Roman Wolfe 2: Classroom Terror Part Six

26

“It is easy to go down into Hell. Night and day the gates of Dark Death stand wide, but to climb back again, to trace one’s steps to the upper air ─ There’s the rub, the task.”

Virgil

Roman hid behind the upper roof doorway which projected upward from the rooftop like an ice-fishing shack.

          He peeked, again, from his concealed position. He glimpsed Sam and Alyson. Roman noticed that Alyson had something tied around her waist.  Something orange? “Shit!” Roman mouthed the word. Fang had securely tied a thick orange, extension cord around Alyson’s waist. Must have gotten it from the room across the hallway, Roman thought. The cord, being used as a rope, stretched about twenty-five feet to where Fang was standing at the edge of the roof. The other end of the orange cord was tied around Fang’s waist.

          Fang stared downward and screamed, “Yuh see this orange ‘stention cord? The other end is tied ta a little girlie! If I fall off the roof then she gets pulled off with me! How yuh like that? So, go ahead. Shoot me. Come on, shoot me, yuh sons-a-bitches! Hey, Cap’an Lew. Give the order ta shoot me! I ain’t goin’ back ta prison. I don’ mind dyin’ right here! Better than life in prison.”

          Captain Lewis immediately yelled into her bull-horn, “Stand down. No one fires their weapon. That’s an order.” Then, gazing upward at Fang, she spoke. “No one’s going to shoot you, Fang.”

          “Sure, I know. Yur all goddamn chicken-shits when it comes right down to it. All cowards. Yuh’d never face me man-to-man. None of yuh would. Yuh see, I know . . .”

          While Fang continued his taunting conversation with Captain Lewis, Roman picked up a pebble and threw it near Sam. The loud talking covered up the sound so Fang couldn’t hear the pebble land, then roll. The pebble had landed near Sam and attracted her attention. Her horrified face turned toward Roman, then, like magic, she grinned.

          Quickly, Roman placed his right index finger perpendicular to his lips, indicating that Sam and Alyson shouldn’t say anything. Roman then pointed at his eyes, then Sam’s eyes, then pointed at Fang, who was still engulfed in his invective taunting. Sam knew that Roman wanted her to look at Fang so she wouldn’t give away Roman’s presence. Sam turned and gazed at Fang’s gesticulating arms.

          Sam waited, then suddenly, she felt the extension cord, around Alyson, drop loosely to the roof. Sam stared at the severed ends, then thanked God for her wonderful, atheist husband.

          Meanwhile, Fang was openly daring someone to shoot him, using a maniacal tone of voice and sudden, jerky hand-motions, while spittle ejaculated from his mouth.

          Roman, hiding behind the A/C equipment, whispered to Sam, “Door’s unlocked. Run. Lock the door behind you. Don’t show anyone the key. Go now.”

          “Lock the door?” Alyson whispered.

          “Don’t have time to explain. There’s a cop waiting for you down the stairs. Do what I told you. Take this key. Now move.”

          Sam scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. Fang was oblivious to her.

          Now that it was just the two of them on the roof, Roman went through a transformation. No longer was he a calm, patient teacher, but a skillful, violent protector; a wolf protecting its lair. His bare chest and back stood out in a strange contrast against his navy blue, dress pants and black belt. His back was smeared with old blood and rivulets of new blood, but no pain. Roman leaped away from the A/C equipment.

          Fang stood still and erect, finally sensing that something was wrong. Then he felt the answer─ the slackened extension cord. He spun around to see that Sam and Alyson were gone; his face was distorted by his fury. His jaw became a granite cliff jutting away from his thickly muscled neck. He immediately turned around and stepped away from the edge of the roof, then untied the extension cord, allowing it to fall off.

          Fang paused to glare at a strange-looking sight─ the skinny, gangling teacher. He looked into Roman’s ominous eyes and felt a disturbing surprise. Fang had been expecting to see immobilizing fear in those brown eyes. But what he saw and felt was an intense, feral heat, radiating toward him like a flame from a flame-thrower. And, yet, in contradiction to the heat, Roman’s eyes seemed covered with a film of ice, the fire blazing somewhere inside. Staring into Roman’s icy eyes was like seeing a lit welding torch through a block of clear ice.

          Fang thought, Damn Teach is clever ta get those bitches away silent. Somethin’ very odd ‘bout that puny man.

          The flames of anger leaped from Roman’s eyes like molten lava spewing from a volcano. The absence of expected fear in those eyes worried Fang. The grim slash of the teacher’s mouth had a determined edge to it, but Fang had seen that before and had also seen it crumble under the impact of his fists. Yet Fang’s primal urge was to retreat in the face of this skinny, bare-chested man with the fiery eyes and ominous grin. Roman’s eyes reminded Fang of something . . . some animal. Yes, Fang finally realized. Those were a rabid dog’s eyes. The repeated urge to retreat brought immediate shame to Fang, filling him with a rage that was aimed, like a rapier, at Roman’s heart─ retreat was a repulsive word in Fang’s limited vocabulary.

          Retreat was an abominable term and action for Roman, too.

          So Fang used an old, but often successful ploy, to spook Roman into forfeiting his psychological advantage. Fang took a sudden, menacing step forward and raised his open hands chest high, palms facing each other, fingers spread out and slightly curved, as if to grab or choke Roman.

          Normally, when Fang made this motion and stepped forward, his opponent would turn and run or freeze from panic or at least retreat a few steps. When the opponent showed any of those signs of fear, Fang knew he would overpower him easily.

          However, this scrawny teacher didn’t run or retreat.

          Then, to Fang’s surprise, the teacher took a step forward, did not cower and did not appear intimidated. Fang felt the fangs of confusion and doubt as he stared at the teacher.

          Roman’s eyes appeared to glow, then flicker like a candle flame. He glared at Fang with the chilling hardness of a block of granite.

          Roman knew that in order to beat Fang, he’d have to stay as cold and slippery as ice and as hot and intense as fire. He knew that he needed to keep out of Fang’s grasp, where those massive arms could squeeze the life out of him. Speed and technique would be his shield. No chance to overpower someone of Fang’s stature. Maybe, Roman thought, I should just shoot him. But that implied that Roman couldn’t handle Fang in a hand-to-hand confrontation. That disturbed Roman’s sense of pride and honor.

          Fang thought, How could this teacher think a standin’ up ta me, physically? Can’t he see how strong I am? Must be a damn fool ta face me man-ta-man . . . unless he knows somethin’ I don’t know. But what? Fang’s mind raced in a frenzy before the unexpected and the unthinkable happened.

          Fang experienced the cowardly doubt and hesitance of the classic bully whose bluff has been called. His thick muscles were pulling at him to retreat, but his mind, his pride and anger were pushing him to a confrontation. His own masculinity was in doubt and his mind was screaming in pain and shame for his reluctant muscles to prove his manhood.

          Fang’s pride and rage dominated his reluctant muscles. He pushed himself psychologically, determined to squash the skinny fucker who was standing defiantly in front of him. Fang’s muscles pumped up with blood as the adrenaline flowed. His heartbeat raced and his blood pressure climbed. He felt his muscles twitch with newly found energy, waiting to explode into action.

          Fang spotted Roman’s handgun and knife. Roman’s handgun was held by his right thigh, barrel pointing at the roof. Fang quickly reached for his own handgun, pulling it out of his belt, then aimed it at Roman.

          Fang noticed that Roman didn’t raise his handgun. The only movement from Roman was a strange twist to his lips, a sort of mocking smirk that further enraged Fang. Fang aimed his gun at Roman’s face, but Roman’s mocking smirk grew.

          Roman’s eyes were a chilling sight to Fang. Those eyes burned into the growing confusion and instability of Fang’s psyche with such mental torment that Fang felt forced to release his fury orally.

          Fang thought, Challenge me? The bastard dares ta challenge me? I’ll crush ‘im, break ‘im in two. The son-of-a-bitch thinks he can challenge me? He must be fuckin’ crazy. But Fang felt humiliated by the challenge. He was used to everyone backing down from his bullying ways. The challenge shocked him, disturbed him, but worse, it disoriented him.

          “Yur a goddamn fool, Teach. Yuh act too damn confident fer a skinny whelp. I could pull this trigger an’ blow yur head off right now!” Fang exclaimed.

          Roman smiled calmly, further agitating and irritating Fang. Roman thought, agitation and irritation will upset Fang, but his agitation and irritation could produce a pearl of an advantage for him.

          Roman responded, “You could, but you won’t.”

          “Wha’ the fuck’s tha’ mean, Asshole?”

          “It means that I know that you won’t shoot me.”

          “Yeah? An’ how do yuh know tha’, Asshole?”

          Roman smiled. “Well, because you’re supremely arrogant and way too cocky, but there’s also a tiny shred of doubt growing in you, and it’s because you’re scared of me,” Roman said, continuing to smile. Then Roman added, “Yeah, I’m certain of it. You’re scared of me and I’m just a tall, skinny teacher. Now isn’t that ironic? Mr. Muscles is scared and over-confident all at once. You a girlie man, perhaps? Whaddaya think I’ll do? Beat you to death with all my frail bones?” Roman laughed.

          Fang said, “Yur bluff’s pathetic. I’ll throw yuh off the roof like I did that cop. It take ‘bout as much effort as throwing a pebble off a cliff.”

          “No. I don’t think so. You won’t shoot me and you won’t throw me off the roof because you won’t end it that way, that’s all. You need to prove yourself to be stronger, tougher and meaner than the other guy. You need to use your body, your muscles, to defeat someone and still expect to gain pleasure from it. Using a bullet would only cheat yourself of the need for all that ego-stroking, hands-on pleasure. Hell, anybody can pull a trigger. Even little kids can do that. But you’re not a little kid are you? Are you? No. Of course not. You’re not just anybody. You’re the mighty Fang, the big bad Hercules standing on the peak of Mount Muscle preaching to your followers, right? You won’t let a cowardly bullet strip you of your pride and deprive your muscles of the macho pleasure of crushing me. No, you’re not going to shoot me, Fang and we both know it. You want, and you need, to get your hands on me, don’t you? Your such a big, fuzzy, cuddly bear. Oops! Sorry. I meant, you’re a mighty, mean, vicious . . . um . . . fool.

          “Hell, we both know you don’t want to fight me because behind that mad-dog body, you’re really a scared puppy. If you had a tail, it would be between your legs right now. But I’ll let you save face. That’s why I came bearing a gift, a gift in the form of a deal that I’m certain you’ll like.”

          Just then a distant noise captured their attention and distracted both of them, but only for a second. Like a metallic eagle, the State Police helicopter soared overhead searching for prey.

          The rotor wash grabbed and pulled at loose clothing and sent hair in constantly changing directions. Bits and pieces of debris swirled around, stinging bare skin. It reminded Roman of Nam. Disturbing glimpses of Nam flashed across his mental projection screen. The memories gave him a sudden chill. His hair, skin and clothes rippled from the effects of the rotor wash. He felt as if he were covered in fur and that his fur was being blown around─ Blizzard? His vision turned blood-red, as images of punctured flesh and the contorted faces of soldiers, in agony, screamed silently in his mind. Flashing images of comrades in unendurable pain seared his brain, followed by visions of wounded comrades who were waiting for a chopper to get them to where they would get medical attention. Roman snapped back to the grit-blown reality.

          As the helicopter flew low over the roof, on its way to the parking lot, the rotor wash blew cooling air onto the two deadlocked opponents. But nothing could cool the heat than was emanating from each opponent’s eyes.

                  *

          Lt. Hawkey had already brought Sam and Alyson to the parking lot. They were in the ambulance now, getting medical attention.

          Hawkey and the Captain were standing close by. Hawkey knew that a mighty confrontation was about to take place and once he knew that Sam and Alyson were safe, he grabbed his walkie-talkie and ordered all his men to hold their fire until further notice. He made all of his men acknowledge the order so that there were no errors or misunderstandings. When that was done he pulled his new Glock-21 handgun from its holster, then told Captain Lewis that Roman was going to fight Fang.

          “You know that’s not following regulations. Did you OK that approach?”

          “Yes, Bev, I did. You want the best man for the job up there on the roof? Well, he’s there right now, Bev.”

          “What? Are you crazy?” responded Captain Lewis.

          “You don’t know the Wolf Man, Bev. So far everything’s been foreplay. Now Fang’s going to get fucked.”

          Then, without giving Bev a chance to reply, he ran for the side entrance to the

school. Once inside he ordered the nearest guard to follow him upstairs where they both guarded the doorway to the roof. They heard muted talk coming from the rooftop.

                  *  

          “Well,” said Roman, “you know the cops have Freddy and I handed Miller to them. It’s just you and me now. There’re cops all over the hallways downstairs,” he lied, “and it’s all just a matter of time before the snipers are repositioned to get them in locations where you’ll be exposed from one angle or another. There’s no hiding any longer, Snaggletooth─ Fang reached up and pulled his lip off his tooth. You’ve got, perhaps, fifteen minutes, at most, before you’re a dead man or a convict, again. So I─”

          “Yeah! Yeah!” Fang interrupted. “Snaggletooth, huh. Tryin’ ta piss me off? Fuck yuh, wimp. Yeah, I can see the writin’ on the wall, so quit usin’ up my fifteen minutes with all yur bullshit. Git ta yur fuckin’ point, Teach.”

          “OK. Well, then, here’s the deal, Fang. We unload our handguns, together, of course, and throw them, as well as the bullets, over there.” Roman pointed to the area. “Then you and I fight each other. If I win, I take you to the cops. If you win, you have me as a hostage to help you get to that helicopter and, let’s face it, you’d never make it to the chopper without a hostage. And that helicopter’s the only way you’ll ever be able to get out of this mess. Whaddaya say? You got cojones big enough for that? You know, mano-a-mano . . . or were you just blowing hot air out your ass?”

          “Fuck yuh! What’s the trick, man?” blurted Fang. “Yuh looked in a mirror lately? Hell, I seen toothpicks bigger than you. Why would yuh want ta make such a deal, ‘less there be some trick ta it? I’m not stupid. I know the door’s unlocked. Yuh opened it. Must be another key. So now the cops rush up here an’ use me for target practice? Is that it?”

          “Yeah, you’re right, Fang. There’s a trick, but first you should know that the door is locked. I told Sam to lock it when she escaped. I gave her the spare key when she left. So the cops won’t be rushing up here without breaking the door and giving you plenty of warning. I also told Sam to hide the key and not tell anyone. You have the original key and Sam has the spare key. The door’s locked.

          Now Roman did some acting, down-playing his skill. “So . . . now here’s the trick. The trick is that I’m going to kick your ass all over this roof. Hell, you don’t have a chance, really, because I mess around with martial arts once in a while. You know, like, in my cellar? I can break one-inch boards, so I think I can take you down. Now, if I was a coward like you, I would guess that a better alternative than getting my ass kicked would be to give myself up to the cops. You could save yourself a shameful beating that way. Hey, you don’t really want to go back behind bars with a bunch of cuts and bruises, maybe a black eye or broken nose. What’ll the guys think? That’ll only show that you got you’re ass kicked. The guys’ll laugh at you. So what’re you going to do, chicken shit? Give up or get beat up?” Roman laughed tauntingly, humiliating Fang to the brink of desperation and uncontrollable rage.

          Fang pointed to Roman’s knife. “The knives get put down, too?”

          “Up to you,” Roman responded laconically, but still grinning tauntingly at Fang. “Actually, I kind of like blades. Good things for whittling large chunks into small objects. You know what I mean?”

          Fang thought Roman was bluffing about the knife. What he did know, however, was that he wasn’t real good with one or he’d slice this fucking teacher’s heart out. But he also hated the thought of his skin or muscles getting cut; it wasn’t in his own self-image to see his muscular body sliced up and scarred.

          Roman saw that his planned sarcasm and humiliation had gotten to Fang, whose face took on the color of a beet and whose facial expressions were contorted.

          Roman was not nearly as self-confident as he pretended to be. Roman’s own doubts set in, but he shook them off like a dog shaking water off its body. Roman knew that self-doubt had to be pushed aside in any confrontation, if the expected outcome was to win. Even in a losing battle, not acknowledging self-doubt enabled one to put in a “good showing.” He didn’t fear losing as much as he feared giving up, quitting, not doing his best, acting cowardly. Roman hoped he was skilled enough to meet this challenge successfully. It was time for action, not words, he reprimanded himself.

          Fang and Roman cautiously watched each other unload the handguns; they each drew out their knives. Roman walked a few steps away and placed his empty gun, bullets and knife on the roof. Then Roman walked back to his spot. He stared at Fang.

          Fang hesitated. He looked at his knife, then looked at the smiling teacher. He walked a few steps away and put down his gun and bullets, but kept the knife. His cruel eyes and twisted lips smiled at Roman.

          “My goodness, Snaggletooth. With all those muscles and your size, you don’t think you can take me without that knife? See? I told you before that you were afraid of me. Man, look at you. You’re proving what I said about you. You’re afraid of me. You’re a chicken. You stand there with your legs apart, as if you have bowling balls between your thighs. With balls that big, you really think you need to have a blade to have an edge on me? Pardon the pun, but it’ll be fun, to see you run, without your gun, like a girlie nun, in the hot sun, until I’ve won, and you are done.” Roman laughed heartily, then made clucking noises like a chicken and flapped his arms as if they were wings. Roman continued taunting, “You’re simply a muscle-bound coward after all, aren’t you?” Roman howled. He howled so loudly that all the people in the parking lot and in the hallways were startled by the wailing, animal-like blast and haunting, wolf-like howling.

          Then the howling changed to a deep throated growl, the growl of a hunter confronting its prey, exactly like the howl that exited from the gnashing teeth of a wolf.

          Fang, out of red-faced embarrassment, tossed the knife aside, saying, “I don’t need this ta kill yuh, Teach. All I need’s me bare hands.”

          Fang rushed brutishly, but not cautiously toward Roman, wanting to completely destroy him─ to break him in half and toss him over the roof like garbage.

/-.--/---/..-/-./--./.-/-./-../.-../---/…-/./-../

27

“I have read many obituaries with great pleasure.”

Clarence Darrow

“I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying that I approve of it.”

Mark Twain

Captain Lewis saw Lieutenant Hawkey vanish into the school. She knew that he and his men would have the school completely sealed off. She didn’t question his actions. Lieutenant Hawkey was here because she trusted him. She didn’t agree with his complicity concerning the rooftop situation, but she knew that it’s during times of disagreements when trust is forged into an unbending bond.

          She knew that Lt. Joe Hawkey was the kind of guy that thought it best to hurt you with the truth, rather than please you with a lie. She also knew that Hawkey thought, that when seconds counted, sometimes the chain of command had to be broken. She also knew that, on occasion, Joe could be as nasty as a threatened badger.

          Fang and Mr. Wolfe were reported to be on the rooftop. But Bev couldn’t see this for herself. She became frustrated, but it was a controlled frustration. Then her eyes lit-up as if a jolt of electricity shot through her when she realized that she did have the means of seeing what was happening on the roof. The helicopter.

          She ran to the helicopter, grabbing one of her men by the sleeve, almost jerking him off his feet and nearly forcing him to drop his rifle in order to keep his balance. They both reached the helicopter as the trooper pilot was exiting the aircraft. The rotor blades hadn’t yet come to a complete stop.

          “Take us up!” she shouted to the pilot.

          Seeing her severe expression, knowing her imperious stature and reputation, and hearing the determination in her voice, the pilot obediently responded, “Yes Captain.” The pilot jumped back into the chopper, followed by Captain Lewis and trooper Decker. Captain Lewis sat in the front seat, adjacent to the pilot, with trooper Decker sitting in the back seat. In seconds the chopper was in the air again, where Captain Lewis had a clear view of Fang and the mysteriously, foolish teacher that Lieutenant Hawkey had so much faith in. She wished that she could share that faith.

          Her first impression was that she was startled by the obvious mismatch in size between the two opponents. That first impression was followed immediately by something more mysterious, something unsettling. Something else was on that roof. She thought she saw white flashes streaking in circles around the two men, like the contrail of a jet. She stared at the whitish blur, disbelieving what she saw. Swirling dust? An illusion? Suddenly the blur stopped and stared directly at the helicopter, canine’s gleaming.

          Holy shit! Is that a white dog? she thought. Then, “Oh-my-god. It’s a wolf.” Her eyes bugged out as Blizzard bared his teeth. Then Captain Lewis saw the flashing sparks in the wolf’s eyes, sparks that burst into flames, giving a reddish glow to its eyes. She rarely felt fear, but now was one of those times. She looked at the teacher and saw exactly the same thing in his eyes─ a burning, glowing, red-eyed fury.

          Then something else occurred that she couldn’t explain. The wolf, in a streak of blazing speed, jumped at Roman with a howl that made her automatically flinch. Her jaw dropped when Blizzard disappeared into Roman’s chest cavity. It was only then that she realized that Roman would have a chance against Fang. Startled, she thought, What the fuck is going on here?

          She looked at the pilot and asked, “Did you see that white wolf?”

          Looking at her, curiously, he said, “What white wolf, Captain?”

          Looking over her shoulder, she asked trooper Decker, “You saw it, didn’t you?”

          “No, Captain. I didn’t see anything, but those two men. Kind of a mismatch isn’t it? Good thing the ambulance is here. That teacher will need to be treated immediately, that is, if he survives the confrontation.”

          As Bev stared out the window, the pilot and trooper Decker looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, not knowing what the hell Captain Lewis was talking about.

          “Don’t be so sure,” Captain Lewis remarked in a stunned voice.

          Roman was a couple of inches shorter than Fang and that fact was hardly noticeable from the helicopter. What was readily noticeable was the mass of each person. Fang clearly out-weighed the teacher by about fifty pounds of muscle. Fang looked massive. Christ, Captain Lewis thought, they look like a barrel and a pencil.

          She noticed that the teacher was bare-chested and she wondered why.

          As the helicopter circled, Captain Lewis saw a patch on Roman’s back. A wound, maybe? The tape holding it on was crisscrossed three times. But what crossed her mind the most, as she stared at him, was how vulnerable he looked compared to Fang, and yet, there was something dynamic and athletic about him. He possessed an aura and vitality that seemed to radiate a shimmering wave around him, like a full-body halo. He’s a Berg, she thought. He’s one of those extremely rare people who doesn’t look like much on the surface because the best of him is concealed below the surface like an iceberg. Jesus Christ, she thought, Snap out of it, as the helicopter circled the roof again.

          Captain Lewis remembered that Hawkey had said he’d bet his own life on this guy, and that, for the time being, anyway, was good enough for her because she felt the same way about Hawkey. Hawkey trusted this Wolfe guy implicitly and that’s how she trusted Hawkey. So she would allow Hawkey to do things his way, within reason─ her reason.

          “I may be able to get a shot at Fang,” trooper Decker yelled over the rotor noise.

          Captain Lewis looked back over her left shoulder and responded in a loud voice that couldn’t be mistaken; a voice she seldom had to use, but didn’t hesitate to use now.

          She yelled, “Trooper! You keep that rifle away from the window until I or Lieutenant Hawkey tells you otherwise. Hawkey gave the order for no shooting and no one breaks that order, but me. And just what kind of goddamn shot are you going to get, anyway, from a jerking, vibrating machine that’s swaying as it hovers in the air? You’ve been watching too many of them damn James Bond movies, Trooper.”

          She continued to stare at him for a couple more seconds. Her glare was like twin laser beams boring into him. The force behind her reprimand seemed to actually push him back into his seat. Embarrassed, he said, “Sorry, Captain.”

          “It’s OK, Decker. Just keep calm, but ready.”

          Her gaze then returned to the men on the roof.

          Roman and Fang continued to glare at each other. What Roman saw, was body parts; the vulnerable parts of Fang’s body to strike: eyes, nose, neck, solar plexus, ribs, testicles and knees.

          What Fang saw was a long piece of string cheese that he wanted to tear apart, chew and spit out.

          As the helicopter hovered high over the roof, the three occupants saw Fang take a step toward the teacher. These two mismatched opponents were about to enter into the struggle of, and perhaps for, their lives. The helicopter’s occupants watched as if mesmerized by a video that they could not turn away from.

          “Yuh stupid pile a shit!” Fang growled angrily. “Yuh could never match my strength. Yur jus’ a skinny, shriveled-up faggot.”

          Fang laughed tauntingly, his upper lip snagging on his tooth. He moved his lip around to free it from the tooth, then paused. He stared at Roman. He looked into Roman’s obsidian eyes. They looked cold, but then bright lights of unknown origin burst into flames that reflected inward, illuminating the caged wraiths that hid within the shadowy depths and crevasses of Roman’s mind.

          Fang sneered and, again, caught his upper lip on the tooth. He removed it. Embarrassment engulfed him?”

          “That’s OK, Fang. You go ahead and fix that snaggletooth of yours before we get down to business.”

          Fang rushed toward Roman, his outstretched hands preparing to grab Roman’s throat. Roman darted sideways and delivered a blocking knife hand (shuto) strike to Fang’s right elbow joint. The shuto strike served to not only block Fang’s arms out of the way, but it also inflicted pain into the elbow joint. Roman then followed up with an immediate and powerful right-foot round-house kick (ma-washi-geri) which slipped in under Fang’s arms and rammed into his solar plexus.

          Fang grunted from the sudden impact and was thoroughly surprised by the technique. He turned slowly to face Roman, who was surprised that Fang didn’t.

          Fang rubbed his solar plexus, then his elbow, trying to relieve the pain. He inhaled deeply and shrugged his shoulders. “So that’s the trick yuh had up yur sleeve? Yuh knows a little chop-chop karate crap, huh?”

          Fang used this break in the action to catch his breath, to prepare for the kill. “I knew a guy in prison who knew a little of that chop-chop crap. He tried to use it on me.” Fang smiled broadly, flashing his yellowish front teeth. “I bashed his fuckin’ head inta a brick wall a few times. Poor little fellow has hisself some brain damage now. Doctors say he be a vegetable for the rest a his life. So I wished ‘im well an’ hoped that he’d have a long life.” Laughter from Fang. “Goin’ ta do the same thing ta yuh, boy. Yur gonna be a mashed potata. I’m gonna shove that Jap crap up yur ass so far yuh’ll choke on it.”

          “Well, then, I sure hope you had a good night’s sleep. You’ll need all the energy you can get. By the way, how’s a big, muscular guy like you sleep? I’ll bet someone as big as you sleeps in the fecal position, right?” To Fang, the slanderous pun went totally unnoticed, like a stealth plane over his head.

          Roman thought he was being witty and that went unnoticed, too.

          “Naw, Asswipe. I sleeps on my back. What’s it ta yuh?”

          “Just curious if a bed was ever made to hold a lump of crap as big as you, that’s all. Your karate man must have been a novice. Novice? It means a beginner. I’ve known plenty of karate masters who would have killed or maimed you already. And they’re only half your size.”

          “Bull shit!” Fang responded.

          Both men stared at each other. Fang was squeezing his fingers into a fist, then relaxing them as if he were squeezing a tennis ball. Roman was in a modified horse stance, knees slightly bent to spring into action.

          “Don’t need no word lessons, sonny boy. Jus’ want yuh ta know that I’m gonna change the look a some a yur body parts. ” Big grin, then laughter from Fang.

          “Let me ask you a few questions,” Roman said, ‘Why is it that the biggest bullies have the biggest mouths? Does that take a lot of practice or does it simply come naturally? Are you an orator or a fighter? Don’t get me wrong. Hell, I’m OK with talking and delaying things, if being a verbose coward is your style, but why be a big-mouthed idiot and bully if you’re afraid to fight me?” Roman’s sarcastic smile out-shone Fang’s like the sun outshines the moon.

          Roman continued, “You want to quit now, or do you want me to continue with my karate lesson? Or maybe you can simply talk me to death. Hell, I’m dying of boredom. I’m already slightly brain damaged just listening to your bullshit.”

          “There be no quittin’, boy. Don’t care about no Jap crap neither.”

          “That’s OK. I only know enough to teach a beginner like you a good lesson. Now, are we going to chat all day? Should I order tea and Danish pastries?” Roman grinned, but his eyes blazed. “Do you want cream and sugar in your tea?”

          Fang’s smile slackened. The skin around his eyes pulled tight. His teeth clenched.

          Both men had been concentrating so thoroughly on each other that they hadn’t noticed the noise of the helicopter. Now, as it circled around them, they became aware of it and felt the cooling breeze from its whirling blades and the sting of flying debris.

          Roman was suddenly distracted. To Roman, the chopper was a symbol of all the tragic, human horror that he had witnessed and participated in while in Nam.

          To Fang, the helicopter represented a savior─ a hovering angel coming to scoop him up and carry him away to safety. And this wise-ass teacher was his free ticket to accompany that angel on a trip that would take him far away from his pursuers. Then he’d push the teacher out the door of the helicopter and watch him plummet to his death.

          During Roman’s karate training the sensei (teacher) almost always stressed that karate was for defense, not offense. But Roman knew that one cannot always live by strict codes, rules, laws, standards or philosophies. For Roman, this was one of those times. Like a wolf, he leaped toward Fang’s, burying a tremendous sidekick (yoko-geri) into Fang’s unsuspecting abdomen, then planting that same foot back down on the roof and spinning his body around backwards, he smashed a left-footed back kick (ushiro-geri) into Fang’s ribs and heard the sound of a pencil breaking─ one of Fang’s ribs.

          Fang staggered backwards, grabbing his side, his eyes bewildered, his face red with rage and pain; his fists knotted into white-knuckled marble. Just as he caught his balance, Roman quickly approached with what should’ve been a devastating front kick (mae-geri) to Fang’s groin. However, Fang had been fooled enough by this frustratingly deceptive teacher, so Fang swung his left hip forward, so both hips were in line with Roman’s front kick. Then Fang widened his stance and bent his knees slightly for a stronger stance, while at the same time raising his left arm and fist to head level.

          The heel (kakato-geri) of Roman’s right foot came crashing into Fang’s bony hip a split second later. This time it was Roman who grimaced in pain as the smaller bone of his heel collided with Fang’s larger, stronger hip bone. Then, before he could withdraw the foot completely, Roman’s pain doubled as Fang’s left arm and fist came crashing down onto Roman’s shin bone, slamming that leg to the ground, causing Roman to lean forward. Fang took this opportunity to punch with his piston-like right fist, toward Roman’s face.

          Roman anticipated Fang’s strike and when he saw the fist coming at him, he snapped his head backwards like a boxer slipping a punch. This action, though it avoided the full impact of the punch, didn’t prevent Roman from getting hit with a glancing blow. It did cause Fang’s fist to strike slightly lower than the bridge of the nose, with less force, on the rubbery, cartilage tip of the nose that could more adequately absorb a punch than could the brittle bone at the bridge of the nose. The injured nose bled immediately and profusely, but instead of feeling warm, it felt cold as it was fanned by the rotor wash of the helicopter. Neither man could hear the rotor blade noise, their concentration on each other being so intense. Besides each other, all they seemed to sense was their own pain, their own rapid heartbeats, their own heavy breathing and the rush of blood through their arteries causing a sound like ocean waves in their ears.

          Roman staggered backward, the result of jerking his head backwards so quickly, while trying to avoid the impact of Fang’s punch. He lost his balance, tripping over an uneven spot in the roof, then fell onto his back. The jagged gravel that was imbedded into the roofing tar slashed and punctured his upper back area, leaving droplets of blood to stain the grayish tips of gravel. The paper towel bandage ripped and Roman could feel the wound bleeding again. Roman couldn’t feel any pain . . . yet.

          Fang rushed in as quickly as his huge body would allow. He was like a bull in heat, anxious for an orgasm. He lifted his right knee chest high, leg bent downward, then sent the heel of that leg thundering down toward Roman’s face.

          Roman recovered in time to roll over and spin his body around at the same time, avoiding Fang’s lethal heel stomp, the force of which jammed several stones deeply into the thick, hardened tar, leaving a large and deep crescent-shaped heel print in the rooftop. Roman tried to get up, but couldn’t move fast enough. Then, seeing Fang bending over and reaching for his left ankle, probably wanting to twist and break it like a chicken wing, Roman immediately withdrew both legs toward his buttocks, while at the same time turning his body onto his right hip leaving his left leg in perfect position to kick. And kick it did. Like a bazooka thrust, Roman slammed his left heel out so it was foremost and struck a violent, crunching blow to the bridge of Fang’s nose. The blow must have felt like being hit with a baseball bat. Blood spurted where the broken, white shard of nose bone protruded through Fang’s skin, the sound like shale cracking during an earthquake.

          Fang saw red, literally, as the blood gushed onto his lips, teeth, cheeks and chin. His knees began to buckle. He staggered toward the still prone Roman, covering his nose protectively with both hands, forming a gruesomely bloody, finger-painted mask, blood oozing between his fingers. His eyes blinked rapidly, desperately trying to clear away the flood of tears that had inundated them and blurred his vision.

          During this momentary pause, Roman rolled onto his left hip leaving the right leg already cocked and released a straining grunt from his lips, then sent the blade of his right foot─ the ridge that extends from the little toe to the heel─ into Fang’s crotch, as Fang was standing over him, legs apart, trying to regain his balance and clear his vision.

          Fang let out a agonizing grunt as his testicles compressed from the sudden force of being rammed up into his crotch. His hands dropped to his crotch as he fell to his knees, helpless, the blood and tears streaming down his cheeks, around his mouth and dripping from his chin. Tortured sounds and a spray of blood ejaculated from between his red-strained, tightly clenched teeth as he kept both hands covering his groin.

          Roman immediately performed a gymnastic backward somersault from his prone position and landed on his feet, assuming a deep, knees-bent, horse stance (shiko-dachi).

          Roman saw the opening immediately. Fang, still on his knees, swayed back and forth, his eyes closed, head bent down with the anchor of pain. Fang’s neck was exposed. Roman leaped to the side of Fang and with an open-handed, edge of palm strike. He slammed his hand viciously into the back of Fang’s neck, hoping to hit the occipital bone at the very base of the skull. If hit properly, with enough force, it would render Fang unconscious. But the continuous movement of Fang’s neck made the blow miss its mark.

          Fang pushed himself up from the roof. The big man wasn’t through. The chop to the back of the neck wasn’t accurate, though it was painful.

          Fang stood as his pain assuaged, though blood frothed from the corners of his mouth as he strained to keep his bodily bulk in action. His lips turned upward into a feigned smile, his snaggletooth hooking onto his upper lip. Fang brushed his lip off the troublesome tooth, then glared at Roman saying, “Shit! Yuh be a surprise. Thought yuh was a bluffin’ bastard.”

          Roman remained in his horse stance as he watched to see what Fang would do. He knew that by facing Fang sideways, in the horse stance, he was offering very few vulnerable targets to Fang. Roman’s eyes tracked Fang like radar; his mind screaming at him to attack Fang and, yet, he didn’t. He was trained for this, but he did not attack.

          When Fang took a threatening step toward him, Roman modified his horse stance to a leaning-back stance (kokutsu-dachi) which is strictly a defensive position where, from a horse stance, Roman simply leaned his previously straight torso backward with about seventy percent of his weight on the back leg and the remaining thirty percent on his front leg. His upper body remained sideways, with his upper torso leaned back, out of Fang’s reach. The line extending from his front leg to his head would made a forty-five degree angle. His front fist was held at thigh level with the forearm and upper arm protecting his ribs. His back arm was cocked and held at shoulder level, ready to counter-attack.

          As Fang circled him, Roman pivoted his stance to remain facing Fang. Fang moved more slowly, more cautiously. He wished he hadn’t been suckered into this fight with the cunning teacher. He’d seriously misjudged the guy. The teacher’s every move, offensive and defensive was an obvious indicator of his superior, martial arts, combat abilities; his competence and confidence showed on his stoic face. Teach was dangerous and Fang didn’t like having to admit that to himself, but he did because recognizing the danger is always the first step in any plan to successfully overcome that danger. He desperately wanted to land a fight-ending, solid punch.

          Fang was disappointed in himself for not seeing the danger in this teacher earlier. The had been hints of danger, but nothing concrete. He wished, now, that he’d shot the bastard. He had let the tall, skinny appearance dominate his perceptions. When he saw the teacher’s six feet, two inch, one-hundred eighty-five pound frame, he simply disregarded the teacher as being any kind of a real threat to him. He was sure that the teacher was bluffing with the karate talk or, at least, that he was only a novice karate student. Now he knew that he’d been played for a fool.

          But, Fang thought, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t still turn the table on this teacher, and still beat the crap out of him, leaving him lying on the roof like a lump of bloody pulp. Fang’s only regret now was that he had to keep the teacher alive because he needed him as a hostage in order to get a helicopter ride. Fang thought of some ways that he could make death very painful and long for the teacher. He found hope and a cruel satisfaction in these pathological thoughts. He even gained energy from them, but when his thoughts cleared, he knew there would be no time for torture. He’d teach the teacher how to fly . . . from cloud level.

          Fang eyed Roman’s extended lead leg and quickly tried to kick it, hoping to knock Roman off balance. But Roman’s reflexes were simply too fast for him. Roman had plenty of time to lift the leg, then replace it.

          Realizing that Fang had too much at stake, so he would probably never give up and that he couldn’t remain in a defensive posture indefinitely against someone as massive as Fang, Roman decided he’d have to be the aggressor to keep Fang on the defensive.

          Roman immediately and smoothly switched his stance, again, to the American Free Fighting Stance. In this stance, keeping his feet closer together, and by standing more erect, Roman was able to achieve greater mobility, speed and power. This higher stance also allowed him to perform punches and kicks with less chance of telegraphing his intentions, as often occurs when a lower stance is taken. Best of all, the American Free Fighting Stance was a surprisingly versatile stance offering many opportunities to perform offensive techniques, while at the same time allowing Roman to immediately switch, if needed and with minimal effort, to an excellent defensive posture.

          But as Roman realized that he’d have to go on the offensive to defeat Fang, he found himself the target of a sudden flurry of Fang’s arms, like being attacked by a windmill. Roman took a punch to the chin that jarred him back to reality.

          Roman knew it was a chance he’d have to take, so, instead of retreating, he stood toe-to-toe with Fang, blocking punches with lightening speed, power and accuracy. Then just as suddenly, he stepped toward Fang, jamming him and releasing an upward, close-quarters palm-heel strike (teisho) under Fang’s chin─ when striking into bony areas, Roman preferred not to punch with his knuckles because the force of the strike travels into the small, delicate bones in the fingers and wrist. So Roman used the palm-heel strike which, when delivered correctly (with the fingers curled inward to protect them, the wrist bent back so the strike is delivered from the bottom of the palm, the area at the base of the thumb) the pressure is no longer on the smallest bones of the hand, but on the radius, the ulna and the humerus bones, larger bones that can better absorb the force of the strike.

          Ducking his body under Fang’s arms, he viciously slashed his right elbow (empi) into Fang’s ribcage. Quickly pulling his right arm downward and standing more erect, he arched a looping ridge-hand (haito) strike over Fang’s flailing arms. It struck like a hammer into Fang’s sensitive temple. He immediately followed that with a back round-house kick to Fang’s left, outside thigh, striking the peroneal nerve causing an immediate numbness in the leg that nearly buckled Fang’s left knee.

          Roman cursed when Fang’s knee didn’t collapse.

          Fang gained his balance with his good right leg, but felt the numbness of Roman’s tremendous blow. But Fang would not retreat. Roman started thinking, Why me? Why do I get these big, muscle-bound fuckers to fight? Shit! Some day I’m going to meet one of these apes that has tremendous martial arts skills and I’ll get crushed.

          Fang took the blows and, although they were painful, he kept coming at Roman. Roman knew that neither of them could keep up this furious pace for very long, but he was determined that he would outlast Fang’s tenacity, no matter how long the fight continued. He felt himself breathing hard, but saw that Fang was not only breathing hard, but weakening considerably.

          Fang staggered toward Roman, like an exhausted boxer, flailing wildly as exhaustion and weakness took a tight grip on his heart, muscles and lungs. He couldn’t get enough air and was gasping for breath. His muscles burned from lack oxygen. His breathing was rapid and raspy. He continued throwing punches, weak, slow punches, but they still had the force to punish, especially the more delicate facial bones.

          Roman was cautious, looking for an opening to Fang’s face. When the opening occurred, he attacked suddenly with a thrusting spear-hand (nukite) to Fang’s eyes, then withdrawing the hand and switching to a knife-hand (shuto), he slashed a blow to the side of Fang’s neck, followed by a heel-stomp (ushiro fumikomi) to Fang’s instep, all while weaving and bobbing in and out of Fang’s range. The flurry of punches and kicks were all successful to varying degrees, but only knocked Fang off balance, backing him up and turning him slightly.

          Roman, now fighting off his own exhaustion, seized this opportunity for another heel stomp to the back of Fang’s knee, finally collapsing the knee, sending Fang down to the roof on all fours. This move put Roman behind Fang. Roman bent and lifted his right leg, pulling it backward as high as it would go, then thrust the knee violently forward into Fang’s spine, at the base of the neck. Fang’s neck muscles tightened in agony and he grimaced. Roman then grabbed Fang’s hair, yanking his head upward and backwards so that Fang was now back up on his knees, his throat exposed. Roman smashed a vicious left handed knife-hand strike (the open hand strikes with the area from the base of the little finger to the wrist) toward Fang’s Adam’s Apple. Fang lowered his chin protectively, making Roman’s strike glance off his chin, then into his Adam’s Apple with much less force than Roman had intended. Roman groaned in pain, but shrugged it off. Roman still held Fang’s hair so he violently shoved Fang’s head forward. Fang’s body snapped forward as if from a spasm, his chest and face crashing onto the graveled tar rooftop. He lay there motionless, except for the rapid expansion and contraction of his stomach as he gasped for breath.

          Roman stood erect, over Fang’s body, staggering slightly from his own exhaustion and breathing heavily, spittle dripping from his mouth. His chest was heaving; his heart was trying to escape from his chest cavity. It had never taken Roman so long to best an opponent and it had never taken such a toll on his body. Roman thought, That bastard was tough, but I outlasted him. Roman wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked down at Fang’s nearly motionless body.

          Roman relaxed, put his hands on his thighs and breathed deeply through his nose several times, each time slowly releasing the air out of his mouth─ a karate training technique─ through pursed lips, in an attempt to control his rapid heart beat.

          Roman was surprised that he hadn’t killed Fang, though society-at-large would probably think that they were better off with Fang dead. But if he’d killed Fang, then part of society would label him a reckless killer. Roman, though, had had enough killing in Nam─ and another country which had a TOP SECRET classification by the Department of Defense─ then in the Adirondack Mountains just two years ago. He hoped that the killing could finally stop. All he really wanted was to be a normal, average teacher, enjoy his job, genuinely care for his students, then, each evening, go home to his wife and daughter. He simply wanted a quiet, relaxed life.

          Roman walked away from Fang’s prone body, toward the edge of the roof so he could let the people in the parking lot know it was all over.

          He heard the roar of the helicopter for the first time. He looked up at it and wondered if Hawk Eye was the pilot. He’d heard that Hawk Eye had learned how to fly those things in Nam, after he, Roman, was gone. He’d heard that somehow Hawk Eye had manipulated the pilots into giving him free lessons, then had been certified and received his pilot’s license as well as Warrant Officer status. Roman thought that it must have come in handy, especially since he had heard that Hawk Eye had gotten so good at piloting the helicopter that he could fly it at top speed through tight, forest and bushy places where only a tampon could fit. Roman chuckled as he started breathing easier.

          Roman sluggishly waved at the helicopter. He couldn’t see its occupants clearly, though he thought he saw a woman’s windblown, long hair swirling out the window, her mouth contorted as if screaming at him. But he could only hear the whipping, whirring sound of the helicopter blades, the same noise that had once meant death and dying to him. He didn’t know that that woman was screaming a warning to him.

          He was a few feet from the edge of the roof when Fang’s massive arms encircled him in a vice-like, bear hug. Now he realized why the woman was screaming. Roman’s upper arms were pinned to his sides, but years of karate practice made him act instinctively. He immediately bent his lower arms─ below the elbow─ upward and grabbed Fang’s little fingers as Fang dragged him near the precipice. Fang instantly stopped when Roman mercilessly yanked Fang’s little fingers backward, toward his wrists, breaking both of them as if they were dry twigs. As each finger broke with a pop, Fang’s grip slackened. That’s what Roman was waiting for. He sent the heel of his left foot slamming onto Fang’s instep, breaking the long, thin tarsal bones. Roman heard the agonizing squeal of pain and immediately slammed a fist backward toward his right hip, but into Fang’s groin. Then, as Fang screamed and bent forward from the blow, Roman snapped his head violently backward so it crashed into Fang’s nose and mouth. Finally, Roman’s waist was unrestricted. He raised his right elbow in front of him, then spun around so the elbow went crashing into Fang’s cheek and jaw. Roman heard a crack, but didn’t know if he’d broken the cheek bone, the jaw, or both. He did see something white fall out of Fang’s mouth. One look at Fang erased all doubt. The snaggletooth was gone. Now that he was facing Fang, Roman made a tight fist that tipped forward so only the two biggest knuckles would hit. He took quick steps toward Fang, then slammed his fist into Fang’s solar plexus with such force that he thought he’d hit Fang’s spine. Then slipped behind Fang.

          Fang was stumbling backward from the punch, but he was looking at his broken little fingers, then placed one hand on his jaw and the other on his groin, not knowing which area was hurt the most. He turned to face Roman─ now Fang was the one closes to the roof’s edge. Fang’s eyes watered profusely, temporarily blinding him and mingling with the nose blood. Not being able to see well, he moved his injured foot outward, widening his stance so that Roman couldn’t repeat the painful, numbing leg kick. He staggered backward. He took a wider stance to stop staggering and maintain his balance. Roman sprang forward bringing his right leg swiftly upward, executing a powerful front snap-kick into Fang’s broken rib, with a startlingly loud kiai─ a loud, ferocious scream that scares, startles or stuns the enemy, while at the same time calling up all of one’s reserve strength.

          The air escaped Fang’s lungs in a gush, like flood-water out of a drain pipe, forcing him back even closer toward the edge of the roof.

          Fang rubbed the tears away and cleared his eyes enough to see Roman facing him.

          But before Fang could recover, Roman sprinted toward Fang, jumped and threw up both legs─ the right leg extended and the left leg curled back toward his buttocks; his whole body parallel to the roof top─ and performed a flying side kick to Fang’s solar plexus. The kick knocked Fang backward even farther toward the roof’s edge.

          Roman landed on the hard pebbles, cutting his hands and forearms, but stood immediately.

          Fang grabbed his chest in agony, then screamed with a howling, frustrated roar. He walked, like an angry grizzly bear, right into Roman’s range, not caring, just wanting to get his hands on Roman.

          Roman brought both his hands together, palms touching, parallel to the roof, and when they entered between Fang’s outstretched arms, Roman snapped his arms upward and outward making Fang’s arms snap outward so he looked as if he’d been crucified. Then Roman summoned up reserve energy and brutally used a hammer-fist to strike to the side of Fang’s neck. The sound was like a loud slap, but deeper and the consequences much more telling as the collapsed vagus nerve shut off blood to Fang’s brain. Fang lost control of his body and staggered, attempting to regain his balance and coordination.

          Roman took advantage of this moment and heel-kicked Fang’s chest. It didn’t appear to affect Fang, other than to knock him back a step, now precariously close to the precipice.

          “I’ll kill yuh, mother-fucker! I’ll rip yur heart out an’ crush yur skull! I’ll tear out yur eyeballs an’ eat ‘em,” Fang screamed. “Come on! Come ta me, yuh goddamned asshole. Yuh son-of-a-bitch!”

          Roman sensed that Fang’s obelisk of solid, muscled power was beginning to crumble like a sand pillar, so Roman obliged, rushing straight at Fang, leaping into the air at Fang─ diving at Fang─ and just when it looked like their two heads would collide, Roman snapped his right elbow into Fang’s face, hearing and feeling and the crunching contact. Fang was thrown backward by the sledge-hammer force of the elbow strike.

          Roman fell to the roof top. When he lifted his head to look for Fang, all he saw was Fang’s feet disappearing over the roof’s edge. Then, even over the helicopter’s loud rotor noise, he heard Fang’s elongated and terrified scream. Roman didn’t hear Fang’s body crash into the ground, but his imagination was vivid─ a watermelon thrown off a two story building onto a hard surface.

          Roman pushed himself up from the roof and walked to the edge. He looked beyond the precipice, then below as a plethora of faces stared upward at him.

          Roman peered at Fang’s shattered head. Roman’s expression was sullen; he showed no shock, no pity, no guilt. He focused on Fang’s head, crushed and bloody. Roman could see a growing pool of blackish blood, in the center of which was a dislodged eyeball. The eyeball was still attached to the string-like, optic nerve that resides inside the orbital bone structure.

          As if the crushed skull, blood pool and dislodged eyeball wasn’t bad enough, Roman noticed that Fang’s head lay at a odd angle─ a broken neck. Roman thought that it didn’t matter how he died, just as long as he did die. Roman covered his face at that sudden, surprising and undesired thought. Suddenly remorse and guilt speared him from all directions. “I am a killer,” he mumbled to himself, “but if I can use it for an anti-evil purpose, maybe I can still live with myself and have some semblance of happiness, family life and career.”

          Roman looked out over the parking lot, searching for Sam. Roman simply muttered, “Sam. Grace. I love you,” to himself.

          Roman turned away from the applauding law officers, thinking, I killed again and I thought I was done with that life. I’m damn tired of feeling the burden of guilt. If someone uses deadly force against me, I shouldn’t feel guilty about using deadly force against them, whether they be the enemy on the battlefield or criminals at home. And I’m especially goddamn tired of being reminded that I’m good at killing, as if I should feel additional shame about my skill. I was forced to fight and kill for my country, and then I’m forced to kill to save lives in the Adirondack Mountains, as well as right here at school. But there was a lingering, shred of doubt that burned within him, like a red-hot coal, as he subconsciously wondered if he really had needed to kill Fang. Roman mused, Why should I continue to feel guilty about being good at killing? I only do it in life and death situations. I don’t get pleasure from it. Dammit, I shouldn’t have to feel guilty any more than a person who’s forced to play tennis, then becomes good at it, then very good, then excellent and eventually an expert at it and becomes a professional who wins contests and gets rich from his/her skill. Should that person feel guilty about becoming an expert and becoming rich due to their skill? Hell, no.

          Roman walked unsteadily across the roof, down the stairs and into the parking lot. He found Sam in the crowd. She was holding Alyson close to her, protectively, like she’d done for Grace so many times. It made Roman think of his precious daughter and how badly he wanted to see her, to kiss her forehead, to hug her tightly, to love her forever.

          But as he stared at Sam and she at him, tears came to his eyes, tears of joy as well as tears of pain. He was happy to see Sam and Alyson safe and to know that all his students were safe, but he was also in controlled, emotional pain knowing that he’d killed again, and that he was much too good at it. Suddenly his sub-conscious thoughts surfaced and an epiphany jolted him. He realized that he had started out wanting to capture Fang, but ended up killing him, not by accident, but by intent. He not only wanted revenge, he also wanted to rid the world of one more ruthless, sub-human criminal. This revelation did not sit well with him, yet it didn’t bother him enough to make him sorry for what he’d done. After all, he thought, the truth is, I am a killer. I do it well and with the law as a shield and a conscience to guide and reprimand me. The trouble is, Roman surmised, that a killer with a conscience must live a troubled life. But, he thought, I’ve saved lives, made some lives better and prevented torture and death to other people whom Fang would have abused. I’ll have to slip guilt and shame into my mental Pandora Box, lock it and conceal it in a remote area of my brain’s subconscious, he thought. Then immediately changed his mind because it was his sense of shame and guilt that often guided his decisions and without them he might lose control of his positive thoughts and beneficial actions.

          When in the parking lot, Roman again gazed at Fang’s shattered, lifeless and bloody body. He thought, How many lifeless or severely wounded bodies have I seen on the sacrificial battlefields of Nam and elsewhere? When a person witnesses death enough times, the sight of it becomes less and less distressing, even while viewing a shattered corpse. Seen enough times, death loses its shock value; it may even become mundane.

Roman concluded, Isn’t Death the price we pay for our life?

          Roman felt as if in a daze. He felt a hand on his shoulder and almost lashed out at it. It was Hawk Eye. Hawk Eye put his arm around Roman’s shoulder and led him away from Fang’s battered body. Hawk Eye noticed that Roman was staring at his palms-up hands, but had no idea what Roman was thinking.

          Roman felt as if he was in a dream, dazed and sluggish, as Hawk Eye led him to Sam. Sam put Alyson down and clutched Roman in a tight, emotional hug. Roman gingerly enclosed her waist with his arms, closed his eyes, then buried his face in her neck, feeling the tenderness of her flesh, the fragrance of her perfume and shampoo and the tickle of her hair on his cheek, all the delights of being held, loved and alive.

          Captain Lewis walked to Roman and introduced herself.

          Roman forced his mind to clear, shook Captain Lewis’s small, delicate hand and immediately wanted to lie by saying, “I didn’t intend to kill him. Really.”

          Captain Lewis saw exhaustion in Roman’s eyes and body movements as well as a resigned sadness in his eyes. Was it a sign of remorse or of satisfaction? she wondered. Captain Lewis said, “Fang’s death was self-defense, an accident during a life or death struggle. That’s what my report will say. Would you like to add anything, Mr. Wolfe?” Captain Lewis stared into Roman’s eyes for his reaction, wondering what he’d say or do.

          Roman knew better than to talk before thinking. He wondered if he should tell the truth. He glanced at Hawk Eye who now stood behind Captain Lewis.

          Hawk Eye read in his eyes what Roman was thinking and subtly rotated his head side to side, indicating, “No. Don’t say anything.”

          Captain Lewis knew that men who have to kill, especially soldiers and police, usually become hardened towards death. But this man, Roman, seemed confused, even regretful. Maybe, just maybe, he intended to kick Fang off the rooftop. That would be breaking the law, a technicality of sorts. And if it was true, she hoped that Roman would be quiet about his intent and simply let her write the report as a case of self defense that led to the death of a hardened, brutal criminal.

          There would be no threatening or embarrassing investigation of Mr. Wolfe for this killing, she thought. She and Joe would see to that.

          Captain Lewis noticed that Roman was about to respond to her last question and quickly interrupted him. “That’s fine, Mr. Wolfe. It’s a question that I have to ask for my report. I’ll just write that you had no further details or comments to offer.”

          Captain Lewis turned to Hawkey and said, “You were right about him. There is a dark shadow that follows him. He seems to be in a constant struggle with it. As long as he struggles with it, he’ll be a good man. If he stops struggling and lets the darkness consume him, he won’t be any better than Fang.”

          Lt. Hawkey took offense at that statement, then regretfully admitted to himself that it was probably true. He replied, “Yeah, I know, but that dark shadow saves more lives than it takes and it does not, so far anyway, kill unnecessarily.”

          “Do you think it was necessary to kill Fang?”

          “Taking the long view and realizing that if he lived he’d kill, maim and sexually abuse both children and adults, then, yes, I’d say Fang needed to be killed to prevent him from ruining and/or ending future lives.”

          “That’s not the way the law works, Joe, but, in this case, perhaps you’re right.”

          Suddenly Bev and Joe heard a howling noise. They looked around. It appeared that no one else had heard it. Bev and Joe looked up at the school roof top. A pure white wolf prowled along the narrow ledge, following Roman with its eyes, then it leaped off the roof and glided toward Roman, then slowly disappeared, with the echo of its howl continuing, but fading until no sound remained.

          “What the hell!” Bev shouted as she stared at Lieutenant Hawkey.

          “Yeah, I know,” Hawkey responded. “I’ve seen it before. Tell you about it sometime. It’s not an explanation that I can give in just a couple of minutes.”

          “Bullshit! I’m too curious to put it off, so be in my office tomorrow morning, Joe. Make it at 8:00 A.M. That time OK with you?”

          “Fine with me, Bev. See you in the morning.”

/-./././-.././-../.-/-./-../.-/.--./.--./.-././-.-./../.-/-/./-../

28

“Changing the world is good for those who want their names in books. But being happy, that is for those who write their names in the lives of others, and hold the hearts of others as the treasure most dear.”

Orson Scott Card

Grace sat outside on the back lawn of Dave’s and Linda’s dairy-farm house. She sat on a swing facing south. The setting sun glared at her profile, reaching over her right shoulder as its waning rays caressed her cheek. She swung lazily, but rhythmically, soothing her worried mind. She looked at a cumulus cloud in the fading daylight and thought she saw her dad’s smiling face in the contours of the cottony texture. She smiled at the thought because, when she stared at things, they often took definite shapes and, mostly, those shapes were people’s faces. She wondered if that was a strange thing, a unique characteristic of hers, or was it just a normal, human thing.

          She continued to stare at the cloud as she swung lazily, drifting back and forth in a short arch. Then she was overcome and consumed by a feeling of complete euphoria, like she has on Christmas morning. She’d had rare feelings like that before and ─

          “Grace! Grace!” Linda called from the back door. “It’s time for dinner, Honey. Time to come in and get washed up.”

          Grace turned, acknowledged Linda, then, again, looked to the south, in the direction of her dad’s school. She heard the door click shut before she spotted the dragonfly, which, for a yet unknown reason, created a joyful purring inside of her.

          She dragged her feet to stop the swing.

          She was about to stand up when the dragonfly snatched her attention, again, and held more tightly. The dragonfly, at first, seemed like an insignificant, buzzing, speck in the sky, but she was entranced by it now. Her eyes were pulled to it as if by some unknown force. She spoke. “It’s not a dragonfly. Too far away. Not a bird either. An airplane? Helicopter, maybe? Well, I guess I better go in and wash for dinner.”

                 *

          Captain Lewis had asked Lieutenant Hawkey to fly Roman and Sam to Strong Memorial Hospital, in Rochester, so Roman’s injuries could be checked and, if needed, stitched up. Originally, Alyson was to go too, but Alyson’s parents showed up and whisked her off, saying that they’d take care of whatever she needed.

          Captain Lewis informed Lieutenant Hawkey that she’d take care of all the details at the school and at headquarters, and that she and the principal would make sure that all the students were returned to their parents. That set Hawkey free to fly the helicopter, after he contacted his SWAT team, informing them that he transferred command to Captain Lewis.

          The regular pilot was asked to accompany them so that he could return to the school after departing from the hospital. Hawkey took the controls, while Roman sat next to him. Sam and the regular pilot sat in the back seat.

          Hawkey looked at Roman as the helicopter climbed towards the clouds. “Been a long time, Wolf Man,” he said with a beaming smile.

          “It’s good to see you, Hawk Eye. I’ve thought about you a lot and actually missed you a little bit,” Roman said with a teasing smile. “How long you been with the troopers?”

          “Oh, about a decade after Nam, I guess. It took awhile for me to get my head straightened out. I’ve been working in the New York City area for about ten years and just got back to the Rochester area a year ago. Didn’t hear anything about your Adirondack experience until this school hostage thing happened. So I didn’t figure out who you were until today. Shit, man, I never even knew your last name. Last names were unimportant in Nam, remember? And even if you knew a guy’s last name, at one time, it was forgotten quickly. It was the faces, the macho nicknames and the action that was remembered, right? It was the brotherhood, the closeness and the shared fear that was remembered mostly. But I did seem to remember that you lived somewhere in New York State. Just didn’t know where or even if you still lived here. You used to talk seriously about moving out west. Montana I think. Then I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to contact you because it would dredge up some terrible memories and emotions. I felt confused, indecisive. We’d lost touch so fast and I didn’t know how to get back in touch, so I let it slide and didn’t try to look you up. I thought I should let sleeping dogs lie undisturbed.”

          Roman looked at the terrain below him; cars looked like beetles, trees looked like bushes, the cornfields looked like plush grass. Looking off into the distance was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. He took a deep breath and turned away from the window to smile at Hawk Eye. He explained, “I departed Nam faster than I’d expected. I assistance was requested for one last mission before my DEROS─ Date Eligible for Return From Overseas. It involved top secret, black-ops, head-hunting missions into North Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. We were supposed to─”

          “Head-hunting missions?” Joe interrupted.

          Shit. You asshole, Roman said to himself when he realized that he’d slipped-up. Roman glanced back at Sam, disappointed in himself for letting a monster out of the bag. He hadn’t told Sam about this part of his Vietnam experience. Looking back at Hawk Eye, he said, “Yeah. It was called head-hunting. It was top-secret missions to assassinate high ranking enemy officers who controlled sections of the North Vietnamese army. Some of those officers were in North Vietnam and some set up their base of operations across the borders of Cambodia and Laos. As you know, China and Russia were aiding North Vietnam, and Cambodia and Laos were giving the enemy a safe haven within their borders. So about four weeks before I was to leave our squad to return states-side, I departed abruptly for a top secret mission. I couldn’t tell the squad about it. Sorry.

          “Our group wasn’t elite special forces, or special operations, or anything like that. Originally, we were supposed to go with Navy SEALs, Green Berets or Army Rangers, but that changed when the top brass wanted to be able to cover their asses and be able to claim that we were a rogue outfit, especially if any of us got killed, captured, or left behind. Basically, what we really got were tough volunteers from line infantry companies, men who compensated for their lack of elite training with a lot of experience in the boonies and on the battlefield. They used quickly learned, survival skills, and sheer nerve and muscle, instead of elite, special-forces training, to get the job done. No American officer could go, for fear of being captured. I was appointed the leader of the group.

          Joe, I requested you for second in command, with your permission, of course, but that request was denied. Guess they didn’t want any renegade Injuns, but like I said, the mission was a top secret, so I had to leave suddenly and didn’t tell anyone about it.”

          “Renegade Injun? That’s blasphemy, you lily-white heretic.”

          They both laughed at each other.

          Hawkey pulled and pushed on some manual equipment as well as stepping on some other gadgets to operate the helicopter. He asked, “That group have a name?”

          “Yeah.” Roman laughed. “They were called lerps.”

          “Lerps? What the hell are lerps?”

          “The acronym is the letters: L… R… R… P, meaning Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols.”

          “Never heard of the LRRPs,” Joe said.

          “Well, that’s no surprise. They were another secretive outfit, almost anonymous compared to the well-known American, elite special forces. Kind of like the minor leagues in baseball. If a guy got good enough in the LRRPs, he might get called up to the big leagues, the Rangers, Green Berets or SEALs.

          “The lerp teams went out on five or six men, long range patrols that sometimes lasted a few days, or a week or two, and occasionally longer. Their job was to pinpoint enemy positions, set up ambushes, carry out high-level enemy officer assassinations. Black Ops is the term used to refer to it now. Usually they went deep into enemy dominated territory, places where no one else wanted to go or dared to go or, more importantly, couldn’t go, like crossing over another countries border. Anyway, I DEROSed for the states immediately after those missions. I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye. Sorry I didn’t try to find you, Joe, but I was really messed up mentally, and physically exhausted. After I got home, I didn’t want to be reminded of Nam, any part of it, not even you. I tried to forget everything. Besides, all I had was the name ‘Hawk Eye.’ I didn’t know your surname and didn’t know what state you lived in. I decided not to look up old friends and take the chance of having to deal with more old, horrible memories. Plus, I figured that once I found old friends, what condition would they be in? Worse than me? Amputees? Mental patients? Maybe they didn’t need me as a reminder either. So I isolated myself, slipped into a self-made cocoon and stayed there for a long while. It was no picnic for Sam and my daughter, Grace. But, luckily, after about six months, I came out of my cocoon and was able to face the world again.”

          Joe understood exactly how Roman had felt. Joe had been messed up, too. They all had except, perhaps, the guys that enjoyed the killings.

          Joe increased altitude and sped northward.

          Sam remained quiet. Roman didn’t look back at her again. Feelings of guilt caused his neck and face to turn red. Someone once said that, “The more guilt and shame you feel, the better man you are.” Maybe. Maybe not, he mused, but if it’s true, then I’m one hell-of-an awesome guy. Might even be able to walk on water.

          Joe grinned at the quotation, then said, “Well, if that’s true, then we are saints.”

          Their conspiratorial laughter filled the cockpit like fog.

          Sam thought, Why hadn’t Roman told me about the head-hunting missions? Probably just trying to protect me from gruesome stories..

          Joe asked, “Why’d you go on that patrol when you were so close to getting back to the world?”

          “They wanted me to train the LRRPs in practical self-defense, especially stealth killing with a knife and/or garrote, and basic jungle survival skills. There was no boxing or street fighting with rules and all that crap. To teach them as much as I could in two weeks prior to the long range patrols, we worked twelve to sixteen hours a day. I taught them the various choke holds, garrote usage, how to break a neck quickly and quietly, where to stab and where to slash with their knife; you know, stuff like that. The brass never told me why they couldn’t use special forces instructors. They just said that they’d heard about me and that I they wanted me. Actually, I think they wanted me for their own deniability. Then having elite training from the regular special forces could be denied.

          “Those LRRPs were good, though. They were highly motivated and a lot better than they were given credit for, especially with only two weeks of training. The other special forces guys looked down on them, but the LRRPs learned the hard way, not at some safe training camp, but out in the lethal fields and jungles where an error meant instant death, and not some higher ranking asshole chewing you out for making a mistake.”

          “Sounds like you didn’t like it, but you OKed the request?”

          “Yeah, my ego got the best of me. It was a stupid decision. But at the time, I thought I could save more lives by training men to take lives. After LRRP experience I knew that I’d had enough, Hawk Eye. I had seen and participated in too much pain, agony and death. Didn’t want it any more, so when my time was up I left and didn’t look back. All I wanted was Sam and Grace, and a place to hide.”

          “I understand that,” Joe said as he looked at Sam, then at Roman and teasingly stated, “Yeah, man, I can see why you’d want to come home to Sam. She’s a looker. And you sent her down the stairs and into my open arms, remember? You shouldn’t tempt a guy like that, Buddy. You don’t just go around dumping a lovely lady like this,” Joe motioned to Sam, “into a friend’s arms, especially if the guy is as handsome as me. Know what I mean?” Hawk Eye said with a laugh and a wink.

          Sam blushed deeply and took an immediate liking to Lieutenant Hawkey. Now she knew another person who knew Roman just as well as she did. Actually, he knew a side of Roman that she knew very little about. She was intrigued by that thought, especially since Roman was often like the moon to her─ she knew a lot about the light, bright side, but almost nothing about the dark side. Hawkey knew a lot about Roman’s dark side. She wanted to know some things that Hawkey knew about her husband, things that Roman would never tell her, things that she decided not to ask him about, such as those head-hunting missions.

                  *

          On the way to the back door, Grace looked over her shoulder at the distant object. As it drew closer, it grew in size and noise. It slipped through the air smoothly and gracefully. Grace rubbed her eyes. Now she could see that it was really a helicopter. Maybe a weather helicopter, she thought.

          She began to have another pleasant feeling about her dad. She could see his face in that cloud again. She could hear his voice whispering words of love. Then her heart raced with excitement. She rushed back to the swing to get a better look at the helicopter.

                 *

          Sam peered through the helicopter’s side window and saw farm fields. “Grace is at Linda’s and Dave’s house,” she said to Roman.

          Roman gazed through the front window to see where they were, then smiled at Sam, understanding the implication of her message.

          Looking at Hawkey, Roman requested, “Can you land this shit-bird in a pasture without a problem?”

          “Sure, but why would I?” Hawkey questioned.

          “I’d like to pick up my daughter, Grace, and bring her to the hospital with us. She’s at a friend’s farm house. Roman pointed, then said, “You can see it there. You see the barn?” Roman pointed to the faded, red barn, then at the white, ranch house.

          “Well, if your daughter’s as nice as, and as pretty as Sam, then I’d better meet her. That pasture behind the house OK to land in?” Hawkey said and pointed.

          “Don’t see any cows that you can scare the milk out of, so I’d say it’s OK, unless Dave comes out of the house with his gun. But don’t worry. He’s a really bad shot.”

          “Shotgun or rifle?” Hawkey asked, knowing he was being teased.

          “Considering what we’re arriving in, I’d say a shotgun loaded with bird-shot.”

          “Jesus! Your jokes haven’t changed. Birdshot, huh?” Hawkey smiled and moved the control stick a little to the right so the chopper leaned in that direction and veered toward the farmhouse and adjacent pasture.

          “I don’t get the joke,” Sam said.

          Roman waited for Hawk Eye to respond to Sam.

          “Well, in Nam, a helicopter was often called a ‘bird,’ so if your friend came out with a shotgun with ‘birdshot’ in it, it would be a shotgun for shooting at helicopters.”

          “Oh, dear. That stinks like the cow droppings in the pastures,” Sam responded.

                  *

          Grace stared at the helicopter and was mesmerized as it grew larger and larger. A giant dragonfly, an eagle, a pterodactyl, she thought, with a silly grin. Then she heard the familiar “whop-whop-whop” helicopter sound. At the same time she, again, sensed the growing closeness of her dad. He’s in that helicopter, she thought. She could feel her dad’s presence getting closer. It was one of her rare premonitions, premonitions mostly concerning her dad and almost always true.

          Dave and Linda ran out of the house, to see what the noise was, just as the helicopter landed in their empty field─ Dave didn’t have his shotgun.

          Grace looked at them, then at the helicopter. She started running and screaming joyously, “Papa! . . . Papa!” before anyone could be seen getting out of the helicopter. Then she stopped at the pasture fence, struggling to climb over the horizontal, white boards as she saw a man exit the helicopter. The man was running with his back bent forward due to the still spinning helicopter blades. Then the man stood fully erect and Grace paused on the first board of the fence to look at him. The tall man wasn’t wearing a shirt, but he was running toward her, his arms outstretched, yelling, “Grace! . . . Grace!”

          Grace climbed up and over the top board, jumped to the ground and ran to her father as he ran toward her. Within seconds she jumped into her dad’s arms and he spun her around so swiftly that the centrifugal force made her legs swing out away from him. Then he stopped and they hugged each other closely, neither of them saying anything, just appreciating the warmth and mutual love they had for each other. Roman kneeled and kissed Grace on the lips, forehead and cheeks. He pulled her close, again, then saw the tears running down her cheeks.

          Roman turned toward Dave and Linda, waved vigorously, then yelled, “Thanks! I’m taking Grace with me in the helicopter. We’re going to Strong Memorial Hospital. I may need a couple of stitches. Sam and I will explain things later.”

          Dave shouted, “OK!” He and Linda both waved goodbye as Roman carried Grace to the helicopter, where she sat on her mom’s lap during the short trip to the hospital.

          Grace got to meet Lieutenant Hawkey and sensed something different, but nice about him. He looked different, too. When he shook hands with her, he was very gentle, warm, sincere, yet she sensed that, like her Papa, Mr. Hawkey was really tough, too. But any friend of her Papa’s was a friend of hers and, besides that, she liked the way Mr. Hawkey smiled at her. It made her feel extra special.

          Then, on the spur of the moment, Grace asked Hawkey, “What’s a helicopter called when a skunk is the pilot?”

          “Don’t know, cutie. What’s it called?”

          “A smellicopter, of course,” Grace said, followed by a giggle.

          “Oh, Grace. You’ve been hanging around your dad too much,” Sam said.

          Then Lieutenant Hawkey reached toward the console and turned on the FM radio. It was tuned to Rochester’s WKLX, a classic oldies station. A song was just ending. When a new one began, it happened to be one of Roman’s favorite oldies singers, Roy Orbison. The song was “Pretty Woman.”

          Roman turned and looked at his pretty woman, Sam, then reached back and held hands with her, one arm around Grace and one arm going between the seats to Sam. He closed his eyes and got lost in the melody and the lyrics. He finally relaxed.

          When they arrived at Strong Memorial Hospital’s helicopter landing pad, Lieutenant Hawkey asked the regular pilot to take the bird back. The regular pilot was also to call Captain Lewis to see if she needed the helicopter. Then the pilot was to call headquarters and have someone meet them at the hospital with a car so he could drive Roman and his family to their home in Calford.

          When Hawkey finished giving orders to the pilot, he turned around and walked toward Roman. Hawkey saw Roman hugging both Sam and Grace. Then Roman placed his left arm around Sam’s shoulders and his right hand on Grace’s shoulder. They were all pulled close to Roman’s hips, like the three-fingers in a Boy Scout salute.

          Sam saw Hawk Eye smile as he approached her with something in his hand. She said to him, “You’ll be coming for dinner sometime soon, right?”

          “I’d love to, ma’am. You tell me when.” Then shifting his gaze to Roman, Hawk Eye handed him a Native American dream-catcher. “This’ll trap those bad dreams Buddy.”

          Roman remembered the dream-catcher that Hawk Eye gave him in Nam. It was lost during a chaotic firefight. Roman knew that the purpose of the circular dream-catcher was to catch bad dreams in the spider-like webbing, while the allowing the good dreams to easily slipped through.

          Hawk Eye turned back to face Sam as she asked, “You back to calling me ‘ma’am,’ again?” Sam asked teasingly.

          “Sorry. It’ll be ‘Sam’ from now on. I promise,” Hawkey responded.

          “Good,” Sam replied, “I’m one-fourth Seneca Indian. We’ll have plenty to talk about.”

          “And I’m one-hundred percent, renegade Mohawk, Sam, so if you get me started on Native American heritage, you’ll never get me to shut up.”

          “So who’s trying to shut you up?” replied Sam, with an over the shoulder smile.

          Hawk Eye responded, “You have lovely hair, Sam. It would be a most honored scalp to wear on my belt.”

                   “And yours on my belt would be a great honor, too,” Roman interjected, humorously, then listened to further repartee between Sam and Hawk Eye.

          Grace was puzzled, especially when Sam’s hands covered her ears so she could no longer hear.

          “You wouldn’t want to do that Hawk Eye, because then I’d be forced to cut off your balls and pecker, then make them into cuff links and a very short tie for you to wear.” Sam winked and demonstrated a comically, evil smile.

          Hawk Eye, stared bug-eyed and cherry-faced at Sam after that blunt comment, then realized that he wasn’t going to best her at this contest. Hawk Eye glanced at Roman and said, “Whoa! Man. Where’d you find this wonderful squaw?”

          Roman replied straight faced, holding his laughter inward. “At Geneseo State College. But I didn’t find her, she found me and, like Robert Frost said at the end of one of his poems, ‘ . . . that has made all the difference.’ And even though she’s five years older than I am, I kind of fell in love with the old lady.”

          Sam let go of Grace’s ears and smiled at her, saying, “Part of our conversation wasn’t for your ears to hear, Bugs.” Sam’s nickname for Grace was Bugs. Then Sam smiled at Grace whose confusion was only partially relieved.

          “Ouch! Damn!” Roman exclaimed, as he tried to rub the pain out of his shoulder where Sam had slugged him. She was actually five years younger than he was.

          As Roman, Sam, Grace and Hawkey approached the hospital’s rooftop door, Roman rubbed his stomach and said, as he licked his lips, “I’m hungry.”

          Grace saw a chance to jump into the conversation and quickly said, “What are you hungry for, Papa?”

          Roman gazed at Grace, with just a trace of a smile, winked at her and said, “Oh, I do think I could go for an apricot and some black licorice.” Roman laughed heartily.

          Hawkey didn’t understand and thought, Roman’s up to mischief.

          Sam joined the laughter.

          Hawkey was still confused until he heard Grace’s reply.

          “Oh, Papa, you’re so crazy. You can’t eat my cats. Don’t be so silly.”

          Pets? Hawkey wondered, as his curiosity peaked. He thought, I’ll have to ask the Wolf Man when I getta chance.

          They took the elevator to the first floor emergency room entrance as if nothing serious had happened.

          Roman temporarily lapsed into a daydream, thinking how wonderful that two old survivors and close friends had found each other after many years and that he, Roman, and his family were safely reunited.

                  *

          They were all moaning in pain as they approached him shortly before dawn. His dread increased with each of their shuffling, staggering steps, like drunks, with their hands extended outward as if wanting to choke an invisible neck. Their faces were pale with bloodshot eyes that didn’t need to blink. They stiff-stepped closer and closer, some drooling and some sneering ominously with bloody teeth. They were dressed alike in tattered black robes with hoods, as if they were sinister monks. As they came closer he saw that they were bleeding, but not profusely, from their noses, eyes and ears, which made their necks look as if they were encompassed in large red collars. The moaning changed to shrill wailing as their teeth began gnashing at the air. Then, over the wailing and gnashing sounds, a louder sound stabbed his ears like double ice picks. The rumbling sound grew louder and louder, dominating and overpowering the wailing, as if a monster was roaring from a dark cave. A sinister gust of wind blew all their hoods open, exposing the face of each black-robed wraith, their mouths locked open in screams of torment and agony. He felt paralyzed and panicked, as if confined in a straight-jacket and leg shackles in a small room. When their heads started falling off and their hoods began collapsing upon the bleeding stumps of their necks, he had difficulty breathing. The wraiths kicked their heads toward him, as if they were in a ghoulish soccer game. Blood from the rolling heads sprayed the ground, coating the wraiths’ boots like thick paint. The battered heads sailed off in all directions around him, but their eyes kept looking at him, unblinking, as they soared past him. He was surrounded, the bull’s-eye in a menacing circle of headless souls, their hands outstretched, reaching for him, but not yet grasping him. The lengthy sleeves of their oversized robes covered their outstretched hands, until they all raised both arms into the air, which allowed their sleeves to slide down their scab-crusted arms. They each held a knife in one hand and a garrote in the other hand, waving them like flags, in Roman’s face. They started closing their threatening circle. The wraiths began stabbing him. The man was terrified and in pain from his confinement. He screamed as he felt blood pouring down, then dripping off his body as─.

          Roman jerked himself up to a sitting position in bed, his sheet and pillow damp with sweat. He got out of bed smoothly and quietly so Sam wouldn’t be awakened. He glanced at the dream-catcher, disappointed, then went to the living room. It was too early to get ready for school.

          He sat in his reclining chair and stared at the opposite wall. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. He closed his eyes. Something about the nightmare, the hooded wraiths. All Asian. All, but the leader. Then it came to him and so did the tears. The hooded Asian wraiths were all the Vietnamese and North Koreans that he had killed, but, incredibly, their leader was Billy. Roman buried his sweaty face into both hands, feeling the slick wetness and tasting the salt from his tears. He mumbled, “Sorry Billy. I’m so very sorry that I killed you. It was a miserable and unforgettable accident. I’ll live with the misery of it because I won’t forget it, Billy. Keeping you alive in my thoughts is the least I can do for you, even though you’ll haunt my dreams.”

          Ten minutes later and much calmer he said, “Another dream-catcher that doesn’t work. I guess that’s another nightmare for my Pandora Box.”

          Roman turned on his reading light, then picked up the book TESTAMENT by David Morrell. Roman relaxed and started reading, not knowing that the story would be an emotional read for him.

/./.-../---/…-/./-.--/---/..-/-.--/---/..-/.-./-../.-/