Book II – Chapter 16: Murderer

Posted On September 29, 2015

Ferris didn’t see the bullet go in. There was only a scream, muffled through the blood pumping behind his eardrums. The sound petered out into a grunt as Hassan clutched his shoulder, fingers clawing through the reddening fabric. The man sucked in a chestful of air, his breath audible across the empty space. He wavered. Heels scuffed the concrete floor before his body collapsed backward against the truck. With a dull thump, he stopped moving.

Demos wasn’t moving, either. He stared at the crumpled heap of a man in front of him, his gaze frozen on the ever-growing pool of red. It took a moment for Demos to breathe, to take in the terrible, inequitable fact that he was still alive. Slowly, he turned his head toward Ferris.

His eyes rose to the gun, still wrapped in Ferris’ painfully tight grip. Ferris hadn’t lowered his arm. Demos searched for eye contact, but his friend’s stare was elsewhere — locked, straight ahead, on the space where Hassan used to be.

A gunshot from the other side of the warehouse snapped Ferris back into the moment. He blinked, eyes screwing shut as he remembered why he had lifted the gun in the first place. Demos.

Ferris closed the space between them without thinking, his feet sweeping over discarded shells. His knees hit the floor as he dropped to Demos’ side, easing his friend upright.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Gunfire continued to swell through the air, a Fourth of July evening bursting and crackling beneath the high warehouse ceiling. Yet, even with the buffet of bullets on plaster, neither man seemed to take notice.

Demos swallowed. “Ferris.”

With his free hand, Ferris took his friend by the wrist. The skin there was mottled where Hassan had crushed it, marred beneath the hard sole of a boot. He glared at the bruise, the rims of his eyes tight and red. His stare flickered upward, taking Demos by the jaw to examine each side of his face. Another scuff had streaked over Demos’ cheek, a blotched stripe of pink on a plane of white. Something flared beneath Ferris’ chest — an absurd, scorching tightness.

“You—“

“I’m fine,” Demos said. A soft click drew his gaze down. Ferris was still holding the gun, his fingers white in an impossibly tight brace. The weapon shuddered. A moment later, Ferris could feel two palms closing over his hand.

“It’s okay.” Demos glanced back up. “Let go.”

His grip loosened. Gently, Demos eased the weapon free, keeping one hand over his friend’s tense knuckles.

Ferris couldn’t look away. “It’s not okay.“

“I said I’m—“ Demos stopped. His eyes rounded as a freight train of realization struck. Without warning, he shoved past his friend,  rushing just feet away to another man’s side — to Hassan.

The man had fallen on his back, exposing the seeping wound in his shoulder. He had lost consciousness. Demos hunched forward, his ear hovering beside Hassan’s parted lips as he listened for breathing. He struggled to hear through the ring of gunshots, but a simple rise of the man’s chest answered his question. Hassan was alive.

“What—” Ferris could only stare, fixated in place. “What are you doing?”

Demos didn’t look up, moving on to check for a pulse. “We’re not going to let him die.”

“Why?”

It took Demos a moment to reply. He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it over the wound with as much pressure as he could manage. It was then he noticed the color of the cloth was nearly identical to the liquid soaking into it — a deep, rusty red.

“Because.” Demos swallowed, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. “You’re not a murderer.”

Ferris said nothing. From the moment he’d broken the door, he had felt nothing, thought of nothing — nothing but keeping Demos alive. Now, he noticed it — the color red, the roll of sweat as it ran down the back of his neck. Sensation rushed back to him as Demos’ words toiled through his head.

The gunshots stopped. The warehouse fell silent, with only the hiss of rising smoke to assure Ferris time hadn’t stopped. Dust settled, blanketing the floor as the last echoes faded. A pair of shadows fell over Demos’ back, signaling Benny and Gina’s approach.

“Spettro, cosa fai?” Benny fed his rifle with a clack, aiming directly between Hassan’s eyes. “Want me to finish?”

Demos waved him off, keeping the handkerchief flat with one hand. “No no, aspetta. We need the car, can you get it?”

Benny lowered his weapon with a frown. “Okay.”

“Gina, how are our guests?”

“They’re all in one piece,” she said, glancing back toward the wall. “Ellen is a better shot than Benny.”

Benny gave his sister a pained look. “È una bugia! A lie!”

“Go get the car, Benny.”

Ferris barely noticed as the man stalked off, taking his enormous shadow with him. He hadn’t looked away from Demos, who was doing everything in his power to slow the bleeding.

“It doesn’t look like it went through,” Demos said. “I don’t think it hit a main artery, either.”

When Ferris didn’t respond, Demos’ voice hardened. “Hey. Listen to me.”

Ferris took in a soft breath, then nodded.

“You did well.” Demos managed a weak smile. “It’s over now. Say okay.”

“Okay.”

“Now I need you to help me take him to the car.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Demos nodded. “Let’s go.”

For once, Demos was driving. The hum of the engine was rising, peaking to a rumble as he challenged an upcoming yellow light. He made a hard left onto a side street, barely able to keep his phone tucked against his ear.

“Will isn’t answering.” Demos said through grit teeth. “He always answers.”

Will — it had been a long time since Ferris had heard the name. He was the family doctor, primed for treating not-so-legal injuries in his not-so-legal clinic. No one seemed to mind that his license had long since been revoked — not his aberrant patients, and certainly not the Giorgettis. The family had a penchant for getting into trouble, essentially funding nearly all of the clinic’s overhead. There had never been a day that he’d disregarded the name Giorgetti on his phone.

Never, until now.

Demos glanced briefly at the rearview mirror. “You all right back there?”

In the back seat, Ferris had taken over handkerchief duties. Blood had stained his hands, leaking through the cloth as he struggled to keep pressure on the injury.

“I think so.”

“Keep him warm, we’re almost there. Hopefully he’ll be in.”

Ferris glanced up, watching Demos’ narrow reflection. “What if he isn’t?”

Demos didn’t reply. His focus returned to the road, eyes locked on the black pavement. Whether the doctor was in or not, all he could do was drive.

The clinic was small, tucked on the edge of Little Italy and barely visible from the street. There was nothing impressive about the exterior and its dingy gray bricks blended unassumingly with the neighboring shops. A narrow alley led to a weathered side door which, in truth, admitted patients more often than the front.

The door rattled open, admitting the three men past the threshold.

Demos hurried in first. “Will!”

“The lights are on,” Ferris said, considerably slower with Hassan’s body hefted over his shoulders.

The clinic’s interior was much more respectable, if not trapped in the 1960’s. The floors were set in beige linoleum, leading to tall, wood-paneled walls. A mustard sofa indicated some sort of waiting area, yet there was not a patient to be seen.

“Where the fuck is he?” Demos wiped a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Will! I swear to God, I—“

“Shut up, I can hear you,” came a subtle Lebanese accent from a side room. “And so can the neighbors.”

A woman stepped out, wiping her hands with a small towel. Her brown hair was only a shade darker than her skin, most of which was protected by a white lab coat.

“Where is he?” Demos asked, not bothering with introductions.

“He left an hour ago.”

“He’s supposed to be on call,” Demos said. “He’s always been on call!”

She eyed the men with mild disinterest, her attention drifting from their blood stained clothes to the unconscious man hanging over Ferris’ shoulders.

“You should find a normal hospital.” She glanced to the floor, which was now speckled in red. “He’s bleeding on the floor.”

Demos was close to snapping. “Who do you think paid for this floor?”

“Ya Allah.” Her eyes widened. “You’re Demos, aren’t you? Demos Gior—“

“Giorgetti, yes. Now are you going to help us or would you prefer to hide his corpse?”

At that, her expression shifted, her lips set in a thin frown.

“Get him in here.”

The exam room was predictably small, yet well-stocked. With as much care as he could manage, Ferris eased Hassan from his shoulders to the table. The woman wasted no time shoving the two aside, parting Hassan’s ragged shirt with a pair of scissors.

“How long ago was he shot?” she asked, pressing gauze over the injury.

Demos took a step back, narrowly avoiding her elbow as she worked. “About fifteen minutes ago. Doctor…?”

“Nadia.”

“Okay. Doctor Nadia,” he said. “You his new assistant, or something?”

She peeled back the gauze, taking a better look at the entrance wound. “I’ve worked with him for a year. Never seen you here before.”

Demos shrugged. “I guess I stayed out of trouble.”

“Lucky you,” she said. “Okay, one of you has to help me turn him over.”

Nadia glanced up, her eyes darting between the two of them. Demos, with his small, chalk-white frame and Ferris, who had done little more than stare blankly since he’d first arrived.

“Um.” Her eyes finally settled on the taller man. “You.”

Ferris complied wordlessly, following her instructions to ease him sideways. It only took a moment to make her assessment.

“No exit wound. I’ll have to remove the bullet,” she said, keeping pressure on the gauze as Ferris lowered the body back to the table. “You, Skinny. Get me the forceps.”

Demos glared in response. “Excuse me?”

“Help, or get out.”

Just as Demos opened his mouth to protest once more, a groan drew each person’s attention back to the table. It was a dry sound, a breath escaping from a tight, scratched throat. Hassan was waking up. His eyes tightened before flickering open, narrow slits against the bright white of the room. A cough shook his body before he managed to raise his head.

“Eiyna ana,” he said, his voice rough as he scanned the room. His weak gaze drifted from one figure to another, only stopping with his eyes met Ferris’.

“You.” Hassan’s voice darkened. “You shot me.”

His body lifted against the doctor’s hand, ready to lunge in spite of his blood-loss. He had only managed to lift onto one elbow before Ferris disappeared from his vision. A dark shape had blocked his view — a black, stained suit and muzzle of a gun. Demos had stepped between them.

“You shot him?” Nadia said, now using both hands to hold down her patient. “Why did you bring him here?”

It took Hassan a moment to put her words together. The burn in his face faded, leaving him dazed on the exam table. After a moment, he squinted, drawing his attention up to Demos’ face.

“Yes, why did you bring me here?”

Seeing that Hassan had given up trying to stand, Demos lowered his weapon.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “Will he be okay?”

Nadia let out a sigh, fishing the forceps from a drawer herself. “He’ll live, but I can’t work with this crowd in here. Go sit in the waiting room.”

“Are you certain you should be alone with me?” Hassan asked, raising an eyebrow as the two other men slunk out through the door.

“You try anything and I’ll stuff these forceps right in your eye.”

“You’ve been in the States a long time, haven’t you?”

In the waiting room, Ferris had maintained his state of quiet staring, his eyes now set on a frame on the opposite wall. It was an oil painting, a ship with pointed sails against a burning orange sky. His posture was limp, hands smudging red over the knees of his pants.

“Ferris?” Demos was seated next to him, hunched forward in an attempt to watch his friend’s face. “I never thought—“

“I heard a scream,” Ferris said, his eyes still fixed on the painting.

Demos shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I shot one of his men, so he came after me.”

“I thought he was going to kill you.”

“He didn’t.” Gently, Demos placed a hand on his friend’s wrist. When Ferris turned, he could see that Demos was smiling.

“Thank you,” Demos said. Until then, Ferris had tried not to look at him. Each time he caught sight of the scratches, the plum-colored bruise, the various shades of red staining the Italian’s hands and cheeks — each time it unsettled him to the core. Now, he couldn’t help but look, to see the scuffs and bumps right alongside that perfect smile.

“I’m just—“

A shout resounded from the exam room, followed by gripes in muffled Arabic. It seemed she had found the bullet.

Ferris momentarily shut his eyes, attempting to put his sentence back together. “I’m sorry — about what I said. About being happy for once.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I’ve been happy. I’ve been happy so many times.” His stare dropped to his lap. “And most of those times were with you.”

Demos swallowed whatever he had intended to say, now left with nothing but a name. “Ferris.”

“It was the first thing I thought,” he said. “When you were in trouble. So…”

Ferris’ hands tightened over his knees, creasing the fabric between his fingers. “So, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I could have worded it better.”

“I really wanted you to like her.”

“I do like her,” Demos said. “I was just trying to look out for you.”

“I know. You’ve been right before.” Ferris exhaled, his chest sinking. “I just hope you’re wrong about Alex.”

“Me too.”

Ferris glanced toward the exam room. “I still can’t believe you saved Hassan. I’ve lost count of the men you’ve killed.”

Demos let out a soft laugh. “You remember the first time?”

“Yeah.”

“So do I. I’ll never forget it.” Demos’ eyes seemed to gloss over as that exact afternoon replayed in his mind. The memory was as clear as day — the auto shop, the exact number of bullets, of bodies, the car idling just outside with a crimson streak down the passenger window.

Demos’ smile was dwindling. “It changes you.”

With that, he looked back up. He watched Ferris for a while before lifting his hand. Gingerly, he wiped a spot of blood from Ferris’ glasses, leaving only a faint streak on the lens.

“And I like you the way you are.”

Ferris felt a sudden heat in his ears, a warmth that quickly spread through most of his face. He turned away, doing everything in his power to focus on the exam room door. It was time to change the subject.

“How many of them were there?”

For a long moment, the air in the waiting room was silent. Finally, Demos replied. “Five. Hassan is the only one left.”

Ferris bit the corner of his lip. “They went down fast.”

“I don’t think they expected the Hills to be proficient with those rifles. Their mistake.”

The door Ferris had been staring at opened with a clack. Nadia stepped out, tugging a pair of gloves from her hands.

“He’s all closed up.”

Demos straightened at her voice. “He’ll be okay?”

“I put an IV in him.” She glanced back toward the room. “He didn’t like those ass injections, though. Why are men such babies about antibiotics?”

“We’re lucky you were here,” he said as he got to his feet. “We owe you one.”

“You sure do.”

“Let us buy you a drink.”

Ferris stiffened. “Us?”

Nadia still hadn’t managed to smile. “I hope you mean a shai.”

“A what?” Demos asked with a squint.

Ferris stood, leaning in to speak against his friend’s ear. “She doesn’t drink.”

“And how the hell would you know that?” Demos whispered back. Ferris made a subtle gesture, indicating the woman’s collar. When Demos looked back, he noticed the jewelry around her neck, a pendant shaped in Arabic letters — some religious thing. It was always some religious thing.

“Oh. Right.”

A fortuitous ringtone freed Demos from the awkward moment and he eagerly brought the phone to his ear. “Hi, Gina.”

For a while, he said nothing, only listening to the voice on the other end. Both Ferris and Nadia watched as his eyes grew darker, the smile fading from his lips and replaced with a thin, set line.

“Where was he?” he said, then listened once more. He inhaled deeply, keeping the air inside his chest before releasing it in a deep sigh. “You’re sure? All right. I’ll see you at the compound.”

With a beep, the call ended. Demos stuffed the phone into his pocket, taking a moment to digest what he’d heard.

“Will’s dead.” Slowly, Demos shifted his attention to the exam room. “It was them.”

Before Ferris could open his mouth, Nadia had turned on her heels, charging back into the room. The door hit the opposite wall with a crack, leaving a dent where the knob had met the plaster.

“You piece of shit.” A tray of medical tools clattered as she grabbed the nearest instrument — a scalpel. “I should put that bullet right back where I found it.”

Hassan clambered backward. “Miss, I—“

“Shut up!” The thin blade met his throat, pressing into the knob on his throat. Hassan stopped speaking.

“He was a doctor, he’d never hurt anyone.” Nadia gestured to the two men in the waiting room, both of whom were staring uselessly. “Those assholes are the ones you should be killing!”

Demos frowned. “Thanks, Nadia.”

“You shut up, too!”

Ferris leaned in to speak, his voice mindfully low. “You’re not going to stop her?”

“Eh.” Demos shrugged. “If she kills him, it’s not your fault.”

“Demos.”

The Italian took in a long, dramatic breath. “Fine.”

With even, deliberate steps, Demos made his way into the exam room. Nadia paid him no mind, keeping her glare set on the once-patient-now-victim beneath the shuddering tip of her scalpel.

“Nadia,” he said, finally catching her attention. “This man didn’t hurt Will. Let him go.”

Hassan’s eyes widened, his face now beading with sweat. “Will? I didn’t have anything to do with that. They did it!”

“They? They who?”

“I was told not to speak of it,” he said, then swallowed as he felt the prick of tempered steel brush his skin. “But… you did save my life.”

Hassan paused to catch his breath, risking eye contact with the doctor.

“Both of you.”

Nadia paused to read his face. A minute passed before her grip softened, and finally the scalpel was slapped back onto the tray. She leaned in, teeth grit, her face dangerously close to his own.

“This will come back to you.”

Hassan gave her a slight nod. “I know.”

With that, he closed his eyes, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “I don’t really need to tell you who had your doctor killed. I’m sure you already know.”

Demos ran a hand through his hair, momentarily pushing the black fringe from his eye. Hassan was right — he already knew. He knew when the truck plowed through the loading dock door, from the second Sandro had pulled back from that kiss with a grin. There was no one else it could be.

“The Marianis.”

“Correct.”

“Our partnership was—“ Hassan stopped, his next breath no more than a wheeze.

With both hands, Nadia guided him back to a laying position. “That’s enough for now. He needs to rest.”

“Fair enough,” Demos said. “He almost died twice.”

It wasn’t until they were back in the alley that they realized it was raining. Droplets hit the hood of the car, trailing down the glass of the windows. Demos shielded his face with one hand, using the other to fish out his keys.

“I’ll drive,” he said as he opened the front door. “I’m taking you to the compound.”

He paused before getting in, looking back to see that Ferris hadn’t moved.

“Unless,” Demos said, hesitant, “you want to go home.”

Ferris’s hands were open, fingers spread as he let the rain pelt his palms. Bit by bit, the dried blood rinsed from his skin, the tinted drops falling to the pavement below.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”