The Gambit-- Chapters 1-3

This work is copywritten. It is the first three chapters of my first novel, which was just sent out to literary agents. Let me know what you think.

 

Chapter One

 

 “You, Ken, are a drug addict,” said my therapist and sometimes-friend, Dr. Steven Phillips.

Like now. Right now he’s not my friend; he’s an a*****e. An a*****e with a doctorate. I informed him of this with a smile.

Anyway, I’ve known the doctor for a long time. In a way, he’s like the father I never had�" the father I should have had. Since he became a part of my life almost twenty years ago, he has given me the guidance and encouragement that one would expect from a father. He is someone�" the only one�" I can turn to when I have a problem. He is a great man, with a brilliant mind, but on some occasions we have our differences.

Like now.

He glared at me as I looked at him blankly, my opioid-dulled eyes observing the man I consider my closest friend. I have to admit that time seemed to agree with the guy. At age sixty four, he could pass for his early-fifties, or possibly even younger if the person estimating his age had been taking hallucinogenic drugs. He still had a full head of hair, a distinguished salt and pepper, kept trimmed in the same style he has had since I’ve known him: a military buzz cut, high and tight, though he had never served in any branch of the armed-forces. At five-foot-nine he stayed fairly trim, though I could see the beginning of a belly protruding from the bottom of his white collared shirt.

A smirk firmly set in my face, I corrected, “And I, Doc, am a Functioning drug addict.”

Scowling, Dr. Phil, as I often refer to him, said, “Okay, then. Define ‘functioning’.” He made quotation marks with his fingers when he said the word functioning. He crossed his khaki-covered legs slowly with a smirk of his own, patiently waiting for my response.

But I ignored the question, choosing instead to simply stare at him. In my mind I was flashing back to when we first met, back when he had worked for the New York State Office of Child and Family Services. It my tenth birthday when he came to investigate a tip his office had received claiming my brother and I were living in an abusive household. He told me that he wanted to interview us, but our father was home, and since Marty and I were underage, our father had to be present during said interview, which scared the s**t out of us. Literally. So we lied, covering for our drunken, abusive father, only to get a beating in return shortly after.

Dr. Phillips, born with a built-in bullshit detector and a gift enabling him to read between the lines, didn’t buy the act for a second. However, since we would admit to nothing, there was nothing he could do. Still, he dropped by almost every week, sometimes bringing us gifts, and it was him that eventually convinced me to join the Marine Corp. Since the first day I met him he’s done nothing but try to help, even if I do find him to be a pain in the a*s. Still, since I had been home from four tours of duty, split between Iraq and Afghanistan, I’ve done nothing he’s asked. Well, nothing except show up for our weekly appointments. (Which, by the way, are free. But he’s still an a*****e.)

The doctor cleared his throat, which I ignored, instead looking around the room as though I was a kindergartner with ADHD. We were in his office, which is connected to his home in Plainview, on Long Island. I was sitting in an uncomfortable chair across from him, some warped-metal thing that feels and closely resembles some sort of medieval torture device. I put my feet up on his desk�" which pisses him off to no end �" as I thought about my answer to his query. I was high at the time, and a little drunk, and I don’t much care for questions�" especially from shrinks who turn every statement I make into another question�" so, rather than waste my time or few remaining brain cells thinking about an answer, I spent my time pondering the question I always asked myself when my back started to ache from this god-forsaken chair: Where’s the couch?

In movies and television and books the therapist always has a couch that the patient would lie down on, spewing out his problems, comfortably reclined, as the doctor picked away at their brain. But there was no couch here, and I felt like I was being duped. Even if the sessions were free.

“Hey, Doc,” I said, watching as he looked at me expectantly. “Why don’t you have a couch?”

His eyebrows rose a bit, and the folds of skin bunched together on his forehead; his eyes squinted like there was a sudden burst of bright light. “Excuse me?” he asked, going as far as rubbing his ears as though they were so clogged that he couldn’t have possibly heard me correctly.

“You know, a couch,” I said. “In movies and stuff the patient is always kicking back on some big, comfy couch while he spills his heart out to the sexy shrink. So, since I don’t have a sexy shrink to look at, what I’m getting at is… Well, I think you should get a couch.”

Dr. Phillips, fist to his mouth, cleared his throat. “Um… Okay. We’ll see. But back�"”

I stood up, began pacing. “I mean, aren’t I supposed to be relaxed or something? How am I supposed to be relaxed in this?” I tapped the chair with my foot as though it were road-kill. “This thing looks like it belongs in a Concentration Camp. You change your name to Adolph.”

The doctor shook his head, his frustration clearly reaching a point beyond the norm. He took a few deep breaths, and finally said, “I’ll see about a couch, okay? Maybe if I started charging you for these sessions I could afford one.”

Touché, doc. “Okay, okay,” I said, hands up in mock-surrender. “Forget about the couch, Mein Fuhrer.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back into his comfortable chair, his fingers interlocked behind his head. “Now. Back to my question.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but quickly closed it, deciding to mess with him just a little bit more. “Uh… What question?”

He took a deep breath�" he seems to do that a lot when we’re together �"and, shaking his head, he said, “Ken, you claimed to be a ‘functioning’ drug addict, so I simply asked you to define ‘functioning’ as it pertains to you and your problem. Your drug problem. That was my question.”

I nodded, slowly. “Oh, okay, okay. I remember now.” I leaned forward, hand on my chin, my curled index finger rubbing the stubble on my cheek. This is my “Thinking” posture. Finally, after much consideration, I answered, “Well, I work, I have money, I have skills. So I am, therefore, ‘functioning’.” I made some finger quotations of my own as I sat back with a smile of satisfaction from my partially honest answer. At that time I had actually been running low on funds. Running low on motivation, really. I hadn’t taken a job in over two months, and I had started to slowly slip away from everything, from everyone, since my return from the war. Things just weren’t the same anymore. Truth be told, I wasn’t the same anymore.

He sighed, his eyes and mouth revealing a look of sympathy. I read the look as though he was concerned that I was either extremely naïve or ignorant. Or just plain stupid.

“Bullshit!” he yelled, suddenly.

Maybe I read the look wrong.

But, see what I mean? He can be an a*****e. He can flip on you like a switch. I swear, it’s like I’m with Ghandi one moment, then all of a sudden I’m sitting with Vlad The Impaler the next. Though, I must admit, I sometimes intentionally push his buttons. Okay, maybe more than sometimes.

“That’s a bullshit answer,” he continued, his voice now a few decibels lower. “And I’m sick of you always reverting to humor when we talk of serious topics. It’s a classic avoidance issue. Denial at its finest. Can you spell ‘defense mechanism’.”

“D-E-F�"�”

“Cut it out! Always thinking everything is a damn joke!”

“Why,” I began, dragging out the word in my best Southern Belle impression, “but, whatever do you mean?” I then proceeded to fluff my hair.

“I mean that you need painkillers to ‘function’, and even then you’re not really functioning.” He took a deep breath, visibly relaxing before he continued. “See, I know, and I understand�" believe me, I understand�" that you still suffer physical, as well as emotional, pain. I know. I’ve seen the scars, Kenny. But more importantly, I can see the psychological scars in your eyes, in your actions. But drugs are not�"”

“Don’t give me that ‘oh-I-feel-your-pain’, and ‘I-can-see-it-in-the-windows-to-your-soul’ psycho-babble horse-s**t. That is bullshit! You don’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through! It’s not something you can just pick up and read in some book, doc.” I realized I had snapped, and had been getting louder with each word. I forced myself to stop and take a breath, waiting until I calmed down before I continued. “Listen, Doc… I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I do. But please quit acting like you know how I feel.”

He nodded at my response, and then looked at me for a moment more in silence. “So tell me,” he said eventually, his voice soft as he leaned back in his chair once more. “Tell me. Tell me how you feel.”

This guy never gives up. I sighed, then, my tone flat, I said, “Sometimes I feel like cutting your tongue out and frying it up on my George Foreman Grill.”

He sighed. “I’m only speaking the truth, Kenny.”

“Yeah, well, tongue is a delicacy in some countries.”

“You are only stalling with this foolishness,” he said. “I’m here to help you, but you need to want to help yourself. You’re not a kid anymore, Ken. It’s time to grow up.” He lowered his head a moment, taking a deep breath before he went on. “Look. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is nothing to be ashamed of. Studies have shown that thirty percent of veterans suffer from PTSD. Thirty percent! And that’s just the soldiers that come forward and ask for help.” He leaned closer to me, continuing, his voice even softer. “And some are people that went through less than you, Ken. You were taken prisoner in Pakistan for God’s sake! I don’t know what happened while you were a POW, and I can’t even begin to imagine. But I do know you suffer physical pain. I know the emotional pain is extreme, beyond my comprehension. But drugs will not help. They’ll only numb the pain for a little while, and then you’ll have a whole new set of issues to deal with. The only way for me to help you will be for you to tell me how you feel inside. How you really feel. To speak the complete truth, no matter how hard it is.” He paused, began tapping his fingers on his desk. ”But you have to speak to me truthfully, with none of that other bullshit bravado. It all boils down to that.”

I shuffled uncomfortably in the chair. He was asking me to speak about the things I had spent years trying to forget.

“Psychoanalytic therapy,” he went on, “is a long-term process. Together we must access the unconscious part of your brain; we must make the unconscious, conscious. Your every thought and action, your motivation and needs�" they all come from the unconscious. Your dreams. All of your experiences and memories are stored inside you, Ken, hidden, bottled up, and if you don’t access them, they will explode. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually they will. They will. This may be a long and strenuous process, but analyzing your dreams, I believe, is one of the best ways we can bring some of these issues to the surface. The other method, the more solitary method, would be doing some of the writing exercises we’ve discussed.”

He took a slow sip of water and placed the glass on his desk, then, as though reading my thoughts, added, “Though reliving some of those memories will be painful, we will work through it. Together. It will help you put the pieces back together, help you get your life back on track. And it will help to get you off the drugs. I already told you I can give you something that will take away the withdrawal, something tha�"”

I held up a hand, silencing him. “Not right now, doc,” I said, staring at my feet as I spoke. I paused for a brief moment, contemplating my untied shoelace, then added, “But you’re right.”

When I looked up he gave me a sad, knowing smile, and it made me wonder if I was just wasting his time. I didn’t think I was ready to open up, and he knew it. I didn’t think I could even begin to explain what my life had become. How do you tell someone that it’s often difficult to go to crowded places? To do something as simple as grocery shopping? Sometimes I would be in the aisle, scanning the shelves, and would feel the presence of someone behind me. Suddenly I’d react, ready to put them down. Violently. But I’ve been able to stop myself before I follow through.

Lisa, my wife of six years couldn’t take it. She understandably couldn’t handle my sudden isolation, disappearing from everyone as I lost myself in a bottle and a handful of pills, and then eventually revealing myself, all high and drunk to escape the pain of reality, the pain of my past.

How could the doc�" no, how could anyone understand that certain sights and sounds and smells can cause flashbacks? How could someone understand that when I go to the gas station and catch a whiff of diesel fumes it takes me back, back to the IED attack on my convoy, back to watching Joe Bradley burn while there was nothing I could do about it? How could I explain that sometimes I’d go out with friends to grab some drinks or a bite to eat, and suddenly I’d be back in Iraq or Afghanistan? The television or a band would make a loud noise, I get dizzy and confused. Next thing I know my buddies are tapping me on the shoulder because I hit the deck thinking our position was taking fire.

They didn’t understand, and they gave little effort to try�" not that I made it easy. At first they would come around, insistent that I seek some sort of help to start my life again. But I slowly watched as the look in their eyes turned from one of sympathy and sadness to one of pity and gratitude�" they were grateful they weren’t me. I couldn’t take it, the disgusting, unbearable looks behind their eyes. So�" to their relief�" I cut them out completely, and I found myself all alone but for my weekly visits with the doc. And each visit I found myself pushing even him further and further away as I drunkenly navigated the destructive path I chose to lead.

In hindsight I realized that in some twisted way, somewhere down the line, I had myself convinced that I was seeking solace through the only emotion I could ever remember feeling: pain.

How could I explain any of that s**t and expect someone to understand? No way. Not to someone who hasn’t been through it.

“Kenny, please,” he said. “How do you feel right now? Right this second?”

His question caught me off guard, not for the question itself, but for the fact that�" even if just in my thoughts�" I had put words to my feelings. I realized that was big for me, that it was something the doc would call “Progress”. I swallowed a lump in my throat, along with a bit of my pride. “Alright,” I said, giving in just a little. “I feel… strange, okay? I feel… upset; overwhelmed; out of place. I don’t know. I feel different. I’m not myself�" I don’t even know myself anymore.” I squeezed my eyes shut, let out a sigh. “I’m almost always on edge. I see someone make a sudden move? I reach for a gun that luckily isn’t there. I can barely sleep, and when I do I still get those nightmares. Every f*****g time I close my eyes. Sometimes even when I’m not sleeping.”

He nodded, and then looked at me in this analytical way of his, a scientist looking at a germ through a microscope. “Ken, please answer my next question honestly.” When I nodded in response he asked, “Do you fear you’re going to hurt someone? Hurt yourself?”

Just then I flashed to an image of me sitting in my kitchen, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold half-empty beside me.

There was a .44 Bulldog in my hand.

I watch the scene from above, hovering over my past-self, a spirit watching over their shell. I see my knuckles pale from gripping the gun so tight. I watch on as I release the cylinder and empty all six chambers, hear the dull thuds as the rounds spill on to the table in front of me. I pick up one bullet, place it in an empty slot in the cylinder. My eyes rise, staring into the mirror, ashamed of my reflection. I spin the wheel and snap it closed with a flick of the wrist. I open it up and spin the wheel once more. I see my free hand reach for the bottle of Johnnie Gold as I thumb the hammer back, then I take a long, slow drink, embracing the burn. I set the bottle down, place the pistol to my right temple, the steel cold against my skin. Thinking about it even now, I can feel it. Then the images wash away to the next memory, an empty vision, a void, as I close my eyes and pull the trigger, putting my life in the hands of the Gods or destiny or luck or fate.

Click! I remember the tear glide down my cheek, not from what I had almost done, but from disappointment that I didn’t succeed.

That was fifteen days ago.

I shook my head, no, but averted my eyes from his unflinching scrutiny. I couldn’t lie to his face and he knew it. He paused for a moment, the silence long and pregnant as he decided if he would pursue the lie. Then his voice filled the air once more. “Okay. The flashbacks. All flashbacks from the war? Iraq? Afghanistan?”

“Yeah,” I said, grateful for the change of subject. “Both. But the dreams are different now.” I shrugged. “They change at random.” I scratched my head and flakes of dandruff fell like snow. “It will be the same one for a few weeks, then suddenly change to another. Could be a week, could be two or three or a month, but it always changes. But they are always so real.” I lower my eyes, and, my voice low, I mutter, “Because they were real.”

The doctor paused for a moment, taking in all that I said. Eventually he asked, “Can you explain how they’re changing? How is it different from what you told me over the last couple months?”

The doc seems to recall everything we’ve ever discussed, every detail since the day we’ve met, but I’ve never seen him takes notes. There are no visible recording devices, yet I’m convinced that every time I step in to this room I’m stepping into an Orwellian world. It’s either that, or he would be unbeatable at the game Memory. All I know for sure is that it makes me uneasy. I sneak a glance at the file cabinets tucked in the corner of the room, and remind myself to break into them one night to see what my file says. I’ve planned this same event once a week for the past year or so, but I had never gotten around to it. I was usually too drunk or high to move.

I realized I went off track, too deep into my felonious thoughts that I forgot his question. Oh yeah. How are your dreams changing? “Well… I don’t know, Doc,” I said. “It’s hard to explain.”

Actually, it wasn’t hard to explain. But I had to deal with it almost every night for the last few years, so it wasn’t exactly something I wanted to talk about. It wasn’t even something I wanted to think about. I would often consume a large amount of alcohol at night, mixing them with my Vicodin and Xanaxx prescriptions in a futile effort to have a dreamless sleep. I’ve spent many nights drinking until I’d blackout to avoid the nightmares, but even if I woke-up unable to remember the dream, I was often drenched in sweat as I awoke to my own voice, my own screams, crying out for help. So, yeah, this was the last thing I wanted to talk about. The last thing I could talk about.

Or could I?

“Sit back,” he said, sensing my reticence. His voice soft, soothing, he added, “Close your eyes. Let it come to you.”

I looked at him a moment, then closed my eyes. I half expected him to put on some background music, waves crashing or birds chirping or leaves rustling in the wind. But he didn’t. So I thought about it for just a moment, then, my voice low, raspy, the words simply came of their own volition: “I’m in this dirty room. Mud- brick walls, dirt floors with portions stained black with blood. A single light bulb sways on a wire above me. There’s a video camera on a tri-pod, and the little red dot on the bottom corner is flashing, so I know its recording. I’ve seen plenty of videos with similar men in similar rooms, so the fact that I know the cameras on seems�" at least to me�" to seal my fate.

“Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me. Several men, clearly. I hear their voices, and I catch some words spoken in a mix of Urdu and Pashto, so I figure I’m in or around Pakistan by this alone. I know enough of the language to hold a short conversation, but they speak too fast for me to understand.”

I hear the doctor’s clothing whisper and his chair squeak as he shifts closer in his seat. I realize this is the most he had ever gotten out of me. Warily, I continue, “The men swarm around me, one veering off behind the camera. They all have on black hoods, their faces covered, AK-47s strapped across their shoulders. All I can see is their dark, beady eyes. One steps towards me and, even though the guy is hooded, there’s something oddly familiar about him. Something in the walk. It’s… it’s like I know him from somewhere.

“Anyway, so this guy, he steps forward. I can’t see it, but I can sense a smile on his face. It was when I started thinking that that I first noticed what he was carrying. Not an AK, but a long, rusty machete. I look at the blade as he struts past. A glint of daylight that pierced through a crack in the wall reflected off the blade, and I can see that it’s warn and dirty and dull. The guy comes closer. So close I can feel his breath on my face. He bends down as if to say something, and… and…”

“Yes,” The doctor encouraged. “What did he say?”

“He pulls the mask up and… and, it was my ex-wife. She wants to know if I took out the trash. Said if I didn’t do it soon she’d cut off my manhood with the machete and feed it to her pet goat.”

I opened one eye. I couldn’t keep the smirk off of my face. Still, a piece of my mind recalled the actual events I just came so close to revealing, things I haven’t spoken or written about since the initial after-action report and debriefing a few years ago.

The doctor is red with anger. He is glaring at me. He is pissed. “This is serious! You’re wasting my time! I have patients who actually take this seriously. People I could be helping rather than sitting here and playing these children’s games with you.”

My cell phone chirped as he continued through his tirade. I dug it out from my pocket. The caller ID said “UNKNOWN”, but I answered, needing an excuse to ignore the lunatic sitting across from me. “Yeah?” I said into the phone, holding up my middle finger to the doctor, the universal gesture for saying “one moment please”. By the look on his face I might have mixed up which finger means what. I watched him shaking his head but I concentrated on the voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, I’m looking for a Mr. Simms, please?”

“Uh… Speaking. Who’s calling?”

“Kenneth Simms? Brother of Martin Simms?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Now can you tell me what this is all about?” A nervous flutter began in my chest at the formal way that Martin’s name was mentioned. The room temperature seemed to climb a few degrees. Even Dr. Phillips seemed to notice the sudden change in my demeanor, because he leaned forward, his face changing from an expression of anger to concern.

“This is Detective John McMurry, NYPD. Out of the Seventieth Precinct.”

I paused, hesitant to go forward. “Okay, Detective. What’s this all about?” My heart was in a vice, with each passing second clenching it tighter. I began to wonder if the detective could feel it pounding on the other end of the phone. The air became thick. I stood and began pacing, Dr. Phillips watching me intently.

“We would like to speak to you regarding one Martin Simms. You can come on down to the precinct or we can come out to your residence. Whichever you’d prefer.”

“What hap�" Seventieth precinct? Where’s that located?”

“That would be on Lawrence Avenue.” He must have taken my silence as geographical ignorance, because he then added, “In Brooklyn, sir.”

“Can you tell me what this is about, Detective? What’s going on?”

“Well,” he said, “I’d prefer to speak with you in person, sir.”

“Is Marty okay? Is he hurt?”

My question was met with silence; a silence that was an answer in itself. “Detective?” I asked, my tone growing loud with impatience. “Is Martin alright?”

There was a pause, and I was about to speak when the detective finally responded. “I’m afraid not, sir. We discovered your brother’s body this morning. I’m…I’m sorry for your loss.”

My world began to spin out of control at once. A kaleidoscope of images, mashed and unfocused, began to flash through my mind: Images of Marty and I as children, the two of us smiling, making the best of our turbulent situation in a household surrounded by abuse and degradation; a freeze frame of Marty and I, ages six and eight, watching in bewilderment as our mother walked out of the house with a single suitcase, never to return. No goodbyes, no looking back; I saw a mental recording of the years that followed, of the constant beatings we took from our alcoholic father because… well, just because.

The images began to come into focus as the memories progressed from the distant past to more recent occurrences. Marty and I grew further apart as we got older, our paths heading in very different directions. Arguments between us began in our mid-teens as Marty started getting himself into situations that caused us both trouble when I had to pull him out of them. He got into drugs; I enjoyed sports and working out. I graduated high school a few months early, and four days later, on my eighteenth birthday, I joined the Marine Corp; Marty dropped out the year I graduated, getting a job as a drug runner to support his expensive habits.

Once I left for training on Parris Island, Marty and I barely spoke. At first it was difficult for me, but I came home on leave and it was as though our troubles had evaporated in my absence. For the first week we were inseparable, but I was slowly reminded that it is easier to forgive than it is to forget. So as Marty’s problems grew worse, my feelings went from sympathetic to apathetic; from guilt and compassion to nothing at all, a chamber that once contained emotion, now empty, void.

Still, I found him a constant presence in my thoughts. He was, after all, my brother. But I began to feel that I had spent too much of my life being his keeper.

My thoughts drifted back and forth between our childhood and the last time we actually saw each other. The last time I saw him, the final time I would ever see him alive, Martin was in Nassau County Jail. He faced assault charges, a crime he committed out of loyalty to some “boss” of his. I sat across from him at a table in the visiting room, my eyes scanning his expressionless face for one iota of guilt or remorse. When my search came up empty, we had words; words that cut deep and heal slow, leaving a permanent scar on the heart. Afterward, he just stared at me, his eyes vacant, emotionless. Then he got up and left.

And now he’s gone, I thought. Forever.

“Mr. Simms? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” I said as the images of Marty slowly washed away. “You can send a car to my house. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

“Alright. That’s fine. I’ll be seeing you in about an hour or so.”

I told the detective my address and killed the call. Without a word to the Doctor, I left his office, my mind on nothing but Marty.

I stepped outside into the abnormally warm mid-October day. I walked in a trance-like state to my truck as a hard rain beginning to beat down in the street. Though I noticed it, I didn’t feel it as it soaked through my t-shirt and jeans. I made it to my truck and climbed inside, just sitting there for a moment, contemplating my surroundings, everything an image of Martin. I saw his reflection in the glass.

I couldn’t help but feel that I was somehow at fault. Perhaps if I had done something different, if I didn’t protect him as often when we were kids he would have learned his lesson; perhaps I should have protected him more.

But Martin was always a conundrum to those that loved him and knew him best. He was different, an intricate tapestry of blood and bone and tissue, and as close as we were as kids, we were never really alike. If I view my morals and principles as black and white, he saw life as nothing but shades of gray. I saw right and wrong as two distinct and separate entities, while he lived in an intentionally contumacious manner, with no feelings of contrition for those he hurt along the way to slow him down. He looked out solely for himself, yet he was his own worst enemy. Like I’m my own worst enemy now.

My thoughts shifted from Marty to the pills in my glove compartment. So I opened it up and reached in and pulled out two different prescription bottles. I opened one and then the other, pouring several Vicodins directly into my mouth, followed by a Xanaxx. The taste alone began to calm me.

I put the bottles back into the glove compartment, placed the key in the ignition and started up the Durango. But I didn’t move. I just sat there, motionless, the hard rain beating down on my trunk. I knew that it was going to be a long day, and a longer night.

And it proved to be much longer than I could have possibly expected.

#

Chapter Two

I pulled up in front of my house about twenty minutes later, having needlessly taken the long way back. I didn’t want to enter my home�" the home Marty and I had grown up in�" until the pills kicked in, taking the edge off. The condition of the house, unfortunately, did not improve since I had left it, and no amount of controlled-substances could change that.

The post-war split-level had been under construction for quite some time but, because I’m the one doing the construction, not much had been completed. It’s a work in progress. It just happens to be progressing far slower than I had originally planned. Pieces of siding drooped from its façade; shingles were loose or altogether missing from the roof. One of the second-floor windows was shattered, a sheet of plywood hanging awkwardly in its place. All of the windows and siding needed a wash as well, but, aside from that, it was a dream home; A dream home in which I got an incredible deal: In other words, I inherited it.

“Honey,” I yelled as I stepped inside, “I’m home.” I had lived alone for over a year at that point, so of course there was no response. Maybe the pills did more than just take the edge off.

I stripped off my sodden clothes in the foyer and tossed them in a corner with my sneakers, water immediately beginning to pool around them on the floor. I turned, my eye catching a glimpse of a photograph sitting on a small wooden table across from the closet. I tossed my keys into a little dish on the table and attempted to walk away, but it was as though my mind was unable to control my body. I impulsively lifted the picture frame off its perch and stared, a single tear gliding down my face.

The picture was of Marty and I together, both of us smiling naturally, just two brothers, happy to see each other for the first time in over a year. We had decided to go fishing on that warm afternoon in early September, and were rewarded by catching the largest bass we had ever hauled in our lives. I looked at the large fish splayed out in our hands and smiled. I realized it was the last photograph we had taken together, my smile vanishing when I realized it was the last photograph I would ever take with Marty.

Though we had our many differences, and through the countless arguments, I had never once wondered if we would put our past behind us, if we would eventually bury the hatchet and move on as brothers. I always knew that we would, that if we couldn’t forgive and forget, we would simply remember and let it go. But now Martin was dead. Reconciliation was no longer possible, the finality of death adding an exclamation point to the guilt I felt.

Even ten years after the photo was taken I remember the day as though I had just come back from the trip. I was nineteen at the time, Marty seventeen, and we were both dressed in t-shirts and jeans. I was in the best shape of my life at that point, my olive drab shirt sleeves hugging the muscles in my arms. Next to Marty I looked like Superman, my five-foot-eleven, muscular body exaggerated next to his scrawny, five-foot-seven frame.

The photo was taken on the first day of my first leave from the Corp, the first day of a blissful week spent together; one week spent talking about everything and anything and nothing. The week that followed was filled with arguments and verbal assaults, but I thought little about that as I gazed at the photo. I thought of the good times, and I thought of how and why our lives had gone wrong. Then I forced those unanswerable questions to the back of my mind, and I looked at my younger-self, at my brown hair shaved in the typical military sidewall, high-and-tight. I saw a few cuts and scratches on my face from the brutal training I had just endured. My eyes settled on the small facial scars, a purple and jagged line across my right eyebrow, and another embossed in the tan skin of my right cheek. They were barely discernible in the photo, but you could see them if you knew where to look.

Instinctively, holding the picture with my left hand, my right hand floated up to my face. I felt the indent of the scars, still noticeable after all these years. Small metal bits of shrapnel still surfaced on occasion, a constant reminder of the accidental explosion during the training exercise that put them there. I dropped my hand back to my side, my gaze never leaving the photo.

I stared at myself, my old self, into my bright, naïve brown eyes; eyes that had been full of life.

I set the picture back down and turned, facing the long mirrors on the closet. What I saw was nothing like the naïve kid I was just a few short years ago. Only ten years after that photo was taken and I could see many differences in my appearance. Though still in shape, the pills had decreased my appetite and motivation to exercise as often, leaving my once chiseled frame a little softer. Grey hairs began springing up almost daily on my head, which now held an unruly mop of hair that almost reached my eyebrows, the longest it had been since I was a kid. The brown eyes I had in the photograph, eyes that were once filled with joy and enthusiasm for life, were gone, now sullen with the knowledge and understanding of what my life was, what my life had been, and what it had become. I was looking at the shell of a man, the shell of a man who knew there is no God, or if there is, he had a real sick sense of humor.

I shook my head and walked away, sickened by my own reflection.

I walked into my kitchen, reached into a cabinet and pulled a glass down from the shelf. It was dusty, but I didn’t care. After unscrewing the cap off of a bottle of Jack Daniels, I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. After a moment’s hesitation, I hit the button, then continued to pour the JD as my messages played.

The Jack was half-way to the top of the glass when I heard my ex- wife’s voice on the machine. I tipped the bottle back over the glass. Good an excuse as any, I thought as I continued to pour, stopping only after the dark liquid began to overflow, spilling onto the cluttered counter-top.

“Ken, it’s me,” my ex, Lisa, began. “I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I… well, I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I don’t know why you haven’t called me back and I’m get�"�”

I hit the skip button, cutting her off mid-sentence. I didn’t want to hear any of her s**t at the time, which is the same reason I hadn’t called her back. I didn’t want to think that she was just concerned, or think that she still cared about me. The truth is I missed her, and I cared about her deeply. I just couldn’t have her see me like that. I was no longer the man she had met all those years ago, nor the man she married two years later. I was now beaten and battered and scarred, both physically and mentally.

I took a sip of the Jack and skipped the next two messages, one being from my bank (I was in debt, no surprises there, huh?), the other from an old friend, probably calling on Lisa’s behalf. I raised the glass to take another sip when the next message left me frozen.

“Kenny, I need to talk to you. I know… I know that we haven’t talked in a while, and I know it’s my fault, but it’s important that you call me back. I might… I might be in some trouble here, and… I need some help. Please call me back soon, all right? Um, okay.” There was a slight pause, and I thought the message was over, but his voice came back after a moment. “Kenny, if something happens to me, find Jenn... Uh, Jennifer Morrell. She’s my girl, and if they get her first, they’ll kill her. Please, Kenny. When you find her, go to that place we always used to go as kids. Look for two-twenty-two. And remember my birthday. Give her what you find. Okay. I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

Martin’s voice was haunting, his message injecting me with a fresh syringe of guilt. I looked at the glass in my hand and quickly drank it down in one gulp. I then set the glass back down next to the bottle, the infinite thoughts in my head running wild. I thought of Martin’s voice, the discomfort I heard, and I knew how difficult it had been for him to leave a message like that to me. We’ve always been a stubborn family, but he had reached out and asked me for help and I wasn’t there for him. At that moment I began to wonder what would have happened if I had answered the call when the phone rang that night. Would I have helped him? Would I have just hung up? I wasn’t sure at the time, but the truth is I was scared of the answer.

I poured more Jack Daniels into the glass until it reached the top. I raised the glass to my lips, the amber liquid slightly spilling down the side. F**k it. It’s been a hell of a day. Bottoms up!

#

About an hour and a third glass of Jack Daniels later, I could hear a faint knocking on my front door. My eyes snapped open, and reality set it once more.

I happened to be lying on my kitchen floor, so I grudgingly made a slow attempt to rise, grasping at random objects, hoping they could support my weight and assist me in the challenging endeavor most often referred to as “standing”. They couldn’t. The majority of the objects crashed to floor but, somehow, I made it to my feet. To say I was intoxicated was a severe understatement. I was obliterated. Maybe that’s why it warns “Do not mix with alcohol” on the pill bottles. I made a mental note to look into that later.

I staggered back into the foyer and fumbled with the locks on my door. When I finally managed to get the door open, two detectives stood at the threshold�" one male, one female �"sharing an umbrella in an unsuccessful attempt to battle Mother Nature.

“Puh… Please. Come in,” I slurred, jerking my thumb behind me. I probably looked like Elaine dancing in an episode of Seinfeld. You either get that, or you don’t.

They hesitated, staring at me, so I tried again. “Ossifer…Offy�" Detectives?”

The pair shared a look, shrugged simultaneously, and entered the house. I asked, or tried to ask, for their coats. “Can take yur… Pfff!”

The male detective raised a hand. “Excuse me,” he said. “Mr. Simms, correct?”

I scratched my head, then stuck my pointer finger in the air, and said, “Yesh!” I jabbed the finger into his prominent gut, told him, “I’m uh… uh. Ken Simms.”

“Would you mind putting some clothes on, sir?” The male detective asked. I will give him credit for the fact that he managed this request with a straight face.

More confused than embarrassed, I looked down to verify that I was, in fact, naked.

I most certainly was.

I quickly covered myself with my hands, my eyes glancing over to the soaked clothing piled on the floor. “I… Uh�"�”

“Cold in here?” the female detective mumbled, the corners of her mouth twitching upward, revealing a set of straight, white teeth. She brought her hand up to cover her mouth, concealing the smile, but could not hide the snickers.

“I’m uh… Sorry.” I turned and stumbled towards the stairs, heading for my room, and, if I could manage that feat, to put on some clothes in the process.

But first I had to make it up the steps.

Walking upstairs was… well, it was tricky. It was a test of will. Gravity tried to defeat me as I climbed the steps, my legs feeling as though they weighed a few hundred pounds apiece. Steps I was once certain had been solid and stationary seemed to shift positions when I’d attempt to place a foot on them. It was as though I had to find exactly the right spot on the step, and if I missed, the step would drop out from under me. I was beginning to feel as though I was stuck in an Indiana Jones flick or something. I expected poisonous darts to start flying out of the walls at any minute. To top it all off, my feet had apparently been quarreling amongst themselves, because they kept trying, successfully, to trip one another.

However, against all odds, I made it to my bedroom.

#

I awoke to the unpleasant view of an enormous Grizzly Bear standing over me. It’s face was a blur, but I could swear it was smiling at me. And then it spoke. “Too much to drink, have we?” The bear said.

I shook the cobwebs out of my brain, wondering how I had managed to pass out at the zoo, when the image of the bear was slowly replaced by the male detective, and hazy memories slowly came into focus. I mumbled, “What makes you say that?”

He laughed, a deep roar emanating from his belly. “Just a hunch.”

“Great,” I grunted, shaking the dull edges and cobwebs out of my head. “You’re a comedian.”

He put out a hand to help me up, which I took, noticing that I had once again passed out on the floor. At that point in my life I had been finding myself in that position quite often. Perhaps sleeping on the floor is a left over comfort from the war, or, more likely, my days of marriage. I decided to ask Dr. Phillips his opinion at my next appointment.

After I stood, he placed his hands on my shoulders so I could maintain my balance, but I quickly waved him off. “I’m good. I got it.” No sooner than the words escaped my mouth, I found myself lurching forward on a one way trip to the carpet.

He was ready though, and caught me immediately. He kept his arms locked onto my shoulders, this time for a moment longer, but I wasn’t as dizzy. I felt like I had been cracked in the head by a brick, but when I looked around the floor I didn’t see one. S**t.

He asked me, “You need something? What are you looking for?”

I sighed, rubbing my head. “Trying to find the brick.”

His forehead creased, eyes squinting. “Brick? What brick?”

I looked at him. “Never mind.”

He nodded in understanding. I think.

I began to check if I wet myself�" which is not unheard of when I drink�" but found my underwear clean, which had been easy to check due to the fact that my pants were wrapped around my ankles. Embarrassment swiftly setting in, I pulled my jeans up and tossed on a white t-shirt, and we headed back down to my living room.

I studied the detective as I followed him down the stairs, and I could see why I had confused him with a Grizzly. He was large in height and proportion, and I’d say he weighed closer to three-hundred pounds than two-hundred. He carried the weight well, but limped slightly, possibly the result of an on-the-job injury. He wore an old, wool suit, the color of manure (or a Grizzly Bear), the fabric faded at his lower back and elbows. He was a couple of inches taller than me, probably around six-foot-two, and I estimated him to be in his mid- to late- fifties. His hair was graying, which he wore like a mop-head, a salt and pepper mess covering his ears and just about reaching his eyes. He had a thick, unkempt beard, mostly gray, that could not conceal his droopy jowls. I could tell that his looks were not very high on his priority list, but I was certainly not in a position to judge.

Appearance aside, however, the guy seemed sharp, though it seemed to me that he attempted to conceal it with an airy, good-humored demeanor. But I could see him scanning everything in the hallways and each room as we walked by, taking it all in to store in his head for later use. He reminded me of the character Columbo from the old television show. I’d put money that there are plenty of people sitting in a cell this very minute that thought they would get over on this guy. Some still probably don’t know what hit them.

When we reached the bottom of the stairway I smelled coffee, and the scent was a welcome one. It appeared as though the detectives had made themselves at home while I was snoozing. The female detective was sitting on my couch playing with her iPhone, and sure enough there was a steaming mug of coffee on the table in front of her.

“I’m Detective McMurry,” he said, proffering a steaming mug that seemed to materialize out of thin air. “You looked like you could use a cup of joe, so I made some before I went to check on you. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” I told him en español. And I meant it. I truly didn’t mind. There was something immediately likable about McMurry. A people person, in some odd way.

“Sí, Señor,” McMurry said. “And this is my partner, Detective Masters.”

Detective Masters was the direct opposite of her partner. An extremely attractive woman in her early thirties, Masters carried herself as if she had seen and done it all, which, considering her line of work, she probably had. When her phone rang, she stood and walked to the kitchen before answering, and I saw that her movements were graceful, yet careful, as though worried that if she didn’t watch her step the ground could fall out from underneath her. She was dressed in a black pants suit, her hair coiffed in a bun that was a carefully orchestrated mess of shining brunette locks. She was about five-six, her heels adding a couple of inches to her slender frame. I nodded to the woman when she glanced at me, though she quickly looked at McMurry, that sarcastic smile once again appearing on her face. That smile was beginning to grow on me, and thankfully I had clothes on, because something else was beginning to grow on me as well. This may be inappropriate, but it’s true. When I tell a story, it is full disclosure. Sue me.

I glanced at my watch as I sat down and was shocked to see that I had been passed out upstairs for at least an hour. Seems the detectives took their time waking me. Probably had a nice look around, too. Not that I’d be able to notice if anyone tossed the place. The kitchen alone looked like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

McMurry and I sat for a few moments drinking our coffee in what was a surprisingly comfortable silence. As the time passed I felt myself sobering up. When Masters finally returned I decided to start the conversation. “Listen,” I said. “I apologize for... well, for whatever i did before. I’m not usually like that, but things… I mean, I was upset. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Its fine,” McMurry assured me, putting his hand up and shaking his head. “No apologies necessary. You were just given some devastating news.”

I nodded my thanks before asking, “Can you tell me what happened?”

McMurry gave a sad smile, and delivered the line I was expecting. “Due to the fact that it’s still an active investigation there are some things I have to leave out. But I’ll tell you what I can.”

I nodded my understanding, and McMurry continued. “Okay. First, a couple questions,” he said. “When was the last time you saw your brother?”

I looked to the floor, scratching the stubble on my chin. “It’s been a while since I saw Marty. A long time since I even spoke to him. Last time I saw him had to be… uh, I’d say it’s been over two years. Last time I spoke with him… probably three, four months ago.” I didn’t mention the message on my answering machine. I realized that there was a chance they had listened to it while I was passed out upstairs, but I decided to hear everything they had to say before I disclosed any information.

“Okay,” McMurry said, suddenly deep in thought. He began drumming his fingers across his knee. Detective Masters’ eyes had never left me. She was watching me up and down, most likely utilizing a tactic used during interviews to determine if someone is telling falsities. Well, it was either that or I was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

After a moment McMurry said, “Listen, I read your military file. So I know you had some training in investigation, that you had to attend the Joint U-S Marine and Army Military Police School for a few months. The only other thing I want to ask is if you think you know anything that can help us with this investigation? Anything at all, no matter how minor it may seem.”

Masters seemed surprised at the question. Her eyes briefly floated to McMurry, who simply gave a sly smile as his eyes met mine. I began to think that they had heard the message, but decided I still wasn’t going to tell them. I wanted them to admit they had already listened. At that point, I could claim I was a drunken mess and had forgotten about it. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I wish I did. But, like I said, I haven’t seen or spoke to him in a long time. We haven’t been involved in each other’s lives for a while.”

“So you have no idea who could have done this?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m sure Martin had made plenty of enemies over the years. But we never openly spoke about those things.”

“Okay,” McMurry said. He paused and began to tap his fingers on his knee once more. The tapping stopped after a beat and he added, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Martin had been in communication with a colleague of mine. This colleague, a detective, informed us of the situation, and was set to meet Martin two nights ago. Your brother refused to meet anyone but him. He said he had some very important information he had to discuss, and this colleague agreed. Martin didn’t show up to that meeting, but now we all know why.”

I got up and filled my coffee cup again. When I returned, I said, “That surprises me.”

His eyes squinted slightly. “Why’s that?”

“Martin, even as kids, refused to rat on anybody he was involved with. Even if it landed him in a cell. I’m just surprised that he would be in touch with anybody that has a badge.”

“Understood,” he said, nodding. “Actually, from my understanding, this detective was surprised as well. Your brother calls out of the blue, seemed set on relaying this information, even after he was told that he has outstanding warrants and would have to be brought in after their meeting.”

I froze with the coffee mug mid-way to my lips. “Martin had warrants? Still? He just got out of prison… what? A year ago?”

“Yeah. He violated his parole at the end of last month. Spent a night in jail, and was released before they realized he was on parole. They let him go, gave him a court date, which he didn’t show up to. He ran. It’s actually a pretty common thing. It’s is fairly uncommon, however, to reach out to a detective�" a detective that had nothing to do with his case�" while on the run, unless you want to turn yourself in. This information, whatever it was, must have been very important to your brother to make him do that.” He paused for a moment, added, “Or he was convinced it was big enough to get him off the hook for the warrant.”

I looked down a moment, scratching at the stubble on my chin, my mind going over what little information I had. I had so many thoughts, so many questions running through my mind that I didn’t know where to begin. One question leapt to the surface, and I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it earlier. Looking up, I asked, “Who bailed him out of jail?”

The detective seemed to be confused about the sudden change of topic. “Uh, his girlfriend,” he responded. “We’re still trying to track her down.” He stopped, looked up at me. “You happen to know where she is?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend.” I looked up, met his eyes. “You think she had anything to do with it?”

“No. I really don’t think so. But I have a feeling she knows more than us.”

I sat for a moment, wondering about this woman. Jennifer Morrell, the name from the message replaying in my mind. I briefly wondered who she was, where she was, but then I let it go. McMurry seemed competent enough. He would handle it.

“So, about him talking to this detective,” I said. “You have no idea what he wanted to say to him?”

McMurry looked at me, his gaze like lasers attempting to look through me. “No, but if we can find this information I’m sure it will point us straight to the person or persons responsible.”

I nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.” I paused a beat, thinking. Then, I asked, “You said this cop he talked to had nothing to do with his case?”

McMurry shook his head. “No, he didn’t even know who Martin Simms was.”

“Well, what kind of detective is he? I mean, what is he working? What kind of cases?”

Masters and McMurry shared surprised look. Masters shrugged as if to say “Go ahead”, and McMurry said, “He’s working Internet Crimes now, but we believe that Martin got the name because he used to work on the OC Task Force. He had a reputation over there, big enough that all the major players in the mob knew his name. We know that Martin had some affiliation with certain parties in Organized Crime that I can’t discuss, but that’s why we believe he reached out to this particular detective.”

I nodded, letting that sink in. It made sense, and I knew that McMurry was right. I didn’t know much about what Martin did, but I remember certain things he had said that led me to believe he was somehow involved with one of the families of the New York Mafia. I didn’t believe him at the time, thinking that he was making himself out to be more important than he really was. Apparently, though, he was telling the truth. And it got him killed.

We all sipped our coffee in silence, my eyes flickering between the two detectives while both of them stared at me appraisingly. Eventually, I asked, “What can you tell me about his death? How did it happen?”

McMurry and Masters shared a look, and Masters shuffled uncomfortably in her seat as McMurry, slowly, hesitantly, turned back to me. “Well, we expedited the autopsy, though the cause of death was quite clear. Time of death was estimated between eight A-M and noon three days ago, and�"”

I cut him off, “What was the cause of death?”

The detective cleared his throat, his discomfort growing. Detective Masters looked away from me.

“Detective?” I asked, my head moving back and forth between the pair.

“It was first brought to our attention by an officer on patrol. A body was discovered in a parked car in an alley three blocks from Martins apartment building. We responded, only to discover that the body had been… mutilated.” He shifted, unnecessarily adjusting his tie . “He was… he had been decapitated.”

“What? He was decapitated?”

I began picturing Marty as a child, in a parked car, his head missing. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind.

“This all happened yesterday, in the very early hours of the day. His body was in the seat, head nowhere in sight. There was no identification on the body, the car was rented with a bogus name�"”

“What?” I raised my voice, running out of patience. “Did you find his god-damned head?”

He continued calmly as though he hadn’t heard me. “The hands and feet had also been removed from the body, so a fingerprint identification was obviously out. Then, this morning, the�" his head was found at… found on our precincts steps.”

I was frozen, stuck from the image of my brother’s head having been removed, from visualizing the process of the decapitation, from my thoughts, from wondering whether Marty had felt any pain when it happened. I began to think I hadn’t heard him right. “Excuse me? What was that last part?”

“Somebody left it for us,” McMurry repeated. “His head, on our precinct steps. There were several small caliber bullet wounds to his body, all of which were determined to have been inflicted before the mutilation occurred. So he was dead before they did anything else.” He finished his coffee before continuing. “We also discovered that his tongue was cut out, as well as his eyes. His… his penis, too, which was found in his mouth, along with his driver’s license.”

“Christ,” I said, my head bowed. “Marty.”

I couldn’t keep the image of what had just been described to me out of my mind. A spike of adrenaline coursed through me, a sudden anger overriding the sadness. I stood as my eyes filled, walked over toward the old, wooden china cabinet in the corner of the room. I caught a double reflection of myself in the glass and the mirror beyond it, saw myself for what I had become. My rage bubbled over and I lashed out, a straight and powerful right jab that shattered the glass of the cabinet itself, continuing on through a plate sitting inside, my fist stopping only after cracking the mirror and coming to rest when it met the solid oak behind it.

“Whoa. Calm down, Mr. Simms,” McMurry said, heading toward me. He moved slowly, his arms up in a non-threatening posture. “I’m sorry. I said too much, more than I should have.”

Blood gushed out of my hand, which I raised, causing a river of crimson to run down my arm. A stunned Masters seemed unsure of what to do, while McMurry calmly removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket. I shook my head as I took a deep, calming breath, and then removed my shirt, which I proceeded to wrap around my hand. “It’s okay. I’m good,” I said softly. “Thanks.”

But it wasn’t okay. It was far from okay. I closed my eyes as the facts really began to set in, thinking of the brutality that Martin�"

“One more thing, Mr. Simms.” This came from Masters, interrupting my thoughts.

I just looked at her, waiting.

“The detective he was in touch with? His name is Detective Fisher. His business card was also found in his mouth.”

My stomach was bubbling. My head swam. Suddenly dizzy, I thought I was going to be sick. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, my left hand squeezing the blood-soaked shirt that was wrapped around my right. In the darkness I saw only Marty.

“He left a message on my answering machine,” I blurted out. The pair shared a look as I went on.”It was from a few nights ago, I guess. It didn’t say a time or date.” I lowered my head into my hands and began to rub my eyes with my free hand. “He was asking me for help, but I’ve been too fucked up to help anyone.” I began to feel the tears wet my fingers, and I felt the need to explain. “I turned all the ringers off on my phones so the machine gets them. It’s gotten… things have gotten to the point that most people don’t call anymore.”

“Mr. Simms,” Detective Masters said. “Did he tell you anything that could help us? Did he give you a hint at who was out to get him or why?”

“No,” I snapped. “Don’t you think I would have told you if he did!” I took a moment to calm down, the silence unsettling. “I’m sorry. I�" He didn’t say anything really. He just apologized and asked for help.” I shook my head, confused. “It was all pretty vague.”

I closed my eyes again as a tear fell down my cheek. I was breaking down from the inside out. It was as though I could feel the fissures spreading inside me, and in any moment I would shatter. I had thought I could handle these details, but I was wrong. I had seen a lot of death over the years, had seen many gruesome things, but picturing my brother the way that was just described… I needed a drink.

“Is that all detectives?” I asked, standing as I did.

“Yes, sir,” McMurry said, nodding to Masters. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

I nodded. I’m sure he was sorry. But being sorry wouldn’t bring Martin back. Sorry wouldn’t fix my mistakes, my failures. Sorry meant nothing to me.

They both rose and followed me to the door. Masters continued out to the car, McMurry just a few steps behind. I had my good hand on the front door and was about to close it when McMurry turned around. “One more thing,” he said.

I looked at him, waiting.

“Like I said earlier, I read your military file. I know some of your background. I read everything I could about you before and during the drive over. And the fact that the majority of the stuff is either classified or redacted tells me a lot as well.”

I stared at him blankly, unsure of what he was getting at.

“I want your assurance that you’ll stay out of this,” he said. “I promise you that we are doing everything we can to solve this case.”

I nodded, finally understanding where he was going. “I’m not getting into this,” I assured him. “Look at me. I’m a f*****g mess.”

His gaze unwavering, he stared at my eyes. After a moment he seemed satisfied, nodded. “Okay. If you remember anything, or find anything that may be useful to me, give me a call.” He handed me a card with his information on it.

“Sure,” I said.

We shook hands and he walked out into the now clear blue sky. After a few steps he turned back. “And get that hand looked at,” he said. “It might need some stitches.”

I nodded, then closed the door without another word. The lock clicked shut, and I leaned against the door with a groan.

I told the detective I wasn’t going to get involved, and I meant it. It hurt me deep inside to know that I meant it, because I don’t break promises. But by not getting involved I was breaking the first promise of my life, a promise that was made as kids, a promise made by brothers that we would always have each other’s back, no matter what. It was a promise that I had always kept. Until that moment.

My decision not to get involved felt like I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. But what could I do? I was a f*****g mess. The only thing I could successfully investigate was how many pills and drinks I could have before I passed out. What’s more, I felt responsible for his death, and the pain of that feeling was overwhelming. To escape that feeling I drank and popped pills, and then drank some more. But it only made the pain increase, run deeper. It’s the fact that I know I could have prevented this. His death was my fault. He had asked for my help, and I wasn’t there to give it.

Drunk and high, I stumbled into the kitchen and checked the answering machine again, just wanting to hear the sound of his voice. When I stepped closer, I noticed the machine was lying upside down on the floor. Apparently I must have pulled its cord while I was trying to stand up upon the detective’s arrival, and had knocked it off the counter. I realized then that the detectives probably didn’t listen to the message, and I suddenly remembered something odd, something that didn’t make sense in the message when I heard it the first time. I placed the answering machine back on the counter and pressed play.

But the only message on the machine was from a bill collector. I realized the tape must have re-winded when it hit the floor, and the next caller that left a message�" the bill collector �"had taped over the previous messages. I was a little upset about it, still curious about what Marty had asked me to do, but I let it go for the moment. At least the detectives hadn’t heard it.

I went upstairs to get some rest, thinking about what Marty had said. I tried to remember what he was saying about a place we went to as kids, but I couldn’t think of where he was talking about. I wondered if I put the cassette from the machine in an old tape player, would the message be there? Then I tired to figure out where I had an old cassette player. The more I thought about it, the more tired I got. My last conscious thought was, why had the detectives not asked to hear the message? But then I drifted off to sleep, off to my nightmares.

And when I awoke, it was to another kind of nightmare.

Author's Note

Again, this work is copy written. I have received a couple rejections already, which is obviously expected. Feel Free to give your opinion.