A Soul in Turmoil: Our Visionary Fable begins

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1:

… Taking her arm, he navigated her around the chaos on the cluttered floor. Her traditional comment about the maid’s night off went unspoken. At the door, he put his arm around her waist. His six feet towered above her diminutive frame.

“It’s better for both of us this way. I mean it.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Please take care of yourself.”

“Whatever.” She fixed her collar. “I’m not going to hold my breath, but if you need or want . . . hell, just a friend, call me.”

She leaned up against him and gave him a girlish kiss on the cheek. Turning quickly, she disappeared down the stairs into the darkness of the lower landing.

When he could no longer hear the click of her heels, he closed the door softly, then sagged against it, exhausted from his efforts. It was getting harder and harder to hold the surface together while the foundation was breaking into pieces.

Nevertheless, he had done all right. The break was clean. A week or so from now, she would be out drinking and flirting again. She had been placated with a piece of the truth—not the whole grisly picture. Much better that way.

He willed himself upright and into the living room, where he collapsed into the armchair in front of the fireplace. Alone now, the fire hissed and danced quietly before him.

His eyes scrutinized the small studio apartment. He was struck by its sadness, struck by the pervading sense of loneliness. The room was inhabited, yes, but not lived in. It hadn’t always been that way.

When, as a rookie cop, he had first moved in, he had commanded the space. Within months, he had turned it into a bastion of discipline and masculine aesthetics: dark wood and brick and things in their rightful places. As his condition worsened, however, things unraveled. Chaos was an easy mistress. Now, from the unmade bed to a floor strewn with empty bottles, pizza boxes, and newspapers, no sense of home was being articulated. Maybe it never would again.

Early leaned over and pulled his .38 revolver from the shoulder holster on the end table. It felt like a touchstone; the weight, the cold metal in his hand oddly soothing. The cylinder spun effortlessly beneath his fingertips. Round and round. He lifted it to his ear and smiled obliquely. Chamber music.

With the heel of his hand, he brought the spinning cylinder to an abrupt halt, then unloaded a single bullet. Turning it around between his thumb and index finger, Early examined it carefully. Sexy. A jewel of death. 

Rotating the chamber slowly, he emptied the rest of the ammo into his hand until all six bullets lay nestled in his palm. They were asleep now. A family. At peace in their snug metal jackets. Then, as if feeding them to a wild animal, he began to toss the bullets, one by one, into the fireplace.

“Here’s one for the sickos. One for the cop killers.”

Then two more.

“For all the scumbag lawyers, corrupt politicos. You’re the worse. You keep it all going. You’re supposed to know better.”

Without warning, the first slug hit meltdown and exploded, sending a shower of shattered brick from inside the chimney down onto the flaming logs. The second and third followed quickly as ash and smoke belched into the room.

Early’s face remained impassive as he fingered the last two shells. He isolated one.

“For all of you. Your crap. Not mine anymore.”

The next eruption came moments later, kicking out a fireball onto his carpet. A chunk of metal whizzed past his ear and tore into the wallpaper on the opposite wall.

The hallway outside filled with the sudden cacophony of rattling deadbolts sliding and doors flinging open and people yelling. Early ignored the commotion. Unaware of the silent tears on his cheek, he leaned closer to the pit of swirling sparks and ashes, the last bullet resting in the middle of his open hand.

“And this one, James Early, is for you. You and all your ghosts. You’re broken. Don’t know how to fix yourself.”

A furious knocking at his door startled him back to reality.

“Hey! Hey in there! Early, you all right?”

Disoriented, the detective looked around. Caustic smoke swirled around the room. Live coals glowed on the carpet and from the side of the armchair. He stared down at the bullet still cupped in his palm. It seemed out of focus. Surreal.

The knocking came again, this time louder.

But now the sounds were far away, in someone else’s bad movie. Placing the final bullet back into his revolver, he adjusted the chamber. When he needed it, it would be there. 

Slowly and deliberately, Early got up, went to his closet, and finished dressing. His plainclothes uniform never varied: white shirt, tie, black shoes. Beneath the grey sports jacket, his revolver and holster pressed against his ribs.

Trench coat under his arm, he crawled through the window and stepped out onto the fire escape. The sudden shift was abrasive. A sharp April wind lashed at his face. A massive city roared below.

Hands gripping the railing, he leaned out into the night. All around, the inky skyline peaked and plunged. Above, the stars shone like dull silver—cold, eternal nails hammered into the night sky.

As the wail of a siren grew closer, Early descended, zigzagging his way down to Seventy-Eighth Street. 

One thing was obvious. Whatever forces were conspiring, whatever madness was overtaking him, it was about to hit critical mass.