The Darkening

by Paul Antony Jones

  The foyer was deliciously warm. He wiped the rain from his face and eyes, then headed to the elevator. He hit the call button with a clenched fist and leaned his forehead against the wall as he waited for the elevator car to arrive. He rode the elevator to his floor, stepped out and made his way to his apartment, leaning against the wall the whole way, the pain in his leg stumps agonizing now, his exhaustion almost total. He fumbled his key into the lock, opened the door and stepped inside.

  Tyreese dumped the grocery-filled bag on the counter near the refrigerator, stuffed the remaining bags of ice into the freezer, then stumbled to his wheelchair and collapsed into it. He undid the ties of his prosthetic legs, rolled the sleeve down and pulled them from the sodden material of his jeans, before dropping them unceremoniously on the floor.

  He wheeled himself into the bedroom, straight to the closet, pulled out a dry set of clothes and quickly discarded the wet ones into a pile on the carpet.

  His back ached from the kick he'd received from that one punk. It twinged as he maneuvered himself into the fresh shirt and jeans. His knuckles were swollen, the skin grazed and bruised, and the stumps of his legs felt as though they were being rubbed with coarse sandpaper. He massaged them one after the other with both hands, wincing at the pain of the pins-and-needles he felt shooting up his thighs.

  Coffee, Tyreese thought. I need coffee. The desire to drop a shot or three of whiskey into the mug from the bottle he kept in the kitchen cabinet was tempting, but it was only mid-afternoon. He needed his wits about him. Although, looking out through the kitchen window at the darkening street, he could be forgiven for mistaking it for late evening. The granite-gray clouds blanketing the sky were thick and full, like he was looking at a mountain range rather than a storm front.

  Tyreese waited next to the pot while the coffee brewed, his mind running back over the events of the last few hours. How long had it been since he had actually set foot, so to speak, outside? It had been just after Emma's funeral. Jesus! That meant it had been almost two years. Tyreese sucked in a stuttering breath of the apartment's stale air, his chest fluttering as he fought back the pain of the memory of his wife's death. It felt so fresh, her loss. How could that be? Wasn't the pain supposed to fade? It was a question he asked himself often. He'd never received a satisfactory answer. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night sure that she was lying next to him. In those few moments between sleep and wakefulness the illusion seemed so real he could smell her musk, feel the warmth of her body, hear her breathing. And then the moment would pass and he would be alone again, the cold emptiness of her absence filling his every fiber.

  Tyreese dismissed the thought and took a mug from the draining board. The coffeemaker's carafe was only half full of coffee but he pulled a mugful from it anyway, then added cream and sipped at the coffee before he wheeled himself back to the living room.

  The rain thrummed against the windowpanes, driven by a gusting wind that had already swept most of the leaves from the trees that lined the street. The fallen leaves danced and spun like crazed fairies along the street. The gutters of the road below his window were awash with spill water, it ran like a brook on either side of the street, pouring down the black holes of the street's storm drains. The clouds had all but swallowed the sun, but the light that did manage to make it through painted the street and apartment buildings in a shadowy twilight gray.

  Tyreese sipped his coffee, felt the liquid warming his throat and belly.

  A car rolled down the center of the road, the first Tyreese had seen in a while, its wipers manically shuttling back and forth, the face of the driver pressed almost to the windshield in an attempt to see through the curtain of rain.

  The heating kicked on with a barely perceptible thrum. Tyreese felt warm air begin to wash over his exhausted body. He leaned back in the wheelchair, allowing his muscles to relax, his mind lulled by the hypnotic beat of the rain and the gradually rising temperature of the room. He placed his coffee cup on the windowsill. His eyes were feeling heavy now and, try as he might, he knew he would be no match for the fatigue creeping over him.

  Tyreese's head nodded once, twice, toward his shoulder. The third time he did not move, slipping into a deep, dog-tired sleep.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Bitsy, stay away from the God damn water," Frank Schwartz yelled, as his dog headed toward the edge of the pond with the obvious intent of diving right in... again. He had no idea why the damn dog had such a fascination with the water. He never could quite figure out the little mutt's psychology; weren't Dachshunds supposed to be afraid of getting wet? Frank shrugged his heavy shoulders and reached down to pet the dog as it circled back to him, running around his legs, yapping with excitement. At sixty-eight, bending down and getting back up again was a pretty big achievement in and of itself, especially for a man of his size, but he was in pretty good condition for his age, he thought. Yeah, he could still turn a head or two down at the old folks' home. He laughed to himself, a deep rumbling bear of a laugh for an equally large bear of a man.

  He was alone and happy, thank you very much. Since Laura—God rest her soul—had passed on almost five years ago, there had never been another woman in his life, at least not one he would ever want to spend any more than a few hours with. Nope, he was quite happy by himself. And Bitsy of course, she was the only female company he needed in his life.

  The dachshund gave a high-pitched, excited bark, running ahead of her master along the path leading out of the park. Frank had to smile. The dog had been his wife's; sometimes he had teased Laura that she'd loved the mutt almost as much as she did him. To which his wife had replied with a wry grin that she loved the dog way more. God, she had been beautiful.

  Frank missed his wife terribly.

  Still, life must go on. And he counted himself as one of the happy few, with a heavy emphasis on few. After almost forty years with the LAPD—thirty-two of them spent as a beat cop, the remainder behind a desk—Frank had retired, happily. He'd known enough old-timers over the years who had not lasted much more than a year before they had eaten their pistol or drunk themselves into the grave. Frank had decided early on in his career that he was not going to be one of them. He had prepared, both financially, and more importantly, psychologically for the sudden withdrawal of authority, prepared himself for that loss of relevance. Because in the end there was always someone who would simply step into his shoes and do his job. It was just a job, after all. And after so many years of dealing with nothing but the inhumanity and the vulgarity of some of the most hateful crimes inflicted on one human by another, Frank Schwartz was happy. At peace even. He had made a difference, as much as any one man could, and he had paid the price for making that difference. Now he was reaping the rewards.

  The crash over at the air base earlier last week had dampened his spirits for a while. He'd been in the back yard watering Laura's roses (she had loved those roses in life and Frank had promised his wife he would take care of them after she was gone) when he'd heard the crash. The base was over six miles away but he had heard the plane hit and the deathly silence that had followed. The news said it had been one of those big C-17 Globemaster troop transporters, crewed by a recovery team bringing back bodies from Afghanistan. All the crew died, God rest their souls, but he'd also heard other rumors, just scuttlebutt really, about how the bodies they had been transporting back had not been found after the crash. It was all bullshit, of course; the product of overactive imaginations. But damn if it hadn't sent a shiver down his spine when he'd heard about it.

  Frank and Bitsy exited through the park gate and turned left in the direction of home. "Come here, Bitsy," he called out. The dog instantly hurried to him, this routine a familiar one they played out every day during their evening strolls around the neighborhood. Frank bent down and attached the leash to the dog, who proceeded to trot along obediently at his ankles, sniffing at the pavement and an occasional streetlamp.

  And what was up with the streetlamps, anyway? Alm
ost every one he'd passed on his evening constitutional had been vandalized. Shattered pieces of their light covers and bulbs lay strewn across the sidewalk and road, as though someone had methodically gone from one to the next, smashing them as they went. Has to be kids, he supposed.

  "This way, Bitsy," Frank said, guiding his dog around the broken shards of plastic and glass.

  He just didn't get why someone would want to do that. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to just for kicks. Kids today though, with their tablets and phones and whatnot. Not like when he was a youngster. Even with so much to keep them occupied, there was always going to be the occasional malicious little bastard who thought it would be fun to do this kind of crap.

  It was going to get dark early, tonight, Frank thought, his eyes drifting back to the blackening sky. The dense clouds created a premature twilight that cast long, ominous shadows over the sidewalk as he and Bitsie walked the quarter mile back toward the small yellow bungalow they called home.

  Their street was quieter than usual, he mused as they rounded the corner to their road. Normally, Frank would pass at least a couple of kids playing out on the sidewalk, or a young couple walking hand-in-hand, even the odd stranger out for an evening stroll, and he would always greet them with a smile or a wave. It was just that kind of a neighborhood; picturesque, quaint even, he supposed, but he loved it. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had not seen much activity for the past couple of days. Both the streets and the park he and Bitsy visited daily seemed almost deserted.

  Maybe it was because of the promised storm. Maybe it was something else. But now that he thought about it, Frank felt an old familiar tingle of his cop's sixth sense, honed by all those years on the force, that told him it was the latter. Something was just not right around here, he was sure of it. Frank suppressed a shudder of apprehension. He would keep his eyes open. Not just for himself, but for the people of the neighborhood he called home.

  People like Jenny and her little boy, a beautiful kid, just turned a year, named Caleb. Hell, at twenty-two, Jenny was barely older than a child herself. But unlike so many single mothers of a similar age, Frank thought, Jenny had her head screwed on nice and tight. She was working her way through college (she was studying to become a Human Resource Manager) and still managed to spend the rest of her time with little Caleb.

  Frank and Bitsy had kind of unofficially adopted the mother and boy ever since they moved into the Section-Eight rental next door to his, about nine-months earlier; he becoming Jenny's surrogate father, Bitsy Caleb's playmate. Frank had no kids of his own, had never been blessed with them, but he considered Jenny to be like the daughter he never had. And as old-fashioned as that might sound to anybody else's ears, he did not give a God damn crap. She was sweet and kind, attributes that were hard to find together these days. Frank had seen the worst that life could mete out to someone as lovely as Jenny, if she had the misfortune to catch the eye of some of the assholes who hunted people like her in this town. No way was he going to let that happen if he could help it.

  The two companions stopped at the rusted iron gate and cracked concrete path leading up to Jen's front door. There were no lights visible in the windows, and the curtains were pulled tightly together. Frank pushed the gate open and took two steps up the path then stopped as the dog leash in his right hand suddenly went taut. He turned and looked down at his dog.

  Bitsy had planted her butt firmly on the sidewalk outside the gate and refused to move.

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" Frank asked the dog, a little exasperated. He tugged on the dog leash to try and encourage her to move.

  Bitsy hunched down to her belly on the pavement, her ears drooping as she stared up at her master, a pathetic whimper whistling from between her tightly clenched jaws.

  Odd, Frank thought, scowling. Normally Bitsy would be ecstatic at the idea of paying Jenny a visit; it usually meant a treat and a bucketload of energetic, if occasionally rough, love from the little one. Maybe Bitsy wasn't feeling good. Or, more likely, she was hungry.

  Frank gave a last look at the darkened windows of Jen's house, then, with a sigh of resignation, turned and headed back through the gate, walking the few additional yards to his own home, next door.

  "You're a pain in the ass, mutt," Frank said, slipping his key into the front door's lock.

  By the time the old man and his dog made it to the living room, Bitsy was her normal ebullient dog-self again.

  •••

  Frank stood at the window of his front room, staring out into the street, a glass of whisky resting loosely in the fingers of his right hand. Only three other homes showed any sign anyone was home on his street, the dim glow of light leaking from behind drawn blinds and curtains. Jenny's house was one of those still dark. He'd called her a couple of times, but she hadn't answered, so he had left a message on her cell. Actually, he'd left several messages; but who was counting.

  As far as Frank knew, there was no current significant other in Jenny's life. And it wasn't his place to ask. She had told him that her boy's father was somewhere in Upstate New York; the split had been amicable, according to Jenny. But Frank got the distinct impression, 'amicable' was probably a euphemism for the boyfriend not giving a shit about his child. Of course that could have changed. He hadn't seen any strangers in the area over the past few days (fact was, now he thought about it, he'd seen far fewer people than he would have expected out and about during his walks with Bitsy), but that didn't mean Jenny's ex couldn't have shown up and caused her grief. After so many years of making other people's problems his own, Frank was reticent to step in between two feuding former lovers, especially when there was a child involved.

  He took another sip of his nightcap and tried to crush the feeling of disquiet he felt swelling within his gut. He had learned to trust that basic instinct over the years as a cop, but he did not want to hear from it now, not here.

  Beyond the window, night's claim on the city was now complete. Besides the light shed by the lamp on Frank's bedside cabinet and the few other homes where he could see the faint glow of a bulb, there was nothing but darkness and shadow outside. Frank hadn't known fear in a long time, but tonight, standing here with only a thin pane of glass separating his reality, the darkness seemed extra oppressive; insidious even. He pulled the curtains closed and drained the rest of the whisky from his glass.

  "Tomorrow," Frank said to Bitsy. "Tomorrow morning we'll both go check on her." And, cursing his cowardly heart, he and his dog headed to bed.

  •••

  Frank woke with a start.

  For a confused moment, he lay in his bed, heart pounding, his hand frozen halfway to the bedside table drawer where he kept his .45. He had no idea what had woken him but after a few seconds of silence, he heard Bitsy's fearless growl buzz like an electric saw in the darkness. He forced his pounding heart to slow, drawing in a few calming, deep breaths, his hand suspended in the air near the cabinet, his fingers almost able to touch the brass handle of the drawer. Bitsy, her form a darker shadow on the bed next to Frank, growled again as the unmistakable sound of the doggy-door in the kitchen squeaking open was followed by the sound of it swinging closed again.

  "God damn that cat," Frank sighed, then relaxed. He pulled his arm back from the cabinet drawer, pulled the comforter aside and swung his legs out of bed. He glanced at the red glow of his alarm clock: 3:22 in the morning. "Goddamn cat," he repeated, this time with a little more venom in his voice.

  One of his neighbors—he did not know which, but he suspected it was the cantankerous old lady who lived a couple of doors down on the opposite side of the street—owned a big ginger tomcat that occasionally liked to sneak into the house through the doggy door and scarf any of the food Bitsy had left uneaten. He'd tried taking the dog food up at night, but then the little ginger bastard had started snagging his furniture in retribution. The damn thing had even pissed in the potted fern he kept in the living room.

  Frank turned on t
he bedside lamp.

  Bitsy had moved to the end of the bed, an ear cocked to one side, listening. She growled, barked once, then leapt from the bed and disappeared through the open bedroom door, her nails scratching against the hardwood floor.

  "Hold on, Bitsy," Frank sighed as he climbed to his feet, steadied himself for a moment as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, then began stumbling his way after his dog. He shambled carefully down the corridor toward the kitchen, naked feet squeaking on the cold floor, his slippers forgotten in his enthusiasm to catch the feline intruder. He was going to show it what-for if he got his hands on it.

  Bitsy was already in the kitchen and her barking grew more insistent. Louder, with a sense of urgency Frank had never heard before.

  "You got the little bastard cornered, Bits?" Frank called out. "Just give me a second to—" Frank stopped mid-sentence as Bitsy's barking suddenly turned to a panicked yelp then into a scream of pain that instantly shattered Frank's nerve. For a second he thought the scream was the cry of a human child, it was so high pitched, so terrified. It was only the interspersed sound of Bitsy's bark and the obvious sound of a violent struggle that confirmed otherwise; it was his dog, and something nastier than that old tomcat had her.

  "Jesus Christ! Bitsy! I'm coming," he yelled, forgetting his aches and pains. Frank jogged as quickly as his old joints would allow toward the kitchen and the screaming dog.

  It has to be a raccoon, or maybe a coyote. Shit! What if it's rabid? Why didn't I bring my pistol? These thoughts all raced through Frank's mind as he stumbled his way closer, but in the back of his mind, his gut instinct screamed at him to be careful, to be real goddamn careful.