18.

18.
    That night, he went alone. He’d promised Garrett to accompany him to the house of a sexual predator, but there was another matter which hung like a millstone around his neck. It had always been at the back of his mind, but out of pride’s sake he’d fought it -- until now. He was no immortal being; he could bow to the powers of vanity every now and then. No, this wasn’t vanity. It was a real, a tangible threat that needed taken care of, just like every other crooked man. No evil heart would be left unpunished. Garrett could look after himself tonight -- this was more important.
    Amphion wanted to make this trip special. He would exercise his own method, under his own discretion. Latex gloves and a riffle, silencer locked in place. The address was not one he’d gotten from Garrett -- this was his own doing. He had requested it two years ago when violence was but a daydream, and the address had never left him.
    From inside the apartment building, music blared and voices raised in reckless debauchery. No one heard him as he slipped inside, picked the lock on apartment 14 the way Garrett had shown him, and entered.
    Inside, the living room was plastered with flashing blue light. Dustin Hobbins, a man in his early fifties, slouched in front of a television set in only his boxers, over which bulged a firm, round belly. His cheeks were loosely draped about his chin; his skin was dull and sunken. Yellow-green crust gathered in the wells of his eyes.
    Hobbins sluggishly lifted his chin, and for a moment Amphion thought the man was looking straight past him, into the hallway.
    “The hell do you want?” growled Hobbins.
    Amphion shut the door behind him, padded softly over to the television set, and cranked the volume up as high as it would go. There was nothing between himself and the man now but thin air -- air and the barrel of a riffle.
    At the weapon Hobbins gazed, jowls slack. What a stupid man! thought Amphion. Couldn’t he see that his life’s wick was about to be cut short?
    “Do you recognize me?” Amphion asked.
    “How am I supposed to know?”
    Ch-chh. Amphion pumped the riffle’s action and felt a bullet lock in place. On Hobbins’s head, he levelled the barrel. He was calm, almost stoic -- he way always controlled, especially at times like this, when he was this close to the thing he wanted. Electricity tingled in his fingers.
    “You’re the reason I became a police officer,” said Amphion. “Don’t you remember? Ten years ago, you mugged a man, took everything from him, then put a knife in his gut and left him to die in the middle of the sidewalk. That was me.”
    “You’re going to wake my wife up, dipshit.”
    “They caught you, though, and put you on trial -- do you remember that? You entered into a plea bargain and were handed a two year sentence. Got out on bail in one. Can’t you remember it? And I’ve been working these past ten years and its felt like I haven’t moved an inch. Want to know why? Because of pricks like you. You get away with murder and we get to hold you by the hand, tell you its not your fault, and then rehabilitate you. As if crime’s some kind of drug, some disease, and it’s curable. It’s not! I see the same people every damn day -- they’re in prison for one season and out in another, and it never stops.
    “I’m the first to see how it all runs out , and actually do something about it. See? Sin’s a disease, but not one we can cure. We can only contain it. I contain it. I cut off the root before it spreads. Reduce it to a simmering, hapless rash and then all it takes is a scalpel. Fine. I’ll leave that to the rest of the saved world, but leave Dustin Hobbins to me.”
    Hobbins trembled, but his eyes remained locked on Amphion’s, defiant and outraged. “Look, buddy, you don’t need to justify yourself to me.”
    On the trigger, his finger tightened. Inside, he recoiled a little, as if he’d taken a hit. “No, you’re right!  I don’t have to justify my means to anyone. There’s the absolutes of good and evil, Mr. Hobbins. What I cannot justify is allowing evil to smirk and fool the world.”
    “Remind me to never become a cop, bud. Seems to me like you’ve got one on your shoulder.”
    His hands shivered, and he felt the sinews in his chest draw tight. “You bled me out,” said Amphion. He recalled the feeling of icy cement beneath his cheek, and the pain that burned up inside his gut, and wanted to add, “And bitterer things bled in.”
    Taking Hobbins’s hand, he wrapped the man’s index finger around the trigger of the gun and pointed the barrel at his head. Sweat streaked Hobbins’s face, and gathered in his collar.
    “Pull it,” said Amphion. “Or I’ll pull it for you -- or better yet, shoot your balls off. How do you feel about that one?”
    “Damn you!” Hobbins spat.
    The riffle issued a crack. Blood splattered the wall behind Hobbins’s head. Even with the silencer and the noise of the television and the party downstairs, the sound was loud enough -- he could hear footsteps outside, headed for him. He left the riffle in Hobbins’s lap, finger still wrapped around the trigger. In the end, the man had chosen to end his own life -- so be it. There would be little evidence now pointing in his direction.
    Amphion threw open the living room window and flung his body outside. He grabbed hold of the fire escape railing, hauled himself up and onto the platform, then half-ran and half-leaped down the stairs and into night’s shadow.
    Once he was far away and the sweat had time to cool on his face, he rested at the pier, eyes trained on thick fog which suspended like a curtain over the water. He could smell salt and rot and bird droppings, altogether a warm, pungent scent which reminded him of spending summer on the beach with Rachel. Wind swept over the waves, roaring like the sound of a vacuum in his ears. He was surprised to find that he felt completely hollow -- he’d expected some form of victory, but found none.
***
    Once again, like an animal cognizant of its disobedience, Amphion made his way to Old Seattle. All around him, he felt benighted shapes press -- his hand rested on the stock of his pistol, even when he came into sight of the garish, bleached office building where Garrett kept his encampment.
    There he was approached by a black man with a lantern, who, in broken English, introduced himself as Casper, an associate of Garrett’s. He agreed to follow the man, but did not relinquish his grip on the pistol. There was no trusting anyone this neighbourhood.
    Amphion was led through a back door and down a narrow corridor which opened up into what had once been a landing. The metal stairs were scorched and twisted in a violent manner, like something found in an abstract painting. Three couches, no doubt salvaged from the Rectory, lined the landing’s walls. Garrett was sprawled on one, his body draped in a cloak. It was only then that Amphion realized how much weight the boy had lost -- his clothing seemed to swallow him up.
    Over Garrett hovered a young woman whom he recognized as the Russian prostitute who’d approached them the night they took out Abel Richards. Her blond hair was coiled around her head like a halo of gold. The planes of her face were sharply slanted, the bridge of her nose pinched and narrow. On a whole her face was an economy of lines and curves, using as few of them as possible.
    “Who’s the redhead?” asked the girl.
    “Friend of Garrett,“ replied Casper. He turned to Amphion and said, “Garrett been sick lately. My wife ‘Nita fix him up good.”
    The girl rose and extended a hand. “Anita Trotsky,” she said. “Casper is my husband. His English is still a little rough -- he came over from Kenya two years ago, and Garrett and I have been teaching him.”
    “And you must have come over on the aircraft carriers after the Minute War, I’m guessing? Your English is very good, by the way.”
    Anita nodded and grinned. “Yes. We call them the death ships. Many were sick or injured -- a limb missing here, a burn there -- and died on the way. It was a cruel blow by you Americans -- the people of U.S.S.R. didn’t stand of a chance.”
     “Now I have to disagree with that!”
    “It’s only called the Minute War because it took a minute to end!” exclaimed Anita, a smirk upon her face.
    “Actually,” said Amphion, turning red at the ears, “it’s called the Minute War because it was the only time in history when the doomsday clock was a minute from midnight.”
    Anita snorted. “Of course that’s exactly how the Americans would like to see it!” To Casper, she made a hand signal and pointed at Garrett. He nodded and left the room. “But thank you anyways for your compliment,” continued Anita. “Though, even after years in this country, an accent is hard to disguise. You’ve probably realized it -- you’re British, correct?”
    The color of Amphion’s ears deepened. “Impressive!” he exclaimed.
    Casper returned with a cup of water. With Anita’s help, he propped Garrett up and made him sit. The boy’s eyes suddenly snapped open and locked on Amphion.
    “You!” he cried as he struggled to his feet. “Where were you tonight?! That son-of-a-gun gave me more trouble than he’s worth.”
    All at once, Amphion noticed a dark, spreading patch in the sleeve of Garrett’s sweater. Anita, on the other hand, beat him too the chase when she remarked, “Looks like that son-of-a-gun decided to leave you with a mark of his own, too.”
    Bug-eyed, Garrett turned and saw Anita. His black makeup, which had been smeared all down the length of his cheek, made the whites of his eyes seem colorless and rounder than they ought to be. “Well. I’m just surrounded by enemies tonight, aren’t I?”
    “You be bleedin’ bad, Garrett,” said Casper. “‘Nita fix you up.”
    “Oh, hell no!” squawked Garrett. Amphion noticed his sudden change in body language -- the boy had shifted, bending as far as possible from Anita.
    “What’ve you got against this young woman?” he asked.
    “It’s none of your business, Love.”
    A wicked grin tugged at the corners of Anita’s lips. “It could be because I married Casper, or because I work as a prostitute. Either way, it definitely has something to do with the fact that I was madly in love with him once. Right, Garrett?”
    “Shut up!”
    “What do you get so riled up over when it comes to prostitution, Garrett?” asked Amphion, remembering the boy’s reaction at the brothel.
    “Sex kills you,” Garrett growled.
    “He’s paranoid,” Anita joked.
    “Don’t let her touch you. She’s filthy.”
    “I’m clean as a whistle, idiot!”
    “Shut up!” The aggression in Garrett’s voice rose. “That’s what they all told Bess too. The guy didn’t have a vice to account for, but he’d flesh for a drug. They made him sick, those Abaddon w****s!”    
    “Who’s Bess?” asked Amphion.
    The landing grew quiet. Garrett clasped his fingers together and flexed them, the heels of his palms pointed outwards. “Bess was a friend”, he said, “who took care of me when I was a kid. Caught the AIDS and dropped dead, just like a fly.”
    “They lay him out in potta’s field,” Casper solemnly added.
    Anita folded her arms. “And how exactly is it my fault if Bess slept around and didn’t know how to look after himself?”
    Amphion sunk into the couch. The tension in the air was building -- he found himself caught in the middle of a discussion he wished to have no part in. He turned his mind inward, on thoughts of chaste delights.
    “You’re spreading filth.”
    “A person’s got to live somehow, Garrett. At least my job leaves me with my humanity.”
    “I’ve got plenty o’ humanity.”
    “There’s only so many throats to slit before you quit hearing them scream. How many throats have you cut?”
    “Hey now,” Amphion jumped in. “You look here! Garrett’s not some chump who kills for sport. The boy has values -- he’s helping me give this city the clean-up it deserves.”
    Anita blinked dumbly at him, as if he’d spoken complete nonsense. A sinking feeling settle in the pit of Amphion’s stomach. “He didn’t tell you?” she muttered.
    “Tell me what?”
    “How’s ‘bout a cigarette first, Mr. Oswald?”
    Grateful, Amphion took a cigarette from the pack Anita offered him and stuck it between his lips. “Thank you.” The girl offered him a light. “You’re swell! See, Garrett? She’s a perfect lady.”
    “This isn’t your business, Anita!” Garrett roared.
    Anita rolled her eyes. “This idiot’s nothing but a puppet. The mob hires him out to take care of troublesome people.”
    “Of course they do! How else do you expect me to get the names and addresses of the real baddies?”
    “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” muttered Anita, dumbstruck. “You’re always chasing these crazy ideas of yours like -- like a goddamn zealot! And the moment one of us tries to contradict you, we get snapped at! Talk to me about purity, will you? Your body’s no temple; hell, everything about you is a fortress!”
    It was Casper who jumped into the ring to separate the two. Garrett took a weak spell and was forced to lie down again, while Anita perched silently by his feet. With a tenderness reserved for mothers and lovers, she rolled up Garrett’s sleeve and began to clean the wound with the cup of water Casper had brought.
    Amphion watched all this transpire, but it was as if  a needle had pierced him right between the shoulders, pumping out a numbing elixir that spread to every extremity of his body. Collapsed on the couch, Garrett seemed childish to him. His lips were drawn in a pout, dark eyes glassy. Amphion shook the image from his mind and stood erect.
    “Well, come on!” he said. “Will someone tell me what’s going on here?”
    Arms shaky, Garrett pushed Anita away and sat. He glared directly into Amphion’s eyes, and all traces of the sickly child disappeared. “I’ve got my dignity,” he spat. “That’s something. That’s more than most people can claim. I want the wicked to suffer, alright -- don’t look at me that way. You might play the righteous man but to me you smell like s**t -- but I ain’t crawling on my knees for it -- not me, no sir. If I have to work to get the information I need, then I’ll work!”
    Though Amphion was not wearing his uniform, faced down by Garrett he maintained all the trappings of formality a shirt and badge would have afforded him. He needed no outfit -- his face was his uniform, calm and homogenous. Any ripples it produced were absorbed into the jaded oceans of his eyes.
    “Who did you kill, Garrett?”
    “What, you want names now? I can sit here, if you want, and give you the name of every jughead I’ve ever stuck.”
    Anita rose to her feet. “Don’t you boys wait up too late. I need to grab some bandages from upstairs -- I’ll be back.”
    After Anita left, Casper followed, saying, “I need to check on them children.”
    Alone with Garrett, Amphion felt strange. Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the wound on the boy’s arm, which had darkened and crusted at the edges. Some blood still seeped, through, oozing slowly forth from his body.
    “I’ve never taken off anyone important,” said Garrett. “Not anyone you’d care about, at least. Common thugs. Money launderers. Some second-rate scuzzballs who owe a bit of cash.”
    “You asked me to come by so we could talk about the NSPD,” Amphion interrupted, voice monotone. The outrage which pressed against the interior of his skull did not even touch his face; he liked to believe he was a mountain.
    “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
    “It’s not my soul you’re selling, Garrett.”
    “Damn it!” Garrett cried. “Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Everyone thinks I’m wrong! But they’re not going to say a word of it to my face -- oh no! -- you’re all going to come to the parade and watch them bleed me out like a suckling pig, aren’t you?! I’m going to go out tomorrow morning and the NSPD’s gonna be squat on my doorstep, and they’ll pour every bullet they’ve got straight into my brain, and you’ll laugh and you’ll laugh ‘til you’re bursting in the gut, because that fool Garrett is such a riot!”
    To Amphion’s alarm, Garrett sprang to his feet and began to swagger down the corridor as he hummed to himself. “I’m coming!”  he sang. “Don’t shoot!”
    He was halfway to the exit before Amphion tackled him to the ground. He thought he had the boy, but as they  fell Garrett hooked him beneath the armpit, keeled forward, and flipped him over his shoulder.
    With a thud, Amphion landed on his back. Before he had time to recover from the shock, Garrett’s knees were planted in his chest, his fist pointed and level with Amphion’s nose.  Adrenaline was racing through his body by then, piercing like hot needles into the sides of his cheeks.
    “Go on!” he growled. “Hit me!”
    “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You sick, masochistic -- .”
    A set of arms wrapped around Garrett’s shoulders. Anita had returned, a roll of gauze in her hands. “When are you going to grow up, Garrett?” she asked. “Here. You’re going to make it worse.”
    “Don’t touch me!” hissed Garrett. He snatched the gauze from Anita and scampered off to the landing, where he proceeded to dress his wound on his own.
    Amphion lay on his back, blinking dumbly at the young woman who hovered over him. She wore a forlorn expression that seemed too familiar to possibly be real.
    “You had better go now,” said Anita.
    With a sense of wounded pride, Amphion slowly rose from the floor. His knees cracked beneath the weight of his body, and a dull pain crept up and down the contours of his back.
    He left the compound without saying goodbye.