Scarred
By Michael Lambert
1. The Dishwasher
“Do we really have to use criminals?”
Dr. Merrill Hampton’s voice was nervous on the other side of the call.
“My dear Merrill,” Dr. Geoffrey Syrene
said. “If there is anything we’ve learned from science, it is this: when
typical methods fail, we must resort to more non-traditional means to
accomplish a goal. Subject 19-B must be found.”
#
Carlito’s Restaurant in New York was
long known for its pleasant candle-lit ambiance, attentive staff and exquisite
food. So the evening of February 27th, no one was more surprised
than Carlito himself when the men in black started putting shotgun holes in the
ceiling. As soon as he saw the five men enter his establishment, Ramone
Carlito, veteran restaurateur of thirty-five years, knew trouble would poison
an otherwise quiet night. Immediately upon entering, the men made their
presence known when one sprayed a single blast of buckshot above everyone’s
heads. Screams of terror and confusion mixed with sounds of dropped dishes as
everyone’s attention focused on the intruders.
Carlito, traditionally dressed
immaculately as host, reached inside his tuxedo coat for his cell phone. He
slowly turned away from the trespassers, hoping to get off an emergency call
before they stopped him.
“Would the well-dressed man kindly take
his hand out of his coat?” The only invading man wearing a white suit called
out from the front of the restaurant. His accent was surprisingly Welsh,
despite the black hair and dark eyes. Carlito, turning toward his diners’
assailants, considered feeling with his fingers to dial a call to ‘911.’ The
man in white raised an automatic .45 handgun. “I’m afraid I must insist,” he
said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he continued.
“Thank you for your attention. I am called ‘The Finder.’ I apologize for
spoiling your lovely evening at this high-class greasy spoon, but I am looking
for a very dangerous man. I hope you can deduce from the holes in the ceiling
that my intent is serious and my patience is short. And if anyone else decides
to use a phone right now, I will gladly end the life of the one with whom you
are dining.” Some women were crying, while others scowled in burning contempt.
“Just who in the hell do you think you
are? There are no ‘dangerous men’ here. You will leave my restaurant now!”
Carlito tried to hide the fear, but his voice was more shaky than bold. He
stepped toward the men, hoping to call a bluff. He had taken a fist to the face
too many times by bullies on Tuscany’s schoolyards until he figured out he
could keep any cowardly tyrant at bay simply by standing up to them. This, he
reasoned, should be no different.
The thug to the left of The Finder
swiftly flipped his shotgun and jammed its stock into Carlito’s gut before he
could react. More screams erupted throughout the room. A few men stood up to
help Carlito, yelling obscenities at the invaders. The apparent leader of the
gang now pointed his gun at the shouting men.
“Do shut up!” He screamed. “No more
interruptions or I will choose a lady at random and separate her brain from her
skull! Our search for this dangerous man has led us here. The sooner you show
us where he may be, the sooner you can return to the slop on your plates. After
looking at everyone in this room, I do not see him. Has anyone seen in this
restaurant a rather large man with scars of various shapes and sizes running up
the length of his right arm and over more than half his face?” Stunned looks
stared back. Carlito’s eyes widened in recognition, still looking downward. All
were silent.
The Finder calmly holstered his gun and
straightened his tie, as if he were beginning a performance. He looked around
the room with a blank face. He then flipped the table nearest him, much to the
dismay of its occupants, eliciting more screams and panic. “Boys, jog their
memories!” The other four men proceeded to blast holes in the walls and
ceiling, shattering an ornate glass chandelier. Plastic and glass rained to the
floor. Everyone took shelter under their tables, covering their ears from the
massive blasts from the front of the room. Carlito inwardly lamented the
destruction of the chandelier, a gift from his father in Italy.
“Anyone remember now? ANYONE?!” The
Finder seized his gun and waved it around, taking aim at a couple at table 4 on
his right, a large woman at table 12, then at a six year-old boy at table 23 to
his left. Setting his sights on Carlito, he said, “Call for the rest from the
kitchen. Now!”
Carlito stared up at him, horrified,
unable to move. The Finder pressed the gun’s muzzle to the restaurateur’s
forehead and exploded the command, “NOW!”
“Everybody come out here!” Carlito
called to the back. Cooks and servers filed out quickly, for they were already
peering through the back doors’ circular windows. They lined up against the
rear wall.
The Finder scrutinized each of them.
None matched the description of his quarry. “Is this all of them?” The staff
nervously looked at each other, then to Carlito. The Finder picked up on the
nuance. He reached for a walkie-talkie in his coat pocket and said, “B Team,
stop polishing your knobs and rush the back door to see if there’s anyone
else.” He then scowled at the restaurateur. “Holding out on me, mate? Yeah?”
“No… Our dishwasher is still in back,
but it can’t be him. He’s autistic. He can barely understand you. I have to
repeat myself five times before he knows what the hell I’m saying. Believe me,
Reece is hardly dangerous,” Carlito said.
From behind the kitchen doors, shouting
escalated from murmurs to screams. Then the cries stopped, as if the person
making them suddenly ceased to be. The Finder strained to hear anything else.
Carlito just whimpered, fearing the worst for his disabled dishwasher.
“B Team, get your arses out here,” the
leader in white said in his walkie-talkie. Static was the reply. “B Team!
Respond!” More static poured from the communicator’s tiny speaker. He glanced
at his comrades in silent consultation. They shrugged their shoulders in
confusion. The Finder rolled his eyes with apparent disgust at his men’s
incompetence.
“Reece, come on out or I start
decreasing the population!” The Finder called out. “You have 3 seconds!”
Gasps burst from the hostages on the floor.
More began to cry. “One…Two…Th--”
The door in the back slowly swung
forward, revealing a man dressed all in white, his head barely missing the top
of the door frame. The Finder was relieved to see a bumpy landscape of scar
tissue running up the man’s arm, though taken aback by his size. This man was
certainly the object of his hunt, but taking him down may prove to be
difficult.
Reaching 6’8”, or perhaps more, Reece
Oliver stood stoically in the doorway, his mouth drawn tight with anger. The
right side of his face matched the unevenness of his arm. Light refracted at
multiple angles off the skin’s shiny patchwork of scars, as if they were fleshy
strands woven together by a blind person. A particularly bulky configuration
even caused his right eye to droop. But the scarred mass did not hide the
darkness in his eyes.
Even as a child, Reece could stare through you. Some had said it appeared
he was looking into one’s soul. Intense and focused, his eyes were the blacker
side of brown. All of Reece’s anger, frustration, anxiety, sadness, fear and
regret shone all at once in these darkened pools of brokenness and loss. When a
person looked at Reece, they saw a dark reflection of a side of themselves, the
side we keep hidden in the shadowed attic of our psyche. The Finder desperately
tried to hide his trembling.
Carlito noticed some blood soaked into
the t-shirt on Reece’s right shoulder. “Reece, are you hurt? Did those men hurt
you?” He asked slowly, like speaking to a traumatized child.
“Hardly,” Reece said. Carlito looked
shocked at the seemingly intelligent answer.
“What happened to my men?” The Finder
raised his gun at Reece’s face.
“They’re taking a nap,” said Reece.
“Whatever. Down on the ground or you’ll
be washing dishes for God! Do it! NOW!”
Reece looked at the man who now aimed at
him with those disturbed, haunted eyes. He quickly swept the room to count the
other henchmen. His gaze again met with The Finder’s. Reece brought up his
right hand and closed his fist.
“No,” Reece said. His thoughts stopped
the flow of blood to the brains of The Finder’s men as easily as one pinches a
straw.
Immediately, the other men in black
dropped like dolls.
The Finder spun around to find his
crumpled companions. He twisted around again, his firing arm like a spear
pointed at Reece’s forehead. He had every intention of firing and dealing with
the repercussions later, except now, his finger would not move. Then his gun
jerked up. The Finder grunted, struggling for control of his arm.
The dishwasher, fist still raised,
continued to stare at the last invader standing, though it was more like
staring through him. Reece held his enemy’s arm in his mind, like steely
psychic fingers wrapped around a helpless twig.
The gun now lowered to place its muzzle
at the bottom of The Finder’s jaw. As if it were not his own, The Finder
wrestled with his appendage, using his other arm with little effect.
“I have a message for your boss,” Reece
said. He moved forward as The Finder stepped away. Blood trickled from Reece’s
right cheek. “Don’t try to find me again. I’m getting stronger. I’m a Level
Three now. He’ll know what I mean.”
At the foot of the front door, The
Finder’s firing arm straightened toward Reece, with the gun dangling by a stiff
finger. Reece took possession of the pistol and relaxed his right fist. All he
said was, “Leave,” his enemy wide-eyed with fright and befuddlement.
The Finder ran out the door into the
night.
The dishwasher turned to Carlito, who
was still trying to comprehend what had just happened. “I’m sorry, sir. Better
call the police.”
“But... but… Reece…You’re not…not…”
Carlito could not articulate his unbelief.
“Not autistic, no. But it was necessary.
I’m sorry for the deception, but I have to hide. Hide for the rest of my life.”
And Reece, too, walked out into the night, like a dead man, one who refuses to
die just yet.
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