Peace Tomorrow: A Verón City Novel

by M. Roberts

  No. Stop it. I’m so tired.

  True love would kill. To keep what you love in your presence is selfish. This life is an exhausting ant scurrying about the ant hill, racing to find what it needs, then racing to find more. It is a selfish thing that has no purpose. What is more selfish than perpetuating what has no purpose, merely to exist? What right does a life have to exist? To dilute the truths of the universe with its shit. What’s worse, life inherently knows its rightful place. You say you’re tired. You sleep. You stop being, but what follows? You allow yourself to awaken, to fight against the most proper state. Of nothingness and darkness, of unconsciousness.

  What do you want? I will do it. Please, just. Stop.

  Kill her.

  And so I chose to follow for what felt the right reason. To align myself with the loudest voice of my mind. Life is always giving in to something. Life is losing. Now I’ve lost Rose.

  18.

  Where is she?

  Where is she?

  Titus, where is she?

  Where is she, Titus?

  “TITUS!” Lane’s voice pulled his eyes from his hands, white, shaking in his lap. Titus was slumped against the dumpster of the alley beside his apartment. He curled his fingers slowly inward, feeling their icy touch against his palms. As he did so, there was silence. The voice that had him murder had left, and Lane had entered, shaking his shoulders and slamming his back against the dumpster.

  Lane had found Titus this way, wearing a blank expression, one of shock, recognizable, and ominous as he approached. He had parked his truck across the street, seeing Titus, by the dim yellow light of the street lamp, sitting in the alley. It was curious at first, as he stepped out onto the street. Then as Titus’s face became more clear, his feet picked up their pace instinctively, and his mind began to assume the worst. In Titus’s eyes, Lane could see his cousin’s sanity, which could only arrive after giving into the malice of his insanity. Instead of rushing directly into the apartment, he took to shaking Titus, violently, repeating over and over the question.

  “Where is she, Titus?!” as if how Titus answered were up to him, that he could rewrite reality with the words he chose to respond with.

  Instead, after a minute or so, Titus finally directed his attention to Lane to reply. “Inside.” It was cold, soft, disassociated. Lane backed away from his cousin. Then, reluctantly, he walked down the steps from the alley to the door, twisting the knob and slowly pushing it back. The dark room was illuminated by the same dirty yellow glow of the streetlights that revealed Titus, pouring in through the open windows. There were piles of red sheets, used soak up the blood, wadded up behind her open head, which rested at an angle on her shoulder that was pressed against the floor. She remained tied to the chair. She wore the familiar expression, mouth agape with eyes half closed, that told Lane there were no more thoughts behind it, but instead the brain matter that once made them strewn across the floor in bits.

  Though the image was given a split second for his eyes to register, it would accompany him for a lifetime. He tore himself away from it, trying to wipe it from his vision with several blinks as he turned his back to the body. It was still before him as he snatched a stray pillow from the floor and stormed back up the steps into the alley. He withdrew his pistol from its concealed holster in his jacket with his free hand, the other placing the pillow over Titus’s face. Titus did not react while the stained fabric covered his eyes, nose, and mouth. His arms remained limp at his sides as Lane placed the gun against the pillow and shot one round into it. Lane took his hand off the pillow, stuffed the gun back into its holster, and walked across the street to hop back behind the wheel of his truck. The wheels screeched as Titus’s body fell forward, the head nearly resting upon the pillow that had fallen into its lap, but remaining hovered over it, spilling out onto it from the hole in its forehead. So the body remained undisturbed in a corner of the city that expected such activity, where it was quiet and uninhabited otherwise.

  The pillow had become drenched by the time Lucius and Nathaniel arrived a quarter of an hour later, disturbing the street’s quiet night again with shouting. They ran in, having trekked by foot to the location, running lengths they would never perceived possible. Nathaniel ran into the alley first, calling out, “Lucius! Titus, he’s been shot!”

  Lucius saw Titus, lifeless and folded against the dumpster, but passed him with his goal set on Rose. He shoved open the door and was greeted by the same sight Lane had left just fifteen minutes prior, undisturbed and identical in detail. Though Lucius stayed in the room, staring into Rose’s face, searching for the radiance he remembered. She was hideous, with her face drooping in a lazy expression, and her body bruised and purple where the rope kept her bound to the chair.

  Rose was dead. It was a fact that Lucius’s mind could not wrap itself around. Even while he stared at her lifeless form, breathless and unmoving, his brain couldn’t accept what it saw. It couldn’t be true, after having seen her on another plane, a place occupied only by dreams and perfection. She had shown herself to be an angel, so death could never take her.

  It was not until Nathaniel had entered the room that Lucius began to comprehend it. Turning to see Nathaniel’s horror showed Lucius what seemed the proper response. That an innocent human being was shot in the head and murdered should elicit horror. And yet still, she was not truly dead, not entirely. What he saw before him was a lie, it had to be, or what he had felt would be the lie. So he decided part of her was alive, within him, wrapped around his heart, and now she tightened, squeezing it, calling for vengeance. While part of her rested forever in darkness, a piece of her stayed, transposed onto Lucius, and in her, paradise. It waited at the end of revenge.

  “Where I go next, I go alone.”

  Nathaniel turned a face full of sorrow and rage and confusion up at his cousin, who added before leaving him with the deceased Rose Dicaro, “Don’t follow me.”

  Lucius left out into the night, and Nathaniel stayed in the room, staring terrified at the third dead body he’d seen in less than twenty-four hours. Something found him then that did not when Malcolm was shot, a development, and Nathaniel felt himself turning over from child to something less innocent, but still less than adult.

  19.

  Joan laid across the couch in the living room of the Dicaro household, flipping through channels of late night programming, images of infomercials and sex hotline models appearing as stills for the split second they showed on the screen. She didn’t pull her eyes away from it as Lane stormed through the front door.

  “Joan...”

  When she heard her name, her eyes snapped to his. His face was awash with horror, anger, and despair, though he cloaked them all in his voice with a calm, even tone.

  “I want to know what’s going on. I want—I need you to tell me everything, Lane.” She stood, turning off the television and tossing the remote to the couch, which she missed, and the remote collided with the floor. She stepped up to Lane, gripping his shirt with both hands, staring up into his eyes. “Inform me, put me in the loop, hm?”

  Peering down into her desperate eyes, which already reflected the terror of what they’d seen earlier, Lane decided he couldn’t bear sharing the news with her. Watching her heart break would set off his own, and the night was not over. He would have to stave it off until the morning.

  “Where’s Ezekiel?”

  “Lane.”

  “Joan, I don’t have time. Where is he?”

  Joan was quiet a moment, then said, “I can’t get played again.”

  Lane’s brow furrowed as he tried to discern what Joan was saying, failing to make sense of it. A gunshot and glass shattering turned both their heads to the hallway, at the end of which was Ezekiel’s office. Lane removed Joan’s hands from his shirt and ran down towards the door. His body slammed into it and his hands shot to the knob, twisting and pushing, but the door was locked.

  “Ezekiel! Uncle!” he shouted.

  Within, Ezekiel sat be
hind his desk with a slight breeze of night time air licking the back of his neck, where also Lucius’s gun was pressed. Bits of broken window lay at Lucius’s feet, and the drapes danced slowly at his sides. Just on the other side of the window, a man laid dead in the grass, a stealthy approach and a single shot to the head assured Lucius his entry point. Now he was in, standing in the office of his enemy, now his final goal. Ezekiel took a final puff of his cigar, chased it with a sip of cognac, then doused the end of it in the drink.

  “Boy, if you intend to use that firearm on me, would you do it in a respectful fashion by showing me the courtesy of your face instead of shooting me from behind like a coward?”

  “Get up.”

  The door rattled with Lane’s force, throwing his shoulder against it.

  Lucius pulled back the hammer, a click that tickled Ezekiel’s ear.

  “Lucas, I refuse to play the bitch at my own funeral.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  A guard gave away his approach with heavy steps, alerting Lucius who threw out his arm and fired, hitting the guard in the neck and sending him hissing to the ground. Not to give a chance to his prisoner, he quickly returned the gun, now hot, to the back of Ezekiel’s neck. Ezekiel leaned forward to avoid the sting.

  “Alright, I’m up,” he said, as he stood. He seemed to tower over Lucius, though his size did little to stir fear. Lucius’s prerogative would not be swayed until it was sufficed.

  The door swung open after a swift kick from Lane, who then immediately drew his gun and trained it on Lucius. Lucius sidestepped to place himself behind Ezekiel, wrapping his arm around Ezekiel’s chest from behind. He placed the gun to Ezekiel’s head.

  “Put the gun down, Lucius.”

  “Step back, Lane.”

  “You won’t get out of this alive,” whispered Ezekiel.

  “That’s mattering to me less and less so long as you don’t either.”

  “Put the gun down, Lucius,” Lane repeated. “Let’s talk.”

  Lucius scoffed, shaking his head. “Step away from the door.”

  Lane held his position until Lucius tightened his choke hold on Ezekiel, causing the kingpin to gasp. Lane backed down the hallway as Lucius forced Ezekiel forward, each step from the six legs slowly traveling towards the living room, cautiously finding their way.

  “Where are we going?” asked Ezekiel as they exited the hallway.

  “For a drive,” Lucius answered. “Open the door.”

  Ezekiel struggled to extend his arm behind him, around Lucius’s side to twist the doorknob on the front door. When he managed to do so, Lucius twisted the two of them to sidestep out of the Dicaro household. The front lawn, enveloped in night, was occupied by a host of men, each with guns raised and aimed at Lucius.

  “Hold your fire!” Ezekiel commanded. Still, he saw them antsy in position, inching forward with their feet, trying to find their shot. “Any of you pull the trigger, I want the rest of you to shoot that one, understand?” They backed down.

  Lucius led Ezekiel to his luxury car in the driveway, a black tinted sedan that was nearly invisible but for the glimmer of moonlight in its finish. “Any moves old man and it’s two in your head, got it? I’ve become a pretty good shot recently, so don’t test it.” Lucius released Ezekiel, allowing him to enter the driver side as he took a seat in the passenger side. They shut their respective doors.

  “Congratulations, kid. Now what’s your next move?”

  “Back out of the driveway. You’ll see.”

  Ezekiel grunted, grinding his molars against one another as he obeyed.

  Lane ran into the lawn, shouting to the men, “Stand down! I’m going after them, none of you follow me, understand?” Then he jumped into his truck and chased after.

  Fearing what Lucius might do, Lane held back, keeping an even distance and maintaining pace, following at just over the speed limit, which Lucius demanded of Ezekiel. Inside the sedan, it was silent.

  “He’s going to kill you.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  Ezekiel took a deep breath. “No you’re not.”

  Lucius didn’t respond, recognizing the attempt at manipulation.

  “You’re not because you haven’t thought this through. That’s alright, if you haven’t seen too many movies, it might not occur to you. I’ll explain. Bad men like me have contingencies. We have loyalties. So when an ambitious fool such as yourself manages to scale their defenses and to murder them, something terrible happens that no one truly likes. It’s ugly. They don’t just kill you slowly, which is how it goes. Slowly. They clean house. For you that’s, what, your cousin? Your aunt? You took care of Malcolm, so that’s a jump start, but that still leaves two souls to collect in the wake of my death.” Ezekiel turned to face Lucius. “Do you really want to be responsible for their brutal murders?”

  “Drive.”

  All his words were drowned in the fury and the goal, the one track Lucius had aligned himself with, which disallowed all other considerations. He was given to it.

  They had finally reached the end of the road, emptying to a beach without traffic or bystanders. Ezekiel pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. He turned to Lucius, who it seemed had refused to blink for the entirety of the drive. Ezekiel wanted to laugh at him, but then he stuffed the pistol into Ezekiel’s cheek. “Get out.”

  Ezekiel obeyed. Lucius came around the back of the sedan to nudge Ezekiel forward with the end of the gun. “Into the sand.” Ezekiel took slow steps, splitting the sand beneath his dress shoes, sinking with each step, making the march difficult. When they had reached the center of the beach, Lucius beat the pistol across the back of Ezekiel’s head. The beach swirled, his dizzied eyes threw his balance and his fell to his knees. He rubbed the back of his head, muttering beneath his breath, “Little shit eater.”

  Lane had come up beside the sedan, jumped out of his truck, and was slowly approaching the two, with Ezekiel kneeling and hands behind his head as Lucius stood in front of him with pistol raised in his face.

  “This is where I fucked your daughter.”

  Ezekiel raised an expression of disbelief.

  “It was beautiful. She was,” Lucius struggled to keep from crying, “she was everything. She was the sand, she was the stars, she was the ocean. You know what that’s like, Ezekiel? Fucking a woman who pulls together everything around you to wrap it as a blanket on your back? To redefine the idea of sex? The sound she made when she came.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “You don’t think she could love a man like me?”

  “Lucas, you are no man. If she slept with you, I can only assume it was out of boredom.”

  “She’s dead.”

  The world went still. “What?”

  “Titus shot her in the head.”

  Ezekiel’s eyes flooded, his mouth went dry. He turned to Lane, who had reached within ten paces of them and stopped. Staring into his eyes told Ezekiel he’d heard the truth. He bent forward, stuffing his hands into the sand and clenching, bringing his fists into the air as the grains slipped through his fingers to collect again in the beach alongside his tears. His mouth opened to cry out, but his throat was too scratched by liquor and smoke to emit a sound and so his mourning was silent. He swallowed it, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Staring into the sand, he asked, “Are you going to shoot me, or are we going to remain like this?” He looked up into Lucius’s eyes. Something then in Ezekiel’s face, the way in which it was contorted, echoed with the memory of Rose. Lucius gripped the pistol with both hands, grinding his teeth, and stepping forward, but nothing pulled the trigger. He wanted to tear out what he saw of Rose from Ezekiel, to rip it from his flesh. She was of him, though, that truth was unavoidable. And then all the truth was unavoidable. She was just a daughter, just a woman, not an angel, not paradise wrapped with flesh. A human. His mind made her an escape. Lucius pushed the pistol into Ezekiel’s forehead, shouting, screaming, weeping
, but for all of his noise his finger hovered in front of the trigger. “No?” Ezekiel turned to Lane, shouting angrily, “Then would you please do what you should have done minutes ago and end this pathetic waste of a human being so we can finish this?”

  “Drop the gun, Lucius.”

  “What the fuck are you doing, Lane?”

  Lane ignored his uncle. “Drop it.”

  Lucius slowly lowered the pistol from Ezekiel’s forehead. Then his arm went limp and his body sulked, though the gun remained in his grip. Ezekiel eyed it, but kept still.

  “Why didn’t you run?” Lane asked.

  “What?” Ezekiel growled.

  “Why didn’t you run when you knew we were after you?”

  Lucius sighed. “Lane.” Lucius’s head rose, swiping back his hair while his eyes lifted to the sky, where black was turning over to a morning grey and the last of the stars were fading over the ocean. A gray haze blurred the horizon, masking where water turned to air. The sun was slowly threatening day, and Lucius had spent himself in its absence. While he assumed the answer to Lane’s question was within him, he was now aware that it would need to remain there, shrouded in his passion, to be unspoiled by the reason and the judgment that would rip it from him and leave him voided.

  Lane wanted any answer, some words, even sounds to refute. He wanted to enter into its misguided logic and to replace it with truth. That the facts were abundant, but ugly. That he was like Lucius. That they were men without meaning, without history, without honor. He wanted to express that they were both empty, and that, in trying to fill that emptiness, they were reckless. He had been unconsciously writing his reply to the answer of his own inevitable question, all because he wanted someone else to believe it so that he might, as well.

  Instead, as a breeze lifted the ends of Lucius’s shirt and caressed him, wrapping around his torso and drying his sweat, he chose to raise his pistol to a red-faced and fear stricken Ezekiel and was gone before the sun breached the buildings. Lane’s finger constricted while his voice protested, the flurry of bullets splitting through the space between them to bury within Lucius’s chest and send him stumbling to the sand. As he spilled out into it, Lane felt the heavy weight upon his shoulders suddenly pull down. He wanted to relent, but his knees refused, so he stood, slouched, gun firm in hand.