The
ballad of two
Part three
Steps
/ / /
The steam curled up and out of the mugs as the hot coffee filled it. With a plastic smile fixed on her bright red lips the waitress looked through the two men, just two more faces in a never ending parade of cheap tips in her opinion, that sat at the table and then walked away without a backward glance; their breakfast orders already hastily scrawled in her greased stained pad.
"You know there is a Starbucks nearby." Wiping away the remnants of the previous table occupant's meal – whatever it had been, it was too hard to tell – David Johnson looked almost pleadingly at the man across the table from him, the actual words that his mouth spoke not actually saying what he was thinking. Get me out of this rat infested Hell hole before I catch something and die a horrible and slow death was more like what he was really wanting to say. Unfortunately for him he had been brought up to never complain.
"Why would you want to go somewhere like that," Joey Russo said as he nosily slurped at the scalding hot coffee, years of practise giving him an almost asbestos quality to his tongue, heat proofing it, "when you can get twice as much for half the price here?"
"That is what I am worried about," David said under his breath as he saw – he was sure he saw – something scuttle under a table out of the corner of his eye, "dysentery more than likely."
"Sorry?"
"Oh nothing," David said with a sigh, sipping at his coffee with a wince as the heated liquid tried its best to take a layer of skin off his tongue. "How do you know this place anyway?" It had been at Joey's request that they had met here. Three hours ago, just shy of six o'clock in the morning, he had been awoken by his cell phone vibrating across his bedside cabinet and in his still sleep filled brain he hadn't been quite able to grab it at the first attempt. When he finally flipped it open it took a couple of seconds to place the gravel filled voice on the other end and even more to realise that he was being given an address to meet up at. When he closed the phone Joe Russo's voice still echoed in his head.
"I don't," Joe stated simply, his attention fully caught up in the approaching waitress and the two plates that she carried towards the table, "never been here before." He held up one hand to forestall any other questions as his eyes followed the plates as they were placed down in front of them with a clatter. Before the yellow yolk of the soft fried egg had even stopped wobbling Joe Russo had a forkful of bacon in his mouth. David Johnson stared at the man in front of him, the same way he would have stared at a car crash as a child – horrified by what he saw, knowing that he should look away, but … somehow … not able to – and then down at his own plate. Picking up a single slice of toast, the one that wasn't coated in something that he couldn't quite identify, he nibbled at the edge of it and waited until, with a lusty sigh, Joe swallowed his first mouthful.
"So why did we meet here then?" David said quickly, interjecting the question before his new partner could fill his mouth once more. Joe's fork stopped, less than a millimetre from the next rasher of bacon, and he glanced up at David, his face incredulous.
"I thought that I told you," he said, almost apologetically, "this is where it happened."
/ / /
This
is where it happened. Yes, people will watch the tapes in
months and years to come and think that it all happened there. In
the ring. They will see Ryan and myself go toe to toe and
then they will see it. The thing that Ryan, obviously, didn't. They
will see the move, the kick to the face, which took him off his feet
and onto his back. They may even count along with the referee for the
three seconds that will live on forever in poor little Damien's
memory. They will assume that, as my hand was raised in
victory, that Where it all began. They would be wrong. It
happened – this journey of mine – a lot longer than just one week
ago, and it didn't happen inside the ring itself. No, it
happened here. Inside my mind. They say that every
journey begins with but a single step and I believe that. I have to.
You see that is how my journey began, with a single step. The funny
thing is that it wasn't even my own step. It was someone else's. …
and it was a misstep too. If If … if …
if. So many 'ifs' to consider, and all of them leading to
the only thing that is of any importance at all. Me. My
life. My very existence. One small step, one wrong
foot, and As the blood flowed and the
light went out of No, it was my time. My existence. My
life. Mine. To do with what I wanted. To live as I had
always dreamed. … and what did I do? What am I still
doing? Walking in Following
Standing in Two years ago it all began in my mind. I knew what I
had to do. I had thought about it for so long, so very long, and it
was all so clear. Time after time I played through it in my head
until it filled my every moment; until I couldn't tell if I had
already done it or was still thinking about it. When the time finally
came, when chance provided the opportunity, I took it. I
struck. It was the only time that I walked my own path, the
only time I started my own journey. Now I walk the path of
two, I
even know how I have to do it. I have to finish I have to take Then I will be free. Free of
him. Free of So what
the people that watch the tapes in years to come fail to understand
is that Ryan is – was – unimportant. He is nothing at all.
Meaningless. So is Adams, though he doesn't even seem to realise –
nor care – the magnitude of what exactly it is that he is involved
with. Maybe that is a good thing? Perhaps Adams being
preoccupied with everything other than the battle in front of him,
the tournament, is a blessing in disguise for him. When all that is
left of his prophecy, as he lies flat on his back beneath me, is a
three second accolade from a referee and the realisation that his
predictions have fallen as flat as Nostradumas himself, perhaps then
he will be able to go on with his life and find that which he
searches for. At least there we have something in common. We
are both searching for something. His lies outside the ring, while
mine lies inside it. At least for now. It won't be
obvious to the watchers, to the voyeurs, at all. They won't
realise, as Adams falls to the side just like Ryan did, that he is
just the second of many. Well actually the second of six I
suppose. For you see while each journey begins with but a
single step it is also true that each destination begins with a
journey. But, perhaps, it doesn't end with just the one. My
destination is not the winning of this tournament, no, that is just
the first step.
/ / /
"The first step is to revisit everything," Joe Russo said as he swallowed a belch, "'scuse me. Which is why we came here." The diner was behind them, the breakfast quickly demolished – both of them by Joey, David hadn't managed anything more than a slice of toast and some coffee – and now they were standing out on the street in the shadow of a large apartment block. Traffic was light on the road in front of them, and not too many people were visible.
"… and this is where the razor was found?" David asked, looking around him. When Joey had explained to him, through a mouthful of egg that he had tried really hard not to look at, that they had come to this area to look around the scene where the suspected murder weapon was found, David had felt a sense of excitement. While still in uniform he had been mostly involved with traffic duties and the occasional low priority crime. Burglary, assault, even some drug busts. Never a murder, though, never the 'big one'.
"Just over there," Joey said, pointing over to an alleyway in which dumpsters and garbage cans were visible, "with the rest of the trash." Flipping open the file that he had carried under one arm he scanned through the pages, briefly, and then nodded once before crossing the road and moving towards the alley itself. Keeping pace with him, David felt his excitement mounting.
"So, do you think that we will find something that they missed?"
"It is possible, kid," Joey rumbled as he stopped at the entrance to the alley, peering into its gloomy depths with a look of distaste on his face, "the guys that found the knife were beat cops, not homicide, so it is possible that they missed something."
"What about he CSI guys?" David asked and then swallowed, hard, as the stench from the garbage hit him. For the second time that hour, the first being when he sat in the diner, he was glad that he hadn't ate any of the breakfast knowing that if he had he would be seeing it again.
"You watch too much TV kid," Joey laughed, "this isn't Vegas and John Lamont, the forensics guy who swept this place, sure ain't no Grissom. Now, breathe through your mouth." Joey had turned to look at David as he spoke and saw the tightness around the rookie's eyes and mouth as he tried to process the smell of the place.
"What?" David hadn't quite been listening, focussing instead on keeping the contents of his stomach, what there was of it, inside where they belonged.
"Don't breathe through your nose," Joey said, reaching out and squeezing David's shoulder kindly, "just your mouth. It will help with the smell until you get used to it."
"I don't think that I will get used to this," David said through gritted teeth as he tried to follow the instructions and breathe through his mouth, "it smells like someone died in here."
"… that is what we are here to find out kid." Joey said softly, turning back to look into the alleyway.
"Oh yeah," David said, embarrassed, "sorry."
Ignoring the apology as if it wasn't important, or needed, Russo walked into the shadowed alley, his eyes adjusting to the change in light. Moving over to the remnants of some police tape he crouched down, groaning as the muscles in his legs protested, and passed the file to his young partner. Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out a small pen shaped torch and flicked it on, barely reacting as a rat scurried away from the sudden illumination.
"What are you looking for?" David asked, his attention focussed on the detective in front of him and his mind forgetting the smell. Looking over the large man shoulders he saw a small white square framed around a darker patch of ground, partially free of debris. "What is that?"
Joey said nothing, but beckoned David to join him. Crouching down alongside the older man, with much more ease and grace, David peered at the dark patch.
"I am looking for anything, Davey, anything at all," Joey said as he peered at his colleague intently, "and that, kid, is blood. Dried blood."
David flushed under the intent scrutiny of Joey, knowing that he should have realised what the dark material was. He was so fixated with the fact that he was actually working on a murder case that he had forgotten to actually work on the murder case. Focus, he silently ordered himself, annoyed, get your brain in gear.
"Sorry" he said, sincerely. "Stupid question, I should have known that."
"There are no such things as stupid questions," Joey laughed, "only stupid answers. Like I said, though, we are looking for something that they may have missed, something that could have been overlooked."
"Do you think that we will find anything?" David asked, intrigued.
"To be honest," Joey said with a sigh of resignation, "I doubt it. The razor was found nearly two weeks ago and the blood was recent but could have been up to six weeks old, and we don't know how long it had been lying there because even though this is a good area the refuse guys have been on strike for nearly two months. Hence the amount of garbage."
"Then why are we here?"
Joey stood up, David following him, and stared directly into the kid's earnest face.
"Simple, kid," he said, running a tired hand through his hair, "someone not much older than you has been missing for two years and is probably dead, nearly a pint of his blood found in this very alley. Someone knows something, kid, someone saw something. The answers are here."
A flicker of memory ran through David's head and he started to flick through the pages of the file as Joey continued speaking.
"Besides which," he admitted with a chuckle, "I can't stand being cooped up in the office when I could be out looking for a clue, a hint, anything at all that would link us to this guy."
"A wrestler!" David exclaimed, his face peering closely into the file to read it in the dim light of the alley.
"Yeah," Joey said, thinking the statement was a question, "he was a wrestler."
"No, I didn't mean that," David argued excitedly, "I think that I found a link. There is a wrestler lives in this building!"
With more grace than should have been possible Joey rounded on David and grabbed the file from his hands, shining his torch onto the papers as he searched through them.
"What?" he muttered, almost to himself, "who?" David peered over his shoulder and slammed his finger onto the circle of light, pointing directly at one name.
"Ember."
/ / /
"Ember?"
A slightly electronic tone carried through on the unseen speaker as the hands free phone on the table amplified his voice. In front of it, on the floor, Ember sat in full splits, a set of dumbbells discarded by his side.
"Yeah John," he said, his voice calm and neutral, "I am still here." Dressed in a tight black workout suit that covered him from his neck to his toes, his hands covered by gloves of the same material, only his hair and face contrasted starkly. White, almost silver, waves of hair were tightly bound back into a plait that fell to the ground beside him while no features were visible on the tight material that covered his face.
"Thought that I lost you there." John Sinclair didn't sound perturbed at all, he had far too much control over his emotions for that, but still Ember knew that he was slightly annoyed. "You are taking this seriously aren't you?"
"Of course I am John," Ember said simply, his tone sounding more bored than concerned, "you are my lawyer after all and if you think that it is worth bothering me with then it must be serious."
"Bothering you?" Sinclair repeated, catching the emphasis that Ember had placed on the word, "they are threatening to sue you Ember. They say that they have you contracted exclusively to them and that you have defaulted on that contract."
"I know what they say, John," Ember sighed, bringing his legs up in front of him and hugging his knees, all focus on training lost, "they have been saying it to me for weeks now. You are my lawyer, though, so what is the truth?" A couple of months previously Ember had walked away from the federation that employed him, the WWA, and even though whilst he was there the powers that be had done their best to get rid of him know that he had walked away themselves they seemed intent on doing all they could to bring him back; or, at least, to stop him going elsewhere.
"Well," John said, obviously thinking about it, "the 'truth' is that you are still under contract with them."
"I know that John, which is why," Ember pointed out, staring at the phone as if he could see through it, "I am 'flying the flag' in the GTT for that sinking ship! No one else there is able to compete at this level so I am doing my duty for them and working out my contract this way! What more do they want?"
It was a question that he had asked himself ever since the WWA had started phoning him again. When he had first started there, about two years ago, it had been an up-hill battle to make any headway. Constantly refereed to as an outsider he had to work twice as hard as anyone else just to get the same breaks. Over time, though, he had slowly climbed the ladder of success finally culminating in becoming their World champion. Spreading his wings, Ember had started competing on a global stage, instead of the WWA local one, within the PTC and he found that he enjoyed the taste of success he found there.
That was when the WWA, even though he had given his notice and made it clear that after he had worked out the remainder of his contract for them he was gone, started incessantly knocking on the door.
/ / /
Knocking on the door Joey Russo indicated that David Johnson should step back slightly. Reaching behind him he loosened the catch on his police revolved but didn't take it out of his holster. Too many years on the force had made him believe in being prepared. Some people would have called it paranoia, but then again most of those people were dead now, shot before they could get their own gun out.
"Shouldn't we get a warrant for this?" David asked, his expression worried. "Or call for backup at least?"
"We don't need it," Joey relied, reassuringly, "either one. We are just going to ask a couple of questions, is all."
The door opened in front of them and David stepped back, a gasp escaping his mouth before he could stop it and he dropped the file from his hands, paper sliding across the floor to land at the feet of the dark clothed figure, who didn't seem to notice them. Russo, however, didn't flinch; people in opaque and featureless facemasks seemingly second nature to him. Holing up his wallet he flashed his ID.
"Mr. Ember?" he asked, cordially.
"Just Ember, officer," Ember replied, "what can I do for you … selling police memorial fund tickets?"
"A little more serious than that, I am afraid," Joey said, his tone still as calm as if he was talking about the weather, "I wanted to ask you some questions about a homicide actually."
David Johnson bent down and scrabbled to pick up all the papers that had fallen but before he could Ember leant down and slowly picked up the last one, a photograph of a young man, long auburn hair framing a smiling face as dazzling green eyes sparkled. Joey Russo pointed to it, indicating the figure in the photo.
"The murder of Jay Phoenix."
/ / /
To be continued.