"Hedgehog's Dilemma"

"So let me get this straight....Sometime last night, somebody came by, blew a hole in the wall, let this guy escape, and nobody even noticed?!?"

Half-fuming and half-incredulous, Sheriff Ramirez glared at the pair of officers who?d been on duty the night before. They each looked down sheepishly at the cold concrete floor of the station?s holding cell, seemingly as astonished as he was.

"I don't know if it was really blown into, Sheriff?" Officer Alexandra Holmes had bent down to examine the pile of sand littering the floor around the man-sized hole in the wall. "It's almost as if...." she trailed off, brushing a strand of reddish-blonde hair from her forehead as if embarrassed.

"As if what, Holmes?" Angry though he was, the sheriff knew not to call her Sherlock. If Holmes noticed the courtesy, she didn't show it.

"Well, as if it was more worn away. An explosion would have sent bits of the wall flying everywhere, but there's only this." She held up a handful of sand, letting it spill through her fingers.

"Worn away? Oh, so our suspect had some sandpaper hidden away in his pockets, did he? It was the other officer who spoke this time. John Higgins: tall, portly, and always an asshole.

"Well do you have any clue as to how he got out then?" Alexandra was incensed. "I'd love to hear it if you do. Shit! I've never seen anything like this before; how the hell am I supposed to explain it?"

"Hey!" Sheriff Martinez was not a large man, but he knew how to garner attention and respect; and maintain order.
"However the hell this happened, it happened. What matters now is finding this guy and making sure he doesn't pull something like this again."

The two officers stood watching him, their simmering anger momentarily forgotten.

"Now unless he caught a ride after trying this little stunt, that gives us a search radius of ten to fifteen miles." He had to guess, as nobody was quite sure just when the escape occurred. "You say neither of you heard any suspicious noises outside? No vehicles?"

"No sir, it was quiet all night." Higgins turned another befuddled glance towards the hole.

"Then he probably hasn?t gotten far. Get out an APB; have them search a ten mile radius first, and if we don't find anything, broaden it to fifteen." He turned to storm out of the small cell, pausing just beyond the door. "And for God's sake, don't let the damn press find out about this!"

As it turned out, the sheriff's guesses were largely on target. Anthony Reynolds, an escaped murder had not gotten far, and he wasn't intending to. He just had to make his way back to the carnival, back to that damn gypsy fortuneteller who'd started all of this. If he could get to her before the cops caught up with him, he'd force her to undo whatever spell or curse she'd put on him.

If only I can get to her without drawing attention, thought Anthony. The entire carnival must be a crime scene by now. Anthony found tears welling in his eyes as it all flooded through his mind again. Though whether they were from grief or rage he could not say. The crazy old hag had cut off some of his hair, given him a shitty reading, then refused to return his money; and he wasn't expected to be pissed off?

When he'd started yelling, she'd just bowed her head and mumbled something, seeming to ignore him completely. He'd been about to hit her, when someone from outside barged in and pulled him outside the tent and that's when all hell had broken loose. Amid the cacophony of barkers and rickety rides out in the night lit by garish lights, Anthony had pushed the man off of him or at least he'd tried.

Instead, his hands just fell into the poor bastard?s chest, sinking through his flesh and bone like they were butter. He hadn't even had time to scream; barely enough for a shocked expression to come to his face before crumpling to the ground; and the stench! Fighting back the bile in his throat at the memory, Anthony could still swear that the man had just rotted away where his hands had touched him.

From somewhere, a carney emerged soon after with a shotgun leveled squarely at Anthony's chest, and screamed at him to stay still. A crowd of people began to gather, wondering what the noise was about. Most ran, horrified when the sight sank in, leaving a smattering of the bravest watching from behind booths, as if they were children trying to catch a peek at Santa.

He'd tried to explain, tried to say he hadn't done anything; tried to say anything that would snap him back to reality,but then he'd been hit from behind. For a brief moment, the vulgar lights swirled before his eyes like so many drunken fireflies. As his face slammed into the cold, wet dirt, he caught a glimpse of the old fortuneteller from beyond her tent flaps. As his vision faded, the old bitch smiled at him: a sharp yellow crescent of crooked teeth.

When he awoke in that cell, Anthony found that it wasn't just flesh that wasted away under his hands. He'd touched one of the bars and watched it crumble in his grasp, but they'd have shot him if he'd just waltzed out of his cell. In perhaps the only stroke of luck he'd had since this whole thing started, Anthony had been relieved to find that stone eroded just as readily.

He had no idea what that gypsy had done to him, but now that he was free; he was going to make damned sure to make her pay if she didn't take it back. All he had to do was sneak his way to her tent.

The fairgrounds were empty. Yellow police tape flapped in the wind around the scene of the incident like some discarded party favor. Wagon wheel ruts criss-crossed the barren dirt plot. The carneys had left in a hurry. And so had Anthony's chance at revenge.

He slumped to the ground, face in his hands. Oddly, Anthony's own flesh seemed the only thing that was immune to his horrible touch. As he lied there, the wind gained a sudden strength, whipping his hair and clothes almost scornfully.

"You don't mock fate, boy?"

With a start, Anthony looked up. The wind promptly struck at his face, forcing him to shield it once more, and he was abruptly aware that the voice was somehow coming from the wind itself. It was at least carried by it, as if from someplace far out of sight.

"Now you see what happens when you disrespect those offering guidance. Now you see?"

Angry and desperate beyond the point of rationality, Anthony yelled into the wind. "Guidance? You gave me some bullshit story about finding my true love. I can barely even get a damn girl to look my way! And you talk about true love??!?" The pale, gangly man balled his fists in rage.

"My words were truth, boy. You'd be best to heed them. That'd be the only way you're going to get this curse lifted. The only way, boy."

The fierce wind had begun to die down at those last words, and eventually became nothing more than a normal autumn breeze once again. Yet Anthony could not bring himself to raise his head, as if it were weighed down by despair itself. The gypsy had told him that he didn't need to keep looking for happiness; his true love had been with him for years now, just waiting for him to go to her. A kiss would prove it, she had said.

"But,it just didn't make any sense, dammit!" Anthony drove his fist into the cold dirt in frustration. There was nobody waiting eagerly to be with him, no secret admirer that had ever left any clues at all. None of the girls he knew were even single.

Sarah's boyfriend always did treat her like shit, though. The thought seemed to come from out of the blue, and caught Anthony completely off guard, but the more he considered it she did always seem to get into relationships like that. He could never figure out why. It always pissed him off to see her constantly abused or taken for granted, but surely she hadn't been the one the gypsy was talking about. She'd never even hinted at liking him as more than a friend, but she had been around for years.

The bluish spot still glared malevolently against her porcelain-pale skin like some sort of disease. Wincing, Sarah Kingsly pressed the bag of ice softly back against her eye. The swelling had gone down a little, but there seemed to be no help for the ugly bruise darkening her right eye socket. She could probably wear sunglasses to cover it up, but it was the middle of October.

With a sigh, she dropped the bag of ice in the sink, and tied her shoulder-length blonde hair back into a bun. Adding a baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses, and the biggest coat she could find, Sarah's disguise was as complete as it was going to get. If she was heading out for aspirin, at least she could try to see to it that nobody would recognize her. The trip went without incident at first, though the cashier at the drug store had given her an odd look for wearing sunglasses inside. She was returning home, just stepping out of her car and into the cool October breeze, when all her efforts at concealment became moot.

"Sarah?"

She tensed, not only because she'd been discovered, but because she'd recognized the voice. Of all the people that could have seen her, why did it have to be him? Anthony Reynolds was the last person she'd ever want to see her like this. Turning to meet him though, Sarah was taken aback herself at the condition he was in. Without even thinking, she removed her sunglasses to better-assess the scene.His clothes were filthy and even torn in places, and his eyes held a look of what might have been fear.

"Anthony? What the hell happened to you?"

He stopped a few feet from her, and instantly she felt his gaze fix on the ugly blotch around her eye. He'd even reached out a hand as if to touch it, but suddenly pulled it away. She found herself wishing he hadn?t.

"Never mind me right now. What happened to you, Sarah?"

She turned away, and he could tell she was going to make up some story about tripping and falling, or something of the like.

"That bastard hit you again, didn?t he?" Forgetting both his place and his problems, he pressed on before she could start making excuses for the guy.

He was angry to the verge of yelling, and Sarah was afraid that they might start drawing attention. She looked down, suddenly very self-conscious.

"Could we talk about this inside, Anthony? Please?" With a sigh, he nodded and followed her into the house.

As he was about to close the door, he suddenly forced his hand away from the knob, instead leaning against it until it shut. It earned him an odd look, but it was surely easier to explain than having the handle crumble in his hand.

"Are you really alright?"

"I..no. I'm not. Not when I keep seeing you treated like this." The words tumbled out of his mouth like boxes from an over-packed closet, only half improvised with the other half pent-up for far too long. The realization caught him by surprise, but he kept on going. He felt he had to.

The police car screeched to a halt, painting the white, two-story house in alternating shades of crimson and blue. Two officers raced to the door, bracing themselves for what lay within. The neighbors had reported a woman's scream. No shots fired, but nobody had been reported as fleeing the scene either. If there was foul play, the perp was still inside.

"Police! Open the door!"

No answer.

"Open the door now, or we're coming in!"

Still nothing. The silence was broken by the crack of splintering wood as the door flew inwards with a kick. The hallway beyond was empty, with a pair of doors branching out to either side. With a nod, they hurried in, one to each door. Beyond, only one was empty.

"Freeze! Down on the ground! Now!" There was a man crouched down with his back to the doorway. He was cradling someone in his arms, and seemed not to even notice they'd come in.

"I said get down on the ground!"

Finally he turned, with eyes only half-seeing the pistols leveled squarely at his head. Anthony Reynolds arms went limp, and the body he'd been holding slumped to the floor with a thud. The head lolled sickeningly towards the police officers, its face completely gone.

Fighting dry heaves at the sight, officer John Higgins signaled to his partner to call for backup, snapping his attention back to the murderer as soon as the man began to stand.

"I said get down on the damn ground! Now!"

"I can't hurt anybody anymore." The words were barely a whisper, as Anthony stopped in mid-stance and reached a hand down towards the corpse.

"Don't touch her, you sick fuck! Stay where you are, get down on the ground, or so help me I'll shoot!"

Higgin's eyes searched the scene frenetically to see if there was a weapon within the perp's reach. Anthony's eyes fell on the officer?s own, but seemed to barely see the man at all. Only the faintest echo of confusion registered in either his sad, faraway eyes or his voice, as he stood fully and took a step forward.

"But, it's over. I can't hurt anyone anymore."

Another warning from the cop; another step. The hammer clicked back in trembling hands; another step.

"It's over now."

The man who had been Anthony Reynolds fell mere feet from John Higgins with a single shot. His hand fell weakly against the officer's leg, clutching the cuff of his pants and holding it until Higgins reached down and pulled it away.

"God, I don't look forward to writing the report on this one."

©2008 J. Asher Henry