Case heads gleam. Fully loaded. He snaps the cylinder shut and
holsters the weapon again.
The dead man on the floor has a leather pouch on his belt. It contains
two speedloaders.
He takes this and affixes it to his own belt, which gives him more
ammunition than he should need merely to deal with the false father.
However, his faceless superiors seem to have caught up with him, and he
cannot guess what troubles he may encounter before he has regained his
name, his family, and the life stolen from him.
The second dead man, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, never
managed to draw the gun he was reaching for. It remains in the holster.
He removes it. Another Chief’s Special. Because of the short barrel,
it fits in the relatively roomy pocket of the varsity jacket.
Acutely aware that he is running out of time, he leaves the van and
closes the door behind him.
The first snowflakes of the storm spiral out of the northwest sky on a
chill breeze. They are few in number, at first, but large and lacy.
As he crosses the street toward the white clapboard house with green
shutters, he sticks out his tongue to catch some of the flakes.
He probably had done the same thing when, as a boy living on this
street, he had delighted in the first snow of the season.
He has no memories of snowmen, snowball battles with other kids, or
sledding. Though he must have done those things, they have been
expunged along with so much else, and he has been denied the sweet joy
of nostalgic recollection.
A flagstone walkway traverses the winter-brown front lawn.
He climbs three steps and crosses the deep porch.
At the door, he is paralyzed by fear. His past lies on the other side
of this threshold. The future as well. Since his sudden self-awareness
and desperate break for freedom, he has come so far.
This may be the most important moment of his campaign for justice. The
turning point. Parents can be staunch allies in times of trouble.
Their faith.
Their trust. Their undying love. He is afraid he will do something, on
the brink of success, to alienate them and destroy his chances for
regaining his life. So much is at stake if he dares to ring the bell.
Daunted, he turns to look at the street and is enchanted by the scene,
for snow is falling much faster than when he approached the house. The
flakes are still huge and fluffy, millions of them, whirling in the mild
northwest wind. They are so intensely white that they seem luminous,
each lacy crystalline form filled with a soft inner light, and the day
is no longer dreary. The world is so silent and serene two qualities
rare in his experience–that it no longer seems quite real, either, as
if he has been transported by some magic spell into one of those glass
globes that contain a diorama of a quaint winter scene and that will
fill with an eternal flaky torrent as long as it is periodically shaken.
That fantasy is appealing. A part of him yearns for the stasis of a
world under glass, a benign prison, timeless and unchanging, at peace,
clean, without fear and struggle, without loss, where the heart is never
troubled.
Beautiful, beautiful, the falling snow, whitening the sky before the
land below, an effervescence in the air. It’s so lovely, touches him so
profoundly, that tears brim in his eyes.
He is keenly sensitive. Sometimes the most mundane experiences are so
poignant. Sensitivity can be a curse in an abrasive world.
Summoning all his courage, he turns again to the house. He rings the
bell, waits only a few seconds, and rings it again.
His mother opens the door.
He has no memory of her, but he knows intuitively that this is the woman
who gave him life. Her face is slightly plump, relatively unlined for
her age, and the very essence of kindness. His features are an echo of
hers. She has the same shade of blue eyes that he sees when he looks
into a mirror, though her eyes seem, to him, to be windows on a soul far