by C.G. Banks
*
He shut the door behind him and turned to face the street. It was a clear bright morning, just after eight. He looked up and saw a white, crystal-cut contrail dividing the sky, the plane itself an imperceptible speck. He wore a brand new pair of Levis, ostrich skin boots, a navy pullover. His skin was clean and his hair oiled and combed. The .32 pressed to the hollow of his back. He brought his eyes back from the sky and nodded, setting off down the walkway to the street. Walking. He thought this would be the best way, nothing sitting out in the driveway for the neighbors to remember later. He smiled at the thought, thinking if this doesn’t go well you’re not gonna have to worry about anything like that anyway. Yeah, well, old habits were hard to break.
A change had fallen over the whole neighborhood as of late. Here it was summer, early morning, and the yards were bereft of activity. Not a single kid in the whole block. Over on the other side (toward the trails leading back to the bridge) he could hear, every once in a while, a teenager’s voice, but could make out nothing it said. And as he walked he noticed. It wasn’t just the kids. Curtains normally open were pulled tight, driveway gates shut and bolted. Like the people huddling inside were waiting for a siege.
And there were other things loose in the neighborhood now too. He’d heard one trailing through the scrub on the other side of his fence the other night. Its smell unthinkable. He’d been followed and watched by something else when he’d buried the body late last week. For just a moment he’d thought he was busted, but then, fast on his initial surprise, came the soothing sense that he was being protected. Those things lurking in the woods were only to make sure no one disturbed him on his black duty. He thought about the dead family and the dogcatcher. That was no coincidence either. Hell was fixing to rise right out of the heart of this place and he was going to be riding the helm. And she (he drew a dead bead on her house as he clopped along), she, would be standing right beside him. He knew this. After all, what else would a mother consider other than a duty to a child?
He didn’t even pause at her driveway. Two houses down he’d noticed a drape tick ever so slightly as he looked that way and knew somebody had been huddled behind it, checking his progress. But now, he kept reminding himself, that meant nothing. Either this was going to play out as the dream entailed on there would be two dead bodies lying inside 9535 Samane Drive thirty minutes from now. There were no other alternatives. He scanned the house as he came on. The porch light was still on from the night and the curtains here were drawn too. Her Impala was parked dead center of the carport and he saw the screen door.
He moved past the car and came up to the door. He saw his hand reach out and pull back the screen door, saw his other hand moving of it own volition to the glass pane in the kitchen door and heard the sharp rasp of his knuckles. The sound reminded him, weirdly, of ice cubes dropping into a thin glass. He saw a shadow behind the sash and moved in closer to the door, shouldering the screen door aside. He heard someone fumbling with the lock on the other side as he snaked a hand to his back just in case.
Then the door opened.
Patsy Standish stepped into view and everything from the dream washed over him like a sweetly seductive déjà vu. There was the black curl, the faded jeans, her hand coming out like a question mark. Everything right except her face. It was much more haggard than the dream had suggested, marked deeply with loss of sleep. The eyes alive and heated and there was no question mark at all in them. There was (and Tomas would run over this moment in his mind many times in the coming weeks) a calculated look of acceptance, as if she’d been having dreams of her own. For just a moment it put Tomas off his step, but only for a moment.
“Mrs. Standish, Patsy,” he said. “I’m—“
“The guy from the hardware store,” she cut in, finishing for him.
He tried to smile and the corner of his mouth twitched at the lead in her eyes. “My name is Tomas Lorca. From down the street.” And then the thing from the dream. “I can help you, Patsy.” He paused in reverential silence. “I know about your little girl. I know about Terri. I can help.” He looked up from her shoes to her eyes now, ready to read the future or the end of it all.
He found her eyes hard on his. She never even blinked. “I think you better come inside, Mr. Lorca. There’s things we need to talk about,” and even though this diverged from the dream, the essence was the same and Lorca brought his gun hand around and away from his back.
“Thank you, Patsy,” he said genuinely. “Thank you.”
She stepped back into the darkness of the kitchen and he followed.