angels in alleys
Bullet shots echoed throughout the room making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, leaving me untouched but rattled to my very core. Goosebumps rippled across my arm and I fought against the shudder that ran down my spine. It had been nearly eighteen months since I had started the detective academy’s young recruits FBI program, and the sound of a shot firing rang through the back of my mind like a constant reminder that this very sound was the last thing that my mother had ever heard before being enveloped in a permanent silence. I shook the thought from my head, remembering where I was and why I was here. I wondered if I would ever be capable of shaking the everpressing rattle in my bones.
Sargent Bailey was a kind older man in his mid sixties, who wore a soft mustache and salt and pepper hair. He had been doing this for a long time, which he liked to remind us all of during the early morning classes and training sessions, when we assessed the current cases and kept up to date on any potential evidence that had been presented as a lower level priority. We weren’t yet skilled enough to catch the serial killers or monitor the more severe cases, although the higher up officers provided us the juicy updates and details of their cases at any opportunity, provided that the information was public knowledge. There was plenty that was kept locked behind the steely minds of the agents and officers that made me feel ill just to think about. He was the owner of the glock-22 that had been going off for the last several moments, as I stood in a stunned haze a few feet from the firing range.
I hated guns. I was hoping that coming here and being around them more often might change my mind, or change my feelings, but they both remained stubborn and stagnant, stuck on past worries and resentments. I wished that I had stayed home that morning, stretching out onto the generously sized mattress that I had moved into my cramped apartment just outside of the city. The commute was part of what I loved about the academy, although on some days I preferred to avoid other people entirely. Today was one of those days, but I chose to push forward regardless and do what I could to make it through.
“See how I aimed two shots at his chest and one at his head? If an attacker is this close to you out in the field, if their weapon is drawn and you’re unable to make another choice, you must draw your weapon and take aim to one of these three areas on the body, for your own safety.” The Sergeant droned on as my stomach dropped into the very pit of my toes, and I had to fight the urge to empty the contents of my breakfast onto the floor in front of him and all of the other officers at the thought of ever having to draw my weapon. I knew I was not ready for this kind of work, I could never imagine being the difference between a living person’s life or death.
I knew I could never be cut out for this sort of work, but that didn’t stop me from faithfully dedicating myself to the dark pre morning workouts, weekend seminars dedicated to experts that worked in the field of criminology, dealing with monsters and criminals far worse than I had ever seen. The most unfathomable criminal I had ever dealt with was a faceless coward with a pistol hidden in his jeans, who stole one of the most important people from my life on a misty Wednesday in November. It was now October and three years had slipped by in shameful resistance to carry forth, an effort on behalf of the science of time to never stop despite the everyday tragedies taking place. I half listened to the rest of the Sergeants speech, nodding when he made direct eye contact and trying not to wince as the next volunteer stepped forward, willing to demonstrate all that they had learned in the last half hour. I wouldn’t volunteer to do that in a million years.
“Celeste, why don’t you give it a try?” Sargaent Bailey’s eyes softened, and I remembered the conversation we had a few weeks prior about my reluctance to take my first shot. All twenty-something pairs of eyes turned to face me, and I had to fight every instinct in my body to not throw up on the spot.
“I’m sure that there is someone who is more…excited to give it a try. Maybe give them a chance first?” My voice sounded shrill and I hated the hollowness in my tone. With a curt nod, the Sergeant nodded and turned to the young man standing a few paces to my left, who had eagerly raised his hand a few moments prior. I watched in a fog as that man stepped forward, I think his name was Justin or Connor, and I imagined the entire room sniggering and laughing at my inability to do the one thing that was required of us here.
My eyes hazed over in a sudden mist and I blinked back the emotion furiously, begging for emptiness and nothingness and for my body to get the memo. In reality, I am sure that no one noticed much besides my declining the Sargaent’s offer, which I was sure was going to be the talk of the group as soon as I had to leave for the afternoon to go visit my father. Justin or Connor took his place twenty feet or so away from the perpetrator, a wooden cutout of a figure standing threateningly with holes fired through its torso and head.
I watched as he fired off a few rounds smoothly, the sound grating against my temple like grinding nails against a chalkboard, and I lept in the air as my shoulders involuntarily spasmed and I stood with a rush, turning towards the door and fumbling to take off the equipment required for me to even be back here. I threw the illuminated vest to declare that I was certified enough to be behind the main gated doors onto a chair sitting precariously near the exit before I threw open the doors and booked it out into the bustling city crowd, none whatsoever deterred by the rain misting its way down the street. I was sure that I wasn’t out of place dressed in all black, despite the attention I sometimes received from the contrast between my silver-white blonde hair and eyebrows and the dark jackets and clothes that I preferred to wear.
My thick black tennis shoes slapped the wet pavement as I navigated through the damp labyrinth of people and benches, strollers and bikers. It was getting late in the afternoon, and I knew the train from Carroll Ave to East Chicago would take at least an hour if not more for the south shore to complete. Most days I preferred the time to relax and listen to music or an audiobook on self help, but I was anxious and desperately needed a bone crushing hug from my eleven year old brother, Arthur. The image of his anxious thin frame sprang into my head, his unruly ginger hair billowing over the large frames of his glasses. I wanted to sit with him on our overstuffed yellow sofa and watch NCIS, snacking on crispy cheddar fries and analyzing every second of his school day.
Arthur was strange. It was my favorite thing about him. Wisdom trickled behind his soft green eyes and I knew at eleven years old he picked up on some subtleties that adults often overlooked. He would explain all of the fifth grade hot gossip to me over snacks and treats. I would stifle my laughter at the serious demeanor he took explaining such things to me, a twinkle in his eye as if he realized the joy it brought me to hear about his day. I made it a habit of taking the train at least four times a week to visit for dinner and sometimes a walk, which seemed to be a fair compromise for moving out. My father hadn’t had an easy time with the idea of my leaving.
“Why on earth would you want to move closer to the city?” His tone had been soft yet challenging, and I could tell the idea of me not living under his roof any longer made him nervous to think about. I was twenty at the time, and I felt that it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t stop time for the tragedy that had overtaken all of our lives. Despite my commute to the University of Chicago after graduation, Arthur and my father had never been used to me being gone long. They were adjusting, but it was difficult.
Arthur had been so young when everything happened, it seemed like a million years ago, yet the knifelike pain of her absence still tainted every happy memory that we created since we lost her.
My father had since visited and approved of all of my safety precautions, he loved the academy and wanted to encourage Arthur to follow in my footsteps. I begged him to never say that to Arthur, but I never told him why. I could never imagine such a sweet innocent boy growing accustomed to what horrors the world can produce. I think my father understood that on some level, because he dropped the topic after that.
We had dinner often though, like we had planned on doing tonight. My father often made one of my childhood favorites like eggplant parm or chicken alfredo or something Arthur loves, like breakfast for dinner or steak done medium rare. Tonight though, he decided to grill salmon, which he announced after we had greeted in a flurry of hugs after I arrived at their home. He had taken Arthur, in a haze and panic, and packed up the remainder of their lives to relocate to a small yellow town home on the bluff of the lake across the water from southwest Michigan. It was quaint and open; I knew my mother would have loved this place.
The air had an orange and purple tainted haze to it when I left that evening, I couldn’t explain it. As if the wind had sucked all of the electricity from the city like a siphon and was channeling it into my eardrums. Replaying the goodbyes in my head, I felt defeat in my chest like the echo of the bullet shots from earlier that day. I felt the shame deep in my bones of running from their sadness, I wished I could take every ounce of their emptiness and pour it into myself. I couldn’t stand to see them as desolate as they often seemed when they thought I was not paying close enough attention.
I yanked my golden curls into a loose ponytail. The walk to the train was long, and most of the lights on this street had been damaged or busted completely. My father always insisted that I get a car to take me to the train, but the first few times I was too emotional. The first time I had outright lied, telling him that I was getting one to pick me up from the library, saying it was cheaper. Everything flowed from my lips like the truth these days.
A sound ripped through the cold evening air that sent a jolt of horror down my spine and to this day still gives me nightmares, that sound she made. A woman. A few meters ahead of where I was standing on this abandoned street, in an empty alley. I faded from being a protective older sister and shifted into a training federal detective, senses tense for further clues about what was happening. I closed the distance as I trained my ears on the shuffling feet. A voice gnawed at the back of my head telling me that I was not armed. I had no protection of a bulletproof vest, no safety net of a squad of backup.
Another bloodcurdling scream ripped through the night and I sprinted the remaining feet until I stood at the end of the alley, cracked light filtering down just enough for me to see that a man held a woman by her throat against the brick building. It was her feet dangling from the pavement that caused me to charge the guy, and although I admit I could have approached things differently, I couldn’t tell if the girl was still breathing or how long she had been suspended for. Her hair hung in stringy curls framing her face and drenched with sweat, and I could make out her terrified expression from the few rays of light streaming from the moon and the dirty street lamps.
I hit the side of his body with all of the strength and adrenaline. He smelled like burnt cigarettes and oil. I thought that he might work in an auto shop. I turned my face to protect my eyes and to allow the full force of my shoulder to push him and distract him from the girl I had just gotten him to release and he stumbled a few feet sideways, colorfully cursing as he struggled to regain his balance. I turned to her, she grasped her throat and fought to regain air. I wrapped my arm around her in an attempt to comfort her, she was tall and thin with shoulder length chestnut hair.
“What’s your name?” I whispered.
“Jessica,” she choked out, bruises blossoming along her neck.
I asked if she had a phone and she shook her head. I pulled mine out and unlocked it, handing it to her.
“Go as far as you can and call 911. Give them the nearest street crossroads and describe the blue archway in front of the alley.” I folded my phone into her shaking fingers and turned to face her attacker. He grimaced at me like a rabid dog, moving closer and closer.
“You have no idea what you just did,” he snarled, inching closer to my awaiting fists. I saw his eyes drooping ever so slightly, and I wondered if he was drunk or high or both. That did not seem to impact his dexterity. He lunged and I dodged him easily, tripping him in the process and shoving him into the corner of the metal dumpster that had been sitting a few feet away. Although I was quicker, he was far bigger, and I was worried about how long he could last in a fight in his state, not feeling any pain or having any reason to stop. How long would it take the police to get here? The closest station to the house was fifteen minutes away, give or take. How long would it take for the emergency operator to relay the information to the local department? Seconds cost lives I knew, and my brother’s face flashed through my mind. I had to make it back home to him at some point.
He charged out of nowhere with a speed I was not aware he possessed. I tried to spring backward, but he caught me by my hair. My neck snapped like a doll’s yet somehow remained unbroken as he yanked me into his waiting fists. Hot and fresh blood sprang from my nose and poured down my face. I jerked my head to the side and rolled to his left, kicking his leg sideways from the side of his knee with the full force of my body. He crumpled and yelped in pain, and I grinned in grim satisfaction. I knew he would come back angrier. I was ready for it.
Suddenly I heard metal clicking into place and realized I was not ready for everything. Of course this violent idiot had a gun. Of course he had drawn it on me. He pulled the trigger and I flinched in utter terror, until I realized that he had turned the safety on in his haste. I dropped to the ground and sideswiped his legs with my own, forcing the gun to fall and scatter a few feet down the pavement in the shadowy sidewalk.
I didn’t think as I charged forward blindly to grab the gun, didn’t realize that he had already gathered himself from the spill and was right behind me. I screamed as he grabbed me by my own throat, and I tore with my nails against the flesh of his hands, berating him to free me. He didn’t. I felt each of his fingers closing in on my esophagus, and I stopped breathing altogether. Complete and utter loss and panic set in, and I scrambled desperately for an idea to save myself. As the life slipped from my body, my fingers went into autopilot and slid the safety off of the gun and I lifted it upwards towards the man’s chest before squeezing the trigger as tightly as I could.
Fireworks exploded from the end of my hand and the force shocked me, although I had shot a gun before it had never been at something breathing. His scream etched itself into the back of my head, baritone nails on a chalkboard. I kicked him hard and he let me go, his grip loosening itself from my neck and allowing me to breathe again. I gulped down fresh air, never so grateful for the simple act.
He fell backwards, and I pushed him hard once more before turning and running in the opposite direction towards the street. Panic set in and I forced myself to breathe, moving between garbage cans and debris.
I had never been so grateful in my life to hear police sirens.
I fell to my knees and slid the gun to the ground as the first car pulled up with lights flashing blue and red and blue. The car skidded to a halt a few feet from me and a stern looking woman got out of the driver's seat. I put my hands up as they approached me.
“There was a man attacking her. The girl who called, he pulled a gun on me. I had to try to keep him off, I think he’s on something. He tried to kill me, that’s his gun. I shot him.” I choked on the last words, and the woman reached down and picked up the gun, handing it to her partner who had joined her, a middle aged man with a lean build and dark curly hair. He ran to where I pointed, the alleyway. I heard him radio in the scene, and the other officer was speaking to me but I was too stunned to hear a word that she was saying.
An ambulance emerged from the street that had been silent and empty twenty minutes prior. Jessica suddenly appeared from the street, pulling me into a bear hug as her eyes overflowed with tears. It was then that I noticed all of the bruises that dotted her neck, but also her arms and face. Old bruises, yellowed and glazed over.
“Jessica, thank god you’re okay. Who was that guy? Do you know?” Her eyes fell in shame, an emotion that I related to all too well, though I wondered the reason.
“He’s my husband. Tyler.” My eyes widened.
“Oh my god. Jessica…I shot him. He was trying to kill me, but I’m.. sorry.” I didn’t know what to say as the ambulance pulled closer into view.
“Oh god, please don’t be sorry. I really hope that you killed him. You are my angel, what is your name?” I stared at her in shock and managed to say,
“Celeste Spencer.”
“Thank you, Celeste. I owe you my life.”
We stared into each other's eyes as the paramedics approached us, pulling us into opposite directions to check our levels of coherence and investigate the damage that had been done. A man gently wiped the blood that was covering the entire lower half of my face and gently pressed my nose. I yelled out in pain, and he apologized profusely and told me that he needed to set it because it was broken. I let him, bracing myself for the pain. My fingernails dug blood crescent moon’s into each of my palms until he was done. Jessica was safe, I was safe.
The bright neon white lights of the ambulance burrowed holes in my eyes, and suddenly in my worry I felt a deep sense of calm, a pang of relief. I rolled my eyes to the left and swear to this day that my mother sat there beside me, her outline shadowed and drawn by the light. I flexed my hand and felt the warmth of her hands on my fingers, and I gripped her hand tightly. I felt the cabin of the car jolt as we made a sharp turn but there was no worry in my heart, no longer and never again. I knew that I had an angel too.
