Free Stories 2016 Read online

  That sounded ominous. "What? You're not going into a war zone again, are you?"

  "No," he said, then hesitated. "Maybe…yes, in a way. I don't know."

  "Mike, that doesn't make any sense."

  "I've been tracking…something. I haven't been giving anyone the details yet because . . . " Again, a hesitation. "Dammit." The voice was hushed now, whispering, and Xavier felt a chill run down his whole body. Mike, the confident, carefree, invincible Mike, sounded scared. "Xavier, it's crazy, but I think I've found actual evidence."

  "Evidence of what? Look, I think I should get Mom—"

  "Not yet. I have—" he cut off abruptly, and the quality of the sound showed he'd pulled away from the mouthpiece. Where is he? A pay phone?

  But Mike was saying something, but not into the phone. "I'm sorry, I'm in the middle of—GOD, NO!"

  And then Mike screamed. There was a banging, a smashing rattling noise as of something being hammered against glass and metal.

  "Mike! MIKE!!" he was shouting into the phone, but the screaming went on, a shriek of horror and agony that suddenly just cut off.

  Xavier halted his own screams, listening desperately to the hushed, rhythmic waves. And then to the lilting, insane laugh, the laugh of someone who had seen something incredibly funny in the death of another human being. A laugh that died away into the wash of the surf, and then, even as he became vaguely aware of footsteps coming at a run up the stairs, a voice, a delicate, sweet voice. "Oh, so pretty, so pretty, the patterns in the moonlight. But oh, such a waste of blood."

  His mother was there, staring at him, but he held to the phone with a deathgrip, and there was the unmistakable sound of a hand grasping the phone, and the girl was whispering, "Michael's quiet now. He says goodbye."

  And the phone went dead.

  ***

  "So the kid knows kung fu!" the leader said, and the voice snapped him back to now. The laughter had continued, and now they produced more weapons. Mostly knives, but there were a couple of guns. Forget the guns for now, if they shoot in this mess they're more likely to hit their friends.

  Two of them lunged forward then, knives out. Xavier didn't bother to try the fancy trick of kicking the knife out of the hand; he simply moved slightly aside, caught and twisted the arm as it went by, and at the same time kicked sideways and down. He felt his gut tighten, nausea rise as he felt the knee break, cartilage and bone bending sideways with a green-stick crunch and a scream. Sorry, Shihan, I'm using what you taught me to hurt people. He knew self-defense was allowed…but this was still horrid.

  No time to think, just do. He continued the spin and twist, brought the other boy's arm farther up, heard the pop as he dislocated the shoulder. I am going to puke after this, if I live through it.

  But there were others already coming in. He tried a kick, caught one in the groin, but he was wearing something, a hard cup, kick probably hurt but not enough, the others are coming, block that strike, got to get away, maybe up—

  He tried to leap to the top of the dumpster, but the one he'd kicked in the groin caught his leg, slammed him down. Xavier tried to roll but there were two others already on him, kicking, pounding. He felt a rib snap, knew the pain would hit as soon as his body realized what had happened. Then a new pain, a cold-flaming pain sliding through his gut, and he realized with dull horror that he'd been stabbed. They picked him up, threw him down, tumbling half-conscious and in agony across the filthy pavement, and as he twitched, trying to find some way to get control of his body, he saw the leader raise his gun. "Bye-bye, karate kid."

  "That's enough."

  The voice cut through everything, even Xavier's foggy consciousness.

  Standing at the far end of the alley was an old man. He was tall, with white hair that fell so it covered much of his face, and thin within the simple black shirt and pants he wore. He stood in a strange pose, arms parallel across his body, almost as though he had stopped in the midst of folding his arms.

  "Enough?" The leader spun, pointing the pistol at the newcomer. "How about enough of th—"

  And without so much as a pause, the old man was there, taking the gun from the leader's hand in a single motion. "I said that is enough."

  "What the—take this asshole down!"

  Xavier could not see—could not grasp—what happened next. It was a blur of motion, grunts of pain, screams, curses. But then two or three people ran past him, fear as plain across their faces as skywriting, and he could see, in his dimming sight, the old man standing above the unconscious—or dead—bodies of all the rest.

  The man walked past the sprawled bodies and bent down. "What is your name, son?"

  "X…Xavier . . . " he managed, hearing a faint gurgle. They must have hit a lung as well as my gut. I'm a dead man. And I've failed. "Can't…die . . . "

  "All things can die," the old man said, and his arms slid under Xavier, lifting him so easily that it felt almost like floating. "But not you, not today."

  Chapter 2.

  Xavier blinked himself slowly awake. A room he didn't recognize. Carefully fitted stonework, painted in a pattern of sunset colors that made the room feel warmer, comforting. A soft bed under him, one that smelled new-washed. His head was slightly elevated, and looking ahead he could see the wall, also of stone with a polished wooden door—currently closed—in the center.

  Just tightening his gut in preparation for sitting up warned him that was a terrible idea. A wash of sharp, ripping pain screamed at him to lie back down! He did so immediately; his training with Shihan had taught him to listen to what his body told him, and there obviously wasn't any emergency right now that justified taking chances.

  For a moment he wondered if the last memories he had were some kind of dream or illusion. But if they were, how had he gotten out of that attack alive? No, it had to be real, ridiculous though it seemed.

  The door opened silently, and the old man came in. He glanced over at Xavier and nodded. "Awake already, I see. You recover quickly, Xavier." He put down a tray which held a pitcher of water, a cup, and a bowl. "I will help you sit up, and then you can have some broth. Your insides are not yet ready for much else."

  As the old man helped him up, Xavier noticed the IV drips in his arms. "This…isn't a hospital, but you've got IVs?"

  "Such equipment is not hard to get, if you know how."

  "Did you…sew me up?"

  "I did." The old man frowned, putting deeper lines in his mahogany-colored face. "Such wounds are very dangerous, and demanded immediate attention. I have also made sure your rib is properly set, reinflated your lung, and attended to your other injuries."

  "Are you…a doctor?"

  He smiled. "I am. And other things as well." He picked up the bowl. "Now, let's see if you can hold this down."

  Xavier didn't like being fed by someone else, but he liked pain less; moving his arms hurt the rest of him, although his arms themselves seemed fine. It was a pretty good broth. "That's…homemade," he said. "Not packaged bouillon."

  "Your sense of taste, at least, is not dulled." Another smile. "Your mother cooks well, I take it?"

  "She does, Michelle does, I do okay, and when Mike's home he . . . " He found he couldn't go on; once again, the realization that his big brother was never coming home again had ambushed him in the middle of a thought.

  "Mike? A brother? Did something happen to him?" The man's voice seemed to hold genuine concern and interest.

  Xavier opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. "Sorry. It's nothing you need to worry about, sir."

  "I apologize. As long as it has nothing to do with why you were in that alley, nearly nine hundred miles from home, you are correct, it is nothing for me to concern myself with."

  Xavier winced, then his head snapped up. "How the hell do you know where I live?"

  The dark-skinned hand pointed. Xavier saw his backpack lying there against the wall. "You carried more than sufficient identification, including your address."

  "Er…yeah. Sorry.
" He looked away, then back. "Why would it matter?"

  "I have saved your life from a rather unusual and perilous situation. Even traveling alone I would have expected a young man of your age and apparent social standing to have taken a rather different route out of Chicago."

  He grimaced, swallowing another spoonful of broth the old man offered. "Yeah, I should have. But I'm mostly walking and hitching to save my money. This other old guy said you could get to a good road for walking that way."

  His benefactor raised a white eyebrow. "He did? Interesting."

  "Interesting enough that if I ever see him again I'll kick him somewhere painful. And you still didn't answer my question."

  "Not entirely, no," the man agreed. "Because, in short, I would hate to have saved a life that is to be thrown away immediately afterwards. Where are you going, son?"

  Xavier looked at him, then shook his head. "Sir…look, I'm not really ready to talk about it."

  The white hair combined with mustache and beard made it harder to read his benefactor's face. The man merely studied him for a long minute while Xavier took a few more spoonfuls. The eyes behind the hair glinted green, a startling color in that dark face. "I suppose you can take your time, Xavier. You won't be moving for a while. I can make sure you recover, but those kind of wounds are slow to heal for even young men like yourself." He smiled suddenly. "Even young men who are in excellent shape. You acquitted yourself quite well in that confrontation."

  "Well? I only got two of them, maybe messed up a third. You…Damn, sir, I thought I'd seen people who knew how to fight, but I don’t think even Shihan could have done that."

  "Shihan Butler?"

  "You know him?"

  He smiled again. "He is…quite well-known in the profession, and knowing where you came from, it seemed most likely. I have met him a few times, yes, some years ago. You have great fortune in having him as a teacher."

  Xavier nodded, and finished the last few spoonfuls of broth. "He taught me and…and Mike. Mike was way ahead of me there, though, he could've been on the track for champion, which is one reason it makes no sense . . . "

  He stopped.

  "Ah." The white head nodded slowly. "No accident, but murder, then."

  Xavier suddenly felt confused. What the hell am I doing here? How can I do what I have to do if a few punks…He looked up. "The police aren't going to find his killer," he said, as the old man began to stand, taking the empty bowl away.

  The head turned, a white eyebrow raised. The man slowly seated himself again "Aren't they?"

  "I don't think so." He realized he was committed now; if this man wished him harm, he could simply have let the gang finish him. Why not trust him? He had to tell someone. "I remember when I told them how my brother died . . . "

  ***

  "…and that's all I remember, ma'am." Xavier felt numb, exhausted and every feeling except dull rage gone.

  Lieutenant Reisman nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry to have to put you through that again," she said, "but Morgantown PD is trying to do this so that—hopefully—you don't have to get flown out to L.A. to testify." She looked at him with an analytical gaze. "Are you up to a few more questions—ones you've probably heard before?"

  He nodded.

  "The voice—are you sure it was a woman?"

  He thought about it. "Yeah. I'm sure. I could be wrong, but I'm sure, if you know what I mean."

  She smiled. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean, and I wish more people could say things that clearly. You mean that your gut says it was a woman, even if you could imagine a man sounding like that."

  "Yes, ma'am, that's it exactly."

  "You mentioned your brother was on edge, more nervous lately, and that he said he had 'evidence.' Do you know what he had evidence of?"

  He'd been going over that in his head for hours. "No, I'm sorry. All I know is…it can't have been anything ordinary. I mean, drugs or smuggling or something like that, he'd run into all that before, but whatever this was, it was weirding him out somehow. I never heard M . . . Mike so . . . " and the tears were trying to start again.

  The police lieutenant put her hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Xavier. Look, that's enough, I think." She shut off her recorder and straightened up. "We'll find the person who did this. I promise."

  ***

  "But they didn't. Weeks went by, and eventually they found some guy, drug-related gang, and said he was the one who did it." The anger and bitter, acid disappointment rose in him again. "They said Mike had a history of investigations into drug-related crime, and okay, yeah, he did, but anyway they said somehow the cartel had figured out he was onto them and killed him."

  The old man's eyes flashed green again from beneath his hair, but he said nothing for a moment. Finally, "But you don't believe they got the right man. He denied it?"

  "No," Xavier admitted grudgingly, knowing how that sounded. "He confessed. Exactly the story they said it was, and he was going to testify about the rest of the gang. Found hanged in his cell before that happened, of course."

  "Hmm. Still, he did confess to that crime. Why do you feel so certain this man is not the guilty party?"

  Xavier started to reply angrily, but then it penetrated that his benefactor wasn't arguing; he was asking, quite seriously.

  "I…a lot of little things. Partly it's just that I'm sure that was a girl I heard. Not some guy six feet two and two hundred pounds. And what the person said, that just didn't sound like someone doing a killing for a gang would do. Hell," he said with a small smile, "I just found out what a gang might do when they're killing someone."

  The old man nodded seriously. "Go on."

  "Umm…well, there was Michael's reaction. Before . . . " he didn't let himself start crying this time, but it was a close thing, "…before he screamed, that is. If some big guy had come towards him, while he was on a pay phone trying to avoid a drug gang, he wouldn't have been all casual about it. But he sounded like he was just trying to tell someone that he was busy on the phone—like maybe he thought this girl wanted to use the pay phone. He didn't sound like he thought this person was a threat until, well, they pulled out whatever weapon they used on him."

  Xavier realized his eyelids were starting to droop. "Jeez, I'm tired. But there's other things…like, um…well, Mike wouldn't just scream like that if someone ordinary cornered him…plus Mr. Wood said . . . " It dawned on him that he was getting disjointed. "Sorry, I think I'm checking out."

  "You should have gone to sleep some time ago," the old man said with another smile. "Strong will must run in your family. We'll finish talking, later."

  Xavier tried to protest, but somewhere in the middle of that, sleep ambushed him.

  Chapter 3.

  The room seemed warmer and brighter when he woke up, and the pain in his stomach was of hunger, not the lingering agony of being stabbed. Cautiously, he tried sitting up. Hurts a little…but it's a lot better. In fact, it's a lot lot better than I'd have thought. Wonder how long I slept.

  He was tempted to try to get up, but he restrained the impulse with a reminder of discipline. Don't want to undo anything that's been fixed so far.

  The door opened and once more the old man came in, as though he knew Xavier had awakened. "How are you feeling?"

  "A lot better. Better than I thought I'd feel."

  "You slept a very long time, and I've been treating you to maximize your recovery." Xavier did not miss the fact that this didn't actually tell him a thing about how the stranger was treating him. "If you are hungry, I will give you something. It appears you sat up on your own, so perhaps we will even let you walk a bit afterwards—and go to the bathroom on your own."

  Thinking back, Xavier could vaguely remember a few times where he was awakened, at least one of them involving a bedpan. He winced. The idea of some stranger helping him go to the bathroom really bothered him. "Yeah, let's do that."

  "First, we'll see how well you handle your food."

  It was food this time, of a sort
anyway—pureed stuff, mostly. But it wasn't just clear liquids, and that bothered Xavier. I was stabbed in the gut. That should take a while to heal enough that anyone wants me putting something even vaguely solid through it.

  On the other hand, again, this guy clearly had saved his life and seemed to know what he was doing; Xavier had absolutely no doubt he'd have been dead even if the gang had decided to leave him alone after that wound. So he ate, and felt that vague shakiness of someone who hasn't eaten for a long time fading away. The old man waited patiently until he was done.

  "Do you remember what we were talking about before you slept?"

  "Why I didn't think that guy killed Michael."

  "Clearheaded enough. Do you need to use the bathroom?"

  "Not yet."

  "Very well. Then let us go on. Were there any other reasons you can recall?"

  Xavier tried to remember where they'd left off. "For me I guess the clincher was when they sent Mike's stuff back to us. He used to keep a lot of stuff on his laptop, but he also took notes in paper notebooks. He showed me how he organized his stuff before, and one habit he had was that he took down each major investigation or job in a fresh book, and then copied things into electronic files afterward.

  "Well, there wasn't a current notebook. The stuff they found on his body didn't include it. And the notes on his laptop talked about other jobs he had, but nothing about a current investigation on his own."

  "Ah. You mean that he had other freelance work?"

  "Yeah. Mike was in pretty good demand, so he always had jobs on for someone."

  The old man nodded. "And that meant, of course, that there were entries of work being done—no obvious gap of time in which he was not working."

  Xavier felt a rush of gratitude at the fact that the old man seemed to be taking him seriously. "Exactly, sir. But I just couldn't believe it all, so I took the machine to this guy who lives near us and runs an information service and I paid him to have it checked out.