too long. The look on his face could only be described as hostile, bitter…angry. But then he was turning away, facing Mortimer.

  “That’s two votes, Bruce.”

  Mortimer’s tongue was relinquished. It slipped quickly back into Mortimer’s skull, poking out only once to moisten his lips.

  “T…thank you! Thank you!”

  Bruce wiped Mortimer saliva off on his pants. “Don’t thank me. I’d have cut you into little pieces already.”

  “It’s true,” Lew replied evenly. “Bruce has no patience for people who disrespect Bob, but I’m counting on you, okay? I’ve got my money on you, Morty, so you better not disappointment me. Otherwise, I can’t promise to hold him back next time.”

  “I promise!” Mortimer sobbed. “I promise!”

  Lew smacked him on the breastplate, sat back on his heels. “We’ll hold you to that, Morty.”

  Isaiah dropped Mortimer’s legs the same time Bruce and Lew rose to their feet. He got to his feet, brushing his clammy hands over his thighs as he took several safe steps back.

  “We’ll see you around, Morty.” Lew gave a sloppy salute and started for the narrow hall.

  Isaiah quickly followed, reaching the narrow hallway just as Bruce said, “I’ll be watching you very closely, Hobbs. Next time, I’ll come alone and you’ll wish you’d listened.”

  By the sleek Buick Regal, Isaiah turned to watch as Bruce ambled through the door, his massive frame looking even more menacing in the dark. On the driver’s side, Lew threw himself in behind the wheel. The slam of his door echoed through the night. Isaiah crammed himself into the back. Bruce took the passenger’s side and they were off.

 
“Call the boss,” Lew said. “Let him know the job’s done.”

  Bruce reached for the mobile radio phone mounted into the bottom of the dashboard. The receiver looked thin and frail beneath his massive fist. He stabbed at the button on top with the jagged nail of his thumb and pressed the receiver to his ear as it connected with the switchboard operator. Several seconds passed before Bruce’s gruff voice filled the tight confines of the car.

  “Yeah. Done. No, he won’t talk. Yes, sir. Right away.”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear, disconnected and stuffed it into the compartment once more. He snapped the hatch closed.

  “Boss says to head home.”

  Isaiah pressed a little deeper into the leather. He stopped short of resting his head back and closing his eyes. Something told him exposing his jugular with these two so close was a bad idea. Plus, he wasn’t about to let his guard down after what he’d just witnessed.

  “You’re not going to hurl on the upholstery are you, Dennison?” Lew taunted.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the window.

  “Yeah?” He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Well, guess we can live with that.”

  Isaiah stole a sidelong glance towards the rearview mirror, found his gaze caught in a pair of silvery eyes, narrowed with hatred.

  It was unclear what Lew had against him. The hawk-faced bear had been shooting him daggers since Garrison introduced them. If he hadn’t met people like Lew at school all his life, he would have taken it personally, but as it stood, he just didn’t care.

  “So you and the boss,” Lew began slowly, fingers doing a steady beat against the wheel. “You guys close?”

  Isaiah didn’t feel the need to answer. He didn’t think it was anyone’s business.

  “Leave it alone, Lew,” Bruce muttered, face turned towards his window. "It ain’t our place.”

  “I’m just curious, Bruce, that’s all,” Lew shrugged his wide shoulders. “No harm in being curious. I mean, we don’t hear nothing about the guy and suddenly the boss wants him tagging along. I’m just trying to figure things out.”

  “Ain’t your place,” Bruce repeated. “The boss knows what he’s doing.”

  A moment of short silence fell through the cabin, broken only by the crunch of gravel under the tires. But it proved to be too much for Lew.

  “So, what’s the deal with you and the boss anyhow?”

  Bruce sighed heavily.

  Isaiah said nothing, but his fingers bunched on his knees. He stared fixedly at the blur of shadows outside his window, determined not to let himself be drawn into the prodding.

  “I know you ain’t mute!” Irritation had begun to seep into Lew’s voice.

  “Leave it, Lew,” Bruce warned.

  “Naw! Naw!” Lew protested, wiggling higher in his seat, really getting excited now. “Guy’s riding in our car, honing in on our marks, I think he’s got some explaining to do.”

  “Those were the boss’ orders,” Bruce said.

  “Right, but we’re just having a conversation, ain’t we, Dennison? You ain’t gonna snitch on us for trying to get to know you, are ya?”

  Isaiah gritted his teeth, his own irritation building. He didn’t need anyone to fight his fights. He wasn’t a snitch!

  “I’m not a snitch,” was all he said.

  “Cool. So, how about it? Why’s the boss all about Dennison suddenly? Who are you?”

  I’m the gutter rat he found and saved. But he wasn’t about to tell these two that. Those days were history. He wasn’t that filthy, angry boy anymore.

  “I’m no one.”

  He’d been eight when Garrison brought him home, stuffed him in the shower and scrubbed the streets off. But he had never been a child. He had known things, seen things that not even most adults were privy to. Garrison had cared for him when not a single soul in the world had cared whether he lived or died. He had given him a bed, a real bed with a real mattress and real sheets, not a slab of cardboard tucked into a filthy alley. He’d been given clothes and food.

  God, the food. He had never seen so much food in his life, and he could have as much of it as he wanted. Garrison never asked him to pay for it, never made him do some of the things Isaiah had seen other boys his age had to do for a crusty piece of bread. Garrison never touched him, never hurt him. He never asked for anything, except that Isaiah wash his hands before sitting at the table and that he chew before swallowing, something he often forgot.

  But that boy was gone. Isaiah hadn’t been that wild, filthy thing in years. Garrison had made him human, had saved him from death or worse, and had killed for him. And how had Isaiah repaid him? By falling in love with his daughter, by betraying him, by keeping secrets.

  “You fall asleep back there, Dennison?” Lew’s voice cut him back to reality, back to the cracked leather beneath him and the sour stench of stale smoke, grease and sweat.

  Isaiah blinked, turned his head. “What?”

  “Where’d the boss find you?”

  Exasperated, tired and harboring a crippling headache, Isaiah, twisted his head back to the window, and muttered, “Your sister’s bed.”

  The car fishtailed as Lew twisted nearly right around in his seat, his face a puddle of crimson and purple. “What did you say?”

  Bruce, grabbing the wheel and, righting the car, used his free hand to yank Lew back into his seat. “Sit your ass down!”

  “Boy’s asking for my fist in his face!” Lew snarled, taking possession of the car once more.

  “You had it coming,” Bruce replied evenly. “Ain’t none of your damn business! Now, drive!”

  Lew didn’t try making conversation with Isaiah again. The rest of the drive went by in a blissful sort of silence that Isaiah let himself get wrapped in. He closed his eyes.

  ***

  “Isaiah! Find me!” Amalie’s high-pitched squealing giggles filled the corridors, a rolling symphony of joy and elation.

  Isaiah hated hide-and-seek. Hated all the dark places he was forced to crawl into. He hated having to sit there and wait until she found him. He hated being alone.

  “I don’t want to play!” he barked back, stuffing his hands into his pockets and stalking away. Let her play by herself.

  Footsteps hurried after him. For a split second, he stiffened, braced and whipped around, fists clenched.

  Long curls of auburn bounced around a pink, smiling face as Amalie ran towards him, blue eyes twinkling. “Oh come on, Isaiah!”

  “No!” he growled a little harsher than he’d meant to, hating the memories that swelled up inside him, threatened to choke him. The memories of starving, of being curled up in a cold, dank hole, waiting like a rat for someone to throw him a scrap of food curdled in the back of his throat. He remembered waiting for his mother’s john to leave without noticing him so he could finally leave his hiding place. Even at six years old, he knew what his mother did behind the ratty blanket strung up in some pathetic attempt to protect his innocence.

  “Let’s play a game, Isaiah,” his mother would whisper, pressing a finger to her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief. “You hide and I’ll find you. No peeking. Keep your eyes closed and your ears covered, okay?”

  He only had the one hiding place, inside the cupboard in the kitchen, but he would hide because it was a game and she always found him. She hadn’t anticipated getting beaten to death or that the cord holding up the blanket would be the weapon of choice, the final piece of jewelry she would ever wear around her pale throat. Two years later and the memory of her cold, bruised, splayed body pressed into the back of his mind when he closed his eyes.

  His fist plowed into the wall, the pain shattering the black cloud closing bony fingers around him. “It’s a stupid game!” he screamed. “You’re stupid!”

  She came to a skidding stop. Her hands flew up to her mouth, now void of her bright smile. Her big, blue eyes were wide, the only color against her face. She stared at him in that way he hated more than play
ing hide-and-seek. It was a look he’d seen too often on the streets from kids expecting a beating.

  “Stop that!” he shouted, throwing his arms up. She flinched, stumbling back several steps. “Stop it!” He charged after her, wanting to grab her, stop her from backing away from him, make her stop looking at him as if he were going to backhand her.

  She gasped, scampered back, tripped and hit the floor with a force that made him wince. She scuttled back, her eyes enormous now, glistening with tears.

  “Stop it!” he screamed again, furious now with himself, with her. “Stop running!”

  She did, only to curl her seven year old body up, drawing her knees to her forehead and wrapping her arms over her head. She was rocking. Rocking and sobbing…sobbing.