The Monocle Man Read online

  “We’re out now. Just breathe damn it!”

  Out? They’re out? Garrison shakes her. Her eyes threaten to close for the last time. But… they’re out. Out! Her chest heaves and the air pulled into her mouth and down into her lungs rattles with a violent force. Annalise coughs. Between each she pulls in little, stuttered breaths. She can breathe!

  “Jesus, that was close. Can you hear me Annie?” Garrison puts a hand under her chin, lifts it till her eyes, now more open than moments before, find his. “Annie?”

  “I… yes. I…”

  “Easy,” he coos, pulling her in. “Just take it easy. Take a moment.”

  Annalise sobs into his chest a time while he holds tight and cranes his neck around, looking for Brent. The two are standing in an alley of some sort. There’s a wall not a few feet in front of them which stretches up several stories above their heads. He finds it odd that, having just experienced the fallen tree, the portal, the landing and cavern with the staircases, that the wall he’s looking at seem ordinary enough. Made of brick. The wall is aged and cracking, a handful of the bricks scattered about the ground, but a brick wall none-the-less. Garrison looks left down into the alley, but there’s nothing along the walls there. It reaches into the darkness beyond. To the right, Brent stands a few feet from the alley’s entrance. And what he sees perplexes him even further. Just beyond the opening, past his little brother, people are milling about, walking to and fro.

  3

  3.

  “Brent!” Garrison yells. Somewhat sluggish, the boy turns toward his big brother. “Stay close! Don’t wander off!”

  “I won’t,” the young boy muses, his eyes darting left and right in rapid succession, following the paths of the various people weaving about. He takes a few steps back.

  Annalise sits in quiet. Her sobbing’s stopped, though she exudes an occasional sniffle. She still trembles. Garrison can’t blame her. He’s not sure what she’d experienced as they came through the opening and into the alley. But if it was anything like he experienced, he can’t blame her one bit.

  The light came crashing into him, smacking him in the chest in a violent concussion. It’s a miracle he didn’t let go of Annalise’s hand. Confusion gripped him for some time, not understanding how light could coalesce into such a solid structure. It was blinding and hurt like hell. He felt the minutes tick by in slow concatenation as the illuminated structure slammed into him, then pulled itself through him. A sensation encroached; that each organ in his body disrupted as the light pushed them aside, moving them about within the confines of his mortal vessel. At one point, he’s sure he stopped breathing altogether. He closed his eyes, losing sight of Brent for a little while, fighting the urge to just curl up in a ball there on the floor. But he kept on. Moved forward. He was sure he’d heard Annalise choking behind him. But there was nothing he could do. As the light moved through him, even though his legs took step after step, he seemed cemented in place. Until eventually, the light faded, snapped off as if the bulb burnt out, plunging him back into darkness. Just ahead, a dim light glowed, and he watched his little brother step from the passageway and disappear to where they are now. In this alley.

  So no, he can’t blame Annalise for needing some time. Especially if she’d gone through something just as horrific as he. Even now, crouched on one knee in this seemingly ordinary alley, he still feels the after-effects of the recent ordeal. In fact, the only one of the three who doesn’t seem affected, is his little brother. He turns to look at Brent again, but the boy pays him no mind. He just stands and stares out at the moving crowd, bouncing occasionally on his toes as if he’s excited for something.

  “Annie, we can’t stay here,” he says to the girl. She looks up at him, eyes red and glossed over.

  “But where?” She asks.

  “I… I don’t know. But we can’t stay here. We have to figure out where we are. How to get back.”

  “Get back?”

  “Yeah Annie. Get back home.”

  “Home,” she repeats, as if the word were one she’s never heard. She looks past Garrison; over his shoulder and out of the alley before fixing her gaze on him once more. “Home.” This time there’s a degree of certainty in her voice; a mote of determination.

  Garrison stands, pulling Annalise to her feet. He rubs her shoulders vigorously, squeezing them and offering a smile. She nods. Annalise runs her hand along Garrison’s upper arm and down over his elbow, until she finds his hand. She slips hers in his and holds tight again. The two turn and take in the scene before them.

  Brent stands not ten feet from the two, still peering out of the alley’s opening. His excitability is apparent. Garrison realizes, as frightening as the last couple of hours have been for him and Annalise, Brent most likely views all of this as just another adventure. He’s not even sure his little brother understands that none of it is make-believe. The pair take a few steps closer to the opening. But Garrison pulls up short, resting a hand on Brent’s shoulder to steady him.

  “Hold up there buddy. Something… something’s off,” he states aloud.

  Annalise notices it too. And it’s obviously what has Brent so excited. At first glance it looks an ordinary street. People walking back and forth. The road beneath their feet lacks pavement; instead seems set with old cobblestone. A street lamp burns an odd, shimmering reddish-orange across from the three. The ironworks that hold the flame appear old, faded, rusted. Garrison takes another step closer, looking up and down the road. The street lamps sit at intervals of maybe fifteen feet, a row of them extending beyond the last roady visage. But the people walking beneath are what catch everyones eye. It’s as if they aren’t even there. Not entirely. The kids an almost see thru each person, though when they strain their eyes, the pedestrians go from wavering to solid and back again. Shadows of themselves.

  Ghosts.

  It’s what Garrison thinks at first. The garments worn by the pedestrians range in styles both foreign and recognizable; from old-time garb with top hats and bowlers like they’ve seen in the movies, to more modern clothing. A gladiator here, a countess there. No rhyme or reason to the dress. To Garrison it looks a festival of decades. And this is surely exciting his little brother. There’s so much to take in. By now, the three of them have inched their way to the opening out of curiosity. Though standing there, nearly in the open, not a single passerby seems to take notice. Save one.

  It’s eyes carry a crimson glow with yellowish pupils while its head turns in their direction. Padding on four legs, the dog’s tail points upward, hardly swaying as it walks. Its tongue plays out of its mouth and curls around its lips, eyes never leaving Brent. Brent smiles. Garrison can’t quite make out the breed, though it’s large. It gives Garrison the creeps. It doesn’t appear friendly at all. And there’s nothing between them and the beast, just a cobblestone road. With a hand on Brent’s shoulder, Garrison steps back, moving away from the alley entrance. A flurry of pedestrians cross in front, momentarily blocking the view of the dog. When the tide recedes, the other side of the road is empty again. No dog. Garrison feels Brent’s shoulder slouch in disappointment. He, himself sighs relief. The three of them return their attention to the collection of people, each marking a moment in history, walking about.

  “Where are we?” Annalise lets out in a whisper.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  AFTER THE CRASH

  AFTER THE CRASH…

  The snow abates for a brief time, allowing a touch of moonlight through the clouds. This illuminates the landscape enough for Reynolds to pick his way through the trees, moving forward toward the light ahead of him. Both feet have gone numb. The deep snow pushed up and into his pant legs some time ago. Now, even though his legs are cold as ice, that snow melts away and trickles into his boots, continuing the agonizing cycle. Reynolds can hardly feel his feet. But figures this is the least of his problems. If he doesn’t make it out of the snow soon, he won’t last the morning.

  He’s seen it a time or two, up
close and personal. The first was years before, during his first few months walking the beat. Parts of the Satin City were home to all kinds of tenants. Still are. Those who paid rent and had a roof over their head come winter; those who had the government pay rent and were fortunate likewise. Though some had either given up on either, or been tossed from society, forced to shelter in the nearest dumpster or back alley doorway. That night was cold, much like this one. The memory comes so vividly now. As if it were only yesterday. A product of the cold now taking hold? Possibly.

  Reynolds drew the late shift again. And though most would express a discontent at having to work the overnight, Reynolds didn’t mind much. He enjoyed the city night. There was a quiet calm that came over the streets once the sun went down. And even though crime didn’t stop, there was a certain sense of relaxation pulling the shift. Most nights were uneventful, minus a call or two he’d respond to during those hours. The calls themselves were much lighter than during the day. Often it’d be a bar fight or something simple like that. And he’d take in whoever caused the trouble, spend the time needed to do the paperwork; head back out again.

  Tonight had been no different. Except that, the weather came through in a torrent. A cold snap seized the city, and soon the snow fell in thick, unrelenting flakes. He could hardly see several feet in front of him as he strolled up the block. Reynolds ducked inside an all-night coffee shop, shaking the snow from the shoulders of his coat, before removing his hat and setting it atop the counter; taking a seat on one stool. Quickly he glanced around the establishment, observing the few patrons enjoying a hot cup and a late-night breakfast. A few smiled, one nodded, and Reynolds returned the gesture. It was still early. In another hour or two, once the bars let out, this place would be hopping. He only hoped the snow would curtail by then so he could venture back out. It did no good to be a cop in a place where everyone was trying to caffeinate themselves into sobriety. It was apt to make for a tense time.

  Reynolds downed the first cup of coffee as if in a rush. Kindly, the waitress returned and filled the cup once more. Asked if he wanted anything to eat even though she knew he wouldn’t. Reynolds often popped in on the over-nights and stayed for a bit, never eating. On warmer nights he’d just drop by and grab a cup to go. Always tipped well. Always pleasant enough. And like always, Reynolds declined anything to eat. It was too early in his shift for that. If he ate now, he’d feel bogged down the rest of the night. The third shift was long enough all on its own.

  The second cup he sipped, taking his time. Often looked out across the counter, or glanced over his shoulder back out the door to survey the snowfall. The snow looked to be letting up. And that was good news. He really wanted to be out before the late-night jokers came in. That, and Reynolds enjoyed walking the beat. Liked both the exercise and the often-solitude it brought. The waitress traipsed over and dropped yesterday’s paper in front of him. He nodded, smiled, and pulled the pages to him. Reynolds flipped through several, finding his favorite spot, and fished around for a pen in his pocket. Before his hand found the item, he heard a subtle clearing of a throat. The waitress smiled, holding out a pencil for him. He gave her a wink and took it. She thought it bad luck to do the crosswords in pen even though the pencils she often gave him had little to no eraser left on them, anyway. Another sip of coffee, and he dove into the maze of words yet undiscovered.

  Maybe thirty minutes passed before he took another look up from the paper. The snow outside looked done, or at least teased at being over, the flakes waning. Reynolds set down the pencil and politely called the waitress over. As he pulled on his coat, she poured a fresh cup of coffee in a togo cup. He dropped some bills on the counter, offered a smile, and headed back out into the night.

  The snow had piled up a bit, leaving the roads coated in an inch or two of the white stuff. He knew the plows would be by soon enough to start the cleanup. Especially if they were expecting more throughout the night. Which they were. Reynolds kicked at it with his boot, the black leather a stark contrast in the new fallen snow. A plow scraped by, the clearing begun, sparks flying up from the blade as the inches of powder tossed aside.

  A couple blocks down the road, a pair of flashing, orange lights caught his eye though the snow. He approached the vehicle parked at an awkward angle to the curb with some caution. It never hurt to keep in mind there were as many people out there looking to do harm as there were doing good. But to his pleasure, the two girls standing beside the car looked none too threatening. The trunk stood open, and he noticed the spare tire leaning against the side of the car. The girls struggled to set the jack beneath the car properly. Reynolds tipped his hat and set the coffee atop the roof of the car. Helped the young ladies with the tire, tossing the old one in the trunk and secured the jack in its rightful place before bidding them a good night. The act met with smiles and accolades all around. The girls even offered him some money. But he told them to take their time and drive safe. The weather wasn’t likely to improve and knowing they’d be cautious would be payment enough. He was happy to help.

  Reynolds watched the car pull away slowly and stayed on the curb till the tail lights faded from view. A slight fog drifted up from the sip-hole in the coffee cup as he put the drink to his lips and tried to warm away the cold. His eyes moved up and down the street, but soon settled across the road. Movement caught his eye. Standing ramrod still, he kept his gaze directed at the alley between two buildings. The lack of light and the missing or burnt out bulb from the street lamp outside it, made seeing down the alley difficult. He squinted. Again, movement. This time he made out the figure of someone, crouching, or lying down. They hurried now, standing and bundling up some blankets under their arm before setting off in haste.

  Normally, he’d dismiss such a thing. There seemed nothing nefarious about the matter. But something gnawed at his bones. An instinct, or feeling. He took another sip before his feet, propelled by that intuition which unnerved him, moved his body off the curb and into the street. Reynolds raced across the road and stepped up onto the sidewalk at the other side. One step at a time, he started down the alley. He waited for more movement. But there was none.

  The beam from his flashlight cut the dark in the alley. Among the drifting snow and quiet alley, the click of the on button was nearly audible. He waved the light back and forth, starting along the ground. It found the base of a dumpster. To the right he found piles of garbage bags, some having spilled out of their bins, but most tossed haphazardly where they now lie. This would be a mess in the summer. The stench would be unbearable, and he’d be sure to find rats scurrying from the pile trying to make a daunting escape. But tonight, they lie untouched, a coating of snow draped over them like thick blankets.

  Reynolds pulled the flashlight to the left, again, scanning nearer the ground. It always made sense to start at the bottom, work your way up and around. The flashlight paused a moment. The beam once steady, slowly stuttered and shook. He couldn’t help himself. His hand did it of its own volition. The shake started light but in seconds had nearly escalated to full on tremors. His heart sank, and he fought hard to swallow. He hadn’t even noticed he dropped the coffee cup. It hit the snow padding the concrete beneath, popping the lid and spraying a small amount of the warm liquid into the white.

  The beam skittered across the object before drifting back to the snow beside it. Once he regained control, he allowed the light to resume its position. In the beam rested a foot. The foot, dirty, bore no shoes nor socks. The skin pale, toes colored a purplish-black hue. Reynolds played the flashlight further up, the light finding the shin, the knee and the upper leg. The answer to a question regarding sex revealed itself soon enough. He watched as the flashlight crossed over the small patch of pubic hair before running the length of the young girl’s stomach, over her breasts and up her neck. He paused a moment, not wanting to see the rest. But forced himself. His eyes watered at the sight. The girl’s head lolled to the side, tongue hanging out of her mouth. Her eyes stared off into some dis
tance beyond this world. Blond hair frozen in strands to her face. All of this bore a degree of frost. Reynold’s hand went to his shoulder, clicked the talk button to radio in what he found.

  “Dispatch,” he requested, his voice not quite as vocal as normal. A crackle through the small speaker. “Dispatch, this is unit 14. Over.”

  “Dispatch, unit 14, go ahead, over?”

  “Yeah, I have a uh… Jesus.”

  “Please repeat. Over?”

  “Dispatch I have a possible ten-ninety.”

  “Roger. Location?”

  “Alley at Fifth and Sherman.”

  “Fifth and Sherman.”

  Reynolds moved his flashlight about. First around the girl’s body. Then the area surrounding. The only thing which seemed apparent, the footprints leading away from her body. He searched the ground for her clothes, but found none. He wanted at least, something to cover he up with. His light found her face again. Shook his head, hands still shaking. The girl couldn’t have been any older than thirteen. Looking for evidence of trauma, his flashlight lingered a moment below her waist. Someone had left a pile of semen. They’d spurted it on her inner thigh and just below her waistline. It smoked in the cold evening air.