The Child

The black BMW cruised down Oakwood Boulevard heading north toward Michigan Avenue. The car was spotless, glistening in the afternoon sun. Mounir drove past a tall, concrete wall running to his right. The eight-foot barrier hid the Ford Motor proving grounds from view. He passed the entrance to Greenfield Village and the Henry Ford Museum.

Mounir approached Michigan Avenue, stopping at a red light. Across the street he saw a well-dressed man and young boy exit a restaurant. The child appeared to be six or seven-years-old. The man, presumably his father, was dressed in business attire with a dark suit and top coat.

The boy looked up and spoke to his father. Munie jerked with a start as he saw the man smack his son in the back of the head with a closed fist. The child’s head snapped forward as he fell to the ground on outstretched hands. His father reached down and yanked him to his feet. The youngster kept his head down, staring at the sidewalk, as he was dragged along by the arm.

Demons surfaced from hiding deep within Mounir’s brain—demons he didn’t understand but often encountered. His pulse raced. His head was swimming. He was disoriented. He looked around the intersection with confusion, not knowing where he was. His vision blurred as his mind was barraged with fleeting images, splotches of red and white. Overwhelmed with fear, he cried out as everything went gray.

His foot slipped off the break and the car slowly rolled into the intersection. The blare of a horn, followed by screeching tires startled him out of his trance. He slammed the brake pedal just as a car swerved past the front of his Beamer. 

Mounir, drenched with cold sweat, had a strangle hold on the steering wheel. He was jarred by another horn blast from an impatient driver behind him. The light was green. Munie cautiously moved forward, turned left and drove past the restaurant. He caught a glimpse of the man and child just as they disappeared around the corner on a side street.

Father and son walked across a parking lot to the rear of shops and restaurants on Michigan Avenue. They stopped at a Lincoln Mark IV. The boy’s father jerked the passenger door wide, viscously shoved his son in and slammed the door. As he walked around the car he encountered a young, dark-haired man in a black-leather jacket and jeans, standing at the rear of the Lincoln.

Mounir assessed the boy’s father with a hard stare. He looks wealthy--expensive clothes and a luxury car. Probably a Ford executive, thought Mounir. A well to do asshole who likes beating his children. The executive shot a quick look at Mounir and ignored him. Munie took a step forward, blocking his path around the car.

“May I help you?” The inquiry rang of sarcastic arrogance. Mounir said nothing.

“What do you want?”

Now there was fear in the man’s voice. He looked through the Lincoln’s rear window. The young boy was hidden from view by the seat and head rest. After assuring the child was not watching, Mounir approached his frightened foe.

The guy tried to push his way past. With obvious terror in his voice, he exclaimed, “Leave us alone! I have my little boy with me. Please, my son’s in the car!”

Mounir grabbed him firmly by the arm and flung him to one side. He fell hard with arms extended, cutting his palms on the asphalt pavement. His knee struck the ground, tearing a hole in his dress pants. He peered up at Mounir and slowly rose to his feet. He was visibly trembling.

“Here, take my wallet. I have alot of money. Please!” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and held it out.

Mounir didn’t move. “Your license, give me your driver’s license.”

As the man fumbled through his wallet for the license, Mounir looked back to the car. The child was still out of sight. He imagined the boy sitting there, crying, fearfully awaiting his father’s return. Rage surged through his body. He snatched the driver’s license with his left hand and delivered a crushing blow to the man’s chest with his right fist. The executive fell back, sprawled on the pavement. He looked pathetic, pale and terrified--on the verge of tears.

Munie glanced at the driver’s license, entering the data into his cerebral archives. He could retrieve the information at will, any time it was needed. He knelt next to the helpless, broken man sitting on the pavement, tossed the license at his feet and grinned. “I’ve seen you before,” lied Mounir. “Now I know who you are and I know where you live.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’ll be watching you. I’ll come to your house at night. You’ll never see me, but I’ll be there. You won’t know when I’m around.”

“Why? Watching what? I don’t know what you mean!”

“Your son--I’ve been sent to protect your son. How many children do you have?”

“I have three. Who sent you? Please, for God's sake, I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been assigned to protect them--to protect your children from you. It is for God's sake, just as you've said. If I have to visit you again it will be worse, much worse. You’ll be sorry.”

The man, still on the ground, looked up at Mounir with a contorted, horrified face. He was speechless.

“If you hurt your children again you’ll pay. It will be regrettable. Don’t ever forget this. Do you understand?”

A mumbled stutter came from a bone dry mouth. “Yes. . .I. . .I under-st-st-and”.

The man grabbed his license from the ground and stood to walk to his car. He opened the driver’s door of the Lincoln and looked back at the parking lot. Mounir was gone.