there. That was where all the heat
rose and became trapped. He would have been basted in his own juices, his
clothes clinging to him as damp and tight and hot as a thin swathe of tar. But
he lay up there, not moving, silent, waiting. The day wore on and cooled near
evening, and finally, when we were asleep, he opened the sliding trap in the
closet and eased himself down, gently opened the door. That would have put him
in a position to look right at Ann and me, helpless while we slept. But it
wasn’t us he wanted.
He stepped out of the closet and went to the bedroom door,
closed this night due to our visitor in the hall, and he cracked it open. Our
cop, thinking it was either Ann or me said, “Mr. Dane?”
I heard that down there in the deep part of sleep, and
loaded with fear as I was, I came out of that sleep quickly, like a polaris
missile pushing up from the depths of the sea, breaking the waves and nosing
the air.
But already Russel had jumped our cop, and there was a yell
from Kevin and the sound of something slamming against the wall in the hall,
and I was rolling out of bed, grabbing at the shotgun under it, rushing for the
bedroom door.
I got out in the hall just in time to see our Vietnam vet,
black belt policeman take a marvelous left hook on the chin that bounced him
over his chair even as his hand was in mid-draw for his revolver. The sound of
the punch and the way Kevin went down like a broken manikin told me he wouldn’t
be getting up for a while.
It was me and Russel. He turned just as I put the shotgun on
him and tried to pull the trigger, but found it was on safety. As I thumbed at
the switch, Russel moved across the hall and knocked up the barrel of the gun,
and as it was in action now, and my finger was firm against the trigger, it
went off and a shot went into the ceiling, raining plaster on us like snow.
Through no great technique of my own, I went back and my
feet got tangled with Russel’s and we fell halfway into the bedroom. The
shotgun went sliding away, under the bed, I think, and Russel didn’t pursue it.
He hit me a hard right on the forehead and my mind filled with blackness and
glitter.
When the glitter fell away, I came awake to Ann yelling,
“He’s in Jordan’s room!” And we were both up and running, me wobbling as I
went.
I heard Jordan yell, “Daddy,” and a weakness went through me
like the worst disease you can imagine. I felt like the slowest, stupidest,
most mortal person on earth. I had allowed Russel to hornswoggle me, whip me,
and now he had my son.
I must have been out only fractions of a second, because by
the time I got up and wobbled after Russel, he had only made it halfway to
Jordan’s bed, and I could see Jordan sitting up with his back against the
headboard, looking at Russel.
I leaped on Russel’s back and landed with my legs wrapped
around his waist and my arms around his throat. He stumbled, then ran back,
smashing me against the wall so violently I felt as if my spine were being
pushed out through my chest. The breath went out of me and my legs and arms
wouldn’t hold and I let go of him and slid down the wall like a dying slug.
But now Ann was on him, almost in the same position I had
occupied, and she was clawing at his face, and he was spinning in pain, trying
to toss her off, but it was like trying to fling off a sheet wet with glue.
Finally he reached over his shoulder and got hold of her
hair and jerked and bent forward at the same time and she slammed against the
wall next to me and crumpled in a twist of arms and legs.
I tried to get up, but there was nothing left in me. It was
as if someone had opened up a valve and let the life out of me. My breath
wouldn’t come. I couldn’t even gasp; my lungs were jammed between a breath and
an outburst. The room tilted. Russel reached the bed and Jordan screamed
“Daddy” again. Russel grabbed Jordan by his pajama shirt, and with his other
hand he produced from his back pocket a black shape that
rose and became trapped. He would have been basted in his own juices, his
clothes clinging to him as damp and tight and hot as a thin swathe of tar. But
he lay up there, not moving, silent, waiting. The day wore on and cooled near
evening, and finally, when we were asleep, he opened the sliding trap in the
closet and eased himself down, gently opened the door. That would have put him
in a position to look right at Ann and me, helpless while we slept. But it
wasn’t us he wanted.
He stepped out of the closet and went to the bedroom door,
closed this night due to our visitor in the hall, and he cracked it open. Our
cop, thinking it was either Ann or me said, “Mr. Dane?”
I heard that down there in the deep part of sleep, and
loaded with fear as I was, I came out of that sleep quickly, like a polaris
missile pushing up from the depths of the sea, breaking the waves and nosing
the air.
But already Russel had jumped our cop, and there was a yell
from Kevin and the sound of something slamming against the wall in the hall,
and I was rolling out of bed, grabbing at the shotgun under it, rushing for the
bedroom door.
I got out in the hall just in time to see our Vietnam vet,
black belt policeman take a marvelous left hook on the chin that bounced him
over his chair even as his hand was in mid-draw for his revolver. The sound of
the punch and the way Kevin went down like a broken manikin told me he wouldn’t
be getting up for a while.
It was me and Russel. He turned just as I put the shotgun on
him and tried to pull the trigger, but found it was on safety. As I thumbed at
the switch, Russel moved across the hall and knocked up the barrel of the gun,
and as it was in action now, and my finger was firm against the trigger, it
went off and a shot went into the ceiling, raining plaster on us like snow.
Through no great technique of my own, I went back and my
feet got tangled with Russel’s and we fell halfway into the bedroom. The
shotgun went sliding away, under the bed, I think, and Russel didn’t pursue it.
He hit me a hard right on the forehead and my mind filled with blackness and
glitter.
When the glitter fell away, I came awake to Ann yelling,
“He’s in Jordan’s room!” And we were both up and running, me wobbling as I
went.
I heard Jordan yell, “Daddy,” and a weakness went through me
like the worst disease you can imagine. I felt like the slowest, stupidest,
most mortal person on earth. I had allowed Russel to hornswoggle me, whip me,
and now he had my son.
I must have been out only fractions of a second, because by
the time I got up and wobbled after Russel, he had only made it halfway to
Jordan’s bed, and I could see Jordan sitting up with his back against the
headboard, looking at Russel.
I leaped on Russel’s back and landed with my legs wrapped
around his waist and my arms around his throat. He stumbled, then ran back,
smashing me against the wall so violently I felt as if my spine were being
pushed out through my chest. The breath went out of me and my legs and arms
wouldn’t hold and I let go of him and slid down the wall like a dying slug.
But now Ann was on him, almost in the same position I had
occupied, and she was clawing at his face, and he was spinning in pain, trying
to toss her off, but it was like trying to fling off a sheet wet with glue.
Finally he reached over his shoulder and got hold of her
hair and jerked and bent forward at the same time and she slammed against the
wall next to me and crumpled in a twist of arms and legs.
I tried to get up, but there was nothing left in me. It was
as if someone had opened up a valve and let the life out of me. My breath
wouldn’t come. I couldn’t even gasp; my lungs were jammed between a breath and
an outburst. The room tilted. Russel reached the bed and Jordan screamed
“Daddy” again. Russel grabbed Jordan by his pajama shirt, and with his other
hand he produced from his back pocket a black shape that
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