Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Michael I, part 1

Chapter Two

Michael Boorley

Stoney Point, Michigan

4:32 PM, November 17th, 2014

"Why'd you start the fight, Mr. Boorley?"

Michael Boorley had spent the night in a holding cell and woken with a raging hangover. He still looked better than Detective Murphy, famous for his annual Santa act, who currently had a fistful of crumbs buried in his beard. Next to him, Michael was young and fit, with an almost-full head of almost-entirely-black hair and a heavy jawline that really wasn't sagging much at all yet.

"I'm pretty sure I didn't. Put yourself in my shoes. Someone walks in on you. You don't start throwing punches. It's the guy who sees you fucking his wife who gets pissed." He lifted his right hand up as much as the cuffs would allow. The harsh lights of the interrogation room illuminated the stumps of his pinky and ring finger, the sliced-clean tip of the middle, and the crumpled index. "Why would a cripple pick a fight with an able-bodied man?" He tried to make that sound like a joke. Murphy winced anyway.

Back when the station had been part of a Chinese restaurant, the interrogation room had been part of the dining area, and pictures of red lanterns poked out where the newer wallpaper was peeling. Murphy had probably wanted a stainless-steel table to confront his shoplifters and vandals across, like cops had on TV, but the table was wood. Michael wondered if this was the most exciting case Stoney Point had offered him all year.

"The lacerations on Mr. Roland's face are consistent with a left-handed blow wearing brass knuckles." Murphy placed a sealed plastic bag on the table, shifting his weight as he leaned forward. His hip had to be bothering him. "These were on your keychain." They still had Brent's dried blood on them.

Michael sighed. He couldn't blame Murphy for seeking a quick confession, but the affair was public knowledge now. Erica would get that divorce. They'd elope to Tahiti, damn what everyone thought, and drink and screw on a beach. He just had to talk himself out of jail first. "Those were my brother's. A southpaw. It's just a memento." His gut lurched at the thought of losing them.

"You kicked Mr. Roland so hard you ruptured his scrotum. He's in the hospital."

Michael winced, instinctively crouching forward. All he remembered of that kick was the voice in his head. You cheated on her twice! Why the hell do you get to be happy? "I didn't know if then it was me or her he was after." Sober, it was pretty obvious that 'You son of a bitch, fight me like a man!' had been directed at him. "Is Erica okay?"

"Mrs. Roland is fine. But it's you we're talking about, Michael. Three charges of reckless driving over the last five years. We found a handgun and ammo in your glove box. What are you doing?"

"I have a permit for that gun. It's legal."

"I'm talking as an old friend of your father's. Everyone always thought you had so much potential. You're nearly forty."

"Thirty-seven." He'd reminded Erica of that the night before. Let's have a baby, he'd half-joked, rolling off his condom. We have plenty of time left. They'd name the kid Stephen or Stephanie, after his brother, and he'd teach them how to play football in Cherry Park—

"What are you doing with your life? You're going to wake up one day and regret wasting all this time."

Michael grunted. My regrets don't matter. He knew what he was: a crippled carpet salesman whose employees mocked him behind his back. He was good enough for Erica. He didn't need anything more.

Another cop, a young man Michael didn't recognize, stuck his head through the door. "I got news from the hospital." Murphy glared at him. "It's okay, sir. Mr. Roland's dropping all charges."

Michael relaxed. Thank god. He was free, he could go home and take an asprin, he could call Erica and see how she felt—

"Mr. Roland told me to thank you, Mr. Boorley. He said if weren't for you, he and his wife wouldn't have reconciled."

The word hit him like a truck. "What?"

"It's real sweet," the kid said. "He's in that bed with his junk wrapped up, dictating his statement, and this pretty blond lady comes in. She's got raccoon eyes from crying, and shjje puts her head on his chest . . ."

The kid spelled out every detail of how Erica had cried, how that son of a bitch had sworn to take her back, how she'd promised she'd never cheat again. Michael didn't know if he wanted to hit someone or flee the room. She loves me! he wanted to scream. Heat flooded his face. We have a future together! His working fingers itched for his phone. He needed to talk to her.

"Can I go, Murphy?" The words felt tight between his teeth.

"No point in taking this further if Roland doesn't want to. Go home." Murphy, the fucker, grinned as he opened the handcuffs. "I think all three of you have learned a valuable lesson."

As the cops rounded up his stuff, Michael paced back and forth across the dirty lobby. The part of his mind not consumed with rage and confusion noted how crappy he smelled. Hardly the man of a woman's dreams, even after a shower. Of course she'd leave him. Too old, too fat, not enough hair, crippled, cowardly, boring—Karen had left him for the suprivisor at the laundromat. Stop bitching about it. Your problems are your responsibility, you dumb entitled shit.

Murphy made Michael sign a stack of forms before handing back his phone. Eleven percent of the battery remained. Michael set it on a counter and punched in Erica's number. Eight rings, then voicemail. Shit. He dialed again. Eight rings. Voicemail. "Shit!" Murphy gave him a weird look. He ground his teeth together. One more try.

At last, she answered. "Michael." He'd heard that brisk tone before. Usually when she spoke about Brent. Oh, him. He's gone. Let's not talk about him. "Please stop calling me."

"Are we over?" Of course they were over. You didn't ask someone you loved to stop calling you.

"We have to be. This thing we did was dishonest and destructive. It has to stop. I have to save my marriage."

"And that's worth more than what we have?" He tried to keep his voice down, but he knew Murphy could still hear him. What they had was sex twice a week, and the occasional quick dinner date in the next town over.

"I've thought a lot about this," she said, pity spilling into her voice. "To me, it is."

He couldn't argue with that. "You deserve to be happy." His phone died and cut him off mid-sentence.

Murphy laughed. One good punch . . . but fighting for the woman he loved had felt heroic. There was no point to getting in more touble now.

No point to my whole damn life.