Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4), Brian Shea [free reads .txt] 📗

the building where the T stop now resided because it brought him back to one of his fondest childhood memories. He'd grown up in Needham, not far from Boston, and on a fifth-grade field trip his class had visited the city to tour the Freedom Trail leading into Faneuil Hall. The trip had been exciting because instead of taking the school bus all the way into the city, they rode to a commuter lot and made the rest of the journey by way of the T. They'd come here, to this very stop, before walking to Faneuil Hall. He remembered that time fondly. He remembered the feeling he had when he exited the station and smelled the fresh roasted nuts in the air, provided courtesy of a street vendor just outside the entranceway.

It was a different time in his life. A simple time, a happy time, a time when his parents were both still alive, before the drugs, before the violence, before the things that had put him on a collision course that landed him in jail for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Ten years for stabbing another junkie in the neck, all over getting shorted one bag of dope. Maybe he needed to go to jail. That was where he found out from a doc that he was bipolar schizophrenic.

But the time in jail only ruined him further. The drugs and violence still existed inside those walls. He knew and remembered all of this on his better days. Like today. On the lucid days where he reached a natural, and usually very temporary, homeostasis, Swanson realized how desperately he needed medication. These days were a rare gem, and he was happy to be enjoying one now. Most days when he woke, he was different. He was there, but not in control of his own body. His disconnected mind commanded him to act, sometimes courtesy of the different voices rattling around his brain. Swanson referred to this version of himself as Other Derek, his modern-day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Other Derek's experiences rolled in like foggy, distant memories. They proved themselves to be both good and bad. On rare occasions, he felt like he was watching a nightmare from the monster’s perspective. Today, Swanson knew the drugs he used, and continued to use, only made Other Derek do horrible things.

In the past, he'd woken with blood on his hands and no memory of where it came from. When he awoke a few minutes ago, he was happy Other Derek wasn't here, at least not yet. Sometimes this better version of himself lasted all day. Sometimes Other Derek crashed the party early. He hoped today that would not be the case.

The day was shaping up to be cooler than he had anticipated. He needed to get some extra layers, and soon. The same caramelized nuts he smelled as a child still wafted their magnificently sweet odor, mixed with the other less desirable scents of the inner subway system.

To most people, he was invisible. He liked it that way, especially when he was Other Derek. Even when he did the bad things, most of the time people pretended not to notice. To notice would mean they had to see him. A homeless man. Nobody wanted to see Derek Swanson. Not in a long time.

He once defecated right at the corner of a business that was still open. He remembered the expressions of the people who walked by. The intention with which they worked to avert their eyes was almost comical. One woman nearly tripped when he used a torn coffee cup to wipe the crack of his ass. If he hadn’t been Other Derek, he would have been aghast. But Other Derek took a strange level of pride in the awfulness.

Swanson didn't like Other Derek. He wanted to be himself. He wanted to be the kid he remembered from that fifth-grade field trip, who wouldn't have been able to foresee this future in the wildest of dreams. At that age, he wanted to be an astronaut. Now, he looked down at his frayed jeans layered over sweatpants. He couldn't smell himself anymore, but he knew by the expressions of the commuters stepping around him that they could. To Swanson, the funk of his own stink just blended with everything else. He avoided reflective surfaces like a vampire, but every once in a while, he would catch a glimpse and be painfully reminded of how bad things had gotten.

He wanted to fix it. On days like today, he sometimes sought help, sometimes found a shelter. Those were good days, especially ones when he could get himself a shower. How long had it been? Days, hours, minutes, none of that mattered. There was nowhere for him to be, no one looking for him, no one who would miss him when he was gone. He was truly alone. And if he was honest with himself in these moments of lucidity, he liked it that way. He just didn't want to be homeless. He wanted his own place, but he'd long forgotten how to get there, how to get a job, how to rebuild himself. For that, he needed help.

He was lost in his thoughts, speaking the words aloud. He hated when he did that. That was what Other Derek did. Other Derek would say scary things, things that made people nervous, made them call the police. Other Derek didn't like the police. They weren't nice to him. And there was that one time when he had woken up with the blood and realized it was his own. When his eyes had cleared, he was shocked to see the policeman standing over him. He couldn't remember what he'd done to warrant the beating. The policeman hadn’t arrested him, just laughed and walked away.

He'd seen things. Bad things. When you're invisible, nobody sees you, even bad people. But he didn't report those things to the police. Not since that day. Never again. Bad apple? Maybe,