Friday, July 8
On paper, Francis Coppula was in Pittsburgh on official business. He hadn’t been to the city in years, and he cursed them both for making him come back. He hated this terrestrial boil with its nonsensical roads, segmenting neighborhoods into labyrinths that made no cosmic or practical sense. Thankfully, his task was nearing completion. He had tracked one of them as far as Union Station, and as he prowled noiselessly among the dark and silent trains, Francis felt his pockets to ensure he still had what he needed to finish the job: sedatives, injector, needles---he froze. Cursed. Patted himself down once more. He was missing his disposable cell phone. He fumbled around inside his clothing. A surge of relief as he felt the familiar bump in his breast pocket---
His body registered approaching footsteps before his mind could comprehend them. His spun around with an agility that most people would not even think possible. But it wasn’t fast enough.
In the few seconds it took for Francis to realize that he was staring down the gleaming end of a pistol, the shot had already been fired.
***
Sophia was crouching behind a nearby train. Shock and fear ballooned in her chest. She bit down on her knuckles to prevent herself from making a sound in case the shooter was still around. She heard the sickening thud of heavy flesh. Light footsteps tapped out a frantic staccato rhythm on the tiled floor, paused, then scurried off in the other until they dissolved into distant echoes in the darkness. Very slowly, with her heart in her mouth, Sophia crouched on her hands and knees and peered under the train, hoping she might be able to see if the coast was clear. Most of her view was obstructed by hulky machinery, but she was able to make out a hand lying in a pool of blood. Her insides clenched and an acidic, nauseous lump rose in her throat. She forced herself to swallow it as she climbed unsteadily to her feet, bracing herself for what she knew would come next. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a white glow bloomed in the darkness. Translucent, spherical entities were bobbing towards her. They looked like giant soap bubbles, and she tried not to pay too much attention as her mind was filled with memories that weren’t her own: twin boys standing next to each other in a mirror, making faces and laughing; a haggard-looking woman scowling across the dinner table; a doctor with a clipboard and a grim expression; his classmates looking at him with fear and hatred as he held out the mangled body of the class gerbil; pill bottles labeled “Risperdal” being spilled into the toilet; lying on a park bench smelling of filth; a man with a dark beard appearing over him (that memory was accompanied by the latent impressions of a strong emotion that passed too quickly for Sophia to identity); a slew of memories about the same teenage boy with dark blonde hair (sitting on the edge of a bed with a blanket around his shoulders, walking outside in a garden, holding out his hand for something with a depreciating smile, running his shaking fingers over soft skin); and then the ruthless end of a gun, followed by darkness.
After a few minutes, Sophia stumbled drunkenly to her feet. She felt the memories settling inside of her, fusing into the familiar incomprehensible blob of sustenance that had been both satiating and shaming her for years.
Feeling bloated, she turned and headed back to the motel.
***
“He was killed,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “Somebody shot him, Sybill.”
Her sister was sprawled out on one of the beds, but she raised her head slightly at this announcement. Her braid---a thick rope of champagne blonde---hung heavily over one shoulder, and her round glasses glinted in the lamplight. She had a lighter in one hand, a blue one this time, and was absently clicking it on and off---a tick she’d had for years.
“Did anyone see you?” she asked, momentarily lifting her eyes from the small flame that had sparked to life at her fingertips.
“I don’t think so.”
Sybill nodded and fell back down onto her pillow. She pocketed the lighter. “Okay, then.”
Sophia looked around nervously, then said: “I should probably say something, right? I could go to the police---”
“You’re kidding.”
“But--”
“How are you going to explain why you were there in the first place?”
“I can say I was on an errand.”
“You were running an errand that involved lurking in a train station in the middle of night where a shooting conveniently took place? Sure. They’ll buy that.”
“So I’m just supposed to just let a murderer get away?”
“Somebody will find the dead guy eventually and they’ll the cops. So it all works out.”
“And in the meantime he can just bleed all over the concrete for five or six hours like a sack of meat?”
Sybill yawned and removed her glasses so she could rub her eyes. “Isn’t that how it always is for you? Why are you getting so worked up about this one?”
“It isn’t always like this,” Sophia snapped, stung. “He was shot! I’ve never taken them from a murder victim.”
“Well in your line of business it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Go to sleep. We’ve had a long day.”
Sybill turned off the light and rolled over so she was facing the wall. Sophia stared in mute outrage at her back. But after a few moments her temper cooled, and she felt herself settling into her usual complacence. She crawled into bed, defeated.
She stared up at the nose-shaped stain on the ceiling for several minutes, the sound of gunfire still ringing in her ears. She tossed and turned, wrinkling her nose against the pillows that were emitting a bewildering array of unpleasant odors; they smelled like someone had attempted to disguise the scent of mold human fluid with linen-scented Febreze. She chucked them across the room in disgust and then tried to settle back into the hard mattress.
If they were going to con their way across the continental United States, couldn’t they at least do it in style? Maybe she’d pitch the idea to Sybill the next time they had to stop. She was tired of spending her nights wondering when she was going to be eaten alive by an army of territorial cockroaches. Or knifed by a vagabond. Or abducted and sold into sex work by a big hairy drug lord named Howard.
It started to rain. She could hear the droplets pattering against the grimy windowpanes. An eel of nausea unfurled in her stomach at the sound of water and thunder, but she wasn’t sure why. She put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. Eventually, the darkness of sleep carried her away.
***
Saturday, July 9
Nate Reynolds squinted at his computer screen, hoping he wasn’t going to go blind by the time this case wrapped up---if it ever did. He’d been sitting at his desk for hours now, leafing through endless recordings of traffic cameras near Union Station.
Last night had been a bad one: a robbery at a grocery store in Crafton and a stabbing in Squirrel Hill, not to mention that a mere few hours ago, an officer had discovered a body near Station Square. Or what was left of one, anyway. Apparently it was missing a few limbs.
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“Find much?”
Nate looked up. Stilly was standing in front of him, looking like he had just styled his hair with an eggbeater. His full name was Richard Stillton---but nobody, he said, called him that except his mother.
“Not yet.”
“Well keep looking. I’m gonna run out and grab a coffee real quick.”
“Again? Why don’t you just fill up an IV and attach it to your arm, old man?”
“Why don’t you kiss my lily-white ass, brat?”
Nate grinned as Stilly swaggered off, thrusting his hands in his pockets. He was wearing the same kind of suit he’d worn when they first met: a charcoal-grey jacket and trousers and a matching shirt and tie. He was also just as alarmingly skinny as he’d been years ago. Maybe he had a tapeworm---or a drinking problem.
Initially, Nate had joined the force because he wanted to move out of the house as soon as possible. Joining the police academy was his best option at the time. He wasn’t smart enough to attend university (and had no particular field of study he wanted to work towards anyway), but he managed to achieve the credits required to graduate from the academy and become an officer. The next few years were professionally uneventful, but the tedium was a welcome change from the prior horrors of home.
One night after his shift, Nate was walking back to his apartment when he saw a commotion occurring at a house across the street. He saw the flash of red and blue sirens reflected in the dark windows, and a handful of onlookers gathered on the sidewalk. He crossed over curiously, nudging people in the crowd aside as he pushed through, flashing his badge to give himself some semblance of authority for the stubborn ones who glared at him, or refused to budge.
The house had been roped off with yellow police tape. The front windows were broken; the few shards that remained intact glistened in the flashing lights like saliva-laced teeth. The front door was broken off its hinges, and dark shapes milled about in the hallway beyond. One of them emerged and stood for a moment on the porch. It was a tall man with dark, disheveled hair and wolf-grey eyes. He was very skinny, with paper-white skin and gaunt cheeks. He scanned the onlookers for a moment, and then his eyes alighted on Nate. He pointed a gnarly finger in his direction and beckoned him forward. Baffled, and too stunned to refuse, Nate approached.
“You the officer who responded to the 911 call?” wolf-eyes asked gruffly.
“N-no, sir. I was just walking home from work.”
“But you got your badge out.”
“Oh. Yes. That was because---” Nate felt his ears reddening. His words came to a stuttering halt.
“To bully your way into a good seat for the show?” The man grinned, but his eyes looked cold and unamused. “Well put it on.”
“What—but I’m off duty, sir.”
“Not anymore. I need someone to help me take them out and my other guys are busy with the crime scene. What’s your name?”
“Reynolds, sir.”
“I’m Stilly. Get your ass in here, Reynolds.” He turned and walked back into the house without waiting for a response. Helpless in the face of such bald authority, Nate hurried after him, hastily clasping his badge onto the front of his belt. They walked into a living room that was in total disarray; furniture was knocked over, hundreds of pieces of broken glass lay glittering on the floor, and the piano in the corner had great chunks of it hacked off, as if someone had taken an axe to it. Good God, Nate thought, looking around in horror. What had happened here?
Stilly bent over a big green couch, and Nate realized for the first time that there was a woman lying on it. She was bloodied and half-conscious. She mumbled something incoherent when Stilly placed a gentle hand on her forehead.
“She’s burning up. We gotta get them to the ambulance out back. I got her, you get the kid.”
Startled, Nate followed Stilly’s pointing finger and realized there was a small shape crouched in the corner. He approached slowly, and when he was a few feet away, he squatted down so they were eye level. It was a little girl who looked no more than five years old. She had long red hair that fell in tangled clumps to her waist. There were bruises on her face, and the tears leaking from her eyes cut shining lines through the dirt on her cheeks.
“Hey there,” Nate said softly. “My name’s Nate. What’s yours?” She didn’t respond. Her eyes darted over his shoulder, and then she said in a small voice:
“Momma.”
Nate looked over to see Stilly half-carrying the woman out of the room. “Wanna go with Momma?” he asked the little girl.
“Momma.” A few more tears dribbled down the child’s face. Her fearful eyes followed Stilly. “Momma!”
Nate stood up and beckoned for her to follow him. He was hesitant to take her hand, fearing she might grow hysterical if he touched her. The little girl stared up at him, unmoving, and then her eyes flickered down to the badge on his belt. She hesitated for a few more seconds, then she climbed unsteadily to her feet. Her small hand clutched the bottom of his shirt. He looked down into her big eyes, which were brimming with unshed tears.
“Don’t worry,” Nate told her. His nervousness had left him. “You’re safe now.”
They walked out of the room together, following Stilly and the injured woman down the dark hall and back out into the starless night. He led her to the ambulance parked around the back of the house. The little girl looked around for a moment, then back up at Nate.
“Isn’t he coming too?” she whispered.
“Who?”
“The boy in the basement with no eyes.”
Nate stared down at her. He felt like he’d been kicked in the windpipe. A worm of nausea rippled through his stomach.
“Don’t you worry about him, sweetheart.” Stilly had appeared at Nate’s shoulder. He smiled down at the little girl. “My friends are taking care of him, okay? Now go with these nice men. They’re taking you and your momma to the hospital.”
The little girl released Nate’s jacket, gave him a final wide-eyed stare, and then climbed up into the ambulance. The doors slammed, and then it pulled away from the curb and sped down the road. Nate watched it go, the nausea still coming in waves.
“What did she mean?” he croaked.
“Never mind, kid,” Stilly grunted. “Thanks for helping out. You can head home now, and try not to think too much about what you saw here tonight. Reynolds, was it?”
“Yeah.”
“You look familiar. You one of Frank’s guys?”
“Y-Yeah.” Nate continued to stare off into the distance. He kept replaying in his head the moment the little girl had noticed his badge. The look on her face.
“You alright?”
“How many years would it take to make detective?”
“What?”
Nate turned and met the cold grey eyes with a fierce stare of his own. “You heard me.”
Stilly stared at him for a second, and then raised one razor-thin eyebrow. “Well that depends, kid. At least a few years, maybe more, depending on how badly you want it.”
Nate nodded, then turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you around then.”
“Doubt it.”
Nate turned back. “Sorry?”
“As soon as she mentioned that boy, your face went the color of sour cream and you’ve been shaking like a grandma without her walker for the past ten minutes. You don’t have the stomach for this kinda thing.”
“Yeah? Well maybe we need some people who actually give a shit.” He turned on his heel and walked away, not bothering to lower his voice as he added: “Reptilian son of a bitch.”
He found a purpose that night. That little girl had activated a primal urge that pulled him towards something he’d never anticipated. He couldn’t protect everyone, but he had protected her, and it’d made him feel stronger. He wanted to get that feeling back again.
He made detective in record time. He still remembered the day when he walked into his new office and discovered that he would be working side by side with the wolfish detective he’d met all those years ago. He wondered if the man would recognize him. There was a moment of silence as they shook hands. Then Stilly looked him up and down said with a shit-eating grin:
“How’ve you been, Mister Give-A-Shit?”
“Listen, sir, about that night----”
“Who the fuck is sir? It’s Stilly. And you’re not about to apologize, are you? I was just starting to like you.”
“In that case.” Nate smiled and began to unload his things onto the desk Stilly pointed at---the one right next to him.
Nate grinned at the memories. Not much had changed. Stilly was still a sour old man and he was still getting frazzled over rough cases. He resumed his mindless mouse clicking as he waited for his colleague to return from his coffee run. Grainy shot after grainy shot marched across his screen. Pedestrians, sidewalks, cars, trains. God, he couldn’t take this anymore. Slamming his head down on the desk would be a more interesting pastime. At least that would put some feeling back into his face.
A screenshot of one of the platforms popped up. He was just about to click to the next when he saw something that made his finger freeze. He leaned forward, his nose almost squashed against the computer screen. In the bottom righthand corner, behind one of the parked trains, was a dark smudge. He would have taken it for nothing but a shadow if it hadn’t visibly jumped when the shot was fired offscreen. His stomach plummeted. He felt the hand resting on the mouse start to tremble.
Nate looked over his shoulder. Everyone had their noses buried in their desks or were otherwise running around taking statements. Keeping an eye out for any approaching colleagues, he emailed the footage file to his personal email address. After a moment of consideration, he deleted the footage from the camera reel as well and had just finished emptying the recycling bin on his desktop when Stilly came lumbering back. He was clutching a giant mug of steaming coffee in one of his reedy hands.
“I think I’ll go out for a smoke,” Nate said, pushing back his chair as he stood up.
“At least my caffeine addiction doesn’t give me cancer.”
“Is it hard to get around with that stick up your ass?”
Stilly made a rude gesture at him from across the room as Nate slipped out the side exit and into the alley, pulling his phone from his pocket.
She picked up on the second ring.
“It’s me,” Nate said. “Somebody saw you.”