Take Away the Saints

Mimesis : Judith Beheading Holofernes || Nick Blakeslee

I veered off the freeway. The streetlights all stayed a stoic red as my cruiser blew through them. Neon and darkness blended in a blur of colors; I turned the final corner and pressed the gas down again.

Speeding down the neighborhood, I could barely make out the street names or house numbers. I caught a glimpse of Lincoln and careened around the corner. 1035 would have been on the left, the numbers counted down.

1305...

1297...

A vision of Reyes sitting in a pool of her own blood, splayed out like another piece of art, flashed across my mind's eye. I shook the thought from my head, blowing through a stop sign.

1189...

My phone rang, but I ignored it. Finally the numbers hit 1095. I looked down the street, and saw a house with hedges framing the front lawn. It called to me: A siren in calm waters, it sang its song. But how was I going to get in? I slowed, and stopped opposite of the house.

I didn't have a ram, I was thinking of my lock pick set left in my car back home when I saw movement in the house. A man—his face blackened by either a mask or twilight—moved to the window and stared out, then closed one side of the curtains.

I realized I did have a ram. I put the car in reverse, and peeled backward, slammed on the breaks and popped it back in drive.

I hit the gas again, one hand gripping the wheel, I clicked on my seatbelt and pointed the hood of the car for the front window. The engine roared as it moved from first to second gear. Wheels spinning, pistons firing, I hit the curb, blew through the hedge, careened across the yard and hit the front of the house at sickening speed.

* * * * *

I came to, engine hissing, feeling a cacophony of aches, face buzzed from the depleting airbag. Something warm and wet ran down my face, I tasted blood. For a fleeting moment, I couldn't remember where I was or what had happened. The living room window sat intact on the hood of the car.

I groaned, seatbelt taught against my chest, I pushed the release clip and fell to the passenger side. The smell of gas and burnt rubber. I climbed back to the driver side and pulled on the door handle, using the gear shift as leverage I pushed with my foot and crawled out of the driver side door.

The living room was an explosion of debris. Coffee table obliterated and couch destroyed beneath the weight of the car. A painting was on the ground; gruesomely displaying two masked figures—one frowning, the other smiling—beheading someone. I climbed down, my vision spun but I spotted movement.

Someone else crawling away, I reached for my Model 85, but found the holster empty.

"Stop." I said in a weak voice, but they climbed to a crouch and ran, hobbling on an injured foot with a bag in hand. I pushed myself up, and began to pursue when I saw her near the dining room table and forgot about the fleeing person completely. She lay on a canvas, her body convulsing, shuttering from seizure. Foam festered out of her mouth. I held her up, her eyes rolled back, I grabbed a something that might have been part of the coffee table and wedged it between her teeth.

"Reyes," I said. "Sarah, I'm here."

Sirens blared somewhere off in the distance.

A tremor ran through her body again, her arms tensed against me, back rigid in a terrible arch; I was terrified she'd break her own spine. Then she calmed and sunk back. I rested her on her side, pulled the bit out of her mouth and stuck two fingers in to check her airway.

I checked for a pulse, found one hammering in her throat, and ran a hand over her hair. My gut had yet to prove me wrong, and it told me she'd live. She was too stubborn to die, after all this. I thought of the fleeing man, but knew he was long gone.

Another time. For now, I thanked whatever God existed for my partner's life. Her chest sank in and out, eyes flickered with movement behind her eyelids, her cheeks warm with fever, hair matted in a bloodied mess, but breathing beneath me.

Sirens called from the street, the room drowned in the alternating light of red and blue and white. Tires screeched, doors slammed shut, someone was barking orders.

"In here." I shouted. "Bring a stretcher."

I looked back down at her and at that moment all those people in the paintings—those epitaphs of blood—hit me: like a thousand souls crying out not for help or restitution, but retribution. The kind I knew was beyond the capabilities of the law.

I'd find him. And when I did, I wasn't so sure what I'd do.