Twins, Part One

So I'm calling this part one, but I'm not so certain I want to pick this up again. I'll leave it open for now, I suppose.

I stood, staring down at the simple marble slab; less of a grave, since there was no body buried here—the ashes had been scattered, as per his last request—it was more of a memorial. Half of my name stared back at me, as well as two dates, thirty-five years apart. My drug-addled nerves buzzed restlessly, rebelling angrily against the somber mood of the cemetery. I lit a cigarette with a match that I discarded carelessly into the neglected, weed-ridden grass surrounding the tombstones. I forced my eyes away from the marble and to the lighthouse on the nearby point, its lights flashing glaringly into my bloodshot eyes. I inhaled deeply, savoring the feel of the sweet, acrid smoke deep in my lungs.

Do you know what half-death is like? To know that you're one part of a whole, forever and irreparably broken? Even if he were to come back today, it would not be okay. Like a ceramic tile broken in two, no amount of glue could hide the cracks. Entropy can never be decreased. What's been destroyed can never be wholly mended. The only thing on my mind was not catharsis, but vengeance.

My mobile buzzed insistently against the skin of my left wrist, rattling my already unsettled nervous system. I snarled as I accepted the call. "What?" I barked into the earpiece, rather ungraciously.

"Jesus, John. You sure know how to put a guy at ease," Frank's reedy voice grated at me more than usual in my current condition. I fought to get my emotions under control, lest I further alienate the one man who could help me.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled a little sourly. "Sorry, feeling a little rough. What do you have for me?"

"Just like that? All business? No chit-chat?" The anger I was repressing pressed sharply at the buckles I'd placed on it. I chose to say nothing, rather than say something untoward. A brief and uncomfortable silence served as my answer. "You okay, John? You sound kinda rough." Another surge of anger.

"Fine," I responded gruffly. "I'll be better when you tell me what you have for me."

"Yeah, naturally," he drawled leisurely. "I got a name for you. Didn't mean much to me, but I guess he owned the mill where they found the body."

"David," I corrected him testily.

"Huh?"

"Not 'the body.' He had a name. His name was David," I repeated, my voice rumbling with repressed emotion. Frank mumbled a hasty apology, covered by a gentle cough.

"Anyway, this guy, his name's Oswald Bystrom. He just owns the property where they found the- David," he hastily corrected himself. "The link's pretty tenuous. I don't even know if he's involved."

"Yeah," I agreed, as I slid the flechette pistol from the waistband at the back of my jeans, working the well-oiled action gently. It slid smoothly and almost without a sound; the first cartridge slid into the chamber with a smooth, organic schlick. "I just wanna talk to the guy, see if he knows anything. Maybe ask if any of his employees saw anything." Several beats went by where neither of us said anything.

"You sure you're okay, John?" Frank's repetition of my name was supposed to be comforting. It was just irritating. I could feel the bile in my throat. "How much rush did you take, anyway?" The lid I was keeping on my rage gave way abruptly.

"I just buried my brother, you dumb fuck," I snapped at him. "Of course I'm not fucking alright!" I turned on my heel and wound up facing the lighthouse again, just as the beacon shone directly into my eyes. I snarled another curse and averted my eyes.

"Look, John, I'm sorry..." Frank was saying something but I wasn't listening. I looked back up at the lighthouse. Something had just occurred to me about it, and it seemed somehow very relevant.

"It's not a beacon," I said aloud, interrupting Frank mid-bullshit.

"What?" He sounded even more ridiculous when he was dumbfounded.

"It's not a beacon," I repeated impatiently. "The lighthouse. It's not a beacon at all. It's a warning. 'Stay away, rocks ahead.'" Another long pause.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Now Frank sounded impatient.

"Never mind. Look, thanks for the info."

"Yeah, no problem. Hey, John, call me later, okay? If you need someplace to stay..."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll give you a call later. And feel free to call me, you know where to find me," I assured him, working as much genteel sincerity into my voice as I could. I said a few more placating goodbyes and hung up on him as he tried to arrange a personal meet. I tucked the gun back into the waistband of my pants briefly as I undid the mobile from my wrist and threw it onto the ground, followed by the earpiece. The pistol made only subtle ratcheting sounds as the flechettes shredded the delicate electronics.

The lighthouse continued to turn, keeping its eternal vigil, warning sailors away from certain death on rocky shoals. Its pulsating light only aggravated my headache, but I couldn't stop staring at it. Something about it seemed gravely important, if only I could grasp it.

"Some place you got here, Dave," I said softly to the air. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again real soon. I just gotta go see a guy named Ozzy first." I tucked the gun away and hid it under my jacket as I walked back to the car.

The signal of the lighthouse on the point pursued me as I walked away from it and straight on toward another lighthouse. The other lighthouse warned me away from danger, but I paid it no heed. I strode straight on into rocky shoals and shallow water.

"I'm coming for you, Ozzy."