23
Miller led him through the heavy security doors and
into the bustling booking area. Several officers milled
about, processing petty criminals, filling out forms, or
sipping stale coffee. A few looked up as Miller walked by,
their eyes skating over Marcus with bored indifference. To
them, it was just another collar, another body in the
system.
"Got a live one, Miller?" asked Sergeant Kowalski, a
burly, balding man sitting behind the elevated booking
desk. Kowalski was chewing on a toothpick, his eyes barely
leaving the computer screen.
"Yeah, Sarge. Trespassing, failure to ID, resisting.
Found him casing the properties up in Oakwood. Got
combative when I tried to question him," Miller reported,
puffing out his chest, his voice echoing loudly in the
cavernous room.
Marcus remained completely silent. He did not
protest; he did not argue. He stood patiently, his eyes
24
scanning the room, taking in the familiar sights and smells.
It had been years since he had been in this specific
precinct, but police stations all had the same underlying
hum. He was waiting for the right moment. He was waiting
for the right audience.
"Name?" Kowalski grunted, finally looking up and
sizing Marcus up. He frowned slightly. The man didn't look
like a typical transient or burglar. He looked like someone's
grandfather who had been dragged out of a garden—
which, of course, was exactly what he was.
"Refused to provide ID on scene," Miller interjected
quickly. "Said his name was Marcus Vance, claimed he
owned a multi-million dollar house up there. Yeah, right."
Kowalski stopped chewing his toothpick. His fingers
froze over the keyboard. The name hung in the air for a
second. "Marcus... Vance?" Kowalski repeated, his voice
suddenly dropping an octave. A strange look crossed the
sergeant's face, a mixture of intense confusion and
25
dawning horror. He looked closely at the man in the dirty
overalls. The silver hair, the sharp, authoritative brown
eyes, the posture that refused to break. Beneath the soil
and the worn clothes, the legendary features were
unmistakably there.
Before Kowalski could say another word, the heavy
double doors of the administrative wing swung open, and
the Watch Commander, Captain James Harrison, strode
into the booking area. Harrison was a seasoned veteran, a
stern, imposing man in a crisp white shirt adorned with
brass stars. He was carrying a stack of files and shouting
orders to a lieutenant trailing behind him.
"...and I want those patrol logs on my desk by noon, no
excuses!" Harrison barked. As he walked past the booking
desk, he glanced casually at the fresh arrest. His eyes swept
over Miller, then landed on Marcus.
Captain Harrison stopped dead in his tracks. The files
in his hands slipped slightly. His mouth opened, but no
26
sound came out. The entire booking room, sensing the
sudden, unnatural freeze of their commanding officer,
went entirely silent. The ringing phones seemed to fade
into the background. Every eye turned to Harrison, whose
face had instantly drained of all color, turning a sickly
shade of ash gray.
27
Chapter 6: The Commander Freezes
Time seemed to stand still in the 42nd Precinct. For a
full ten seconds, the only sound was the hum of the
fluorescent lights. Captain Harrison stood paralyzed,
staring at the elderly black man handcuffed in front of his
booking desk. He didn't see a suspect. He saw the man who
had pulled him out of a burning car twenty years ago. He
saw the man who had pinned his lieutenant's badge on his
chest. He saw Chief Deputy Commander Marcus Vance, the
most revered, decorated, and feared instructor in the
history of the state police academy.
"Chief... Chief Vance?" Harrison finally whispered, his