Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

Swanson was sitting with his back pressed against the wall and the heat penetrating his multilayered pants when a group of teens barreled down the stairs, rushing to catch the train as it pulled to a stop. One of them stopped in his tracks at the sight of Swanson's disheveled appearance.

Swanson’s collection cup, a used medium Dunkin’ Donuts cup, was half full of quarters, nickels, and pennies amounting to nothing more than a dollar or two. It rested near his torn cardboard sign that read, "Homeless. Please help." Contributions to his cause varied. On good days he made enough to get both food and drink. On the days when his till was light, he directed his financial haul at his most crucial of needs, drugs and alcohol, the truest mechanisms for survival when living under his circumstances. He could see from the pathetic pile of coins in the cup that he barely had enough to fill it with coffee.

One of the teen boys, a ginger-haired kid with freckles, stood a foot away and stared at Swanson with a mischievous grin. "What do we got here?"

His friends joined the ginger-haired kid as he closed on Swanson. "Hey, buddy, need a little something to help you get by? You hungry?"

The boy spoke in a pitched delivery someone would normally reserve for a dog. Other Derek hated when people talked to him like that. Like Bruce Banner, he felt the blood boil as his Hulk, in the form of Other Derek, percolated just beneath the surface. He thought about lunging at the boy and teaching him a lesson. Other Derek taught people like this lessons in the past. The boy got close. Swanson observed the ginger's nose curl up from the stink.

The ginger chewed a piece of gum, smacking his lips loudly. His hand moved closer to the money cup. Swanson worried the boy was going to steal it. It wouldn't be the first time. Who could do that? Who could steal from somebody who had less than zero? But people did. And they did it more times than he'd like to admit. It didn't matter which version of Derek was in control, those were hard times. Swanson came to the conclusion that human beings, as a species, did what they could whenever they could get away with it. The likelihood of a homeless person filing a complaint with police was slim. The likelihood of a police officer taking a homeless person's complaint seriously was even slimmer. So, people took advantage. They hurt when they could. They stole when they could. Swanson shot out his left hand and grabbed the cup.

The ginger's smile broadened. "I'm not going to take your dirty money. I was going to give you a little donation." He spat out the wad of gum in his mouth. It landed squarely atop the small pile of change in the cup.

The other boys circling around laughed. "See? Now you got something to eat," the ginger mocked.

The PA system’s looped recording blared in the background, announcing the impending closing of the T's doors. The teens ran away laughing, leaving Swanson and his gum-filled change cup, to catch the train. Swanson's bloodshot eyes tracked the ginger boy. He never looked back once, didn't care, didn't worry that Derek might have gotten up, which he had not.

The commuters on the arriving train exited, paying no attention to the boys or Swanson. And then he saw somebody, another person like him, an invisible man. There was a little-known secret about being invisible. Swanson knew it. Not all homeless people were invisible and not all invisible people were homeless. And the man standing near one of the rectangular columns supporting the platform separating the Orange Line above from the Red Line below was one of the invisible ones.

The invisible man wore a tan trench coat and had a satchel bag, like those used to haul around laptops, slung over his left shoulder. Nobody else seemed to notice him. But Swanson did. He had come down the stairwell just after the teens. As the rest of the commuters hustled about, entering and exiting the train and making the mad dash to their next connection or destination, the invisible man remained still. He arrived in time to catch the train the teens had just departed on but made no effort to do so. Instead, he leaned against the column. The next train was six minutes out.

The station cleared entirely, minus Swanson and the invisible man. None of the departing commuters paid any attention to Swanson as they made their way up the nearby stairwell. Nobody except the invisible man. He didn't just look at Swanson, he stared straight at him, and then he offered a gesture nobody had given him in a very long time. A smile. One without pity or judgment.

At first he thought it odd, but then he understood. Invisible people could only see other invisible people. And for the first time in a very long time, Derek Swanson smiled back.

With a nod, the invisible man slipped the satchel from his shoulder and left it alongside the base of the column. He then walked back out of the train station before the next wave of commuters filled the platform.

Swanson looked over at the satchel as a few commuters trickled in. It was suspicious, even to Swanson. He debated his next move with gusto. Should he notify the police as to what he'd just seen? The voices inside his head belted out their arguments like Congress trying to pass a bill into law. One voice trumped them all, and a decision was reached.

Other Derek didn’t talk to police.

28

They had left The Depot ten minutes ago and were making their way toward Harvard when they received the call. Langston rode with Kelly while Barnes shuttled Mills and Salinger.

The call had come in from a female commuter who'd seen an unattended backpack at the Red Line's Downtown Crossing Exchange subway