Damascus Road by Charlie Cole Page A

more than two years
out of the academy.
    “I’m afraid not,” he said. “This is County Lock-up.”
    “Figures,” I nodded.
    The cop’s face screwed into a mask of confusion and
amusement.
    “Most people would have asked if they’d gone to heaven,” he
said.
    “It’s just been that kind of week,” I said.
    I looked around me, at the walls, the vacant space.
    “Where are they? Hector and the others?”
    The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
    “Locked up,” he said. “They all needed medical attention, so
the duty nurse is making the rounds. So, like I said, if you need medical
attention, it will be a minute.”
    While he talked, I tested my body’s limits, flexing my
hands, arms, legs. The pain was universal, but the quick once over told me what
I already suspected. My left shoulder was dislocated. I stood and walked toward
the cop. He recoiled, taken off guard by my sudden advance.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “My shoulder is out of joint. I need
you to help me pop it back in.”
    “Are you nuts?”
    “Is that rhetorical?” I shot back. “Look, if you don’t help
me, I’ll say that you beat me and dislocated my shoulder. So come on...”
    He stepped forward, still wary. I offered him my limp arm.
    “Hold it tight,” I said through gritted teeth. “Both hands.
Like your life depended on it.”
    He did and I braced myself, inhaling deeply to steel myself
against what was to come. I lurched backward and the ball of the humerus bone
slipped back into my shoulder joint with an audible click. I sat down hard in a
pile of bones and the cop let me fall.
    I screamed, crying, more sure now than ever that I would
throw up. My stomach clenched reflexively, but there was nothing there. My gut
dry-fired a few times before it gave up. I blew out a harsh and ragged breath.
    “Thanks,” I managed. He was stronger than he looked, and I
was thankful for it.
    “You’re welcome,” he said, still a little unsure about me.
    My nose was broken, so I cupped my hands on either side and
snapped it back straight. My involuntary reaction sounded more like a sob than
I would have liked.
    “What is wrong with you?” the cop asked, more honestly than
I think even he was ready for.
    “I’m having an argument with God,” I said.
    “How’s that working for you?”
    I cocked my head and wiped the blood from my face.
    “About the way you would expect it would,” I replied.
    He nodded sagely.
    “You’ve been bailed out,” he said.
    I was hearing things. Or brain-damaged. Either or both made
more sense than being bailed out.
    “Why?” was the best answer I could manage.
    “If I asked why every time I saw something that didn’t make
sense here, I wouldn’t have lasted very long,” the cop said.
    I let that rattle around in my skull.
    “Fair enough,” I said. “Let’s go see my benefactor.”
    I stood on wobbly legs, more aware than ever of my bones
from shin to knee, knee to thigh, and the precarious balancing act they
performed.
    The cop walked beside me, slowing his pace to keep in step.
The silence was awkward.
    “What’s your name?” My tone was casual, relaxed.
    “Officer Connors.”
    A few more steps in silence.
    “What’s your name, Office Connors?”
    Steps and silence.
    “Mike.”
    “Mike, I’m James.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Wish it was under better circumstances,” I conceded.
    “Likewise.”
    We came to a series of doors and each time Mike guided me
through. The place was obviously built to make escape no easy feat. We arrived
at a secured reception area. There were a few inmates being reunited with
family. I heard murmured complaints about the police officers that arrested
them. I couldn’t say that I felt the same. I deserved to be there. I had murder
in my heart and hate in my eye. I had no complaint for the cops, no gripes that
I wasn’t treated fairly.
    “Where are they, Mike?” I asked.
    “There,” he said and pointed.
    I followed his gesture and saw a tight circle