White Night

Chapter 13

Michael was walking with his mother. A dream, but he didn't care—he was part of a family again, his family, and he would stay here as long as he could. She smiled at him, her beautiful eyes creasing as she took his arm.

No work for Mom today, just enough time for a cheap burger while the week's clothes swirled round in the machines at the laundromat. Teenagers laughed and shouted as the smell of strange smoke drifted past them. His mother's face changed, the laughing creases stretched flat by the shock in her eyes, and her face started to twist...

Michael's pale hand twitched softly on the bed. A dull ache in his ribs and crushing pressure in his shoulder told him he was awake and alive, but for how much longer?

Sunlight shone through the paper-thin curtains and warmed the side of his face as the radio clock still flashed 12:00 a.m.

How long had he slept? After he cleaned up the bathroom floor and put new pads over the bullet hole, it felt like hours before he could get comfortable and blood stopped soaking through the pads. His shoulder felt like a dozer was parked on it. The painkillers barely scratched the surface of it, but they were better than nothing.

He'd finally called Angelo back and told him he was sick. Angelo had given him the day off, so at least he didn't have to move today. So many things he should do. Redo his dressing, get some food, buy more supplies... But his body froze as he remembered—he'd killed a man last night.

One head-butt, how could a man die from that? All he had was a dull ache at the top of his own head.

Michael's phone lit up in his hand with a number he didn't recognize and the time—7:59 a.m. He must have brought it to bed with him after he checked the message from Angelo asking him to call the concrete guys and postpone the delivery. He'd called them straight away, trying hard to keep his voice level despite the blood and stomach contents on the floor around him.

He had to answer, but what would happen when he moved again, more blood and pain? Blacking out?

Just man up and answer the damn phone...

"Mike! Where you at?" said Ezekiel, apprentice electrician and site prankster.

"Zeke. Angelo gave me the day off, sick today," he said wearily.

"Yeah, I know. Dude shot here last night. It's wild, bro."

"Shot?" He sat up quickly, regretting it instantly as the room swirled around him.

"Dead body right outside the gates. Cops said half the dude's head was gone."

Outside the gates?

He remembered the dark shape he'd driven past. Was that the corpse Angelo was talking about last night?

"They know who the dead guy is yet?"

"Nah, not yet, but the site is crawling with cops, man."

Michael was no longer a killer. He sighed and collapsed back onto the bed again. Relief loosened his muscles and made his body weightless.

Whoever the dead guy was, he wasn't the cop. But that also meant the cop that wanted Michael dead was still alive.

"Angelo asked me for the crew list."

"He knows where it is, usual place in the site office."

"Yeah, but he needs the new guys, the rookies you started last week. Cops need a list of all workers and then they want us to do roll call."

His throat closed again as he felt the chill of blood leaving his face.

The cops wanted to know who didn't show up today, and he could not let his name be on that list.

"Mike? The rookies?" Zeke asked again.

"Yeah. The names are in the red tray on his desk."

"Cool. Thanks, man."

"Tell Angelo I'll be in today."

"Thought you were sick. Changed your mind, dude?" Zeke laughed.

"No, just feeling better and figured you needed the help."

"K, will tell the boss."

Hanging up the phone, he sat up, his body heavy again. The choices were crap either way. If he ran, they'd find his truck. It had taken the cops just two hours to find him after the assault charges eight years ago, trying to flee in his crap-box of a car, but you didn't go anywhere quickly in New York.

A tremor ran down his spine as he remembered how it felt, knowing he was caught.

Show me your hands! Get down on the ground!! You have the right to...

But he didn't have any rights, at least none that made him feel any more human in the overcrowded holding cell while he slept on the floor and drowned in the stench of body odor, piss, and worse...

This time had to be different. He couldn't lose his life to a jail cell and soulless guards directing his every move. He needed more time to disappear properly, permanently.

He tried to move his arm on his injured side, but a wave of bee stings traveled up and down the limb. It didn't feel like it belonged to him even as his fingers opened and closed. His shoulder started pounding again in protest. How the hell could he go to work?

How the hell could he not?

This was going to suck.