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  His brow furrowed, and I knew he had noticed the emotion creeping into my voice. “I'd like to go back to one of our first questions, if that's okay. Why did you join the force, Isaac?”

  Screw it. I was probably gonna die here anyway. “Alright Gerald, I'll tell you. I joined because of my mother.”

  He gave a small nod. “Parents can be very influential when it comes to career choices. She was also in law enforcement, I assume.”

  I shook my head. “No, she wasn't. She had never touched a gun in her life, and would never have let me go to the academy. But she wasn't around to stop me. And you know why, Gerry? It's because so-called peaceful protestors decided her life had no value. They pushed her to the ground and trampled her to death right in front of me. They walked all over her like she was garbage. They didn't care about me, or her, or each other. What did these noble citizens do when I cried out for help? Nothing. The only person who had the common decency to protect a twelve year-old boy was a man in uniform. So don't try to lecture me about right and wrong, or who's fault it is. There are people who do terrible things in this world, and someone needs to be there to stop them. That is why I joined the force.”

  GERALD

  Isaac's words hit me like a hammer. I tried to speak, but no words came. I stood up and turned away from him. My stomach was writhing, and I had to know more.

  “When did this happen? When did your mother die?”

  He didn't make eye contact. He was staring off into space. “It was August 14th, 2003.”

  My head started to spin, and I thought I would pass out. No, it was impossible. He was manipulating me. There had to be some way that he knew about my father. There had to be an explanation. I took a step toward him. “You're lying!” The accusation came out louder than I expected.

  He looked up at me with pitiful, red eyes. “Why would I lie about that? What could I possibly have to gain from lying at this point? I don't know what you or your friends have planned for me, and it doesn't matter. There's no way I'm gonna live to see next week.”

  The anger boiling within me slowly began to fade. It transitioned into a crippling shock. I slumped down into the chair and put my face in my hands.

  “I lost someone that very same day. You probably will never believe me, but I was there. My father was killed that day.”

  He looked at me with so much hostility that, for a moment, I actually feared he would stand up and throttle me. “You're right, I don't believe you. And I can think of a dozen reasons why you would lie to me right now. If you were there, where did it happen?”

  I sighed. “It was a war protest on Eighteenth Street, down by a little outlet mall.” I sat quietly and let the scene from that day play out in my mind. A detail jumped out at me.

  “I remember another ambulance. The paramedics had arrived, but my father was already gone. They put his body into an ambulance, and I recall seeing the same thing happening nearby. Someone else had been hurt. Was your mother struck down in a parking lot?”

  Isaac bit his lip. “Yes.”

  I was at a loss for words again. We both sat quietly for several minutes. It was Isaac that finally broke the silence.

  “How did your father die.”

  I took a deep breath. “He was a protestor. But he was nothing like the people that killed your mother. He was kind, and truly peaceful. When the rest of the crowd started to get excited, he remained calm. He told me violence was not an option. Then someone threw something at the line of police, and they started shooting at us. I was hit in the chest, and my father was hit in the face. He died where he lay, and I was right there with him when it happened.”

  Isaac nodded in understanding. “Those riot control rounds can be deadly if they strike anywhere above the shoulders. They never should have done that. I'm sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I responded. Then the weight of his words sank in. This man just apologized to me. I was among the protestors when his mother died. I helped orchestrate the ambush where his teammates were killed just hours before. I took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, too. I am sorry that your mother was killed. I'm sorry that I ever became involved in the plan to capture you and kill your friends.”

  I buried my face in my hands again. There had been so much hatred in my heart for all these years, and I had never counted the cost. A quote popped into my head, though I couldn't remember its source. The words quietly escaped my lips. “Good begets good; evil begets evil.”

  Isaac closed his eyes, and his ragged breathing became more steady. I let him rest, but stayed at his side. I could no longer bear the thought of his execution, and began planning a way to help him escape. Deep down, I felt at peace. The thought of helping this battered man that I once called my enemy gave me a feeling of connection with my father. I knew he would have done the same.

  I crept over to the door and peaked out through the blinds. The sun was going down, and the other members of Relentless Autonomy were still laughing and drinking nearby. It would be impossible for me to sneak Isaac out of the camper. I would have to steal the truck that it was attached to. Fleeing on a bumpy road could prove fatal to Isaac, but it was my only option. I started looking for pillows, sheets, or anything soft that I could use to stabilize and cushion Isaac.

  I was stuffing crumpled newspaper under his legs when he awoke with a start.

  “Stacy!” He cried out. “Stacy, help me. Where are you, baby?” I tried settle him down, but he seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings. He pushed up off the floor with his one good arm and looked around frantically.

  “Isaac,” I said softly. “It's me, Gerald. You need to stop moving, you are going to hurt yourself.”

  He looked at me, and comprehension slowly surfaced in his eyes. He winced as he lowered himself back to the floor.

  “Isaac, I'm going to try to get you out of here. It could be very bumpy, so I need you to lay still for a moment.”

  Isaac shook his head slowly. He licked his lips before speaking. “Don't bother, Gerald. I'll be dead before you can get me out of here, and your buddies will kill you for trying.”

  I crossed my arms resolutely. “That may be so. But I have to try.”

  “No.” He winced again. “Look, it hurts to talk, so will you just sit down and listen for a minute.”

  I quickly obliged.

  Isaac's words came slowly, forced out between wheezing breaths. “I'm not a perfect man. I'm not even a good man. I've done things I regret, and won't be able to apologize for.”

  “Don't say that. I'll get you out of here,” I interrupted.

  “Shut up.” He winced. “I can't apologize to the people I've hurt, or misjudged. I can't tell the desperate widows or the mourning mothers that I'm sorry I killed their husbands and sons, that I wish it could be different. But you are here, so I'm telling you. I'm so sorry.”

  I grabbed his hand and held it tight. “Thank you, Isaac. But you can tell them yourself, because I am getting you to a hospital.” I was not sure if he could hear me or not. His gaze began roving around the room. He again seemed completely unaware of my presence.

  “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” he repeated. “Please forgive me. Please, I'm so sorry.” He pulled his hand from mine and clutched at his chest.

  “Isaac,” I spoke loudly. “I forgive you, just hold on.”

  His pleas descended into murmuring, and then he was silent.

  Isaac had stopped breathing. I touched his neck, feeling for a pulse, but I found none. “No! Isaac, wake up. Stay with me!” I tried CPR. I tried pounding on his chest and shouting at him. All of my efforts were futile. He did not stir; save for a few final gasps that escaped his cold lips.

  Another life was extinguished, and this time it was my fault. I knew there would be ripples of hurt from this man's death. Oh, God, what had I done? I took him away from someone, just like my father was taken from me.

  ********************

  There is a chill in the air, and my heart is gripped with dread. I turn down the nar
row sidewalk and make my way toward the front door. I knock three times and wait. A minute later, the door opens slowly. A beautiful, but tired-looking woman stands in front of me.

  “Stacy Lynch?”

  She nods her head, and I can see tears welling up in her eyes. “Is this about Isaac? Please tell me he's okay.”

  “I...” The words get caught in my throat. My face falls into a heavy frown and I can't keep the tears out of my own eyes. I force myself to meet her gaze and I shake my head. At my response she begins to weep openly, and falls against my chest. She grips my arm and bangs a fist against my shoulder. It is more than a minute before I can speak again.

  “I am so sorry,” I sputter. “I don’t have time to explain. But I had to see you. I want you to know that your husband saved me.”

  With that, I turn and hurry away from her. I feel guilty leaving her to mourn alone. I can still hear her cries as I make the turn at the end of the block. I do not turn back, and continue forward with long strides. I am not finished yet. I am on my way to the police station. I will tell them everything that I did, and everything that I know. I'm not sure what will happen to me, but I know I have to do it. I hope and I pray that my father will be proud of me and that I will see him again.

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