Criss Cross

Chapter 103

I had not asked these questions idly.

A remarkable number of suicidal or homicidal adults endured some traumatic event in their late tweens to early teens, when their hormones were surging and going haywire and their emotions were swinging wildly.

In essence, the experience of that trauma is magnified by the hormones and amplified by the mood swings. I believe such a brutal event in those years wounds the brain, causes short circuits, and etches in hatred, self-loathing, and neuroses.

When I asked M about his early teen years, a shadow came over his face, and he shut his eyes.

For almost five minutes, I waited for an answer. The only sounds were our breathing and the monitors.

“I was fourteen,” M said at last, opening his eyes. “My sister was raped and murdered. I found the man who did it and beat him to death with a chain.”

“That’s when you stopped listening to your heart? Before you killed him?”

“Afterward,” he said. “When I realized I’d liked beating that son of a bitch to death, and I wanted to do it over and over and over again.”

I nodded. “That would do it.”

“Do what?”

“Silence your heart. Divorce you from your soul.”

I stayed in eye contact with him, saw the twitching of his cheek muscles.

“I don’t have a soul or a heart.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “The bullet missed it completely, and it’s still there. You can listen to it if you dare. You might find hope.”

“Of what?”

“Redemption.”

He laughed softly. “There is no redemption for a man like me.”

“Yes, there is. Close your eyes.”

I had a moment of doubt when I thought he might shut me down. But then his eyelids closed.

“Listen to your heart,” I said quietly. “It’s still there. It will tell you what to do.”

He breathed, swallowed, shifted uncomfortably, and then opened his eyes. “I’ve done too much.”

“You can still listen. Just like you did when you were a young boy, like my son.”

M’s jaw stiffened. His lower lip curled against his teeth.

I gazed at him steadily, trying not to show how desperate I was. Every minute that passed was worse for Ali.

“I’m sorry, Cross,” he said. “I went deaf to this kind of crap a long time ago.”

“No, you didn’t. You just unplugged the receiver.”

“Does it matter now? It won’t change things.”

“Maybe not, but it will change you.”

I could tell that caught him off guard, and I wanted to keep him that way. “You must have liked Ali. You can’t meet my son and not be swept up in his enthusiasm.”

“Kid talks a lot.”

I smiled. “Nonstop.”

“Smart.”

“Brilliant.”

M glanced at the ceiling, then back at me. “Life is full of injustice.”

“You watched my family,” I said. “You’ve seen Ali smile. Heard Ali laugh.” I paused, trying to channel my love for my son but not wanting my emotions to overwhelm me. “That boy has a lifetime ahead of him,” I went on. “Who knows what Ali will be able to do if you’ll just take a chance and listen to your heart.”

M stayed silent and would not look at me.

I waited a full ten minutes, sighed, then turned and headed for the door.

I’d opened it and was leaving when M said, “Cross.”

I wanted to melt but stood tall and pivoted to look at him.

“The anthill,” he said.