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Send to Friend"Guys like that loitering around can really drive business away," Higgins commented as he jotted what Bart had told him on his notepad.
"Yeah, no shit," agreed Bart, laughing grimly.
"Well, he's one sick son of a bitch, that's for sure," Higgins went on.
"Got that right," called one of the officers from behind Higgons, now coming into the dining area. It was Jasper. "Shoulda seen what he did to Henderson."
"What about Henderson?" asked Bart, unsure he even wanted to know.
"The guy we sent before to get the street-preachin' bum," Jasper answered, "we just found him dead by the next building over. Your street preacher buddy seriously messed him up bad."
"Oh Jesus," Bart whimpered as he buried his face in his hands, on the verge of crying now and fighting to stave off the urge. He could feel the sobs building up in his throat now, and the tears forming in his eyes. "I don't believe this..."
"Yo, Mister Dawson," someone else called; it sounded like Clarence, the police sketch artist. "Is this the guy we're lookin' for?" Bart looked up, wiping the tears from his eyes and looked at the sketch that Clarence held before him.
Bart nodded. "Yeah...that's the one," he answered. It was a near perfect rendition.
"Any idea what his name might be?" Higgins asked.
Bart shook his head. "No...not a fucking clue."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure," Bart snapped. "I don't know who the fuck he is, and I don't have a fucking clue what he wants with me. He's nothing but a goddamn psychopath and I wish I never fucking met him!" He was screaming now, tears streaming down his face. "I wish he were dead, okay? I hate him and wish to God—if He even exists at all—that HE WAS NEVER EVEN FUCKING BORN!"
"Mister Dawson..."
"I've already told you everything I know," he muttered bitterly, quelling his rage. "I'm sorry about the outburst. If I had any further information, I would give it to you in a second. But I don't, and I'm sorry, but I can be of no further help." And with that said, he turned and walked away, feeling the tears welling in his eyes all over again.
* * *
He saw Kathy standing outside, by the curb, and hurried toward her, ducking under the police CRIME SCENE, DO NOT ENTER yellow tape cordoning off the entire building. A crowd had gathered around the building, mostly gawkers satisfying their own morbid curiosity, unable to resist the opportunity to see a real live crime scene, perhaps one of murder with their very own eyes. Bart mostly ignored these people, pushing them aside absently, saying "Excuse me," every once in a while, until he found Kathy, standing by the lamppost, her head lowered sorrowfully, her face smudged from the tracks the tears left behind. She didn't appear that she would stop crying anytime soon, either. Seeing her this way broke his heart.
"Are you okay?" he asked timidly.
"No," she moaned sullenly. "Do I look okay?"
Bart opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it once more, not knowing what to say in response. So he just stood and watched stupidly as she continued to cry, sobbing, sniffing, then pulled a Kleenex from her purse and blew her nose. He wanted to put his arm around her, console her somehow, but was afraid for some reason.
"I'm really sorry for what happened to your uncle."
"Good. You should be," she muttered between sobs. "It's your fault he's dead, you know." She looked up, and the piercing gaze she had on Bart made him flinch back a couple of steps as she continued to spew more vitriol against him. "Maybe if you'd called the police earlier...a lot earlier, none of this would've happened. Maybe they might've gotten the bastard off the street weeks ago, and he wouldn't have been able to murder my uncle now! Did you ever think of that, Bart, huh? Did you ever think of that?" And fresh tears spilled down her face as she yelled at him, venomous spittle flying from her lips. "DID YOU EVER FUCKING THINK OF THAT?"
Bart felt deeply wounded by what she had just said. Perhaps mostly because in some way he knew it to be true. Had he just called the cops to try and put a restraining order on the Street Preacher, the Preacher might not have been able to murder Gino now. Then he thought of what he had said to Gino several hours before: People like that do what they do out of the inane belief that they're following God's plan; and they won't let anything get in the way, let alone man-made laws. And he knew that short from killing him or detaining him somewhere, there wasn't much he could do to stop someone as relentless as the Street Preacher. And he thought of what Jasper had said just five minutes earlier: The guy we sent before to get the street-preaching bum—we just found him dead by the next building over. Your street preacher buddy seriously messed him up bad.
"The officer they sent to take care of the Street Preacher earlier," Bart said, unsure that he should inform her of this fact, "he's dead."
"What?"
"The Street Preacher killed him somehow, I think," Bart repeated. "I don't know how, but—"
"You mean—" she stopped, unable to, or unwilling to complete the thought. Bart was unsure which one it had been, but supposed it didn't matter. "Oh God..." She ran to Bart and pressed her face against his chest, clutching him tightly, and he embraced her, caressing her back for comfort and unaware that he had started weeping himself.
* * *
It's your fault he's dead, you know.
The thought rang again and again, weighing heavy withn his mind, haunting him, no matter how many times he told himself that it wasn't the truth at all.
Maybe if you'd called the police earlier...a lot earlier, none of this would've happened. Maybe they might've gotten the bastard off the street weeks ago, and he wouldn't have been able to murder my uncle now!
People like that do what they do out of the inane belief that they're following God's plan; and they won't let anything get in the way, let alone man-made laws.
The guy we sent before to get the street-preaching bum—we just found him dead by the next building over. Your street preacher buddy seriously messed him up.
"Enough already," he muttered softly, unaware that he had said so aloud.
Kathy, who sat next to him, looked up, her eyes still radiant with tears, then turned away, almost appearing indifferent. Or maybe that was all in Bart's mind. He didn't know, but tried not to give it much thought as he started the engine to Kathy's Neon.
Earlier, he had offered to give her a ride home and stay with her and she had reluctantly accepted. Now that his and her business with the police had concluded (although a few cops still remained at the scene to make sure that they didn't miss anything), they could go home now. And not a moment too soon either. Already, it was starting to get dark. Bart could hear distant thunder rumbling in the horizon, meaning it was starting to rain as well. He turned on the windshield wipers as the rain started coming down, and then pulled out of the parking slot. He turned off the radio, not really in the mood to listen to it at that moment.
He rode slowly and in silence, his left hand gripping loosely upon the steering wheel, his right hand around Kathy, and his eyes staring at the rode ahead of him, feeling despondent, a tear slipping down intermittently his face, his expression remaining grim, solemn, a part of him blaming himself for what had happened, but another part still insisting that it wasn't his fault at all. He felt discorded within himself by these mixed emotions of guilt and exhonoration, feeling completely innocent of the whole thing, yet also as though he were nearly an accomplice of the Street Preacher. It was driving him insane.
"I'm sorry for what happened to your uncle," he finally managed to croak out.
"It's okay," Kathy sobbed. "It's not your fault. I know I said it was, but it's not. I'm sorry, I...I shouldn't have yelled at you like that and said those things to you. It's just that I was very upset over what happened...still very upset, but it doesn't excuse what I said..."
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I understand completely."
His vision blurred as his eyes watered with more tears, and he blinked rapidly to clear his field of vision, applying pressure to the break as he did so, hoping he wouldn't crash into one of the cars parked to the side of the road, run over a pedestrian, or rear end whoever might be in front of him. That would be the last thing he needed after tonight.
At least she doesn't hate me, he told himself.
The thought made him feel better...not by much, but at least it made him feel a little better. It was still of some help.
And the rest of the ride was silent, though not as awkward as before.
* * *
It was pouring by the time they reached Kathy's apartment. Unbelievable how fast a slight drizzle could turn into such an unrelenting rainstorm, but that was the thing she had been least concerned about at the moment. Her and Bart's present location was what dominated her thoughts now. For this had been where she and Uncle Gino had lived together up until earlier today, where they had laughed together, had all sorts of fun ever since she had been a kid. It was almost depressing now to return here.
Bart killed the engine, and then pushed the driver's side door open, coming out slowly, his left leg already out, but the rest of him remaining inside the car momentarily. "You gonna be okay?" he asked, still concerned, still some timidity in his voice.
I never should've yelled at him like that, Kathy thought ruefully, I never should've said those things to him...God, that was so horrible...
She nodded, "Yeah, I'm fine."
She climbed slowly out of the car then shut the door, looking at Bart the whole time, grateful he had been kind enough to give her a ride home, hoping he wouldn't leave, wishing that he would stay here just a little while longer. Kathy began to shiver as the rain begin to beat down upon her, feeling the chilling winds now rushing past her.
"How will you get home?" she asked softly.
"I guess I can walk back to the Pizzeria. It's not that far, really, only a couple blocks. Then I can get my car and--"
"It's raining. You'd probably catch a cold."
"I'll be fine." He paused, a look of reluctance upon his face, hesitation. He and Kathy stood silently facing one another for what seemed like hours (but was in reality only about a minute or two). Then, Bart said: "It's you I'm worried about."
"I said I'm fine."
The tears welled in her eyes, and she looked at Bart's handsome face through her blurred, distorted field of vision. She immediately embraced him, holding him tightly with her face against his chest, as she had done so before outside Gino's Pizzeria during the investigation. "Please," she begged, her voice muffled, "please don't leave..."
* * *
The Street Preacher ran toward the wooden fence within the dark alley, nearly slipping twice as his feet hit the ground, splashing against the puddles now forming from this current and sudden rainstorm that had errupted barely moments ago. He'd seen a cop exiting Gino's Pizzeria for a smoke, believing that the cop hadn't yet seen him, but knowing that it was better to be careful and get out while the getting was good. Enough mistakes and foolish risks had already been taken tonight, and there was no need to push his luck a second longer by remaining at the scene, especially when his quarry had no doubt already left.
The Street Preacher cursed himself for panicking after having killed Gino; for looking through the kitchen doors onto the dining area and having burst right through the way he had. What had he been thinking? It was a foolish move on his part, and God had protected him this long. But it was still better not to be anymore callous than he had been already. Had he not screwed up royally back there, he might have been able to get Kathy as well, when she finished her pizza and finally returned from her break, not suspecting that anything was the matter. But now there were too many cops there, too many curious onlookers outside, too many people who might interfere and try to prevent what must be done. It was too dangerous now to even remain at the scene, and the Street Preacher had only himself to blame.
You really messed up now, buddy, a voice rang in the Preacher's head, not that of God's, but closer to his own.
He leapt into the air as he approached the tall wooden fence, reaching out his hand for purchase and felt the splinters burning into his palms as he grasped the top and hung there. In his younger days, perhaps he might be able to leap over this hurdle without much of a problem (though in truth, he couldn't remember what his younger days were like at all--his salad days, for better or for worse, were a total blank). He threw up his right leg, reaching it over, and then forced himself entirely on top of the fence, then rolled off and fell to the other side, his hip and shoulder hitting hard against the wet pavement, elliciting a rasping cry of pain as he hit the ground.
He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, his old bones aching. He could almost hear them creaking with every movement. He had been lucky he hadn't broken either his shoulder or his hip...very, very lucky. With an agonizing movement and a sharp moan of pain, the Street Preacher weakly made the sign of the cross in thanks for the Lord's blessing in cushioning his fall. Then he remained still, gasping and wheezing as he looked up dizzily at the darkening sky, shivering as the cold rain soaked his tattered jeans and trenchcoat.
The Strength of the Lord had been with him earlier today when he had killed that cop, and when he had killed Gino, he believed. But now, he felt weak, vulnerable, God's strength fleeing from his being, leaving him just another frail old man on the verge of death.
"Why," he whimpered, tears filling his eyes, "why, Lord, have you forsaken me?"
I have not forsaken you, my son, God's voice filled his head once again. Are you questioning My Will?
"No...no, of course not...please forgive me, Lord, I beg your forgiveness."
You are forgiven, now arise. There is still much you have to do.
"I can't, Lord...not now, anyway..."
But you must. For there is still much you have to do.
A crack of thunder set off far west, and the Street Preacher began to slowly emerge from the ground, painfully, first rolling onto one knee, staying in that position for a few seconds, and then, with painful exertion, forced himself to his feet, crying out in agony through the whole torturous ordeal. Once he was on his feet again, his legs buckled, and he leaned against the moldy brick wall for support, the aches and pains of each of his joints lingering.
He snuffled thickly, and then went into a hoarse, nagging coughing fit. When the coughs began to taper off, he wiped the residue from his lips, expecting it to be phlegm but realized it was blood upon examining the back of his fist. This revelation brought forth not an ounce of terror and he merely pressed on further down the alley, still wheezing, his breath coming out in puffs of gray vapors from his parted lips as he staggered slowly in the pouring rain.
You must press on and be strong. Kathy is still out there, still threatening to damn Bart's soul. She must be stopped if we are to have any hope at all of converting Bart to the side of righteousness. She mustn't be allowed to taint even an ounce of his soul; he must remain pure.
"But Lord, how...how can I find her?"
I leave you to your own resources in performing that task.
"No...no, God, please...please help me...HELP ME!"
But there was no answer, and the Street Preacher realized that from this point on, he truly was on his own. He realized something else as well: that he'd better find Kathy and soon, because there wasn't much time left until Judgement Day.
"Help me..."
"Hey, buddy, you okay?"
The Street Preacher was startled by this sudden interjection and his eyes immediately veered to the left, where he saw standing by a closed dumpster was another homeless man, his cloths filthy and tattered, as were the Street Preacher's, his thick scraggly gray beard covering his neck and his long dingy gray hair reaching down to the small of his back. He peered at the Street Preacher with a drunken gaze. A flash of lightning revealed to the Street Preacher a face that appeared completely disfigured, reddened and raw bags around both bloodshot eyes, cheeks swollen and cracking, and a nose eroded, eaten away from what appeared to be either cancer or a flesh-eating bacteria of some kind. He grinned, revealing only a few loose teeth still remaining in his mouth. The appearance hadn't terrified the Street Preacher, however; he had seen much, much worse, though was now unable to recall when, where, or what it had been.
Must've been before the accident, he thought reflectively.
"Yes, I'm okay," the Street Preacher muttered beneath his breath. He turned and coughed congestively, then spat out a wad of reddened phlegm and watched as it sank into a puddle of water, slowly diluted as it was submerged in the puddle. "Everything's just fine."
"Really? 'Cause I hope ya don't mind me sayin' so, but you're not lookin' too good at all, man," the bum said timidly.
The Street Preacher chuckled. "You don't look too hot yourself, big guy."
The bum merely threw his head back and laughed heartily at the Preacher's comment. "Good point."
A wave of vertigo hit the Street Preacher, and he felt his staggering legs buckle, and pressed his hands against the wet cover's of the small dumpster, leaning upon it for support as his vision began to spin around rapidly.
"Buddy...hey, buddy...!"
"Calm down," barked the Preacher, almost irritated. "Just a little dizzy, that's all. It'll pass in a few minutes."
"If ya say so." The bum began to pick at the corrosion around his nose absent-mindedly, then became conscious of what he had been doing and stopped immediately, his drunken gaze still upon the Street Preacher the entire time. "By the way, some'a the guys found this abandoned cellar the next building over. I was wonderin' if ya wanted to, you know, stay there for a while, 'til the rain lets up. It's warm 'n' dry down there."
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm afraid I can't."
The dizziness began to subside; his vision became more focused now, though his temples still throbbed with a headache. He remained hunched over, leaning upon the dumpster cover for support. Tiny scarlet droplets spilled from both nostrils and thinned in the stream of rain water upon the cover, but the Street Preacher paid this no heed either.
"Ya sure? There's plenty of room, and you're more than welcome to--"
"I'd love to, but I've got work to do," the Street Preacher explained. He cleared his throat, then went on: "I've got a lot to do tonight, and I don't have a lot of time to do it."
A bolt of thunder clashed nearby, and a flash of lightning lit up the night sky. The Street Preacher rose, standing straight now and watching as the bum continued to scratch his rotting nose unconsciously, looking perplexed. "What're you talkin' about? Work?"
"I'm afraid that's not for you to know."
"Well, whatever you say," the bum responded, still very confused. "Hope you do whatever you gotta do, buddy."
"Oh don't worry, I have no intention of failure," said the Street Preacher as he began to walk slowly away from the dumpster.
"Good luck."
"Thanks, but I've got something even better: The grace of God by my side."
And with that said, the Street Preacher staggered onward.
* * *
"Nice place you got," Bart commented as they entered through the front door into Kathy's apartment flat on the fifth floor of the complex. "Certainly a lot nicer than the one-room dump I've been living in the for past three years." He grinned wanly, straining to keep it on his face, but it appeared to be a losing battle.
"It's okay, I guess," Kathy replied listlessly. "Take off your shoes, please. Uncle Gino always wanted everyone to do that, particularly when its raining outside so no one tracks mud all over the house."
Bart nodded and did as he was told.
Kathy flipped off her shoes, which were soaked, but so were her socks, and the foyer was freezing beneath her wet feet. She hung her wet jacket on the coat rack, and then stepped onto the plush warm beige carpeting, still feeling cold, still shivering. "Still can't believe he's gone," she said morosely. "It all seems like a bad dream, you know? But...if it is a dream, why can't I wake up? God, all I want is to wake up." She brushed her wet hair dolelfully out of her face, her eyes now growing radiant with tears. "I just can't believe he's dead..."
"I know. Is there anything I can do?"
"Just...don't leave me. Please, don't go...stay with me..."
He held her tightly, leading her to her couch. She was still cold, but now starting to warm up in his arms. She thought that in her dire time of need, he was more than an adequate source of warmth and comfort. Bart would never replace Uncle Gino and what he had meant to her. But perhaps he could provide his own brand of love and comfort, which Kathy felt she needed now more than ever in these dark times.
Kathy sniffled wetly as they sat on the couch, still holding each other tightly. "Don't let go, Bart," she breathed. "Please, don't ever let go."
"Never."
A flash of lightning went off outside, followed by a crack of thunder, and Bart and Kathy kissed long into the night as the rain continued to patter over the roof above.