Chapter Five – Death's Harbinger
"The line between clarity and insanity is slender…transparent…and easy to cross."
Ian Nottingham
He had found himself asleep in front of the television again, still in his work clothes. The hissing static was a familiar sound. It was after one o'clock in the morning according to the red digital clock nearest him. Tomorrow, he would pay for this with a stiff neck. Since his wife of fifteen years had divorced him, Bruno Dante had fallen into his own rhythm. He no longer had to worry about another person's needs or care whether someone did not like what he was eating or watching on TV. His appreciation of this had lasted perhaps a week, then even he drove himself nuts…with his own boring company. Everything she had said was right…but so what? He was living La Vida Loca, man! At least he could lie about his sex life to all the men in his department that thought he was a lucky man to be single again.
He had been renting this small, cheap furnished apartment month to month, thinking his situation was only temporary. Well…temporary had turned into almost a year. Stretching his back, he made his way to his bedroom, turning off the lights as he went. The dirty dishes would have to wait for another night. Of course he had said this for the last five nights. The place was taking on a certain smell…fast food…beer…and old laundry. He had not realized how much his ex-wife Gloria had done for him. She had gotten the house, the furnishings, and many other concessions so he would not be forced to pay alimony. He wanted no ties to her after their divorce. Maybe he'd have to break down and find someone else. Someone to take care of him. He knew he could hide his true nature for as long as it took to find a wife again. Then, it would all depend on her patience…and her tolerance.
He cleared the old newspapers from the top of his unmade bed, not remembering the last time he had changed his bed linens. Dante was oblivious to the signs of depression, not realizing how debilitating the symptoms could be. A single lamp burned on the nightstand as he flipped the bathroom light to start his shower. Liking it hot and steamy…like his sex…he let the water run full as he stripped to his bare skin. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Gravity had done some terrible stuff to his once Adonis-like body, but he was still noteworthy, he thought. The mirror began to fog up, making him able to lie to himself better. Leaving the bathroom door open a crack, he stepped into the shower, enclosing the plastic curtain around him. The temperature was just the way he liked it, reddening his skin as he lathered. As he began to rinse, his mind drifted to the conversations he had with Irons today. With his power and money, he could make someone disappear without a trace…as if he had never existed. Being an NYPD Captain had its' privileges, however, for Irons would have to think twice before pulling something like that on Bruno Dante, he thought.
Turning off the spray of water, before he released all the steam, he grabbed for the nearest bath towel and started to dry his face and hair as he pulled back the shower curtain. Stepping out of the tub, he had the towel draped over his head until he looked into the mirror. All the steam in the world could not have kept away the chill that now coursed through his body as he read the message printed on the mirror.
Turn Around
Naked…and without a gun…he was more than defenseless as he caught a glimpse of the dark shadow reflected in the still foggy mirror. No need to turn around. He knew who it was. In that instant, he wished he had chosen a different life for himself…or that he had never been born. Ian Nottingham had that affect on people. Dante slowly turned to face the assassin. Any words he would have thought to utter were stuck in the back of his throat as Nottingham languidly tilted his head to one side, eyeing the Police Captain…like a cobra slowly rising from its' coiled body, ready to sink its' teeth and inject deadly poison into its' prey.
"Your shortcomings are quite apparent, Captain." Nottingham's eyes were devoid of any humor implied by his remark. They were also empty of any humanity. The silence and the tension built up to an intolerable state. Dante could hear his own heart about to jump from his chest. He did not want to die like this.
Nottingham had not moved an inch…not even to blink.
"Normally…it is a challenge to get you to shut your mouth, Captain. What is it? No dying declarations." The assassin was taunting him.
Dante had not seen a gun or a knife but he knew Nottingham himself was far more lethal and deadly than any conventional weapon. Irons would not be here to call off his dog. This was it!
"Perhaps you need a little persuasion…an ice breaker." Still, Nottingham had not moved from the far corner of the bathroom. He rigidly held his ground with his body taut for action. "What specifically were Irons' orders regarding Ms. Pezzini? If you answer me truthfully…and I will know if you do…then I may show you more mercy than you would have shown me."
Dante did not know what this meant…show you more mercy. He was certain he was going to die tonight, but maybe, there was an outside chance he could survive this. It was worth a shot. To hell with that bastard, Kenneth Irons!
"Look…you know he hadn't really ordered me to kill her by midnight…it had all been his set up…to get you to…that night that you…" Dante was digging himself into a hole, reminding Nottingham of his 'suicide' or whatever the hell that was. "Irons is the one that wants her dead…he is a difficult man to ignore…you know?"
"Yes…that I can believe. His orders?" Nottingham pressed for the truth.
"He wanted her dead, at first…Just wanted me to bring him her body…as is. Then, he changed his mind for some reason and now he just wants her watched…he may be looking for you." Dante's fear would not allow him to tell a lie. He just hoped he would find just the right thing to say to save his life. If he could just get through this, he would rid himself of Kenneth Irons once and for all.
"He also seemed interested in the witnesses there that night…the three homeless men." Dante gave the names of these men to Nottingham, hoping to garner favor. The assassin took note of the names without giving any indication to Dante that he cared…even though he had cared a great deal.
Nottingham knew that Irons would not have confided in this loathsome man. That is why he had asked for him to bring back her body…not wanting to divulge anything about the Witchblade to this peasant. With his deep connection to the blade, Irons would know that Sara had lost it. Perhaps this had preceded his change in orders. The surveillance could be a means to keep him away from Sara in her time of need. This tactic had worked, for he could not even come close to her without Irons knowing about it. It seemed a race had begun…a race to find the blade. Irons had many resources at his disposal…far in excess of Ian's meager means. All these thoughts surged through his mind without a single manifestation on his stalwart face for he did not want Dante to know any of this had rung true.
"As you probably already know…I am no longer working for Mr. Irons. Consider me…an independent contractor…in league and in service exclusively to Ms. Sara Pezzini. You take her on again, and I will be back…to finish our…conversation once and for all." Nottingham made a rather sudden move toward the door that made Dante jump out of his skin. The move had been on purpose; knowing what reaction it would elicit. Nottingham smiled very slightly as he turned to leave.
"Oh…and Captain? Just a word of wisdom with regard to working for Mr. Irons." Nottingham could tell by the look in Dante's eyes that he had the man's complete attention.
"Never outlive your usefulness." With that bit of sage advice, Nottingham was gone.
Dante wrapped the towel around his waist and rushed to the bathroom door. In the seconds that it had taken to do this, Irons' assassin had gone…he was no where to be found. The silence in the room was deafening. Not a trace of the man remained. Dante was reminded of the wake that a shark leaves behind as it glides through its domain knowing it is a supreme killing machine.
Never outlive your usefulness. These foreboding words were going to plague him like an incurable affliction.
Never outlive your usefulness.
*****
"We cannot continue like this…you and I."
His own words replayed in this context seemed like those of a stranger. Plagued by his very words and the images of Ian's face, the nightmare would come to him nearly every night now.
"…I created you…offering you the ultimate opportunity to serve Lady Sara."
He thrashed under the bed linens. His silk pajamas were drenched in his objectionable sweat. His eyes…Don't make me see Ian's eyes again! My betrayal of him is always there! His nightly turmoil was a reminder of a guilt he rejected in his waking hours, eating away at Irons like an insidious and pervasive cancer.
"…Dante will kill her by midnight…"
"…you have failed me, Ian…"
"…make the ultimate sacrifice, Nottingham…"
"When can I learn to fight, master?" Suddenly, he could hear the small voice of Ian as a child. He was always eager to please his master.
No….Stop! Don't say it again! Irons' torment had reached its' zenith. The guilt was eating him alive. His past crimes were always nocturnal visitors, never being acknowledged in the full light of day. Then, he may have to affirm his culpability.
"…your life for hers…" Had he sounded so cold?
No…Don't do it! Stop! Irons was pleading to the night…into the darkness. Tossing his head from side to side…in his own self-inflicted torment.
"…your life for hers…"
"…Do what must be done, young Nottingham…"
"…It shall be a mercy…"
In his nightmare…he was forever racing to the door of the Great Room over and over…
The ear shattering blast of gun fire had ripped through his heart as if stuck on instant replay…his mind conjuring images of Ian as a child, as a youngster who only wanted to please him. Nottingham had endured the painful genetics enhancements and chemicals, trying only to serve his father. Irons had cruelly dished out the mental and physical abuse at the expense of his young warrior. Yet Nottingham had never once raised his hand to his master although he had been given much provocation. Again, an example of his love and devotion to a man he looked upon as his father.
It was too late!
There would be no redemption for him…No atonement with young Nottingham. Too late! He was GONE…and by his very hand!
Nooooooo! His scream jolted him awake, emanating from deep within his soul. Sitting bolt upright, bound in his sweat soaked bed linens, his breaths came in strangled raspy spurts. Tears were streaming from his eyes that stung with the mix of sweat…and condemnation. Shaking with the vestiges of remorse, it took him a few minutes to gain his composure in the darkness of his bedroom. Irons had to remind himself that Nottingham had not died that day…but only because of Ian's own doing. As his father…his creator…he had done nothing to stop it. NOTHING!
If he had it all to do over again…
"Hello, father." It was but a whisper.
Had he heard it at all? Or was this a continuation of this same cruel nightmare?
Irons held his breath. Listening. His eyes searched the shadows, hoping for a glimpse of his son. He had not realized just how much he wanted this to be. A new tear slowly trailed down his cheek. He reached for the lamp by his nightstand.
Click. Click...Click. The room remained shrouded in blackness.
"I have taken the liberty…" His voice seemed to be coming from the shadows nearest the door…then, from across the room. "…of removing the bulbs. I prefer the anonymity of the dark…you taught me that, father." His voice was so intimate…so deadly.
There had been no sound. If he had crossed the room, it was inaudible…imperceptible. A partial moon, that sparingly shed its bluish hue into the room as it danced between the tree limbs outside Irons' bedroom window, dimly cast the only light into the room.
"Bravo, young Nottingham. Well played." It was all he could think to say.
"I am what you made me…father." The assassin's voice was but a whisper that seemed to cascade about the room as if by echo.
He would have to think of the many scenarios to be played here. If he did not execute this correctly, he would not live through the night. Not seeing Ian's eyes was very much like being blinded. He had not realized just how much this had been a part of their game. Apparently, Nottingham had realized it…hence the darkness. Bravo! He thought to himself. He had taught the boy well. His heart swelled with pride…and fear.
As if in another chess game with his once loyal servant, Irons hastily chose to portray himself as the benevolent king now an open-armed father, only wanting his son, the knight, back in the fold. After all, this was not far from the truth. Nottingham always wanted him to be more of a father…perhaps he could do this.
"I regret my actions…consider this a sincere apology, young Nottingham. I was not thinking clearly back then, Ian. I want you to come home, son." He thought he had sounded genuine.
A flicker of light…a glint from across the room…Something whisked past his ear, brushing his hair back in its' wake. A loud thud behind him caused him to jump…his heart leapt out of his chest. He turned to see a knife stuck in the wooden headboard of his bed. His ear was stinging from a well-placed nick that now was flowing warm blood down his neck and onto his white, silken pajamas. A gasp caught in his throat as he heard the voice yet again.
"Your arrogance is astounding!"
Nottingham watched his father from the shadows. He had never seen fear in his eyes as he had at this very moment. The pale blue eyes that he had grown to fear and respect were searching the room for him now. It saddened him to see that it had come to this. He had come to his father's bedroom in the night to show him…to show that he could get to him at any time. His father had trained him well. His appearance in the guise of a deadly assassin was important to maintain for now, yet it broke his heart to take this man's dignity in this way. Ian had wanted to make his threat more clear…say the words that he would kill him if Irons continued to threaten Sara, but he could not bring himself to say them. Saying the words would be no different than handing Irons a loaded gun and asking him to do the right thing. Ian knew the pain of this…he knew the feeling of betrayal. He fought back the tears that were beginning to fill his eyes.
He must focus…for her sake. She was his family now. She was all that mattered. He slipped from the room in silence, leaving his father and his past at rest.
"You want me to understand…you can get to me anytime...anywhere. Isn't that right, Ian?" No answer. It was deathly still in the room.
"She is a PRETENDER, Ian! You were trained to serve a true wielder. She is NOTHING!" Irons' screams could be heard throughout the estate…and beyond.
"She is a PRETENDER! She is NOTHING! NOTHING!"
His shrieking wafted through the air to Ian's ears as he hoisted himself atop the far boundary of the grounds. Straddling the barrier, he turned towards his master's dwelling. He could not fight back the tears any longer. For the last time, he looked upon the only home he had known and quietly slipped over the wall.