Harlequin

He awoke in a terribly uncomfortable position, his sweaty clothing stuck to his skin with blood and vomit. Where did this come from? He sat up and ran a hand through his hair; it was tangled and greasy. Where have I been?



Harlequin sat up. Meagan\'s corpse had begun to reek. It had clearly been a while since she was dead. Like a film projector going through reel after reel at top speed, he remembered killing her, the sick feeling afterwards, the injection. He bit his lip. Alive.



That should not be.



He eased himself off the floor and limped out of the room to take a shower.



Okay. Shower, and a night walk.



-------------



He had a gun hidden safely in the inside pocket of his coat, like a good-luck token squirreled away for a chance misfortune, though perhaps the misfortune would not be his. He sat on a park bench under a dead streetlight, reading the front-page news story, about a man who had been kidnapped. No leads. No evidence. INTO THIN AIR, read the headline.



Harlequin sat back against the bench, staring up at the moon, a half-smile still on his face, still unmasked, unprotected from the elements and from curious eyes that followed his face like dogs. What do they think? he wondered. Do they wonder if it’s me? I have an unfamiliar face. I’m not dirty enough to be a common criminal. What do they think about me?



The newspaper folded in his hand, he stood up and looked around the sleeping city. The sensation of power thrilled through his veins, a cold delight. The world belonged to him now; there was no one awake to watch for the strange man or to pull their children inside, hiding them from his eyes. He creased the newspaper down the center, perpendicular to the fold, and sauntered away, casual and faux-relaxed. The world held a greater allure; something lurked in the shadows, something to occupy him, to drive away the thoughts that nipped at the heels of his soul, a pack of wolves without a meal. A new friend might drive away the unwelcome feelings that corroded his solitary life.



He himself was without a meal. Tossing the newspaper into a garbage bin, he continued on toward a Chinese fast-food restaurant still open in the dark of night, a beacon, its friendly neon sign promising a PERFECT WOK with NICE CHINESE FOOD.



He was bathed in warmth and fluorescent light from the moment he stepped in, a cleansing baptism of foreign shouts and the hiss of frying food. An acrid, tangy scent that promised something spicy drifted through the clangor to tantalize him with the thought of food. Harlequin had barely eaten in the day; unlike most in the city, he was not hungry by force but by sheer forgetfulness to eat. A small Chinese woman hurried up to the counter. “Yes, sir, what can I get you?”



“Uh…” He hesitated. “Hm. The General Tsao’s chicken, with fried rice. And an egg roll.”



She looked down (up?) her nose at him. “You want a drink with that.”



“Yeah. I do. Thank you.”



“Okay. That’s five eighty.” She passed the order back to the kitchen with an unintelligible shout, then returned to the counter. “Your fortune cookie,” she said, reaching in the jar and handing him one of those golden, shiny ones that looked like it might taste like it hadn\'t been burnt. “You are number sixty-nine.”



“Thanks.” He took the fortune cookie and sat down at a booth facing the door, with his back to a vibrant mural of a Chinese marketplace, obscenely good for the purpose of decorating a fast-food restaurant. To his right, a large window stretched out and revealed the expanse of Miracle City; visible from the Perfect Wok were a few dead office buildings and some unfortunates, wandering the streets, looking for something or someone. He smiled. For now, he could relax, but only a little.



The doorbell clanged again, and he winced; it was worse than fingernails against a chalkboard to his tired ears. A girl walked in, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen; she wore torn jeans and a stained white shirt that was too big for her; it hung like a shroud on her thin shoulders. Her stringy red hair covered a down-turned face as she plodded to the counter and haltingly ordered, then placed a crumpled bill on the counter.



The cashier shrugged. Harlequin heard her say: “I’m sorry, but I cannot give you food for free. This is not a soup kitchen.”



“But it’s only three dollars,” protested the girl, the first audible comment he had heard her make.



“Miss, I apologize, but--”



Harlequin stepped up to the counter, pouncing. “I’ll pay the difference. It’s okay.”



The cashier eyed him doubtfully and asked: “You will pay for her?”



“Yeah. How much is it?”



“Three dollars,” mumbled the girl. “You’ll pay?”



“I said I’d pay.” He slid three neatly folded dollar bills across the counter, fresh from someone else\'s wallet. “Here. Take it.” The cashier nodded and passed the girl’s order to the cooks.



“Number sixty-nine?”



“That’s me.” Harlequin took the tray and returned to his table, half-smiling as the girl followed him like he was the Pied Piper, playing a flute to lure her away. She sat down across from him and smiled; it lit up her face, an angelic glow encased in a dirty box.



“Thank you. I was so tired of McDonald’s.” She grinned sheepishly at him as he ate. “You’re so nice. What’s your name?”



He smiled, suppressing a chuckle. “Harlan. You?”



“Rachel. What are you doing out late?”



Too many questions. “Nothing really. I just got hungry.”



She stared at him, eyes like lasers, burning into him. “It would be nice to be able to eat whenever I wanted. My parents died three years ago. I was twelve. They were murdered.” The bluntness was like a gunshot.



“Who killed them?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.



“Who knows? They were shot to death. I ran away before the police came in the morning. I didn’t want to go into foster care. Everyone says the parents are abusive.”



Okay. Not me. “I\'m sorry.”



“So I just kind of, you know, hope for the best.”



“Number seventy!” called the cashier.



“It’s okay,” he told her, smiling, trying to hide the feeling of a cat with a canary. “I’ll get it for you.” Perfect. Perfect. He picked up the tray and brought it over to her, a last meal fit for a beggar.



“Mmm,” she murmured, ignoring him as she chewed over food, probably her first in days.



He finished eating and sat back against the cherry-red booth, casting his face into hard, shadowed planes. Harlequin considered her death, mostly how, but also if. She was like an angel trapped in a plane of reality too grim for her. Rachel (he was almost sure that it was her name) was, despite being poor and dirty, pretty, delicate, porcelain, almost so breakable that it seemed a waste, like dropping a crystal figurine that he didn’t want anyway.



Harlequin decided that he would make his choice when she finished eating.