Here After

by Sean Costello

  In a low voice his dad said, “In case you’ve forgotten, Angie, some psycho tried to grab our son today, and he’s still out there somewhere. A man has a right to defend his own family.”

  A shiver of fear stole through Graham. He’s still out there?

  His mom said, “There are two policemen parked right outside the house. The alarm system is on. Every cop in the city is watching for that man. Why can’t we just get some sleep and let them take care of it?”

  “Tell you what,” his dad said now, and Graham could tell he was getting angry. “If the gun bothers you that much, I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs. But until this guy is locked up or dead, I’m not closing my eyes without a weapon beside me.”

  Graham glanced at the monkey lamp and felt cold under the down comforter.

  His mother said, “All right, you win. You always do. Just try not to shoot one of us.”

  Then she was padding out of the bathroom, crawling in beside Graham. His dad came out next in his pajamas with the little golf clubs on them, one hand behind his back like he was hiding something. He sat on the other side of the bed and opened the night table drawer. Graham heard him put something hard inside, then push the drawer shut.

  His dad got up and turned off the monkey lamp, the only light now a dim glow from the hallway. Tommy Boy was standing out there in his dark suit and Graham heard him say, Hide. Then his dad closed the door and the room was dark, his dad feeling his way back to the bed now, saying a bad word under his breath when his toe hit something hard along the way. It was funny, but Graham didn’t feel like laughing.

  His dad climbed into bed, his weight making the mattress squeak. First his mom kissed Graham’s cheek, then his dad, both of them saying goodnight.

  Graham lay perfectly still for a minute, barely breathing, then said, “Is he really still out there?” and heard his mother say, “Happy now, Chris?”

  His dad snugged an arm around him and said, “Sergeant Taylor told me he’s probably in another province by now, sweetheart, and that’s very far away. You don’t need to worry.”

  Graham wanted to say, “Why do you have a gun, then?” but instead he said, “Okay, Dad.”

  “Don’t worry,” his dad said and this time Graham didn’t say anything.

  But he was worried. Very worried.

  He pulled the covers over his eyes and vowed never to fall asleep again.

  * * *

  CID officer Frank McNamara glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. Five minutes to eleven—nine god damn hours to go—and already his back was killing him. He’d been seriously injured eight years ago in a motor vehicle accident, an old broad tranked on valium rear-ending him with her Caddy doing eighty coming into a bottleneck on the 401, and for a while it had been touch and go as to whether he’d even walk again, never mind return to work. But after a year of grueling physio and pig-headed determination, he’d come back on light duty, polishing a chair with his ass the first six months, then moving on to shit details like this one, staking out a private residence behind the wheel of this stuffy little car with the windows open, watching for a perp who was probably a hundred miles away by now.

  They’d partnered him with Jack Bates, a skinny, beak-nosed guy in his fifties who couldn’t keep his trap shut for more than a minute at a time. Frank had no idea how the man came up with so much horseshit to prattle on about. It was like listening to some lame talk show you couldn’t turn off. In the past ten minutes alone Bates had delivered droning monologues on federal politics, SARS, insecticides, leaky pool liners, and the pros and cons of legalized prostitution. When the little guy finally came up for air, Frank said, “How ’bout some tunes?” and turned on the radio, hoping it would shut the man up.

  No such luck. Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” was playing and Bates said, “You know the story behind this one, Frank?” Frank did, but before he could say so, Bates said, “Fucking tragedy. You never heard about that? Clapton’s kid? Went out a tenth story window when he was only four.”

  Bates kept talking and Frank glanced out his window at a pop can the breeze had set rolling on a diagonal toward the gutter on the opposite side of the street. He heard Bates say “What the hell?” and realized there was no breeze. He glanced at Bates—the man staring at him quizzically now, his left hand pressed against the right side of his neck, something dark oozing out from between his fingers—and saw a husky woman with platinum blond hair coming around the hood from Bates’s side of the car, coming fast. After eighteen years on Vice, Frank’s first thought was, What’s a hooker doing in a neighborhood like this? then he glanced again at Bates, the man gurgling softly now, and realized the dark stuff oozing out of his neck was blood, lots of it.

  Frank reached for his weapon and now the woman was leaning in through his window, her thick forearm pressed against his brow, forcing his head back. Frank said, “Hey,” and grabbed her by the hair, surprised when it came off in his hand. He had time to think, Wig, and realized his throat had been cut. He brought his service pistol up, shoved it out the window to fire at the fleeing figure—clearly a man now, the man, that bald head gleaming in the streetlight—and felt the gun slip out of his grasp to clatter onto the road beside the car. He turned to Bates, wanting to tell him to call it in, but Bates was slumped against the dash, blood-slicked hands limp in the V of his crotch.

  Frank took a breath and felt his neck suck blood and air into his pipes and he started hacking, his lungs already shot from thirty years of smoking, a two-pack-a-day habit his wife had finally nagged him out of on New Year’s Day.

  The guy was heading for the Cade house, and though Frank knew he should call it in, he wanted to get his gun first, maybe even go after the guy if he could still walk. He was bleeding, bleeding bad, but not as bad as Bates, and if he leaned his head to one side he could breathe better, the cough backing off a little.

  He gave Bates a shake and tried to say his name, but only managed a wet croak. He thought, Can’t talk, and opened his door, almost falling through it onto the street. He got himself turned around in his seat, both feet on the blacktop now, and saw the gun, just out of reach by the front tire.

  Summoning all of his will, Frank McNamara pushed himself into a standing position, propped his way around the door to the hood and bent to retrieve his weapon.

  * * *

  They got directions from a teenage girl at a gas bar and found Warner Park easily enough, then began a systematic tour of the surrounding neighborhood, hampered now by the dark. There were a lot of fire hydrants and even more yellow doors, and it wasn’t until their second pass through a two-block radius of the park that Roger noticed a street they’d missed. “Cahill,” he said, “let’s give this one a try,” and Peter turned left onto the sleepy street, slowing the vehicle to a crawl.

  About a third of the way down the block, Peter thought he heard something and turned the air conditioner off. He listened a moment, then said, “Do you hear that?”

  Roger said, “Yeah, sounds like a burglar alarm,” and rolled down his window to lean his head out. Then he pointed up the street and said, “Step on it.”

  Peter tramped on the gas pedal, forcing Roger back in his seat. Near the middle of the block on the right-hand side, they saw a man in jeans and a white golf shirt staggering up the sloping lawn of a two-story brick home with a yellow door and a hydrant at the curb. They saw the man from behind, saw his full head of wavy red hair and something else, something dangling from his right hand.

  Roger said, “Is that a gun?”

  “I think so,” Peter said, angling the car toward the curb. The alarm was coming from that house, a few of the neighbor’s lights coming on now. “Is he drunk?”

  “What’s that in his other hand?”

  Peter said, “Looks like a wig,” and Roger was out of the car before it stopped, charging up the driveway and across the lawn. It looked like he meant to tackle the guy.

  Peter put the car in PARK and got out in time to see the man swi
ng around with the gun and aim it at Roger’s head, stopping him dead in his tracks. Roger raised his hands and started backing away.

  That was when Peter saw the blood sheeted down the front of the man’s shirt, turning it a soggy, glistening purple in the streetlight. Then he saw the gaping wound in his neck.

  Now the man sagged to his knees, the gun still raised but aimed at Roger’s legs. Roger closed in on him again, moving in a wide arc away from the gun, his demeanor no longer aggressive but concerned. He looked back at Peter and shouted, “You better get up here, man. He’s a cop.”

  Peter ran up the lawn, watching Roger ease the man into a lying position on his side, then pry the gun from his hand. The man was spluttering weakly, his blood loss massive, puddles of it revealing his erratic course up the slope of the lawn. Peter knelt beside him and saw the gold badge on his belt.

  Roger stood over them with the gun in his hand, looking up at the house, then down at Peter. He said, “Can you do anything for him?”

  “He’s lost so much blood,” Peter said, rolling the man over to get a better look at the wound in his neck. “He needs a hospital, fast.” He looked at Roger. “My cell’s in the car. Call 911.” He looked next at the number on the house, large black numerals under a bright porch sconce. “Twenty-six Cahill.”

  Roger ran the slide of the gun partway open, checking the load. “You do it,” he said, his voice rising coolly above the apocalyptic wail of the alarm. “I’m going inside.”

  Before Peter could say anything more, Roger was gone, running full bore up the walkway, taking the front steps in two quick bounds and now he was airborne, his body almost parallel with the porch, his feet striking the yellow door with explosive force. The frame splintered at the lock and the door flew inward on its hinges, Roger rebounding from the impact to land hard on the porch. He was on his feet instantly, pushing his way through the debris of the Cade’s front entrance, then vanishing into the darkness inside.

  Peter looked at the dying man—his chest hitching now, his lungs sucking more blood than air—and started running back to the car. He heard a gunshot then—and now another—the muffled reports coming from inside the house. The sound startled him and he skidded on the damp grass, his legs opening into a painful split that pulled one of his hamstrings violently enough to make him cry out.

  From a doorway across the street someone shouted, “What’s going on over there?” and Peter couldn’t summon the words to respond.

  Moaning, breathing hard, he climbed to his feet and limped the rest of the way to the car. He’d never been more terrified in his life.

  * * *

  Graham was almost asleep when the burglar alarm went off. The sound it made was high pitched and loud, rising and falling, and now his dad popped up beside him shouting, “What?” and flipped the covers off all three of them, scrambling in the dark to get the gun out of the night table drawer. His mom screamed, making a sound more terrifying than the alarm, a sound Graham had never heard come out of her before. She reached for him in the dark saying, “Graham? Graham?” and one of her fingers poked him in the eye. Then she had him in her arms, clutching him to her breast.

  Graham saw the big red numbers on the alarm clock: 11:01, then heard his dad—on his feet now—saying, “Stay right here with him, Angie, and don’t make another sound, do you hear me?”

  His mom said, “Yes,” and Graham felt her warm tears spilling on his neck. She said, “Be careful, Chris,” and hugged Graham tight when his dad opened the bedroom door, holding the gun out in front of him. Graham blinked and saw something grab his dad’s arm, then saw a flash of yellow light, the flash bringing a loud bang that hurt his ears and sent his dad flying backward against the foot of the bed, his weight driving the mattress against the wooden headboard.

  Then the man from the park was in the room—Graham could smell him—stepping over his dad’s legs to come around the bed to his mom’s side, and now his mom pushed Graham away, pushed him hard across the bed, yelling, “Run, sweetheart, hide.”

  Graham spun off the bed to his feet on the cold hardwood floor, but he didn’t want to run, he wanted to help his mom and dad. He looked at the man on the other side of the bed—a huge dark shape in the pale wash of light from the hallway—and heard an enormous crash downstairs.

  Then he saw the man raise his arm, heard him say, “Bitch,” and in the yellow flash that slammed that terrible bang into Graham’s ears again he saw the mask, heard his mother’s scream cut in half and understood that the man had hurt his mommy and daddy and Graham hated the man for that and now he launched himself across the bed in a fury that belied his years, his young mouth torn wide in a scream of his own, a scream he could barely hear over the whining drone in his ears. His tiny body struck the man’s shoulder and Graham held on tight, clawing at that mask, slamming it with his fist, the hard skull underneath hurting his hand.

  Then the man grabbed Graham’s jammies at the back of his neck and peeled him off with one powerful hand. Graham came away with the mask in his fist and just dangled there, all the strength wrung out of him, staring into those dark eyes glinting back at him in the fuzzy light.

  Now Graham felt himself crushed into those musty clothes and he shut his eyes tight, squeezing out hot tears, the man taking the mask away from him, then carrying him quickly out of the room. He could feel the man’s heart beating hard against his cheek and now he heard someone shout “Hey,” from downstairs—another gunshot—and his body flinched, his cold hands coming up to cover his ears. Then they were running fast down the hall into the stairs, the squeak of the second-last step telling Graham they were using the back stairwell.

  Limp with terror, Graham kept his eyes shut and prayed that when he opened them again this bad dream would be over forever.

  * * *

  The first gunshot froze Roger on the lower landing of the front stairwell and he brought the cop’s weapon to bear, aiming it upward into the dim space ahead. The second shot was followed by heavy footfalls and Roger made a mistake, he shouted “Hey,” and felt a bullet whiz by his head, the buzzing heat of it creasing the air next to his ear. He flinched reflexively and his head struck the wall, the impact dazing him. He looked up and saw movement, dark against dark, heard footfalls receding and started up the stairs with the gun at the ready, his legs unsteady now, the fact that he’d almost been shot in the face just beginning to register on his nervous system.

  There was a second landing near the top bordered by a three-foot wall and a run of four more steps to Roger’s right. Using the wall as cover, he inched himself out of a crouch to peer between the balusters of a short section of oak railing, his gaze directed along a hallway now, the framed prints on the walls reflecting pale moonlight from the narrow window straight ahead. The window was only partially visible, and Roger realized it was recessed into a second stairwell leading to the back of the house.

  Cursing, he sprung to his full height, launched himself up the last four risers, pivoted on the newel post and charged along the ten feet of hall to leap onto the top landing of the back stairwell and press his forehead to the cool glass.

  Through the still branches of the trees, Roger saw a dark figure moving lithely across the back lawn toward the fence. The gate down there was open, and over the top of the fence Roger could see the roof of a van, a dirty white van—and as the figure darted through the gate, a glimpse of a tiny head, downy hair shock-white in the moonlight.

  Behind him Roger heard a moan, a sound laced with pain and fear.

  Then he heard the slam of the van door, the gun of its engine, and he was bolting back along the hallway, spinning into the front stairwell to take the risers in heedless, free-falling bounds. In the foyer he clambered past the ruins of the front door and leaped off the porch onto the lawn, shouting, “Get in the car, get in the fucking car,” at Peter, Peter hunched over the motionless cop, the cell phone pressed to his ear.

  * * *

  Peter heard the third gunshot on his way back up
the lawn, the 911 operator telling him to remain calm, coaxing the details out of him, then telling him to hold, Peter’s urgent, “Wait,” greeted only with dead air. He said, “Hello, hello?” then bent to feel for a pulse in the crook of the cop’s arm, finding none, the man exsanguinated now.

  That was when Roger came flying off the porch like a man possessed, hollering at him to get in the car. The sight of him waving the cop’s gun around made Peter freeze for an instant. Then Roger was tearing past him shouting, “Move it, man, the fucker’s getting away,” and Peter went after him, nothing he could do for the cop, the pain in his pulled hamstring flaring with each hobbled stride.

  Roger got in on the driver’s side and Peter barely made it in next to him, Roger cranking the vehicle into a screeching U-ie now, pointing down the street at the van roaring through the intersection dead ahead. “There he is,” he said, and gunned it.

  Breathless, Peter said, “Did he get the boy?”

  Roger said, “He got him alright,” and swung hard right at the intersection, Peter almost dropping the phone. The van was a block ahead now, veering left through a red light. Roger said, “You on hold?”

  Peter said, “Shit,” and brought the phone to his ear, a tinny voice saying, “Mr. Croft? Mr. Croft, are you still there?”

  Peter said, “Yes, I’m here,” and looked at Roger.

  “Tell them to look in the house,” Roger said. “In the bedrooms upstairs.” He took the left without braking and Peter’s shoulder slammed against the door.

  Peter snugged the phone to his ear and said, “The officer’s dead. Have the paramedics check the bedrooms upstairs. There were gunshots.”