Nightscape

by Stephen R. George

  “I’ve got a few questions that I want you to answer. Okay? Good.”

  He took the photograph from his shirt pocket, smoothed it with gentle fingers, and held it out.

  “His name was Jeff Thomas. He was twenty-one years old when this picture was taken. Nice-looking kid, wasn’t he? But he got mixed up with the wrong people. Sorry, the wrong freaks.”

  Browning studied the photograph, then made a small sound in his throat. He looked up at Shep with pleading eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Shhh. Yes, you do. Don’t lie to me. Please don’t do that.”

  Shep had remained calm up to this point, but now he felt the black rage bubbling within him. Rage and hatred so deep they made his skin crawl, made the tendons on his neck and shoulders stand out.

  Browning stared at him fearfully.

  “One question, one answer, or one shot. Ready? Okay. Where do you come from?”

  Browning was looking at Jeff’s photograph again, as if he hadn’t heard the question.

  Shep shot him in the right knee. The bullet punched through skin and bone and muscle and erupted in a mist of blood beneath the seat. Browning flopped to the floor like a fish as the sound of the shot echoed through the warehouse. A thin whistling sound came from his mouth.

  Shep hefted him up and sat him down again.

  “Ooh, that’s nasty. I didn’t really want to do that. Well, maybe a little bit. Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  Browning’s pain had molded his face into something not quite human. He rocked slowly back and forth, gripping his shattered knee, while his gritted teeth fought to hold back the scream.

  “Tell me,” Shep said. “Where do you come from? Where is the creche?”

  Browning’s eyes revealed his surprise.

  “That’s right. I know about the creche.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Browning said hoarsely.

  His face had taken on a determined cast as he got the pain under control. He looked, Shep thought, almost smug.

  Shep aimed at his right ear. “I want to know where you live. Tell me.”

  “University Avenue, St. Paul,” Browning said.

  “Bzzz! Wrong answer.”

  Shep shot the ear off. Browning winced, and lifted a hand to the ruined flap of skin. He looked up at Shep with eyes that were almost pitying. It was more than Shep could handle.

  “He was my brother,” Shep said. “He was a kid. Just a kid. And you killed him. All of you. Killed. Him.”

  Browning’s eyes told the whole story. He knew the end was coming.

  “I don’t recognize him,” Browning said, still holding his torn ear. “How long ago was this? When was he killed?”

  “Six years ago.”

  “I was just a kid then, too. I didn’t know. Don’t shoot again, please.”

  “He was my brother! My brother! My kid brother!”

  Shep’s finger squeezed the Beretta’s trigger. Flame leaped from the end of the barrel, and Tony Browning writhed and hopped as the bullets tore into his arms and legs and genitals.

  “My brother! My brother! My brother!”

  He fired the fifteenth and final round into the boy’s forehead. A dark keyhole appeared, welled with blood. The swollen, terrified eyes opened wide, blinked refusal to believe. Browning slid from the seat to the floor. A gout of blood from the head wound just missed Shep’s shoe. He stepped over the body and went back to the car.

  In the car, he placed Jeff’s photograph on the passenger seat. Beside it he placed the last letter Jeff had written. He did not take the letter from the envelope. He knew it by heart. But he stared at the familiar swirls of Jeff’s handwriting, and his mouth was dry.

  “You’ll rest soon, kid. I promise. We’ll both rest soon.”

  Chapter Two

  “You’ve never been here,” Bonnie said.

  Evan, leaning against the door, his bandaged hand cradled in his lap, said, “No.”

  “Just over there, see. The book store.”

  “Do you have an office?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Is it your store?”

  “No, silly, I just work there.”

  “Daddy has an office in a skyscraper. On the twentieth floor.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “Well, now you’ve been here, too.”

  With a sinking feeling, Bonnie guided the car to the curb, put on the blinkers. Why did she feel as if she had to impress him?

  “Can I come in?”

  “If you want. I’ll only be a minute.”

  Evan followed her into the store. The change from sticky heat to moderate cool made Bonnie shiver. Her manager, Mike, was at the rear counter, stripping the covers from a batch of mass-market paperbacks for return. He raised his eyebrows at her, then smiled at Evan.

  “So, this is Evan.”

  Evan pressed close to Bonnie’s leg, cradling his arm as if it were a teddy bear.

  “Evan, this is Mike, my boss. Mike, this is Evan, my son.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Mike said.

  That was a lie. Bonnie had told him about Evan only once, maybe twice, years ago. But Evan perked up instantly.

  “You have?”

  “Sure. Your mom doesn’t stop talking about you.”

  Evan looked up at her, and Bonnie blushed furiously.

  “Don’t, Mike,” she pleaded.

  “I see you got a war injury.”

  Evan held his injured hand close, tried to cover it with the other. Mike grinned, his teeth a bright flash in the midst of his beard.

  “Hey, Evan, you like to read?”

  “Sure.”

  “I got something for you. Just came in. Want to see it?”

  “Mike, you don’t have to do this.”

  “You like dinosaurs, Evan?”

  “Yeah!”

  He pulled a book from beneath the counter and handed it to the boy, who took it gingerly in his good hand. It was BIG MEAT EATERS: THE STORY OF CARNIVOROUS DINOSAURS. The book was never in stock long. One of the most popular kids’ titles, along with every other dinosaur book.

  “Thanks!”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mike.”

  “I wanted to. And I want you to take some time off. A day or two, until you get this settled. Okay?”

  “It’s going to be busy, you said so yourself.”

  “I called Tammy. She’s coming in for a day or two. Go on.”

  Bonnie smiled her gratitude. “Thanks, Mike.”

  Back in the car, Evan opened his book. “Wow,” he said.

  “So, that’s where I work,” Bonnie said.

  Evan said nothing.

  As they approached her neighborhood, Bonnie worried about what Evan was thinking. The houses here were mostly rentals, and most of the tenants were what Mike liked to call Alfs. Alternative Lifestyle Freaks. This was the granola belt, and the condition of nearly every yard and paint job reflected the lack of property concerns of those who lived here.

  Evan had abandoned the dinosaur book, and was now intently observing what passed by outside. He strained in his seat to watch a group of young boys tossing a football, then turned back with a wince when he pressed his bandaged hand against the door handle. She wondered if Evan had ever thrown a ball in his life. Perhaps children didn’t throw balls where he lived.

  What must he be thinking? Harris owned a luxurious, newer home close to his parents, with a landscaped yard and beautiful oak trees everywhere.

  “Do you remember coming here?”

  “No.”

  Of course not, it had been so long ago. He had no idea how she lived.

  “That’s it, with the green trim and white stucco.”

  “It’s small.”

  “I live by myself, remember.”

  She stopped the car in front of the house. Evan looked up toward the front door. A girl on a skateboard rolled by, tongue jutting from the corner of
her mouth, and Evan watched her a moment before returning his attention to the object of his apparent unhappiness.

  “Where will I sleep?”

  “It’s not as small as it looks. Come on.”

  He followed her up the front path, still holding tightly to his new book. The look of distaste on his young face made her feel ashamed.

  Her hands trembled as she fumbled the key into the lock. When she finally got the door open, she held it for Evan. He stepped past her tentatively, craning his neck to see past the corner.

  “It’s dark.”

  “Blinds are closed. I’ll open them. Go on in.”

  “It smells.”

  Bonnie closed her eyes for a minute. “Probably just my breakfast.”

  “Fish?”

  “Supper last night, then. Go in, Evan, it’s too hot out here.”

  She closed the door. She should have let the Laws take him, she thought. He would have been happy there.

  “Is this me?”

  Evan was standing by the ornamental mantel in the living room and was looking at a photograph of himself at three months. Bonnie flashed to the taking of the picture, how the photographer had sat Evan up, then drawn his hand away quickly and taken the picture, then reached out and grabbed Evan before he could topple over. The look of surprise on the baby’s face was wonderfully comic, but the hours of crying afterward had been a nightmare.

  “Who else would it be? You were three months old.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “Your memory doesn’t go back that far.”

  “Yes it does. Dad says you can remember before you were born if you try hard enough.”

  Bonnie decided not to question Harris’s authority. “Well, probably he’s right.”

  “Did I live here once?”

  “We were all living in another house then.”

  “I’m going to try and remember it tonight.”

  “Good luck, I hardly remember it myself.”

  Evan turned back to the photograph. “That’s you and Dad.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How come you didn’t keep me?” He did not turn to look at her.

  Bonnie swallowed the lump in her throat. “That’s a long story, Evan.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll tell you sometime if you really want to hear.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He turned away from the mantel and regarded the room with ill-disguised disappointment. Bonnie had trouble reading her own feelings. A mixture of guilt and love, and pleasure and fear. She had let the boy go, given him up, and yet he was her son and she loved him, and it was so nice to have him here, if only for a little while, maybe especially for a little while, but ohmygod could she do it? Could she be a mother after all these years? Should she even try?

  “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. She had forgotten about the mess. Dishes were piled by the sink. An empty milk carton sat on the counter. The table was littered with pages from the weekend newspaper.

  “Kitchen. We eat in here.”

  “Do you have Pepsi?”

  “No, but we could get some.”

  She led him down a narrow hallway. The bathroom was littered with laundry waiting to be done. She reached down and picked up a bra and a pair of panties by the door.

  “Bathroom. Shower.”

  Before he got a close look, she led him along the hallway. “My bedroom.” She did not open the door, not wanting him to see the disarray around her bed.

  “Where do I sleep?”

  “Well, I was thinking you could stay on the couch.”

  “You mean I don’t get a room?”

  “You probably won’t be here long enough to need one.”

  “Who says?”

  “They just have to find your dad.”

  “If they can.”

  She looked at him, wondering, and shook her head.

  “I suppose we could clear out the studio, and you could stay there.”

  “Studio?”

  She opened the door to the second, smaller bedroom that she used for her painting and supplies. Here the mess, although far worse than anywhere else in the house, seemed calculated, even proper. Leaning easels and canvases, sketches tacked hastily to the walls, empty paint tubes, torn and crumpled paper.

  “Wow!” Evan said.

  “Shouldn’t take too long to clean out.”

  “Wow! Who drew these pictures?”

  “I did. They’re paintings.”

  “Wow!” He looked carefully at three paintings leaning against the near wall. One was a forest, dark, concealing; one was a stormy lake scene, woods in the distance glowing with fire, while in the foreground a boat danced on choppy waves; and one was a secluded dell, cathedral like in its enclosure, with a pond in the middle, dark and brooding. “Where are these places?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “But where did you see them?”

  “In my head. I imagined them.”

  “Wow! Could I do that?”

  Bonnie felt a flush of pleasure. So there was something here he liked, something for which she was responsible.

  “I could teach you, if you wanted.”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Soon.”

  “Okay.”

  For a few moments there he had been animated, alive, what she expected of a little boy. Now, his shoulders slumped again, and the look of resignation returned to his features.

  “Tell you what. Let’s have lunch, and then I’ll clean out this room, and we’ll get you settled in.”

  “Okay.”

  Bonnie made them grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, then over the next few hours cleaned out the studio-bedroom as best she could, transferred her painting supplies to the rear porch, and brought up a folding cot from the basement. Cleaned out, the small bedroom still looked shabby. The walls were peppered with tack holes, and there were paint smears everywhere.

  “You could leave some of those pictures in here if you wanted,” Evan said as she made the bed.

  Again, that flush of pleasure.

  “Which ones would you like?”

  “The one with the trees.”

  “You got it. Any others?”

  “The one with the lake and the fire. And the one with the pond.”

  Afterward, Evan watched TV as she cleaned the rest of the house. The fridge was nearly empty. Half a carton of milk, wilted salad, half a loaf of bread, three bottles of beer. The cupboards were as bad. Two packages of macaroni, some instant soup.

  Finally, exhausted, Bonnie sat down beside Evan on the couch in front of the TV. It was almost time for dinner.

  “You hungry?”

  Evan shook his head. He looked very tired. His face was pale, glistening with sweat. His bandaged hand was cradled in his lap. Whenever he moved it he winced.

  “You know, I just realized something. We’ll have to go back to your dad’s house to get you some clothes. We have nothing here for you.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  Bonnie was startled. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She started to press, but thought better of it. The expression on his face changed from one of deep concern to blank ignorance.

  “I’m going to make some macaroni,” she said. “If you’re hungry you can eat some.”

  She left him watching TV and went through to the kitchen. Half an hour later she placed a bowl of steaming macaroni on the table, then called Evan. He did not answer.

  She went into the living room, and stopped in the doorway. Evan’s head was resting on his chest, his breathing was deep and slow, and the air made a whistling sound as it came out of his mouth. There were blue sacks under his eyes.

  She sat on the edge of the sofa and studied him. She could hardly believe that this was the same creature who had come out of her womb, that he had grown into this person.

  She gently stroked hi
s hair, moving stray strands away from his face.

  He opened his eyes.

  For a moment, Bonnie thought he was going to smile, and she smiled back at him. But his eyes widened and his mouth opened in a cry, and he scrambled away from her.

  “Evan!”

  “Don’t!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He blinked rapidly and breathed a jerky, trembling breath, then fell back onto the sofa. He looked at her, and his eyes brimmed with tears.

  “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.”

  This time, he let her hold him. Confused, not knowing what else to do, she stroked his hair.

  “Don’t worry baby, you’re okay here.”

  He shook with his crying. “I don’t want to go back to the house!”

  “We won’t go. I promise, we won’t go.”

  “Don’t let it get me.”

  “Don’t let what get you?”

  He would not answer.

  She held him until he drifted off to sleep again, then put him down and pulled a blanket over him. His hair was soaked with sweat, his face pale and moist. She touched his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy.

  Don’t let it get me, he had said.

  She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. Appetite gone, she went through to the kitchen to cover the macaroni, and put it in the refrigerator. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened one of the three beers and took a long pull.

  Chapter Three

  Shep got back to the motel before six. After a hot morning, and an even hotter afternoon, a bank of dark clouds was moving in from the northwest. The radio warned of possible severe thunderstorms with hail. Good. He hated this fucking heat. His shirt was clinging to him. He stank.

  His room was just as he had left it. Bed unmade, plastic glasses scattered over the night table, TV turned on but volume down. He had asked the desk clerk not to clean it.

  From the bathroom came a sound of something heavy shifting its weight. He opened the door, turned on the light, and stuck his head in. The girl looked up at him from the bathtub. She was drenched. A drop of water fell from the faucet to splatter on her forehead, and she groaned.

  “How long has that been going on?”

  He had bound her very carefully, legs folded up beneath her, arms tied to ankles, and wires reaching from the rope at her waist to the taps for the bath. If she had moved sufficiently, she would have turned on the water. The plug was in the bath. She could have drowned by the time Shep returned. He was happy to see only an inch or two at the bottom of the tub.