The Descent

Chapter 30: A Dance With The Shadows

"I know." The voice said to me from a dark corner. It didn't sound good. Too sudden and a little mischievous. Either way, I don't treat intruders lightly. Turning to face the voice, I saw a silhouette coming out of the shadows. I drew my pistol on it, just as the silhouette revealed itself, "Hey, hey! Watch where you're pointing that thing, man!"

The silhouette turns out to be a black guy donning an even darker leather jacket, jeans and what looked like standard-issue brown military boots. Jarhead's hairstyle. As if he wasn't suspicious enough. He had his hands up, his eyes staring down the barrel of my gun. He wasn't shivering or outright petrified, so it wasn't his first time around violence or firearms. But he was still falling for my old trick. "Who are you?" I questioned the man. Had to shout above Eisenhower's barks. The dog must had felt vindicated. I didn't remove my mask – I wanted to, but he came in just in time to interrupt me. Thank God, literally, "How'd you find this place?"

"I had my sources." The stranger said, playing cool. I didn't lower my gun. He could be anything, anyone from a police officer to a hired killer. I'd made enough of an impression, and I knew it would lead to this. Eisenhower wasn't trusting him anymore than I was. "Look, just put away the gun and I'll explain everything." He implored me, his hands gesturing for a little breathing room. There was a little something missing – or not missing. I could see it bulging in his jacket.

"How 'bout you put away yours?" I ordered him. I'd been shot enough times throughout my old career to fall for a trick like that. The intruder hesitated, looking a bit surprised that I noticed it. After recovering from his ignorance of my expertise, he showed me his hands before shoving one of them into his jacket to pull his piece out. I jabbed mine at him to make a statement: "I'm a very patient man, mister. Take your time."

The weight of my gun never failed to remind me that I was always hanging by a thread whenever I had to pull it out. The empty, hollow magazine would test me, but it was God's test. I could never kill again, not after everything and what I'd accomplished so far. The intruder followed my instructions to the letter; something told me that he was used to following instructions. Pushing a hand slowly into his jacket, he resumed pulling his piece out. The handle showed, then the rest of it. An old M1911A1. Spit and polished. Possibly decommissioned from the military. I waved my own pistol at the ground, and he set his down on the floor and kicked it to me.

When I picked his old pistol up, I noticed numbers painted on it. Some kind of an armoury code, aside from the serial numbers. With another wave of my pistol, I showed him to his seat – one of the desk chairs. I sat a distance from him, my pistol arm resting on the somewhat flimsy foldable desk mounted on the simple chair. "Care to explain what's going on, mister?"

"Specialist Malachi Doss." The intruder introduced himself. My pistol wasn't bothering him much. Even the braver ones would be sweating coolant by now. He wasn't one of the braver ones. He wasn't some ordinary backyard trash handpicked to hit me. He was made of something much better. Either that, or he was a veteran mercenary from somewhere in warring Africa hired to kill me. I knew what was more likely. "US Army. Or at least that was about ten hours ago. I was framed." Sure enough, he showed his papers and plastics with routine motion. I wasn't really into counterfeiting documents, and I'd stopped doing that long before I even donned the green mask, so I couldn't tell if it was all legit. One thing I do know was the cost of counterfeits, and with each document, the lies he could be feeding me would get more and more expensive. I was probably not worth that much to Ralph, at least not yet. It was hard not to believe Malachi. Malachi paused, as if waiting for my permission to continue. I gave it to him. He seemed real enough.

"I was in charge of an armoury at Fort Hamilton. I left it in the hands of one of my men for a couple of hours. Had to report to my CO. Next thing I knew, it was cleaned out." I could see it in his eyes. He wasn't letting anything out, but I could still pick out a leakage of betrayal somewhere in his face. Could be a certain ring in his voice too. Betrayal was common where I came from. Would be hard to miss after all those years. "There were rumours of the mob getting into our camp. Didn't think they were true. I guess I was wrong, and I bet it wasn't just one of my men who was in on it."

"Anyway, I knew someone in the NYPD. He can't do anything about this though, and he pointed me to you. Told me to lay low with you for a while." Malachi continued. It seemed interesting that he wasn't naming any names. Could be anything from a lousy bunch of lies to caution on his part. I knew one of my man in the NYPD had friends in the military though. I'd have to poke my head in first before making a call. "He's a good friend. If he's anyone less, he would have arrested me on the spot or fed me to the wolves in the mob. I'm a suspect now, by the way, and if this thing is as big as I think it is, I think the mob could be in the NYPD."

I thought about asking him who this 'someone' in the NYPD was. His face was hard to read, harder anyway than other faces. Made of concrete. Military standard issue. It could go either way. "Good thing you found him." Was what I finally decided to say. "I've got a room for you, rental-free." I got him to stand up and start walking, leading him into a separate corridor. I'd put away my gun. He didn't seem like a threat anymore. He was feeling safe.

The room I was leading him to was already open. The lights inside were off. I waved for him to get in, hoping to look like an accommodating host. After hesitating for a second, he took the hint. "I knew about you guys. I've been watching the news. Everyone was, man. WNRD." He went inside, and from what little I could tell from him, he was all relaxed. I would never do that if I were him, "So when my pal mentioned you, I knew I'd be fine."

Flipping on the lights, he saw what I had in store for him. A short cot in a corner, more mattress than bedframe. On the other end of the small room was the toilet. The floor and walls were made of white, browning tiles. A make-shift cell. Grabbing the heavy metal door off the side, I slammed it shut. Malachi jumped and turned around just as he was wondering about the lousy accommodations. I could still see him through a small pothole in the door. "Hey, what the-!" His trained discipline cut him short. I could tell that he was restraining himself.

"Sorry, buddy. You're going to have to stay there until I find out more." I said. His concrete face was just that, concrete. There were leakages though. Confusion, pissed off, even fear and worry. Took a little effort to pick out, but they were there. As for me, I was thankful the delivery for the huge metal door came early.

Meanwhile…

The studio was just across the road. The signboard was huge and conspicuous, a little hard to miss. The most reputable place at the cheapest price possible. Dad was occupying a supervisorial position, but after all those years bouncing between the middle and low class living we had gotten really frugal and old habits die hard.

Mindy's hand was alternating between gripping mine hard and loosening up. I could feel her sweat intermingling with mine like some weird blood pact sealing us together in some cosmic contract. She was still mad with me, and wouldn't even look at me. She didn't even like the idea of holding hands with me as part of my programme to get her acclimatized back to normal life again. I had to go between coaxing her and scolding her gently to get her to do it. What remained the same after her more recent encounters with the crime was the rough texture of her palm, which would take weeks if not months to clear out. Her knuckles felt the same since day one. Old habits die hard. I would have to fight hard to wean her off being Hit-Girl.

We crossed the road. I stole a look at Mindy, and saw that her eyes were averting mine. Her eyebrows would arch one way first before going the other direction. Either way, it wasn't good. I was lucky she would even let me take her to the studio after school. I guess deep down, she knew I was right all along. I knew for sure what I did was right, even if it took a little bit of Moriarty-type scheming.

Past passers-by unaware of our… unique circumstances despite the superhero buzz originating from us, we walked up to the large glass doors below the giant studio signboard. It wasn't some seedy, run-down shady business, so Mindy would be in good hands. Opening the doors, we walked in, hand in hand in an uneasy truce, I took her past the lobby and then into the practice room… or whatever you call a room like that.

Even before we entered, there was already the sound of instructions both technical and harsh, wavering between either, and after we entered, the sight of a troupe of girls following through with some dance choreography greeted us. I could hear my throat gulping, but Mindy was a little more calmer.

"Why dancing of all things?" I forced myself to question her choice, even when I knew I shouldn't. Knowing Mindy, she was probably pissed off enough as she was, even if I'd won and gotten her to back out of her whole vendetta against the 'guineas' business. I could never figure out what she meant by 'guineas'. She didn't answer at first. It seemed like a standard case of fiery tantrum with her, but the look on her face was slightly off. Something else was mixed in.

"Dad used to bring me to a dance studio." Was her surprising answer. I expected that real-life Batman to bring her to some super-secret martial arts clan or ninja fortress. A dance studio was way, way off. "I asked the same question the first time he brought me to a place like this." She didn't really answer my question. I didn't – couldn't expect her to. I had already taken too much from her. In fact, from the way she was resisting scrounging up her face, I could tell that she was already risking a migraine remembering about dance studios and dads.

The dance instructor did not notice us immediately. Between her fierce commands and reprisals, I didn't expect her to. It was like stepping into a stereotypical movie boot camp, and not the kind for kids either. Black, reflective panels lined a side of the room. Somehow, those panels gave me the feeling of being watched. I could feel my stomach shrink alongside my balls, and I wasn't the one taking the lessons, "You sure you're up for this? I mean, isn't singing and the piano enough?" Yep, speaking of that. Dancing wasn't the only thing Mindy was signing up for, and her choices made me wonder. Dad agreed to them all of course. In fact, he was thrilled when his previously troubled daughter decided to start behaving and think of her future. Me, on the other hand? I couldn't help but to wonder what she was playing at, but that's just me. Ever since donning the green suit, paranoia became the name of my game.

I smiled when the instructor or drill sergeant finally noticed us, if her habitual frown was any indication. Maybe it was the start of something. Going easy on the paranoia for one.