Here After

by Sean Costello

  But he had thought about it, he realized now, for months afterward. Not in any concrete way, particularly once the newsworthiness of the crime began to fade. It had been more of a heightened wariness: a frequent, sometimes impatient reinforcement with David of the rule that he must never wander off in a public place—and a gut-ripping panic on those occasions that he did; locking the doors at night, then lying awake fretting that he hadn’t; letting David sleep with Dana and him nearly every time he asked. The details of the abduction had merely been supplanted—by fear, by loss of innocence. One of the things that had first attracted him to Sudbury was the low incidence of major crimes. As in any growing city, there were homicides from time to time, but among people who invited that sort of thing: the criminal element, the druggies downtown. And the sporadic break-ins that occurred rarely amounted to more than a few stolen stereo components. It had seemed a community in which, even if monsters existed, they never came to your home.

  One of them came to Roger Mullen’s home, though. And when it came, it was only seven short blocks from Peter’s house. It made him wonder if the crime had been random or carefully premeditated. If what he remembered of the police profile was correct, it was likely the abduction had been planned, Mullen’s boy chosen for some reason.

  Once inside, Peter found himself back at the computer. He started where he’d left off, the Child Find site and that beaming face with the round blue eyes, curly blond hair and dimples bookending a delighted smile. He stared at the boy for a long time, little Clayton Dolan, feeling that same baseless connection, that same gnawing desire to find him where his parents, local law enforcement, and the FBI had failed. Then he opened a new window and typed FBI, missing children into the search window. Another page popped up, this one entitled, Kidnapping and Missing Persons Investigations.

  More photos, dozens of them. Kids from all over North America, their names listed next to their photos. He had no idea so many went missing every year. It struck him as he scrolled from face to face that each wore a sunny smile, each unaware of what would soon be coming for them.

  Peter found himself imagining how Roger Mullen and his wife must have felt when they woke to find their son missing, and he pushed away from the computer, his capacity for grief exhausted. He stood abruptly, that queasy feeling of pause flaring again, a sensation akin to teetering on a high ledge, and he turned his mind quickly to filling the hours before sleep.

  He settled in front of the TV in the bedroom, a can of pop on the night stand beside him and a bowl of cheese-flavored popcorn on his lap. Munching his snack, he remembered the countless evenings he’d shared a big bowl of the stuff with David, the two of them cozied up to a movie or The Simpsons, and watched the news through shimmering prisms of tears.

  * * *

  Despite a restless sleep, Peter awoke refreshed, a forgotten bud of optimism blooming in his chest. He’d always loved his job, the people he worked with, and he looked forward to immersing himself in that environment again. He’d been allowing his grief and his sunless home to entomb him; and this morning, though little had changed, he just...felt better, like a man with a protracted viral illness that breaks all of a sudden.

  He showered briskly and got dressed, chased a toasted bagel with a glass of orange juice, then hustled out to the garage and backed the car into the driveway. The day was sunny, almost blindingly so, and he came close to running over an old doll walking a scruffy Pomeranian past the house. The woman clutched her bony breast and shot him a withering look, then dragged the yapping mutt along behind her. Peter rolled down his window to shout an apology, but the woman just waved him off. He left the window open, enjoying the cool morning air, and performed a careful shoulder check in each direction before trying again.

  As he cleared the neighbor’s hedge, sunshine beat through the rear passenger-side window, flooding the spot where David always sat, dutifully attaching his seat belt, chastising his dad when he forgot to do up his own. The warm beam of light was broken by four candied finger smears on the glass, and Peter learned that his brother Colin had been correct: You really didn’t need things like this jumping out at you, breaking your heart all over again.

  He left the car where it was, the engine still running, and went back into the house, tears filming his eyes. He found a bottle of window cleaner under the kitchen sink and a roll of paper towels in the linen closet. He doused the finger smears with the tart-smelling liquid and polished the glass with a wad of paper towels, scrubbing it until it squeaked. Then he did it again. When the window sparkled he tossed the cleaner and the paper towels into the trunk and backed carefully into the street.

  He wept quietly as he drove, and when the hospital came into view he considered driving past, void now of any desire to pursue the charade of his life. In that moment hopelessness deconstructed him, leaving an empty shell.

  But duty pulled him, even now, and he turned into the doctors’ lot and parked in the farthest spot, overlooking Ramsey Lake. There was a Dairy Queen napkin in the glove box—another stab in the heart—and he used it to dry his eyes. Then he waited, staring without seeing at the mirrored surface of the lake. When he could feel his body again, he climbed out of the car and went inside. Wendell had given him an easy room again, a list of vasectomies with a surgeon he liked.

  He’d get it over with and go home.

  * * *

  In med school Peter had chummed with a guy named Trevor Ryan, a brilliant student who went on to become an emergentologist. One beery night in second year, Trevor had introduced him to the film Easy Rider, a Jack Nicholson classic Trevor said he’d seen the night it opened, July 1969 at the Britannia drive-in theater.

  Peter spotted the film in the Drama section at the video store and decided to rent it. Work had turned into a nightmare, his list running late, recovery room full to overflowing, and at the end of the day he’d gotten stuck doing an emergency bowel resection on an elderly cancer patient who almost died on the table. Peter was worn out. A good movie, and reliving old times, seemed like a good idea. So did a few beers.

  He picked up a club sandwich at Eddie’s and settled in with the movie and a cold beer, Nicholson actually wringing a few chuckles out of him. After that he watched old re-runs, the images blurring without meaning one into the next.

  Around midnight he got up to go to the bathroom. On his way back he stopped outside David’s bedroom, noticing that some of the paint had come off the door when his brother peeled off the stickers David had collected there.

  He put his hand on the cool chrome knob for the first time since he and Colin had stripped the room. It was empty in there now, nothing but a box spring and mattress, David’s vacant dresser, and a gaping, dusty closet.

  Peter turned the knob, easing the door open...and for an instant all was as it had been, the curtains drawn against the night, David peacefully sleeping under his comforter, only his precious head showing in the glow of his computer screen, David’s version of a night light. Peter had done this every night of his son’s abbreviated life, looking in on him after he fell asleep, thanking God from the doorway for the privilege of being his dad.

  The room was empty, of course, that instant, in spite of its vividness, existing only in Peter’s memory. As he lay on David’s stripped bed, he remembered something he’d heard at the bereavement meeting—It’s okay to hurt—and he wept into the quilted fabric until exhaustion claimed him.

  * * *

  Dana had always been the one with the vivid dreams, terrifying ones involving snakes, which she feared and detested, violent storms or enraged psychopaths chasing her or David. Peter’s dreams, the ones he recalled, were generally more mundane. A recurring theme was one of himself trying to reach some unknown destination, but stuck in a maze of hallways or endlessly branching tunnels. Only rarely did he have a dream that upset him or woke him up.

  He knew he was dreaming now, though it seemed more like a trance, but he couldn’t snap himself out of it. In one respect he didn’t want to wak
e up. He was with David—and this part seemed so real—David lying beside him, spooned against his chest in a room that was strange yet eerily familiar. It was dark in here, the only light a pale glow from beyond the partially open door, but as his eyes adjusted, Peter realized they were on the upper level of a child’s bunk bed.

  His son was terrified—the knowledge came to Peter through a kind of psychic osmosis—and now he was terrified, too. He tightened his grip on his son, the familiarity of this room triggering a memory...this was where death had come for them, but instead of taking them both, it had taken only David, torn him from Peter’s arms.

  He said, “David?” and David hissed, “Shh,” as the door sighed open on silent hinges. Now a figure appeared—backlit, faceless, a hunched silhouette pausing in the doorway, listening with a hunter’s patience. Peter could smell it, wet and feral, a savage odor that doubled his terror. It was coming for David, and Peter tightened his grip on his son, powerless to do anything but wait.

  Then the figure turned its head, just for an instant, and the dim light found its face—chiseled, baleful, sockets of pure night where there should have been eyes—and David whispered, “Do you see?” and Peter awoke dripping sweat in the dark of his son’s pillaged bedroom. He felt a tingling on his wrist, and when he looked, David was standing there in his funeral suit, touching him, terror etched on his young face. And when he saw his father looking he was gone, and Peter’s skin crawled in cold handfuls.

  5

  Thursday, June 14

  “THE OTHER NIGHT I FELL asleep on David’s bed and had a dream about that day.”

  Peter had already told the bereavement group about his attempt to go with his son when he died; and though break-time had come and gone, everyone was urging him on. One woman in particular, dark-haired with brilliant green eyes, had been staring at him the entire time, hanging on every word.

  “When I woke up in ICU, I couldn’t remember a thing. I thought David was still alive. But even after they told me he was gone, I couldn’t remember what happened in the minutes after he died. I knew there was something, I just couldn’t put it together in my mind.

  “The dream fixed that.”

  He told them about the strange room, the dark figure he believed had taken David. “It seemed so real. The dream, I mean. And the weird thing was, while I was having the dream, I finally remembered what happened after I injected myself that day. It was as if the dream was a window onto the world I found myself in with David when he died, and hence the only place I could remember what had happened there before. I don’t know if I’m making any sense.”

  “Perfect sense,” the green-eyed woman said. “Please, go on.”

  Peter focused on her and continued. “The thing is, I don’t know whether that room or what happened in it was real or just an hallucination. I did give myself a big dose of morphine, and hallucinations are a common side effect of narcotics.”

  “What does your heart tell you?” the green-eyed woman said.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Erika.”

  “If you don’t mind, Erika, I think I’ll finish before I tackle that question.”

  “Good idea. I’m sorry.”

  Peter cleared his throat, uncomfortable but determined to go on. “The dream I had the other night was different. The first time, that figure—death or whatever it was—it came right up to us. And though I didn’t actually witness this part of it, I believe it took David. I was being resuscitated at this point so I can’t be sure. Maybe my so-called rescuers took me away from David.” Tears burned his eyes. “Maybe, if they’d left well enough alone, I could have helped him.”

  “Peter—”

  “Let me finish, Roger. I need to get this out.” Someone handed him a tissue and he wiped his eyes with it. “This time, in the dream, the figure had a face. David asked me if I saw it, but I woke up before I could answer.” He looked directly at Erika. “When I opened my eyes, David was there. Beside the bed, touching me. It was just for a second, but I swear I could feel his hand against mine.”

  Erika reached across the table for Peter’s hand, her grip dry and strong. “My Tanya came to me in the same way,” she said. Her daughter had died at seventeen from complications related to mononucleosis. “In a dream...or on the tail of a dream, like you described. She’d been gone nearly six months and I was dreaming about a glorious afternoon we spent together at Cape Cod on her sixteenth birthday, just us girls. My, how we laughed. When I woke up, she was sitting on the foot of the bed with her hand on my shin. It felt like butterflies. She was smiling, peaceful. She spoke to me, Peter,” Erika said, her voice breaking a little. “She told me she was happy and that she didn’t want me to be sad anymore. Then she was gone.” She squeezed Peter’s hand. “Your boy’s in a good place. That’s what he was trying to tell you.”

  Peter slid his hand away and stood. “I hope you’re right, Erika. I’d give anything to believe it. But my son wasn’t peaceful. He was terrified.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  * * *

  Roger Mullen waited until Peter had slipped out the door, then excused himself and went after him, catching up to him in the parking lot.

  “Peter, hold up.”

  Peter kept walking. “Not now, Roger.”

  “Come on, wait up. Let’s talk.”

  Peter stopped in a yellow circle of streetlight, his shoulders sagging. He turned to face Roger. “Look, I’m upset, I just want to go home.”

  “Is this a good time to be alone?”

  “I’ve been upset for a long time. I’ll manage.”

  Roger swiped a mosquito off his neck; his fingers came away streaked with blood, black in the streetlight. “Alright, but listen. About Erika. She’s a sweet gal, but a little out there. You know...Tarot cards, tea leaves, the whole nine yards. She runs a small business out of her house, telling fortunes. She’s harmless, but she can’t wait to put a supernatural spin on things. She’s been a regular at these meetings since her daughter died. Just keeps signing up.”

  Peter glanced at his car, edgy, saying nothing.

  Mullen rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sure you won’t come back inside?”

  “I’ll come back,” Peter said. “I promise. Just not tonight.”

  “Fair enough.” Roger took his hand away to look at his watch. “I usually head over to Eddie’s for a nightcap after the meetings. Care to join me? Say, half an hour? I’ll beg off early.”

  A polite demurral came to Peter’s lips and he cut it off. This big man, smiling at him in the dark with a squadron of mosquitoes circling his head, had been enduring the same breed of pain as Peter, only for a hell of a lot longer, and now he was standing here trying to help. To refuse the man’s offer would be the worst kind of selfishness.

  But it was more than that. As soon as David was old enough to grasp the concept of honesty, Peter had done his best to instill that quality in his son. “Truth,” he would tell David, “is a powerful tool. Of all things, honesty is the clearest measure of a man.” It was a principle David would adopt to a degree Peter could not have anticipated. Standing here now, he could think of dozens of examples of how truthful his son had become. Even recently, a few months before he got sick, David had shown his true colors. The phone had rung that evening while Peter was cooking and David had answered it. The call was for Peter, and when David covered the mouthpiece to tell him who it was Peter asked him to say he was out and take a message. David stood there a moment, his hand slipping away from the mouthpiece, the conflict evident in his eyes—Do I disappoint my father by refusing his request or do I tell a lie?—then handed the phone to his dad. Peter took the call, then went to David’s room later to apologize. And there had been other occasions when David was with him and a lie seemed the easiest way to resolve a situation—the time a cop pulled him over, saw from his ID that he was a doctor and asked him if he was speeding because he was on his way to the hospital. A white lie
could have saved him a couple of hundred dollars; the cop actually seemed to be offering him the out. But he had felt David’s eyes on him, the little guy sitting stock still in the back seat, and he’d told the cop No.

  Facing Roger Mullen now, Peter felt as if David were standing right behind him, watching to see if he’d do the right thing.

  He glanced at his own watch and said, “Yeah, okay. Sounds good. I’ll swing by the video store first and meet you at Eddie’s around nine.”

  Roger nodded, saying, “Good,” and jogged back to the church. Peter stood there a moment longer, returning his gaze to the sky, thinking that the single greatest foible of the human condition was hope. Even now, with his wife and son in the grave, he couldn’t help but hope they were together somehow, at peace, waiting for him. You could hate God, but the hate was impotent without belief.

  Without hope.

  He climbed into the car and drove out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  “Did youse want menus?”

  Grinning, Roger said, “No thanks. Molson Ex for me.”

  “Root beer,” Peter said. “Lots of ice.”

  As the girl took off, Roger said, “You know, I don’t believe a person can get a waitressing job in this city unless they use the word ‘youse’ at least once during the interview.”

  Peter chuckled. “Same thing in Ottawa. Same thing everywhere.”

  “You’re from Ottawa?”

  “Yeah. Grew up there, studied at U of O. I came up here to do a two-month locum thirteen years ago and met my wife.” He grinned. “The rest is history.”

  “How’s your wife holding up?”

  Peter told Roger about Dana’s aneurysm and how close he and David had grown since her death.

  Roger looked gray. “That’s more than any man’s share of shitty luck.”