Rage: The Reckoning Page 5

  Mark’s jaw dropped but Kyle kept talking.

  “I know you’re not a niner, but most of the people around here are going to treat you like one anyway cause you’re new. You got any brothers or sisters?” Kyle went on without waiting for his response. “Don’t mean to pry, forget I asked. I don’t even know who my real parents are. Anyway, like I was saying, gym is down there, handicapped washroom is the best place to change if you don’t want to end up duct taped to the flagpole out front. Speaking of which, do you smoke?”

  “Huh?”

  “Cigarettes . . . do you smoke?”

  “Hell no!” Mark exclaimed. “Only an idiot would smoke today, what with everything we know about cancer, emphysema . . .”

  “I smoke,” Kyle informed him. “So does anyone and everyone worth knowing in this shit-hole.”

  Mark wished he hadn’t said that. “Sorry.”

  “You might want to stay away from the smoking area though, at least until you’ve been here for a while.”

  “Got it, change-room and smoking area are a no-go. Anything else?”

  The school populous parted like the Red Sea from their path. Eyes were averted, heads down, Mark thought one or two of them actually reversed direction or ducked into classrooms to avoid passing the group. “Yeah,” Kyle said. “If you value your life, stay away from them.”

  Randy Boyd, and his goon squad.

  “The girl is Lisa, Kyle whispered. “She’s Mike’s sister, and man, you don’t want her on your ass either. She’s almost as bad as Randy is. In public school, she bullied this girl so bad that she tried to kill herself.”

  “I met them in the office, right before you came in.”

  “They pretty much do whatever Randy tells them to. They’ve been suspended and arrested a bunch of times. They’re hammerheads. Randy is two years behind, once as a freshman, now as a senior, even the teachers want him gone.”

  “Quite a group,” Mark smirked. “The one with the John Deere hat is straight out of Deliverance! What a bunch of losers.” Kyle grew silent, almost embarrassed for a moment, Mark realized his mistake almost immediately. Kyle saved him the trouble of apologizing.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not something I like to advertise. I’m adopted. Bob is technically one of my foster brothers.”

  “Geez, sorry about that,” Mark said sincerely. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You kidding?” Kyle said amiably. “You’re not hurting my feelings, he’s a total dick.”

  Mark laughed uncomfortably. It seemed as though every word out of his mouth was exactly the wrong thing to say. Where was the Boy with his clever wit and sarcasm when Mark needed him?

  Kyle fumbled with one of the padlocks on a nearby locker and Mark ducked in beside him, using his considerable girth as a shield blocking him from sight while the threat passed. Just when it seemed that they were safe, Randy spoke, his heavy boots coming to a halt on the marble.

  “Well, well, well,” he sneered hatefully. “Looks like Porkchop found himself a new boyfriend.”

  All activity in the hall seemed to stop suddenly as if someone had released a lion. Students either hurried to flee the area or stood frozen, not wanting to see what would come next yet unable to look away. “What do you say Bob?” he said without taking his eyes away from Mark’s, “Think Porkchop is in love?”

  “Sure looks that way to me,” John Deere agreed, grinning stupidly.

  “How about it?” Randy asked Mark, “You a queer like Porkchop?”

  Mark opened his mouth to say no but managed to stop himself. This was how guys like Randy played their little games. If Mark had said no, it would have been as good as saying that Kyle really was gay, which he didn’t think he was and wouldn’t have made a difference to Mark in any case. Even by saying nothing, he might as well have answered in the affirmative. In Mark’s estimation, the only way to win the game against a guy like Randy was to not play at all.

  Mark placed a hand gently on Kyle’s shoulder, which caused him to flinch as if he had just been slapped. “Come on Kyle.” Mark tried to brush past Randy, dragging Kyle with him, but the group quickly blocked his path. “Let us by.” Mark said calmly, when he felt anything but calm. Truthfully, he was scared to death. He kept looking around the hallway, waiting for someone, anyone, to step in. Instead, the other students just watched.

  “I got news for ya, homo,” Randy whispered, his breath stinking of cigarettes and coffee, “You had better not fuck with me. If you do, I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  Mark wanted to hit him, to bite, kick and punch his face in. Wiping that damned sneer off of his face might have been worth whatever might happen after that but he couldn’t do it. As much as he wanted to, right then and there in front of everyone, he was too afraid to move. The coiled cobra tattooed on Randy’s bi-cep suddenly struck him as appropriate, for he felt he was like a cobra; unafraid, powerful and well equipped to mess up anyone or anything that crossed his path. In a strange sense, Mark actually admired that about him. Ridiculous, considering how much that he hated him.

  “Is there a problem here, Randy?” a voice cut in, causing all heads to turn in that direction. Mark saw a male teacher carrying a briefcase in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, standing nearby and, like everyone else, observing. He was never so glad to see a teacher in his life.

  “No problem,” Randy said simply, his eyes still locked on Mark’s, “Just shooting the shit with the new kid.”

  The teacher, obviously familiar with Randy and his friends, could have let it go there. Instead, he pushed his way through the group until he was standing right in front of them, “What do you say?” he asked, looking squarely at Mark.

  “Right,” Mark said after a moment. “There’s no problem here.”

  “Good,” The teacher said to the group as a whole. “Go to class.”

  Everyone remained still for a few more seconds, waiting to see what would happen next, even Mark. Randy relaxed, his sneer turning into something of a smile as he playfully patted Kyle’s cheek before sauntering off. Mark breathed a sigh of relief, as did Kyle, but there were a few disappointed groans as activity in the hall resumed and they eyed one another gratefully the way people sometimes do after avoiding a fatal car crash.

  “Geez,” Mark said, letting out a sigh of relief. “I needed that like I need another hole in my head.”

  Kyle nodded sympathetically. “You’re telling me. I’ve had to put up with that guy every day since grade school.”

  “What’s his problem anyway?”

  “What have you got?” Kyle scoffed. “His old man is a drunk, beats his ass every other day. His uncle is a drug dealer, his girlfriend is a whore . . . need I say more?”

  “So, he’s from Ratcliff too then?”

  Kyle nodded, “Born and raised. Half the kids here are from Ratcliff. Just do your best to stay away from him for a little while and he’ll move onto someone else.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mark said skeptically, glancing over at him as they made their way to class. “Did it work for you?”

  Kyle laughed. “Well, actually, I’m kinda hoping he’ll leave me alone for a while and pick on you instead.”

  Mark had no way of knowing just how true that was.

  Five

  John made it to the precinct house for his first shift thirty minutes late and parked the Jeep in the small lot behind the station. The small single floor brick structure was built in the 1950’s as a schoolhouse and closed in the mid-seventies due to budget cuts before sitting vacant for almost a decade. In 1980 the provincial government had appropriated funds to renovate the building and added a fifty-foot long climate controlled steel Quonset structure. The new addition served as the department motor pool where the precinct's fourteen patrol cars were maintained and stored during the harsh winters. The basement of the schoolhouse was converted into twelve 8 X 9 holding cells, two interrogation rooms separated by an observation room. Since the cells were rarely utilized,
eight of the cells were appropriated as storage space, one of them had it’s bunk removed and was filled with more than fifty brand new winter tires, stacked efficiently from floor to ceiling like a container of potato chips.

  The main floor was divided into three areas. Intake and reception were located at the front, the center section was lined with two dozen desks where the officers worked. At the rear was the booking area. Squad cars would bring their prisoners through a large bay door that opened onto the parking lot, which would close behind them. The facilities didn't compare to what John was used to, but he didn't really mind because despite what it lacked in sophistication it made up for in convenience. The station was only four short blocks from the house and if not for his detour out to the high school that morning, John could have walked the distance in about ten minutes.

  Part of him thought that he might enjoy the slower pace of working in what Mark called ‘Bum F Idaho’. After his interview with McLeary, he had used what little pull he had left with Metro to do a little digging and learned that the 62nd precinct logged, on average, less than a hundred arrests a year. Of those, only a dozen or so were criminal offenses. The rest were summary offenses: vandalism, public disturbances, and the like. Of the criminal charges more than half of them were traffic related, the remaining offenses were a mixed bag of drug and weapons charges and simple assault. While working in Toronto, John had seen as much action in a single week. What interested John was what wasn’t on the list. There hadn’t been a homicide in Ratcliff since 1973. No less important was the fact that the records didn’t show a single death of an officer, ever.

  John entered the station and was greeted by the full time receptionist/dispatcher, Janet. She was a well-built woman of about thirty-five who wore too much makeup and seemed to ooze sex.

  "Good morning, hot stuff." she said cheerily, twirling a finger through her hair with a brightly painted finger nail that was far too long to be regulation length. She leaned forward on the counter with her elbows, squeezing them together in a practiced manner that pushed her breasts up.

  "Morning," John smiled, setting down his gym bag and draping his suitcase over one arm while he produced his identification. “John Stevens, reporting for duty.”

  "So, you're the new cop," she observed, looking him up and down.

  "What gave me away?" John asked.

  Janet leaned forward, batting her eyes at him. "That's funny," she smiled. “You’re funny.”

  "Is Captain McLeary around?" John said, feeling as if the entire world was watching.

  "Uh huh," she nodded, still chewing away and twirling her hair.

  “Thanks," John said, collecting his things and moving to the office he knew was McLeary's.

  "See you around, cutie." she called out after him.

  John gave a polite wave and hurried away. He had just met the resident sex-pot. Every precinct (it seemed) had at least one, some little honey wagon that every guy in the building (plus a few women) wanted to do the horizontal mambo with. But in John’s experience, ninety percent of the time it turned out to be an act. A ploy to get attention. Most people, cops in particular, were smart enough not to shit where they ate. Messing around with another cop was fine, but not one from your own precinct. Not someone you worked with, shoulder to shoulder.

  He tapped on the door that bore McLeary's name, etched in glass, a large blurry mass of a figure waved him in. Weighing in at almost four hundred pounds, John’s new boss was a thirty-five year veteran. Born and bred in the old school, he had seen the birth of three generations of law enforcement and he knew what worked and what didn’t. Back when there was no such thing as a domestic disturbance and suspects were frequently beaten and denied legal counsel, McLeary had come into his own during an era when beat cops were within their power to thump you on the skull for standing on the wrong street corner. Like John, he’d seen all the action he intended to and was probably ticking off the days till his retirement. Figuratively speaking he was a dinosaur. While most modern law enforcement officers were university grads and could run the hundred meter dash in under a minute, McLeary looked as if he hadn’t left the seated position for more than five minutes at a time in about twenty years. His upper lip sweat incessantly, making him look a lot like an obese cross between Richard Nixon and Orson Welles.

  During their brief interview, a month earlier, the captain had been friendly and welcoming. He told John that he had just recently quit smoking after thirty-eight years and although he was chewing nicotine gum, in his right hand he fiddled nervously with a Zippo lighter. On his desk was a jar of pencils that looked as if they had been ravaged by a bunch of miniature beavers and McLeary kept eyeing them from time to time, resisting the temptation to chew in front of him. They spoke informally for almost an hour before it dawned on John that he had the job. Up until that moment he had been nervous. He wouldn’t have been surprised if McLeary had been threatened by the prospect of a younger (not to mention healthier), more experienced cop coming up from the big city to show the yokels where to shit in the woods. Instead, he couldn't have been more welcoming.

  Before releasing him for the long drive back to Toronto, McLeary took him around and introduced him to the other cops on shift that morning. Afterwards, he put him in contact with Casa Rio and helped him secure the disaster zone that was their new home.

  Sitting across from the McLeary’s desk today were two other men. One a uniformed cop of about thirty-five, the other an older heavy set man who bore a striking resemblance to the Mayor of the city John had just moved from. He was sharply dressed in a silk suit, handsome in a conservative way, his blonde hair thinning into a widow’s peak, the loss diminished by keeping the sides and back cut close, almost military. He shook John’s hand cordially and flashed a politician’s smile that said; ‘I’m okay, you’re okay’.

  John had a feeling that the man was the Mayor of Ratcliff, as it turned out, he wasn’t far off.

  "John, I'd like you to meet Foster Harrington," McLeary said, proudly. “John is joining us from Metro." McLeary said it in a tone that was more like a reminder than fresh information.

  "Right,” Harrington said, smiling broadly. “I remember seeing you on television at some press conference, I think it was that Bryan Walsh thing. You looked good on TV. All kidding aside, we’re glad to have you, in fact it’s an honor to have someone of your stature up here with us. As you can imagine, most people can’t wait to get out of this town and make a name in the big city. It’s not very often we have someone as distinguished as you are come up here to stake a claim. And I know that because it takes one to know one.”

  “I appreciate that,” John said sincerely. “I’m not sure if I deserve it but I appreciate it just the same.”

  Harrington laughed, clamping a massive hand on John’s shoulder. “See? I’m telling you, this guy’s a born politician! You and I need to talk, and I’d like that to be sooner than later. I realize that you just got here and need some time to get your feet under you, but you and I are going to talk. Agreed?”

  Harrington was obviously a man used to getting his way, and until John had more information on him, he wasn’t going to risk his displeasure. He agreed, and tried to smile when he did it. He allowed Harrington to shake his hand again and wished him well as the man saw himself out.

  After he was gone, John was introduced to his new partner, the uniformed cop who had remained silent throughout the duration of the Foster Harrington Show. “This is Doug Green,” McLeary said. “Don't let his size fool you, he's tough as a pitbull and almost twice as smart."

  "Good to know," John said, shaking the man's hand.

  He reminded John of just about every young cop he had ever known. He had a confidence and eagerness about him that made him ideal for law enforcement and reminded him a little of Jimmy Hackerman.

  "John, we'll talk later,” McLeary said, lowering himself back into his seat with a sigh. “Doug, take good care of him, show him around town and we'll talk later."

 
; "Sure thing, captain," he replied dutifully.

  They left the office and once they were out of earshot, John asked, "What was that all about?"

  "Not here," Doug replied quietly. "Too many ears, let’s get you a piece and get the hell out of here."

  - - -

  Within an hour, John had been shown around the station, assigned a 9 millimeter service weapon, a cubicle to work from and been introduced to the other cops on duty that morning. After that, they performed a circle check of their assigned patrol car and headed out into town. The town was bustling with activity and traffic on Main Street was heavy as residents went about their daily business. It was one thirty before they finally stopped for lunch at the diner. John waited until they were back in the patrol car before asking the question that had been on his mind since their meeting.

  "So, what's the deal with Foster Harrington?"

  "The deal," he began, turning the patrol car out onto Main Street and heading north, "is that Foster Harrington employs around two thousand people in this town. He's on the town council, Rotary club, business owner's association and the school board. In his spare time, he coaches little league and sponsors a few others."

  "Where does he find the time?" John asked.

  "Beats me," Doug shrugged. "He's a widower. Moved here with his son about four or five years ago, been throwing his weight around ever since."

  "So I gathered," John replied. “For a second I thought he was the Mayor.”

  “That’s not a totally untrue statement. The guy walks into McLeary’s office like he owns the place, to some extent he does. If he doesn’t like you, it’s safe to say that your stay in Ratcliff will be a short one. Not that you have to worry about that.”