Sixteen Sunsets Read online

  Globe looked up through the destruction in the wake of Kristof’s escape. “Any idea what he meant by the fifteen-day thing?”

  “No, Doctor Globe. We’re acquiring his records as we speak.”

  Doctor Globe rubbed the elbow that hit the floor when Kristof pushed him down. “I want those records. Please expedite the acquisition, Denisha.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she replied and left the examination room.

  “Holy Shit! You guys see that?” Joaquin still sprawled on the pavement where Kristof left him.

  “I’m getting the hell outta here, Joaquin. This was supposed to be an easy score with benefits.”

  “Come on, don’t puss out on me.” Joaquin stood and watched the rest of his crew as they fled the scene. “Pussies.” He muttered under his breath and jogged down the street.

  Kristof landed in an empty aisle in the hospital’s parking lot. The emergency room was on the opposite side of the hospital as the parking garage he had walked out the day before. When he landed, the alarm on a car two aisles away sounded.

  He ran to the emergency room entrance, and when he got to the intake desk, he shouted. “My wife was hit by falling debris! I think her arm might be broken!”

  Nurses, orderlies, and the desk police officer rushed to assist Kristof and his wife.

  “Report.”

  “Doctor Globe.” Denisha clutched a folder to her chest. “Or is it Major Globe?”

  Doctor Globe smiled and let the pen he was writing with flop to the desk. “Either is fine, but I prefer ‘Jacob.’”

  “Yes, Doctor. I have some preliminary information on,” She looked at the folder, “subject three-one-six.”

  Doctor Globe reached for the file, and Denisha eagerly relinquished it. As Globe flipped through the folder, Denisha continued, “Three-one-six is the progeny of one-nine-eight and two-zero-two.”

  “Interesting,” Doctor Globe said as he looked through the file. “Why don’t we have more information on three-one-six?”

  “He hadn’t manifested any abilities, and we thought the gene didn’t pass from the previous generation.”

  “Interesting,” he repeated

  Doctor Globe scrutinized the information in the file. He looked up after a few minutes to see Denisha still standing in front of his desk. “Thank you, Denisha. That’ll be all for now,” he said before returning to the file.

  “Thank you, Doctor Globe. Ummm...”

  Globe looked up.

  “I have a dinner date with my dad. Can I let him know I’m done for the day?”

  Globe smiled and nodded. “Have a pleasant evening, Denisha.”

  Denisha closed the door behind her, and Globe spent the next several hours scrutinizing the data contained within the folder.

  “Gimmie your keys!” Joaquin grabbed the arm of the driver of a mid-sized sedan. He had yanked open the driver door only seconds before. The driver saw the knife caked with blood pointed at him and pulled out his service revolver and shot Joaquin in the shoulder.

  Joaquin screamed out and slumped to the pavement. The occupant he had tried to carjack kicked away the dropped knife produced a set of handcuffs and restrained Joaquin before radioing dispatch for backup and an ambulance.

  Kristof slouched in a chair in the waiting room. Adrenaline had subsided, and he found himself sleepy. He reached down to the leg of the metal chair beside him and bent the leg before returning it to its previous position. The chair didn’t quite balance well, so he poked the chair and watched it rock. The stress of the day caught up with him and sleep consumed him in the hospital waiting room.

  The Enemy Rule

  Kristof slept, and memories overwhelmed him. He remembered a defining moment in his young life:

  He recalled words spoken by his father the night before. “Ten-year-old boys don’t wet the bed, Kristof.”

  “I know daddy,” he responded. “One more glass?”

  Kristof’s father sighed. “I don’t think so, Son. A good boy knows his limitations.” He smoothed the blanket covering Kristof. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow brings another sunrise.”

  Kristof smiled and closed his eyes. He could hear his father walk to the bedroom door and flip the light switch.

  “Good night, Daddy, I love you.”

  Kristof’s father paused at the door and sighed. “Go to sleep, Kristof,” he replied before closing the bedroom door.

  Kristof counted to one hundred before he opened his eyes and retrieved his favorite comic book and a flashlight. Throwing the blanket over his head he read the comic book over and over until he fell asleep.

  Kristof woke and discovered he had wet the bed. He slapped his flashlight, but it refused to shine a beam of light. He undressed in the dark and put on a clean pair of underwear. He knew his mother would be cross if he didn’t take care of the soiled pajamas. The laundry room was in the basement, and Kristof peered down the dark staircase. He knew he had another set of stairs to descend before he got to the laundry room.

  He made it down four steps before the darkness compelled him to return to the second floor. His eyes were moist as he sat at the top of the stairs, his soiled pajamas in a pile beside him.

  “Are you my brave boy?” Kristof remembered his mother saying that when he refused to climb a slide ladder at the park. Out loud sitting at the top of the stairs, he answered his mother’s question from the memory, “I am a brave boy.”

  He picked up the pajamas and descended the stairs to the first floor. He opened the door to the basement and prepared himself to overcome another dark staircase.

  A shiver rocked his body, and he felt goose bumps rise on his arms. He tossed the soiled pajamas down the stairs and ran back up the stairs to the second floor. His bed was still soiled, so he ran to his parents’ room and the comforting warmth of their bed.

  He crept to his mother’s side of the bed and pulled on her arm dangling off the bed.

  “Momma?” he whispered.

  He received no response from his mother, so he tugged and called out again.

  “Damn it, Nadine. Answer him.” Kristof’s father rolled over to scold his wife and his son. When she didn’t respond again, Kristof’s father shook the still form of his wife.

  “Nadine?”

  Kristof held his mother’s hand and knew something was wrong.

  “Kristof!” his father yelled, “get me the phone!”

  Kristof stood, pulling on his mother’s lifeless arm. “Momma?” He repeated over and over; his bravery abandoned, the tears flowed freely now. He heard his father talking on the phone in the hallway.

  “She’s cold to the touch and has no pulse.” He placed his hand over the receiver, and hissed to his son, “Kristof! Come out here.”

  When Kristof failed to heed his direction, he yanked his ten-year-old son by the shoulder away from his mother. “Wait in the living room. The paramedics are on their way.”

  On the first floor, Kristof sat in a darkened living room and stared out the front windows until red and blue reflected off the walls and glass. He knew he’d never be brave for his mother again.

  “Wake up!”

  Someone shaking his shoulder roused Kristof from his vivid dream. “What?” he stuttered, confused in the transition from sleep to wake. He opened his eyes to see Krystal with her arm in a sling. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

  Krystal looked at a wall clock. “Like, four hours. Come on, I want some lunch. And...” She held Kristof’s hand. “We need to talk.”

  “My name is Anne Henderson.”

  Anne extended her hand to Joaquin, who ignored it.

  “Very well. You don’t have, to say anything, just listen. I’m with the Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention.” Anne smiled. “We call it the O-J-J-D-P.”

  Anne produced a business card, and when Joaquin made no attempt to take it from her, she placed it on the table between them.

  “You were a lucky young man today. If that gun hadn’t misfired...” Her words t
railed off, and she raised her eyebrows.

  Joaquin leaned forward. “It didn’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The gun. It didn’t misfire. That fuckin’ pig shot me.”

  “That’s not what your booking papers say.”

  “Like I give a rat’s ass what some damn papers say.”

  Anne stared at Joaquin as if to urge him to continue.

  Joaquin sighed. “You gotta keep my secrets, right?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Like on those lawyer shows.”

  “I’m not a lawyer Joaquin. I’m an advocate.”

  “How about you advocate my ass outta here. Some strange shit is goin’ down.”

  “What do you mean?” Anne placed a folder between them. Joaquin noticed the folder was absent of any logo, but it did have a small stamp on one of the corners.

  “Three-seventeen?” Joaquin asked, reading the mark.

  Anne pushed the folder across the table. When Joaquin opened it, he saw it contained all the details of his life, including information on his parents and deceased older brother. After flipping through a few pages, he came across photos of his failed carjacking. There were pictures of the car, but what was most interesting to him was the photo of a spent 9mm copper slug. One end was crushed as it if had hit something and malformed. He recalled the intense pain when the officer shot him. He reached to the spot and rubbed the ghost pain. Anne closed the folder and secreted it back into her satchel. She then produced a metal letter opener and placed it on the table.

  “You’re going to escape now,” she said, her intense eyes boring into Joaquin’s.

  “Why’re you doin’ this?”

  “Do you know the famous quote from the Godfather?”

  Joaquin sat up straight. “Yeah,” he scoffed, “the enemy rule.”

  Anne smiled. “’Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ Some people misattribute it to Chinese general, Sun Tzu.” She examined her fingernails before continuing. “General Tzu did say this: ‘All warfare is based on deception.’” She leaned forward and regarded Joaquin with an inkling of disdain. “I met General Tzu once. He was just like you.”

  Joaquin stared at Anne, and she motioned toward the letter opener. Next, she dumped her briefcase on the table and threw it at the door.

  “Help me!” she screamed. “He’s got a knife!” She ran to the door and banged on it. “Help me, please!”

  Three uniformed police officers stormed in, weapons drawn.

  “Get on the floor!”

  “Lemmie see your hands!”

  They all shouted at once and over each other. In the cacophony, Joaquin grabbed the letter opener, and the closest officer opened fire. A single shot felled Joaquin. When the officers gathered around him, he struck. He stabbed the letter opener into the foot closest to him, seized the dropped weapon, leaped up and dashed out of the room. He grabbed Anne by the waist and held the gun to her head.

  “Back off, assholes!” he shouted. “I’ll fuckin’ kill this bitch.”

  “I don’t want to die!” shrieked Anne. She sobbed and wailed, tears glistening in the harsh light of the precinct.

  “Calm down, man,” an officer yelled. “Everyone stand down.”

  Joaquin waved the gun around. “That’s right assholes. Back the fuck down!”

  Joaquin dragged Anne toward an empty office. The officer tried reasoning with him. “There’s no way out of here, man. Even if you get outside, there’s nowhere to run.”

  “Yo, shut the fuck up!” Joaquin pressed the gun against Anne’s temple. “Unless you want a dead gov’ment bitch here, you gonna let me get outta here.”

  “We can’t let you do that, son.”

  “You ain’t my pops, yo.”

  The officer nodded and backed away, his arms held up, palms toward Joaquin.

  Joaquin stepped through the door. “Don’t come in here or she’s dead!” He slammed the door shut.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Joaquin cried out. “I’m in some deep shit.” He paced, his fists pressing against his temples, elbows squeezed to his torso.

  “Calm down,” Anne said while wiping away the tears left over from her performance. “We’ll be out of here soon.”

  “Calm down? This shit’s fuckin’ waist deep. There are like thirty cops out there.” He gestured toward the door with his stolen pistol.

  “We’re not going out there.” Anne smoothed the wrinkles from her red pantsuit.

  Joaquin started to retort, but Anne interrupted him. “You might want to step away from that wall.”

  Before Joaquin could respond, a section of cinderblock wall crumbled and a man walked through.

  “What the fuck?” Joaquin shouted.

  “Nice to meet you too,” said the man. He turned to Anne. “He ready?”

  “As ready as he can be. Please put your gloves on.”

  The man rolled his eyes, but complied. He turned and walked through the wreckage that was the wall. Anne followed, and when Joaquin didn’t follow suit, she declared, “I don’t care what happens to you, but you just assaulted three officers and kidnapped me.” She stepped through the hole. “That’s much worse than a carjacking.”

  Joaquin followed and asked, “how did this dude break the wall?”

  From ahead a voice spoke up. “The name’s Justin, by the way. Besides, you appear to have impervious skin – do my or Anne’s powers surprise you?”

  Joaquin scoffed. “Yeah.”

  “Aw, man,” Justin sighed. “What’re we gonna do with this guy?”

  Anne caught up to Justin. “Take him with us in the chopper.”

  As Justin and Anne stepped into a harness, Joaquin stammered, “I ain’t never been in no helicopter before.”

  Justin slapped Joaquin on the back with his gloved hand and replied, “I bet you never broke out of a police station before either.”

  Anne helped Joaquin into his harness and the three latched devices onto three ropes that fell from the sky. A large black machine hung silently in the air.

  “That ain’t no helicopter,” said Joaquin. “There’s no blades.”

  Anne smiled at Joaquin, pushed a red flashing button on her device, and she zipped up the rope.

  “See you upstairs,” said Justin before he followed suit.

  Keep your enemies closer, thought Joaquin. He pressed the flashing button and watched the alley recede into the distance.

  Peter awoke in his cabin. He preferred the desolation and the rugged living that the Canadian wilderness provided. It wasn’t just the desolation he desired, but the anonymity the vast frontier offered.

  Peter climbed out if his bed and straightened the layers of blankets and animal furs. His fireplace was burnt down to embers, but a handful of tinder coaxed a flame from the red coals. He ate his bowl of cereal and milk at the only table he owned. When he finished, he cleaned up promptly and returned his spoon and bowl to their proper place at the edge of the sink.

  That’s weird, Peter thought to himself, my statue has been moved.

  He walked up to the statue and put his knee into it. It may have moved a quarter of an inch, but that was enough to satisfy him.

  He looked at the calendar on the wall. “Monday,” he said out loud. His voice echoed off the tall roof. He listened to the echo, and it seemed to put him at ease. The New York Times, he thought as he fished a newspaper out of a pile secured with twine at the foot of his bed. Let’s see what you reveal to us today.

  He flipped pages until he reached the police blotter. It had gotten smaller over the years and now only filled a half page. The rest of the valuable real estate was filled with advertisements. A tag line caught his eye: Smashed car leads to failed carjacking attempt. Peter circled the tagline with a grease pencil, removed the page from the rest and tossed the remainder of the paper into a pile near the fireplace.

  Peter went on with his day, and it eventually concluded with a tumbler of Jack Daniels.

  Peter awoke in hi
s cabin. He climbed out of his bed and straightened the layers of blankets and animal furs. A handful of tinder brought life back to the red coals. After eating his cereal and milk, he began the process of cleaning his meager dishes.

  He looked out a window and gasped. Had someone been here? he thought while reaching for a pair of binoculars. He peered through them. Must be my imagination, he concluded.

  “Tuesday,” he murmured, before walking to the pile of papers bound with twine at the foot of his bed. He rustled a copy of The Daily Telegraph and spread it out in the open space between the table and the door. He leaned over the paper and scowled at the date printed at the top. It takes too long, he thought. What happened in the last week?

  After circling a few items of interest, the remnants of The Daily Telegraph took up residence near the fireplace.

  As he had the day before, he cross-referenced the circled articles with the vast library of books aligning an entire wall of his cabin. Just before retiring, he poured a tumbler of Jack Daniels. Downing it swiftly, he climbed into bed and quickly fell asleep. His snores echoed from the tall roof.

  Immediately after waking, Peter straightened the layers of blankets and animal furs before stoking and reviving the fire in his fireplace. He filled his bowl and tapped it, so the cereal was evenly distributed at a line etched in the metal bowl. A small amount of milk spilled on the table. He examined the gallon jug. Still enough for the rest of the week, he thought. When he started to wash his dishes, he reached for the dish soap and paused mid-reach and stared at the soap.

  “Did I leave the cap open?” he asked out loud. No one in the cabin responded, so he regarded the soap for a few minutes before continuing with his routine.

  He retrieved an issue of The Australian. “Wednesday,” he whispered as he shook the paper open. After comparing the information in the newspaper with his reference books, he stacked the papers that didn’t end up by the fireplace on a shelf next to his wall of well-used books.