Charles closed his eyes and took two deep breaths.He assessed his options as best he could. From the way he was treated by the policemen, and the diligence of their search, he was considered dangerous,and was wanted for a serious crime. Had he, perhaps,killed someone? His feelings gave him no answer, except that the idea of having take a life filled his heart with no sense of denial.
If he left himself in their hands, could he expect justice? Did he want justice? The answer to that was:Yes, but it was doubtful that they would see justice in the same way he did. The bench was hard, but the floor not as cold as he would have expected. He waited, his eyes fixed on the door, hardly blinking,hardly breathing. The younger of his companions spared him one curious glance, almost a grimace. The older continued to pace.
Charles could not say how long it was before the door opened once more. A policeman with a straight back and a grey mustache stood with the huge key in his hand and called out, "Jeffrey Simmons." The taller one stood and moved toward the door. The policeman said, "Vincent Petersen," and the smelly one looked up and shuffled to the door. The policeman's eyes locked with Charles' for just a moment, but he couldn't see anything in them.
The cell door shut, sending off echoes like a stone thrown into a pool. The echoes, hard and metallic,set off a ringing in his ears. The ringing continued,too high to sing comfortably, like the long screeching note of the violin at the end of a wild csardas. In his mind, he filled in the tambourine. Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek. Doom teka teka teka doom teka tek. His throat burned and he tasted his tears. He reached out,as if to touch his home, and then squeezed, as if to tear apart anything that would keep him from it.