Noble Warrior (21 page)

Who is he if he is not this?
M.D. wondered. McCutcheon couldn't find an answer, which led him to believe that Stanzer didn't have one. The whole enigma began making more
sense.

Stanzer got desperate. He found his back against a wall with a well-armed enemy closing in. People go to great lengths to protect what's most important to them when push comes to shove.
McCutcheon knew that. M.D. also knew he was always an experiment. A trial. A research project to see if future operations such as these were viable. Stanzer had told him all this a thousand times.
Clearly, the experiment had gone awry somewhere, and the whole scheme was simply a way of burying M.D. in a manner by which no one would ever find him.

The fake papers, the false IDs, the back door into a state penitentiary far off the grid where anarchy ruled and the law's long reach seemed practically nonexistent. All of it bore the
markings of Stanzer.

McCutcheon collapsed on the bed and realized he was nothing more than a pawn. Adults had been playing chess with M.D. his whole life. His dad. The Priests. Now the colonel. The more things
changed, the more they stayed the same.

M.D. started from the beginning and began replaying all the events in his mind that led him to the D.T. in the first place. It all made sense. The hostility between Colonel Stanzer and Colonel
Puwolsky when Puwolsky first showed up to inform M.D. about the threat to Kaitlyn.

All lies. Collusion. All made up.

The reverse psychology of Stanzer's visit to Bellevue to convince McCutcheon
not
to take the mission.

All lies. Schemes. All made up.

The “slay your dragon” talks about the girl he thought he loved. Those conversations were never about trying to convince M.D. to let Kaitlyn go; they were about constantly reminding
M.D. of his affection for her. They needled him, poked him, kept him edgy. By constantly telling McCutcheon to forget his feelings for Kaitlyn, Stanzer was actually reminding M.D. how crazy he was
for her.

How could I be so stupid?
he thought. And then a final realization came to him, one that crashed like thunder.

Kaitlyn is gone. She is totally and entirely gone.

McCutcheon wanted to kick himself for being so naive. Kaitlyn was hot, rich, smart, and talented, and her boyfriend disappeared like a ghost ten months ago. A line of guys from Detroit to Texas
would be vying for her attention and, truth be told, if the tables were turned and a chick had dumped M.D. as coldly, cruelly, and inexplicably as M.D. had dumped Kaitlyn—no words, no
explanation, no contact in nearly a year—he would have moved on, too.

With a “Fuck her” attitude to boot.

Stanzer said it many times: “If we gotta cut you loose, we will.” McCutcheon had always taken it as a joke. A little ribbing. Some good-natured camaraderie.

Turns out it was the truth.

Everyone knew the military functioned as a cold, impersonal machine that calculated all of its decisions on a plus/minus basis. When M.D. represented a benefit to the machine, they kept him on
and kept him well fed. When he became a liability they severed their ties and burned their tracks. The math didn't add up any more for Stanzer to keep his little pet project alive, so Stanzer
took the necessary steps in order to save his own ass.

The colonel had even taught him that in warfare doing the unthinkable to your opponent is one of the surest ways to attain victory. It was unthinkable that Stanzer would set him up and sell him
out.

That's why it worked so beautifully. McCutcheon never saw it coming.

He played me, M.D. thought.

Demon saw rage starting to burn in his son's heart, the toxic kind that gnawed at a person's soul, and he wanted to help. He wasn't mad at his boy. Wasn't upset with him
at all. Though he still didn't know why or how McCutcheon arrived in the D.T., Demon knew in his heart that the reason must have stemmed from a miscarriage of justice. His boy never
shoplifted, never bullied other kids, always did his homework, and constantly said
please
and
thank you
his entire life. Getting locked up in a hellhole like the Jentles? There
had to be a story behind it, one that he wanted to hear. Maybe a little friendly conversation, he figured, something light and easy, would open things up between him and his son.

“You mentioned your girl,” Demon said. “You two still a thing?”

McCutcheon almost attacked his father right on the spot, but he refrained. For the first time in M.D.'s life, his dad had not done anything. The question he'd posed was entirely
innocent.

M.D., however, didn't answer. Instead he rolled over in his bunk and took an inadvertent whiff of his flat, smelly pillow.

If I thought I had problems before, I'm super fucked now.

Demon, however, wasn't ready to give up that easily.

“Hey, son. You remember when I told ya relationships'll just fuck a fighter up?”

“Yeah.”

“I was wrong,” Demon said. “That was an addict talkin'. Lockup is a crazy place. Like this shit is the worst nightmare a man could ever go through, and yet being here and
seeing you, well...it's like the best thing that's ever happened to me. Prison cleaned me up. Got me sober. I ain't used in four months and I'm thinkin' clear for the
first time in more than fifteen years.”

“Real happy for ya, dad.”

Demon could feel the sarcasm dripping from M.D.'s comment, but he didn't let it affect the words he wanted to say. Some addicts never get a second chance to clear the air with their
kids. If this was Demon's, he planned on taking it.

“Relationships, doesn't matter who you are, M.D.” Demon put his hand on McCutcheon's shoulder. “Relationships are everything in this world.”

“Sounds like you found God in here.”

“Don't know about no God, but what I did find is peace.” Demon jumped up onto M.D.'s bunk so he could look his boy in the eye. M.D. realized that one side-kick to the
chest would send his old many flying.

“So, tell me, you still with that girl?”

McCutcheon rolled back over and saw a shine in his father's eye, a light he'd never before seen. It was warm, caring, and human. Instead of kicking his dad and sending him flying
across the cell, M.D. sat up.

“Naw, we're done. Totally and completely done.”

It was true, too. McCutcheon knew that in order to move forward with his life—to save his life—he would have to give up all his fantasies and delusions. Starting with the ones he
held about Kaitlyn.

“Too bad,” Demon said, patting M.D.'s leg. “I know you cared for her.”

McCutcheon felt like snapping at his father. Felt like reminding his dad of the time he'd done all he could to get Kaitlyn to break up with M.D. because he felt she was bad news for him,
bad news for his future, and would fuck up McCutcheon's cage-fighting career, a career that represented Demon's only source of income. Pimping out his kid to pay for drugs, hookers, and
steak dinners wasn't going to count in the father-of-the-year vote tallies.

But McCutcheon held his tongue. He knew dwelling on the past would do nothing to help either of them at this point.

“So you gonna tell me how you got in here?” Demon asked.

“You first,” M.D. replied.

Demon smiled and reclined against the wall. “Okay, sure.”

“Y
ou read the papers?”

“Do they even make newspapers anymore?” M.D. asked.

“It's an expression. It means, do ya follow the news?”

“Sometimes.”

“Remember that crazy big drug bust in D-town about eight months ago? Four tons of powder and fourteen mil in cash. Hear about it?”

McCutcheon shook his head. “No.”

“Well, you got smartness, do the math,” Demon said. “A pound of coke costs about seven thousand dollars. That's fourteen million dollars a ton, wholesale. Multiplication
that times four tons, and you talking about fifty-six million dollars.”

M.D. reached his arms over his head and rotated his neck around in a full circle. At some point soon he'd need to spend some time putting his body in motion. Moving some energy, working
some muscles, raising his heartbeat—he needed to stay sharp.

“Is there a point to this?” McCutcheon asked.

“O' course there's a point,” Demon said. “Five-O bust up a drug deal, get four tons of powder, but only about fourteen mil in cheese at the drug buy? Where's
the rest of the cheddar?”

“You mean, where's the rest of the...” M.D. took a second to figure it out. “Forty something million dollars?”

“Forty-two million, three hundred eighty-seven thousand, six hundred fifty-two dollars and no cents.”

“You know the exact figure?”

“Of course I do. It's mine, ain't it?”

M.D. paused. Then he let loose with a big laugh.

“Man, I've heard some bullshit out of you before but this has got to be the biggest bullshit yet.”

“Fine, fuck you then. Don't believe me,” Demon huffed. “And you're welcome for saving your ass, too.”

“I never needed your help.”

“Not what it looked like to me.”

The two stopped talking and Demon, frustrated, tried to peek his head down the hall to see if he could spy any other inmates. Though he couldn't, he knew the pedophiles were out there.

“Can't believe they got me in here with the Cho Mo's,” he screamed out. “YOU SICK FUCKS! Better hope I don't get a chance to get these hands on
you!”

Demon's words echoed down the hall, but none of the prisoners replied. They'd heard these sorts of threats a thousand times before and most were used to living with a perpetual
target on their back. No one felt sorry for them. No one would help them if attacked. Most people in prison, as well as in society, would be happy to see them dead.

First beaten, wounded, and severely abused, then dead.

Time in lockup passes more slowly than it does on the outside. Each tick of a clock's second hand feels heavier, more methodical, more plodding and pronounced. After ninety minutes with
nothing to do and his curiosity piqued, M.D. reignited the conversation.

“G'head, finish your story.”

“My story?” Demon asked.

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Factualness.”

“Whatever,” M.D. replied. “I'm listening.”

Demon stood up and began acting out his tale as if he were doing a performance of Penitentiary Theater.

“So I go to the feds, ya see, to turn in the High Priest and make a deal, 'cause the Priests was all up into my ass since you lost that fight against Seizure.”

“I didn't lose,” M.D. replied.

“Oh yeah,” Demon asked. “What happened?”

“I threw the fight.”

Demon shook his head. “Pretty fucking lame. There's other ways to conversate with your old man, ya know. Ways to clear the air without trying to get me murdered and shit.”
Demon couldn't help but laugh. “Man, we got us some family dysfunction, don't we?”

M.D. gazed at the iron bars surrounding them.

“Ya think?”

Demon smiled. Prison humor always made for dark and funny jokes.

“Yessir, the moment you lost I was under water for like two hundred g's,” Demon continued. “I mean,
shee-it
...I was done! Priests always pay but they get paid,
too. Those fellas don't mess around.”

“So you snitched?”

“I survived. Ain't the same thing.”

It's a matter of perspective, M.D. thought, but he didn't see the point in arguing about it.

“Keep going,” M.D. said.

“Turns out the High Priest ain't what the lawmen really wanted. I'm like, ‘How da fuck you not want the biggest boss in the city?' But they were like, naw...we need
a sexy bust. Something to feed the media.”

“The media?”

“They needed some front page action cause of all the bad press they been taking since the city of Detroit declared bankruptcy,” Demon explained. “Cops ain't even
bothering to stop average robbers anymore, and with all the budget cuts and eliminated services and shit well, every day TV news just be eating their ass. Especially near where we rest, by Zone
Seventy-five, near Fenkell.”

“So they wanted some propaganda?” This part of Demon's story made sense to McCutcheon. Detroit's crime, corruption, and general despondency seemed like the lead story on
local news every night. A story about the cops winning the war on drugs certainly couldn't hurt anything.

“So I told 'em about this drug buy that was coming up,” Demon said. “I knew about this monthly flip when I was in all good with the Priests during your fightin'
days. Figured I'd tip the coppers off to throw them a bone and be on my way to go figure some new shit out for myself. Didn't know it was gonna be
that
big of a drug buy,
though. I mean, this shit turned out to be international.”