Reckoning Day
(A Dack Shannon story)
by Steven L. Shrewsbury

"The best of men cannot suspend their fate: The good die early, the bad die late."
                           Daniel Defoe 1697

Wallis Rothson twisted back the throttle on the Honda dirt bike, shoving his wrist down harder as if the force would make the bike go faster. He zigzagged across the street as the high beams of the car behind him flooding his body. Breathing so hard, he tried to find an alley or side street to lose the car chasing him, but none offered themselves. Mouth growing dry, Wallis looked over his right shoulder, eyes riveted on the dark car roaring after him. STILL THERE!

Going dangerously fast for the suburban area of East Peoria he’d been chased into, Wallis found a turn and took it. Quickly, he aimed the bike at an alley between two modest homes. He whipped the bike around and gave the throttle another workout. Gritting his teeth, exhilaration burst in his chest, believing that he eluded the car behind him at last.

This feeling faded, replaced rapid by numbing terror as the black car reappeared and blocked the opening at the end of the alleyway. Wallis squeezed the break and swerved to avoid the car. The bike wobbled as the driver’s side door opened and a tall man loomed. Almost on top of the car’s front fender, Wallis twisted the handlebars to the left, avoiding the impact narrowly. For a passing second, he made eye contact with the man in black clothing…that held a gleaming object in near his face.

Pink eyes, Wallis mind boiled as he moved into the street, Jesus-that man has pink eyes! Only one man in his life ever had…

Abruptly, the bike jerked from under his grasp and Wallis was airborne. He heard the bike to gear down as he fell. Flying over the right side of the machine and onto the paved street, Wallis landed on his right shoulder. Agony erupted in his body as flesh ripped away from the bone and affixed to the pavement. Only wearing a black t-shirt, there was nothing to stop the kiss of the rough blacktop, nor any padding to halt the sudden dislocation of his shoulder.

Wallis rolled over, touched his shoulder, feeling bones protruding out, and wailed in pain. The bike geared lower and he could perceive footfalls…the snap of boots on the pavement. He looked up and could see the face of the man in black clothing in the streetlight. Indeed, this man in the dark trench coat possessed albino features. Wallis gulped, bit on the inside of his right cheek, and said, "Jesus, Dack! It’s you."

The tall albino smirked, placed his foot on Wallis’ left ankle and pressed down. Wallis Rothson felt no pain. "Ironic, us meeting at such a scene once again, eh?"

Wallis closed his eyes and recalled the albino kid he knew in high school…Dack Shannon…

 *****

"Who is the best high school quarterback of 1977?" Wallis Rothson asked the rest room. He combed his hair for a long time in the bathroom mirror of the school, rather taken with his good looks.

"You are," Mickey and Tim replied in unison. Wallis two pals were also football players, yet offense lineman and in turn, acted the lackey roles well. Their quarterback owned a scholarship already to the University of Illinois and obtained try-outs for these big boys…so they had better support him, Wallis mused. They served their leader well and always stayed in his wake, as did most at the school…

Save for Dack Shannon, the tall, skinny albino boy near their age who washed his hands when the three entered the restroom of St. John’s Catholic School in Peoria.

"How is the pale bastard today?" Wallis jeered the albino. The quarterback still combed and preened his hair.

Dack said nothing as he rinsed his hands and then dried them on the paper rolls.

"He’s hard of hearin’ as well as a bastard," Mickey giggled, moving his superior girth around.

"Did that happen in the orphanage?" Tim needled Dack. "Ya lose yer hearin’ tossin’ off?"

Dack’s pink eyes came to rest on Tim, a tall boy, but much more slender than Mickey. Clearly, Wallis noticed that Dack’s creepy gaze unnerved Tim for the offensive lineman stepped behind Mickey. Wallis turned to Dack, not wanting his subordinate to look bad.

"Little old for an orphan still at St. John’s, huh?" Wallis said with a smile, soothing down his U of I jersey. "Course, who’d adopt a freak of nature like you, huh? Hell, get used to it. Nobody gonna ever want you. I’ve had more trim now than you will ever have."

Dack said nothing. His pale hands hung at the sides of his jeans.

Wallis went on, a bit angry that the albino didn’t speak. "Course we heard yer parents didn’t want ya either. Tossed ya in the trash, didn’t they? That is where all freaks belong, ain’t it? In a garbage dumpster?"

A vein on the side of Dack’s head throbbed, but he never broke a sweat and remained silent.

Mickey laughed and moved toward him. "Nothin’ to say? We heard ya liked little Maria McMichael. Hah. She’d never want ya! Wallis thinks he could have her with a bit of work!"

Wallis grinned. "Tail is no problem for me. They are beggin’ to give it up."

"Cat got yer tongue, snowy?" Mickey snapped. "Maybe you been using that tongue too much on old Sister Elizabeth…"

At last, Dack’s horrific eyes flared and he moved toward Mickey. The big man intercepted Dack’s shove with ease. Shortly, he seized Dack in a half Nelson. He motioned Tim to grab Dack’s left arm and the boy did. Dack no longer fought them and remained held by the biceps as Wallis stood in front of him.

Wallis cracked his knuckles. "Do albinos bruise?"

Suddenly, Dack smiled and said, "Only when you mother gives me hickies."

While Wallis’ face registered shock and anger, Dack’s hands stabbed downward. Each Hand grabbed the respective offensive lineman by the groin and twisted. Both young boys grunted, but Tim slackened his grip on Dack. With little effort, Dack jostled Tim’s body into Wallis. The star quarterback extended forward to strike Dack, but collided with Tim.

Mickey groaned, so Dack twisted with his right hand harder, having a strong hold of one of the massive youth’s testicles. Dack took Mickey by the hair with his left hand and drove the offensive lineman’s skull into the wall. Releasing Mickey, Dack let him stagger a few steps before kicking him in the groin. Mickey, cradling his crotch, plummeted to his knees. Just as Dack punched down at Mickey’s left temple, Mr. Patrick, English teacher, entered.

Wallis wore an innocent look, chewing the right inside of his cheek and Mr. Patrick sighed. 

*****

 Wallis lay on the pavement, losing blood fast as Dack Shannon stared down at him.

"Christ Dack, help me…" he whimpered. "What are ya, some kinda cop?"

Dack’s eyes never left the former quarterback, now heavy-set, bearded and sporting a mane of long hair. His foot still rested on Wallis’ ankle, yet this didn’t seem to hurt him. The albino removed a newspaper from his coat and dropped it on Wallis’ chest. "Old habits die hard, Wally?"

In the dim light of the street lamp, Wallis Rothson turned the paper over. Even in his haze of agony, he read the headlines…and squeezed his eyes shut.

 *****

Dack Shannon thought of the day in 1977 when he sat in the office of Father McBain, fifty-year-old monsignor of St. John’s school and orphanage.

Full of Irish fire and sporting a heavy accent to match his heritage, the sandy haired priest remarked, "Good Lord, Dackie me boyo, fighting again?"

"He was asking for it, father," Dack told him in his deep, baritone voice, staring at a wall of books. He wore casual blue jeans, but a white shirt with a collar, neatly pressed, having long sleeves, cuffed.

The fiery priest waved his right fist in the office and exclaimed, "The whole world is askin’ fer it, Mr. Shannon! Ya cannot fight the world! I’m a little fella! I came to learn this years ago. Ya tryin’ ta get us both in Dutch, are ya me son? Sister Elizabeth will have you paint the vestibules for this!"

"I don’t mind painting."

"Are ya listenin’ ta me, boyo?" the priest raged, leaning his face in close to the white haired teenager. "Ya cannot go fightin’ every damned fool who makes fun of ya! What does it do, I say? Does it make ya feel better?"

Dack shook his head, but never made eye contact with the priest. "No. Only hungry."

The priest twirled almost in a circle. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What am I gonna do with ya, boyo? Sister Elizabeth is hard enough to deal with aside from when one of her charges gets in scrapes!"

"I understand that I sinned father."

Father McBain’s voice dropped a bit. "Son, ya are a good lad on the inside. Ya must get over that anger and focus on what God wants! Sister Liz and I won’t always be there for ya. Who will look after ya at the end of this year when you are turned out of St. John’s? Will ya go around beating people up, get yourself in prison and be the girly of the cell-block?"

"No, father."

"Then why do ya do such things knowin’ what the punishment will be?"

Dack focused on the older man and said, "I would never commit a sin unless I was prepared to perform the penance for it."

Father McBain frowned. "Takin’ on that wealthy quarterback is bad news, son. His father is a big shot ya know."

"I know."

"He is a small part of yer life, boy. Forget him. His kind comes and goes. You are unique, my son. Now go see sister Elizabeth. I cannot help ya with that!"

Dack stood up, towered over the priest, yet bowed his head respectively to him before he departed. What the old priest never knew was that Dack waited outside the door and heard him speak on the phone.

Father McBain dialed the phone and Dack heard him sit down. "Yes, Father Oliverus please. Ah yes, Malachi! Good to speak to ya again! Weather good in Arlington? Good, good. Listen. I had to call ya about the little plant here at St. John’s. He is growing quite well. He needs to work on how he handles derision, but still, a very good one. Your message to him may be better received soon, Father Malachi."

 *****

 Wallis blinked at the newspaper and then looked up at Dack. "It isn’t me…"

Dack nodded and leaned on the ankle again. Once more, Wallis never reacted to the pressure. "Oh yes it is, Wallis Rothson. You are the Marquette Rapist or my name is Jesus Christ."

"You got me wrong!" Wallis screamed, his voice echoing down the barren street. He desired to see someone, anyone…but no one appeared.

Dack shook his head. "I wish I did. You see I made a mistake years ago. When I was offered the chance, I refused to end your wrongs. Now, your sins are mine."

With that, the albino man withdrew the silver object Wallis saw earlier. It was a silver plated auto-magnum.

"Oh for the love of God," Wallis rasped as Dack aimed the pistol at him.

"Do you recall that night? I do." 

*****

It was after dark when Sean entered the sanctuary of St. John’s cathedral in Peoria. Sean was another seventeen-year-old orphan, unadopted, and almost friendless. The husky redhead crossed himself in front of the church altar and jogged down the aisle. When he passed through the double wooden doors, Dack Shannon knelt, painting the trim of the narthex.

"Sister Liz got you good?" Sean muttered and sat down on a small bench near the fount of Holy water.

Dack shrugged as his knees wrinkled the gray drop cloth. "Hey, Sean. What are you up to?"

Sean sighed and looked at the floor. "Nothin’. Done with my chores."

"Then why come out here…" Dack said, glaring at the redheaded boy. Dack put down his brush and turned to Sean. His voice was grave as he asked, "What is it Sean?"

Sean’s eyes were locked on the floor. "Nothin’, really."

"Sean," Dack almost growled and the redheaded boy trembled. They were best friends, practically only friends in the world, yet Dack knew what Sean was. He was weak, a follower and frankly, not very sharp. Sean feared Dack a great deal.

"Dack, I…they’re suckerin’ you to go out…"

Dack stood up, but Sean didn’t. "Who is? Get up and tell me."

Sean’s legs quivered, remaining seated. "Those pricks you fought with, they…"

With little effort, Dack grabbed Sean by the shoulders and pulled. Sean jumped up, fear exploding in his face, but aimed his eyes to the floor again. "Look at me, Sean. Tell me."

Sean’s brown eyes alas met Dack’s. "They were talkin’ in the hall, loud, you know? They knew I could hear ‘em. He knew I would tell you."

Dack’s voice was strong, but calm as he ordered, "Speak."

"Dack, he’s a douche bag, really…don’t bite!"

"Speak, Sean."

"Said he was gonna break in Maria McMichael later on at some party. They are all gettin’ drunk after the game tonight and Wallis said he was gonna break her cherry. He said they were gonna bust in the church after that and beat your ass."

Dack nodded and glared at the doors of the church.

Sean almost shouted, "He’s baitin’ you to come after him!"

The albino youth pounded his fists on his hips and said, "God it sucks to be us."

*****

Dack leered down the barrel of his gun at Wallis’ eyes, and asked, "Do you recall what happened after the game? Little Maria fought you off, didn’t she? Nevertheless, that wasn’t good enough. You raped her that night, broke her jaw and then bragged to everyone that she was a wild girl…busted her jaw on the T-top of your Trans-Am. Naughty of you."

Wallis panted, still gnawing on the inner portion of his cheek, "You’re gonna kill me over that? If ya knew that on that night why did…"

Dack smiled and the motorbike gave up the ghost at last, yet bled oil on the street. "Why did I not perform this then? I was weak."

"But you saved me!"

Dack stepped down on the ankle until they both heard a crack. Again, Wallis never flinched. "Yes, I suppose I did. My mistake. What do you remember about that night?"

Wallis blinked. "I got really blitzed and drove around in the country, road loaded alone and wrecked my car. You were there when I was hanging out of the car. You ran to the next farmhouse and called the ambulance or I’d have bled to death out there. Why ask me? You know!"

Dack recalled that dark, fall night in the middle of rural Illinois. The black Trans Am flipped over and Wallis Rothson hanging out of the twisted wreckage…mostly. Dack’s memory retained a clear image of it all: Standing by the wrecked car in the country, Dack had observed Wallis for a long time. Again observing him, Dack inquired, "Ask yourself, you arrogant fool, why would I be out there in the country? Why would an orphan with no car, no license or beer be out in the middle of road-loading territory? It never occurred to you that I liberated the nun’s car and was following you. I was there to kill you, ignorant jackass. And I should have…" Dack told him as his boot yanked back. The section of Wallis’ leg up to his knee popped free and into the light, revealing it was a plastic prosthesis. "…Instead of just absconding with your partially severed limb."

"I shoulda died then," Wallis wept. "My life ended that night. Football career was over and I was worthless without my leg! You are the one who stole it?!"

"So you got fat and useless, living off your parents money, generally being a pain in the ass to any and all around you. I thought you a leech, but not a burgeoning rapist."

"Then how did you…?"

"Discover the Marquette Rapist was you? Well, one of the girls you brained before the attack wasn’t out completely, but played dead during the assault. She told the cops a secret about you that my pal detective Frehley passed on to me. How many serial rapists have a fake leg? Some minor research led me in your direction."

"So you are just gonna kill me? What kinda cop are you?"

"I’m not a policeman. My orders come from an agency so secret the President does not know it’s there. You just lost more luck. The one Majestic Agent in your area just happened to be your worse enemy. Funny, eh? And some say there is no God…"

"Christ Dack! I have a little boy! You are gonna kill his daddy?" His voice was full of tears and ached for sympathy.

Dack only gave him a blank stare. There was no anger in his face.

"All right, all right I treated you bad when we were kids, but this is your chance, Dack, to be the bigger man!"

"On the contrary, I’m being the bigger man here. Your son gets to live. Unfortunately, the sins you have done are now on me for letting you live long ago. Now my duty will be greater still." Dack snapped the safety off his gun and sighed. "Let us hope that St. John’s doesn’t require new shingles, eh?"

 ©2002 Steven L. Shrewsbury

Visit his web site: www.dackshannon.com