“Nah, fuck you, pal. You made your bed. Out.”
Nehor took a deep breath and stepped out of the cab. Tucked into his sleeve was the knife he had taken out of the cafeteria nearly six years ago and had kept under his pillow. He slammed the tip into one of the tires and it went nearly to the hilt. As he pulled it out, the air exploded out of the slit and the cab instantly tilted to the side.
“Motherfucking cocksucker!” the cabbie screamed, stepping out of the cab.
Nehor was walking away when he felt a hand on his shoulder. In one clean motion he spun around with the knife, slicing off all four fingers at the knuckle. The cabbie sat in stunned silence. Nehor glanced down at the severed flesh that sat on the pavement.
“You better pick them up before a cat takes them.” He leaned in close to the man’s face and whispered, “Here, kitty kitty.” He kissed the man on the cheek before walking away.
The man was still in shock but it began to dim as quickly as it had overtaken him. He was now yelling and then screaming. Nehor turned around once to see him on his knees picking up his fingers. He smiled to himself and continued walking.
Nehor entered Mount Nadia Memorial Park through the main gates. It was a cemetery up on a hill with a view of San Diego below it. Though residential property was zoned around it, there were few homes as the cemetery routinely brought odd night visitors performing rituals or junkies looking for a quiet place to shoot up. The turnover rate for surrounding residents was near fifty percent.
He stopped at a grave that had a batch of fresh flowers on it. He picked them up and carried them with him. Many graves were simple headstones without much décor and he would step over them. He had read a myth somewhere that if you stepped over a grave, the inhabitant could see you and would want revenge.
The sunlight began to fade as gray clouds wafted in and a slight drizzle began. The rain was warm and it trickled down through his hair, which he decided he would soon want to shave, and over his face, soaking his clothes and the flowers he held in his hand.
By the time he found the grave, he was drenched from head to foot. He sat down on the wet grass cross-legged and placed the flowers on the grave. It was a modest headstone, dark gray with a few simple lines: ESTELL ROSE STARK — BELOVED MOTHER.
Nehor took a few deep breaths through his nose and pulled the hair out of his eyes, slicking it back on his head. He ran his hand along the headstone and over the lettering that had been engraved.
In a sudden, violent motion he bashed the headstone with his foot. He kicked it again and again and again. He took the flowers and hit them over the headstone until they disintegrated and then began to dig into the grass, removing dirt and sod with his bare fingers. He dug with both hands, grunting and spitting and swearing, until he had thoroughly exhausted himself.
Nehor felt warm sweat mix with the rain on his forehead as he fell back, out of breath. Despite his effort, the hole wasn’t deeper than half a foot. He lay looking up at the sky, feeling the rain on his face, for a long time. When he had caught his breath, he stood up and saw a small shack on the property. He walked down to it and found that the door was unlocked. Inside were a lot of tools: a wheelbarrow, a desk with several documents on it, and a mug of coffee. He tasted the coffee. It was cold and he spit it out over the wall.
He took a shovel, and headed back to the grave. He dug around the headstone as deep as he could until the little bit of granite was mobile and he was able to kick it over. He lifted it and found that it was far heavier than the size would lead him to believe. But he still managed to bring it over to the pavement of the road just up the hill. He lifted it over his head, and threw it down. It shattered into three pieces. He lifted and threw the pieces several times, unable to break them into smaller chunks.
Nehor stood there, watching the bits of headstone. The homes sat silent around him and he realized he didn’t have a place to stay.
As he made his way down the hill, exhausted but with a wiry energy that gave him a second wind, he could see the outline of the city. He grinned to himself; how much fun he was about to have.
CHAPTER 4
Stanton waited patiently in the small room at Scripps Hospital as the results of his neurological testing were retrieved. Diagrams and charts of the brain’s anatomy were up on the walls with a poster from the 80’s that showed an egg frying and said, This is your brain on Drugs.
The door opened and a nurse came in and grabbed his medical charts, which she’d forgotten. Stanton could see the markings of a tattoo that had been removed on her forearm. It was a man’s name and underneath was a heart.
“The doctor will be right with you.”
Stanton was alone again with his thoughts. He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. His parents had taken him to a child psychiatrist when he was younger. Though his father had been a successful psychiatrist before switching to the world of academia, Stanton had suffered such a deep depression as a child that his father felt helpless before it.
The psychiatrist was quirky and fun, but was unable to help him. Eventually, Stanton stopped going. It wasn’t until they moved from rain-soaked Seattle to San Diego with its 320 days of sunshine and the beach close by that Stanton pulled out of the depression. Being back here, having doctors try to figure out what was wrong with him, made him feel like that kid again, sitting in front of a psychiatrist who knew there was nothing he could do for him.
A knock and Dr. Kumar Patel stepped inside. He was Indian with a gold bracelet around his wrist. His face was buried in Stanton’s charts and he sat down next to him.
“Well, I wasn’t able to find anything, Jon. Motor activity is fine, there are no meningeal symptoms, cranial nerves, sensory system, coordination, everything is fine. The MRI didn’t show any abnormal legions or subarachnoid or intracranial hemorrhages. Physically there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“That’s kind of what I figured. I thought it might’ve been fatigue.”
“That’s possible, but I don’t think that’s what it was. I think you had a panic attack.”
“Now? I’m thirty-six. Why would they begin now?”
“It’s rare, usually they show up sooner, but you know as well as I do they can happen later in life. You have a PhD in psychology, think about it clinically. If a patient came to you, with a job as stressful as yours, divorced, working long hours, and he described this incident, what would your first thoughts be for a diagnosis?”
Stanton exhaled through his nose and looked to a poster up on the wall. “It would be stress induced panic disorder.”
“I’m referring you to a specialist. She’s a psychiatrist I went to medical school with.” The doctor rose. “I still remember the class you taught at UCLA on cognition and schizophrenia. You were one of the best professors I had. I was a little jealous ‘cause you were younger than me. If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you ever go to medical school or stick with the University? What made you want to be a cop?”
“Right now, Kumar, I have no idea.”
Stanton left the hospital and sat in his car a few minutes, enjoying the heater as it rained outside. He turned on some music, INXS, and closed his eyes. He felt fine and comfortable and then when he began thinking about work, about the stacks of files on his desk, the tightening feeling in his chest returned. Each file was a life, a life somebody else destroyed. And like a stone thrown into a murky pond, the ripples affected everything around them. Families were devastated, friends were left in shock, teachers, church leaders, and neighbors would begin to be a little more cautious. Perhaps not getting so easily attached to people in the future, at least subconsciously, for fear of something like this happening again.