Darkness Follows

by Mike Dellosso

  “Clients?” Edward took a seat at the head of the kitchen table, legs crossed.

  “That’s probably not the best term.” Symon turned to Gladys, who was carrying two plates to the table. “Will you please have a seat too?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “But first, can I get you a coffee, tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure whatever beverage you provide would be delicious enough to be considered a gift.”

  Gladys smiled and sat.

  “So what’s this all about?” Edward said. He didn’t try to hide his lack of cordiality. He was either annoyed by the intrusion or anxious to hear the answer, thinking his pension might be eliminated.

  Either would’ve been better than the news Symon had to offer. He paused long enough that Gladys must have thought he was feeling awkward.

  “Won’t you sit down?” she said.

  “No, Gladys. Thank you, though. I prefer to stand. It was a long drive here, and I sat the whole way.” He looked from husband to wife. “Do I look at all familiar to you?”

  Their blank looks, the total lack of recognition in their eyes, said it all.

  “Son,” Edward said, “I’ve never seen you before in my life. Now is this about my pension or what?”

  “You’re certain you’ve never seen me before?”

  Gladys shifted in her seat. “You do look kind of familiar. Doesn’t he resemble Aaron, Edward? My, they could be brothers.”

  “Aaron?” A spark of hope flickered in Symon. A name.

  Edward shook his head. “No, Gladys. I don’t see that at all.”

  “Who’s Aaron?”

  “Our grandson,” Gladys said. Then, to Edward, “You don’t think they have the same eyes and chin?”

  “Not at all. Can we get to the pension?”

  But Symon no longer cared about that. “Where does Aaron live?”

  “He lives in Chicago,” Gladys said. “Chicago, right, Edward? Or is it Cleveland?”

  The elderly man was notably frustrated. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Chicago, I think. But it could be Cleveland.”

  “When did you speak with him last?” Symon said. That spark was still there, an ember of possibility.

  “Oh, my.” Gladys put her hand over her mouth and thought. “Was it two days ago, Edward?”

  He sighed deeply. “We haven’t talked to Aaron in ages. Now about my—”

  “Excuse me,” Symon said, “but this is very important. Was it two days ago, or ages ago, that you last spoke with Aaron?”

  “Two days ago,” Gladys said. “I remember the conversation well.”

  Edward grumbled under his breath, then said, “What is this about my pension?”

  “Your pension, yes,” Symon said. His hopes had been extinguished with Gladys’s last bit of news. He could in no way be the Aaron she spoke of since he had never talked to her on the phone. It wasn’t possible. He looked at her. “You know, I’ve changed my mind. May I have some of that wonderful-smelling bacon?”

  A smile stretched across her face, bunching her cheeks. “Oh, yes. Coming right up.” She stood with some effort and crossed the kitchen to the stove.

  Without stopping to think, Symon reached into his jacket, retrieved the Beretta, pointed it at Gladys’s torso, and squeezed the trigger three times. The weapon spit out three rounds, each landing not six inches apart in the woman’s back. Gladys slumped forward in slow motion, as if bending toward the stove for a closer look, and her face landed in the pan on the burner. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor, taking the pan with her. It rattled and clanged and spilled its contents on the linoleum. Gladys’s body rested on its back by the stove. Her face, covered with partially scrambled eggs, wore a frozen expression of surprise.

  Edward let out a weak grunt and twitched in his chair. Symon gave him no time to process what had taken place. He aimed the pistol and squeezed off another three rounds before the old man could raise his hands in self-defense. The shots punched Edward in the chest and sent him reeling backward, the chair toppling. His lifeless body tipped sideways with the chair and landed in the fetal position on the floor.

  In the living room the local weatherman commented on what a beautiful autumn day it would be.

  Symon placed the Beretta on the table. He removed and slung his jacket over one of the ladder-back chairs. Then, as if he was a friendly visitor who’d stopped by for a pleasant chat, he walked over to the stove. The bacon sat in its own grease, perfectly fried. He rooted through the drawers and cupboards for a fork and plate, then helped himself to breakfast.

  When his hunger was satisfied, he placed the dishes in the sink and went to work disposing of the bodies. Between the living room and kitchen, a door accessed the staircase into the basement. He dragged Edward first (who was much heavier than he looked), then Gladys, to the top of the stairs and let their corpses tumble downward. They sprawled onto the concrete at the bottom of the steps. He shut the door and forgot about them.

  Returning to the kitchen, Symon pulled out the photo of the girl. The target. She was actually a cute kid.

  He thought it odd that he felt no emotion about his mission. Nor about what he’d just done to the Moellers here. He was sure they were nice people, probably parents and grandparents, model neighbors and exemplary citizens. He doubted they ever paid their taxes late and could not imagine either Edward or Gladys mouthing off to a cop. There was no sadness over their loss. No regret or even joy. Nothing. It was as if his emotional palette had been wiped clean, with nothing there to draw from.

  Using a Branson, Missouri magnet from the refrigerator, Symon placed the girl’s photo on the freezer door, front and center. There were other photos, as well. Two of a young family—mom, dad, and two kids, a boy and a girl. In the first, they were at the beach, posing like a nice family should. They looked very happy and very tan. In the second, the children, no more than six or seven, stood proudly beside a sandcastle as tall as the girl’s waist. Probably the Moellers’ grandchildren. Again, he wondered at his emotional void.

  Tapping the target’s photo, he said, “This time it’s all about your daddy, sweetheart.”

  Fifteen

  SAM STARED UP THE STAIRCASE, FEELING NUMB. TOMMY’S VOICE came again from the study, behind the closed door.

  “Sammy.”

  He knew it wasn’t real, the voice. It was just an echo from his past. Somewhere in his brain a neuron had made a bad connection, picking up signals from a memory deep in the recesses of his gray matter. A memory meant to be filed away and forgotten.

  “Sammy.”

  The voice drew him, as if Tommy were here, crossing the threshold of time and space and hooking Sam with bait he couldn’t refuse. Tommy was reeling him in. Ascending the stairs one at a time, one foot in front of the other, Sam drew closer to that blasted closed door. There was unreconciled business between him and his brother, and he needed to settle it once and for all. Tommy did too.

  At the landing Sam paused, fought the hook so deeply imbedded in the flesh of his consciousness. The door to his study seemed to breathe. If he looked closely, he could almost see the wood expanding and retracting with each breath.

  “Sammy.”

  The voice churned a memory to the surface. Those neurons were digging up images and sounds and video clips that had been archived years ago, and Sam found himself in the basement of their house in Cumberland County and …

  … the stone walls always looked so cold and lifeless. Here and there, mortar had fallen out in chunks. In one corner the stones were wet, and when it rained, water trickled down the wall and puddled on the concrete.

  Sam was standing at the bottom of the wooden steps, gripping the rough handrail. In the center of the basement sat “the monster,” the octopus coal furnace that had been converted to gas. Here, in the middle of winter, the furnace was going full throttle. Tommy and he sometimes sneaked down here with their old action figures, tossed in a Han Solo or Greedo or C-3PO, and watched it melt. If Da
d ever caught them, he would have their hides for sure.

  “Sammy? That you?” Tommy’s voice came out of the darkened far corner. It was just a bodiless voice.

  “Yeah. What’re you doin’?”

  “Come here. Got something to show you.”

  Something about the way Tommy said “come here” raised knots of flesh up and down Sam’s arms. His brother had not been himself lately, that was no secret. Dad thought he was as crazy as the Mad Hatter at high tea; Mom argued he was just going through a tough time, like teenagers do. Hormones and stuff. Sam didn’t know what to think. At times Tommy was himself, laughing, joking, talking about girls and the Philadelphia 76ers and how much he hated math and Mrs. Kump. But other times Tommy got a different look—faraway, glassy, like someone had popped out his eyeballs and replaced them with shiny new marbles. Those times scared Sam. His brother was not his brother then but some sinister being with a short fuse and a hankering for violence. It had never been directed at Sam, but he’d seen it aimed at walls and doors and poor Gomer.

  “Sammy.” The voice again. “Come here, scaredy-cat.”

  Sam crossed the basement, making a wide circle around “the monster.” He had the same feeling in his gut as when he entered a dark room, not knowing what may be hiding in the corner or behind the door.

  When he rounded the furnace, he found Tommy in the corner on his knees, holding something against the floor. The something moved and growled.

  Tommy looked up at Sam, a grin stretched across his face, and his eyes—those glassy marble eyes—flashed with excitement. “Look

  what I got.”

  “What is it?”

  “A cat. A stray I caught outside. Stinkin’ stray.”

  Tommy squeezed harder, and the cat growled again, except this time the growl was more like a moan. Tommy’s eyes were wild and distant.

  “What’re you gonna do with it?” A part of Sam didn’t want to know, wanted to turn and run for the steps and get out of that basement and away from Tommy as fast as he could, but another part forced him to stay and see what Tommy had in mind. Maybe he could stop him.

  “Just you watch, Sammy boy. Just you watch.”

  Tommy got to his feet, holding the cat by the scruff of the neck, and Sam noticed its paws were tied together with twine. He also noticed the cat was gray and full-grown. The thing’s eyes were buggy and terrified, and because of the way Tommy was holding it, it wore a goofy grin on its face.

  Walking to the furnace, Tommy threw the lever on the door and swung it open. Inside, the flames licked high and fast.

  Those knots of flesh were back on Sam’s arms and neck. “Tommy, don’t.”

  “Why, little brother? It’s just a cat. A scaredy-cat like you. Don’t you want to see what happens?” He held the thing up next to his face, and it hissed at him. “Kitty want to play a game?” Then, turning to Sam: “You remember the story of those three guys in the furnace?”

  Sam’s skin was crawling with bugs now. “Yes. Tommy, come on, man. Don’t.”

  But before Sam could stop him, not that he would have been able to, Tommy swung the cat around and tossed it into the furnace. The cat howled. Tommy laughed. Sam turned and ran, tears burning his eyes and blurring his sight. He stumbled up the basement steps as Tommy called after him, “Run, you sissy. Sammy. Sammy …”

  “Sammy.”

  For the second time in as many days, the scar running over his ear ached.

  Sam looked down the hall. The study door was open now, as though it hadn’t been closed all the way and a shift in the settling house had nudged it a few inches. More than a few inches, actually. It was wide open. Like someone had left it fully ajar as an invitation. Had he imagined it was closed to begin with? No way. It had been shut tight. He’d shut it himself and heard the click of the latch. He shuddered, recalling where all that business with the furnace and the cat had ended.

  You did what you had to do, son.

  He took one step forward. “Tommy?” There would be no answer; there never was. Nevertheless he felt compelled to make his presence known. “It’s me. Sammy.”

  He approached the study, half-expecting to see his brother swivel around in the desk chair with a gray cat clutched to his chest. That same gray cat.

  Hey, little brother, want to see something cool?

  But of course the room was empty.

  Sam crossed the study to the window. The sky was deep blue, mottled with cotton-ball clouds. At the end of his property, where the yard met the neighbor’s field, the groundhog waddled into view. Sam knocked on the glass, and the fat little rat stopped what it was doing to look at him. It was taunting him: Well, go on, sucker. Take your best shot.

  Without thinking, Sam retrieved his rifle from the closet, the Winchester Model 70. This time he’d be a monkey’s hind end if he missed. With the rifle loaded and ready, he found the groundhog in the same place, still looking at him. He estimated it was about eighty, ninety yards off, farther than the last time.

  Sam yanked up the window and screen. Cool air floated into the room. He got down on one knee and propped his left elbow on the sill to steady his arm. Against his cheek the rifle stock felt right, natural, like the weapon was a part of him, another appendage. He shut his eyes to calm his breathing.

  When he opened his right eye, he centered the groundhog in the front sight and made the appropriate adjustment for distance. There wasn’t enough wind to affect the bullet’s trajectory. With his finger on the trigger, itching for action, he drew in a deep breath and focused on the gray-brown ball of fur at the field’s edge. The groundhog stood on its hind legs, daring him to take the shot, betting he’d miss and thus prove he was indeed a sissy.

  In one smooth motion Sam squeezed the trigger. The rifle discharged and recoiled into his shoulder, the end of the barrel popping up uncontrollably. Ninety yards away, the groundhog’s head snapped back, and the creature hit the ground hard.

  Bingo. Right in the kisser.

  Sam held the rifle a little longer, pointed at the motionless groundhog. His breathing was rapid, and his pulse raced. He’d hit his mark, and it felt good.

  After shutting the window and returning the rifle to the closet, Sam went outside and tossed the groundhog’s carcass into the field so Eva wouldn’t find it while she was playing outside. When he returned to his study, he sat at his desk and noticed a sheet of paper he didn’t remember being there before. At the top, in his own handwriting, it read:

  July 2, 1863, 4:00 a.m.

  Sixteen

  THERE WAS NOTHING QUITE LIKE THE SILENCE OF THE OFFICE first thing in the morning. Stephen Lincoln sat back in his leather chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and sighed. He found the smell of paper and furniture polish comforting. Odd, yes, but not so odd for a politician. They were necessities for Lincoln’s existence. His life was captured on paper—forms, documents, bills, legislation, you name it—and he had a thing for dust. Made him sneeze something awful.

  Lincoln gazed at the painting of the other Lincoln on his wall. The sixteenth president, Lincoln, the man with whom he shared a name. No relation. At least none that he knew of.

  “What do you think, Abe?” he said aloud. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  One of Lincoln’s legislative assistants, Taylor Blake, entered his office holding a thick, three-ring binder. She glanced at Lincoln behind the desk, then at Lincoln on the wall. “Am I interrupting something?”

  Lincoln leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “I was just looking for some advice.”

  “From the painting of a dead guy?”

  “He may be dead, but his spirit is still alive.”

  Taylor dropped the binder on the desk. “OK, that’s just creepy. You’re talking to the ghost of a dead president. If the taxpayers only knew.” She pointed at the binder. “That’s the rough draft of the bill from Senator Michaels. He and Senator Maka want to know what you think of it … by tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Lincoln ope
ned the binder and leafed through the pages. The last was numbered 421. “I can’t read it that fast. Have you read it?”

  Taylor shrugged. “He didn’t say anything about me reading it.”

  “Have you read it?”

  She smiled. “I’m working on it.” Then spun and left the office.

  “We’ll meet at four to discuss it. Tell the others,” Lincoln called after her.

  He flipped through the pages again. This was the most important piece of legislation in his short political career, not to mention the most controversial, and he’d have to make sure it was something he could stand behind … and maybe die for. In the political sense, of course.

  To the ghost of the sixteenth president he said, “What do you think, Abe? Is this worth dying for?”

  Stephen Lincoln was already in the crosshairs of some. He’d been a senator only two years, after campaigning as a moderate Democrat, leaning right on issues of fiscal responsibility and homeland security. But he’d had a recent change of heart on the hotplate issue of abortion.

  Initially he’d run on a pro-choice platform. It wasn’t one of his soapboxes, just part of his arsenal of campaign talking points. Every woman should have the right to choose when it came to her own body. Then, four months ago, his nineteen-year-old daughter broke the news that she’d gone and gotten herself pregnant. A month later she exercised her right, her choice, and had an abortion. The following week she downed a bottle of OxyContin. After a week in the hospital she was still receiving almost daily counseling.

  It was bad press and bad publicity, but that was the least of Lincoln’s worries. His children mattered more to him than his political career, and he’d taken a couple of weeks off to be with his family and comfort his daughter. The things she said, the fear she felt, the remorse, the guilt, the tears, the way she trembled in his arms when he held her—all were enough to make Lincoln change his mind and heart on the abortion issue.

  Which was bad for him, politically speaking. At first.