Here After

by Sean Costello

  Curious and afraid, Graham crawled across the bed to join him. He couldn’t see Maggie at first, just the man on the porch shading his eyes to look in through the screen, then pulling the door open to go inside.

  Now he heard Maggie say, “Hey,” and saw her step into the yard facing the porch, the sun beating down on her shaved head, one of those brown sticks in each hand. The man turned to face her, letting the door swing shut behind him. Pointing one of the sticks at him, Maggie said, “This is private property. You need to leave right now.”

  Graham saw the man smile, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It made him think of a nature program he’d seen, a big snake slithering up behind a tiny bird with flickering wings, the bird still drinking from a puddle when the smiling snake plucked it off its feet with its fangs.

  The man said, “I’m not going anywhere,” and started down the steps, that cold smile still on his face. “Not until you tell me what you’ve done with my boy.”

  Maggie said, “Have it your way,” and moved forward to meet the man, coming across the yard now with fury in his eyes. Graham felt a funny sickness inside him watching this happen, and a part of him was afraid the big man was going to hurt Maggie; but another part was glad, thinking the man was going to save him, take him back to his family.

  Now the man was running, his hands twisted into claws. Maggie kept moving, and when the man was almost on top of her she leaned away from him and jabbed a stick into his belly, spinning to drive the other one into the back of his neck. The man cried out and fell, landing hard on his face in the dirt, Maggie circling him now with those sticks; and when he tried to get up, she kicked him in the face with her heavy boot and the man stopped moving, his breath raising puffs of dust off the ground, turning the blood on his lips gray.

  When Maggie bent over the man’s head, Graham pushed away from the window, his tiny body shaking in the explosive heat of the motor home. Aaron stayed where he was, watching out the window, whispering, “Uh-oh. Uh-oh. Uh-oh.”

  Graham scurried into the small bathroom and locked the door. Sobbing, he sat on the toilet lid, closed his eyes and pressed his hands over his ears. He stayed that way, gently rocking, until he felt the motor home shift under Maggie’s weight.

  Then she was tapping on the door, saying, “Clayton, honey, open the door for your ma,” and Graham started screaming, screaming as hard as he could.

  * * *

  Peter slowed coming up a rise toward the back of the house, the gray roof visible now through the corn stalks swaying in the breeze. Crouching, he continued at a brisk walk, the axe handle slippery in his palm. The rise crested and he started down the other side, his lungs searing from the quick mile run.

  The corn field ended at a barbed wire fence and Peter miscalculated ducking underneath, one of the rusty barbs hooking his shirt, tearing into the skin of his back. He opened his mouth to cry out and caught himself just in time, knowing that if he screamed he wouldn’t be able to stop and the woman would find him and kill him.

  He heard a door slam at the front of the house and went down on his haunches in the weeds, winded and terrified, no idea how to proceed. Should he sneak in through the back of the house somehow? Threaten her with the axe handle? Or find the Cade boy and get him out, let Roger take care of himself? Where was Roger anyway? Maybe it was all over and all he had to do was walk around to the front of the house. Unless she’d shot him on sight—and Peter hadn’t heard any gunfire on his way across the field—the woman would be no match for Roger, not in his current state of mind. If he hadn’t killed her already, surely he’d subdued her.

  Peter knew he had to move. He couldn’t see a thing from back here, just this overgrown yard, a jumbled pile of scrap lumber and an old wooden rain barrel under a downspout at the right-hand corner of the house. There was a newer addition on the left with a satellite dish on the wall, an unpainted, tin-roofed structure that looked like a garage but with no windows or doors, the only access, Peter assumed, from inside the house. The blinds were down in the two ground-level windows in the main part of the house, and a patch of honeysuckle blocked his view of the roadway and those three barracks-like outbuildings.

  Feeling dangerously exposed, he made a dash for the back of the house, the weather-worn clapboards hot as he pressed his back to them. He edged along the space between the windows, moving in quick side-steps with the axe handle at the ready, stopping when he got to the window to duck underneath, his view of the room inside blocked by the blind.

  The axe handle felt awkward in his hand, the idea of using it as a weapon utterly foreign to him. In his whole life he’d never even been in a shoving match, never mind a fist fight, and he had no idea whether he could actually strike the woman with the thing or not. Hopefully, threatening her with it would be enough. His only advantage here was surprise.

  He came to the corner with the rain barrel, brimful from a recent rain, and dipped a hand into the cool water, leaning forward to scrub his face. He had a bad moment standing over the barrel, the water dark and impossibly deep-looking in the sunshine, the illusion giving him a feeling of suffocation until he turned away. Then he heard the slam of that door again, the sound louder now, reminding him of the Muldoon’s screen door clapping shut on that balmy July afternoon they sat together eating biscuits. All he had to do now was turn the corner and walk the last twenty feet to the front of the house.

  But he couldn’t. He’d been afraid before, but never like this. The fear he felt now was like a drug, a potent paralytic, and he just...couldn’t...move.

  A voice now, muffled but laced with anger, and Peter flinched at the sound of it: “Aaron, get out here and give me a hand.”

  Then he heard footfalls—a kid’s runners scuffing fast across hard-pack—and he turned the corner gripping the axe handle, ducked under another shaded window, and stopped in a crouch at the front corner of the house. He saw the Corolla in the yard with the door open, and beyond that a tan Winnebago, the Corolla partially blocking his view, and as he rose to look past the hood, he saw Roger’s legs hanging out through the motor home doorway, his lifeless legs, then his shoes as someone dragged him roughly inside.

  Peter recoiled from the scene, sinking on boneless legs against the side of the house, his lungs starving for air, the world spinning around him in the cloying sweetness of honeysuckle. The axe handle slid from his grip and he brought his hands up to clutch the collar of his T-shirt, its soggy proximity to his throat strangling him.

  Then he was running, back through the overgrown yard to the barbed wire fence, catching a toe leaping over it to slam to the ground in the corn, felling the stalks in his path. He rolled to his feet and ran through the slashing leaves, thinking he’d go back to the Muldoon’s place and call the police, but fuck the line was out, and as he stumbled to a stop and looked back at the house, he knew he couldn’t leave his friend like this, dead or alive. He had to go back.

  Moments later he was peeking around the front corner of the house again, watching Maggie Dolan with her shaved head stepping out of the Winnebago to cross the yard toward the house. She glanced his way and Peter was sure he was caught. Then she was thumping up the porch steps and he looked through the railing to see her go inside, the impact of the screen door against its frame echoing from the flank of the distant barn.

  Finding an unexpected calm, Peter bent to retrieve the axe handle, strode the three quick paces to the porch and climbed over the railing. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled under the front windows to the door and got to his feet at its edge, pressing his back to the peeling clapboards. He took a breath, his legs steady now, and brought the axe handle up like a baseball bat.

  He glanced at the Winnebago and saw Roger staring out at him through the open door, wedged like a plank into the booth seat with blood in his eyes and a strip of duct tape over his mouth. His hands were taped together behind him, his neck raked back at a vicious angle, duct-taped to the chrome faucet behind him. He was trying to signal Peter with his eyes
and Peter tensed, hearing footfalls in the hallway now, coming his way.

  * * *

  Roger saw Peter scuttling on his hands and knees across the porch, then rising by the door with the axe handle ready. He’d regained consciousness only moments ago, and now he strained against the duct tape with everything he had, bucking like a landed fish, trying to rip the faucet from its base with the muscles of his neck; but he was caught, his struggles serving only to tighten his bonds, making it harder for him to breathe. It was as hot as an oven in here and he could feel himself wanting to black out again, the knockout kick she’d delivered still ringing in his ears.

  The slow kid Peter had told him about was sitting in front of him not six feet away with Jason’s dog tags around his neck, still as a statue on the couch behind the driver’s seat, whispering, “Uh-oh, uh-oh,” over and over, paying no attention to Roger. The woman had told the kid to stay put and keep an eye on him, saying, “They’re coming out of the goddam woodwork.” And in a single instant of righteous misjudgment, he’d gone from raging avenger to helpless hostage. He’d underestimated this woman and it had cost him.

  He looked across the yard and saw her through the screen door, coming out of the hall toward the porch. He tried to warn Peter with his eyes and felt a tug at the back of his neck. Turning as much as he could, he saw the Cade boy trying to tear through the tape with his fingers...but God, he could be Jason. It was like seeing an angel, a frightened, helpless angel, and now the boy said, “It’s too thick, I can’t tear it,” and Roger tried to say something through the gag in his mouth. The boy seemed to understand and came around in front of him, tugging the tape off his face, pulling the oily rag out of his mouth.

  Roger said, “Look for something sharp,” and glanced at Aaron, the kid still repeating his terrified chant.

  As the Cade boy ran to the kitchen, Roger saw the screen door swing open out there. Saw Peter tighten his grip on the axe handle, showing his teeth in a snarl.

  * * *

  The door creaked open on dry hinges and Peter saw her fingers, long and curiously elegant, pushing against the frame, and now her arm, tan and smooth, the forearm ropy with muscle. His body tensed and reflex almost brought the axe handle around too soon—then she was right there, her dark eyes widening, her hands coming up too late to block his attack.

  The flat part of the handle struck her above the left eye as she looked at him, recognition replaced by fury and then, as she toppled to the porch with her dress hiked up over bare white legs, no expression at all but the slack mask of unconsciousness.

  Shifting from foot to foot, blood roaring in his ears, Peter bent to feel for a pulse, certain he’d killed her, seeing the empty leather scabbard laced to her thigh and thinking, Oh, no, even as Roger screamed, “Stay away from her,” and her eyes clicked open.

  Something stung Peter Croft under the rib cage. His body recoiled from the force of it and his back struck the wall, his legs going boneless on him again, his body sagging into a sitting position against the wall. He looked at his belly and saw a wet red circle on his shirt, a growing bloom tacky and hot against his skin.

  The world slipped out of focus. In the blur Peter saw Maggie Dolan roll to her hands and knees in front of him, her breath a wheezing engine, a wicked upcurving blade in her hand, honed steel stained crimson with his blood. Her free hand went to the railing and she pulled herself up, grunting like an animal, a mother grizzly, wounded but unstoppable. She paused a moment to steady herself, glancing back at him dazed through a veil of blood, then hobbled down the steps to the yard.

  * * *

  When Roger saw the knife plunge into his friend, every muscle in his body clenched in fury. Struggling against his restraints, he screamed, “Fucking bitch,” and saw Graham Cade standing beside him with a butter knife in his hand, his blue eyes round with fear. Roger said, “Sorry, son. Go ahead, try to cut it.”

  Then Maggie Dolan was there, grunting her way up the stairs, her glazed eyes taking in the scene, the gash in her forehead bleeding freely. She took the knife from Graham saying, “Careful, sweetie, that’s not a toy,” then picked him up and belted him in across from Aaron, the kid silent now, staring at the floor through his glasses. Cuffing blood from her eyes, Maggie pulled the door shut and secured it, glanced out the porthole window at the house for a moment, then picked up Roger’s gag off the floor.

  Roger said, “Please, just tell me what you did with my son,” and she stuffed the gag back in his mouth, silencing him. Now she moved toward the front of the motor home, setting the bloodstained knife on a counter next to a roll of duct tape. There was a paper towel dispenser mounted over the counter and she spun off a handful, then sat in the driver’s seat with the wadded towels pressed to her wound and keyed the ignition, the big engine rumbling to life.

  As Maggie fastened her seatbelt and the ponderous vehicle lurched forward, Roger looked out the window to see Peter still propped against the wall on the porch, pale as a ghost. His eyes were open, staring off into the field beyond the road, and though he appeared barely conscious, Roger could swear the man was smiling.

  * * *

  Graham had passed through terror into a state of passive observation, his ability to comprehend or react to the events unfolding around him short-circuited in the moment the woman strapped him into his seat. In that moment he understood that he would never see his family again and the prospect shut down his young mind.

  Now, as the motor home roared past the outbuildings toward the road, Graham barely flinched when Aaron took off his frayed leather belt, looped it around his mother’s neck from behind and pulled it taut with both hands, the veins in his skinny arms popping with the strain. Reaching for the strangling belt, Maggie slammed on the brakes and Aaron almost tumbled off the couch; but he did not let go of the belt.

  Weeping now, his voice a mournful wail, Aaron said, “No more hurting,” and stretched lengthwise on the couch behind his mother, bracing his feet against the back of her chair, reefing on the belt with all of his might. Maggie was choking, her face turning purple, and Aaron said, “It’s not their fault,” in that awful barking voice, “It’s my fault, I done it.” Maggie reached for her seatbelt lock and Aaron kicked her hand away. “I didn’t mean to, we was just playin’ and it happened, it just...happened. Clay wanted to win so bad and I was helpin’ him...”

  Maggie was still struggling but not as much now, her hands rising to her throat then slipping away. The man with the tape on him was trying to talk again, and when Graham looked at him something woke up in his head and he undid his seat belt, grabbed the bloody knife off the counter and cut the man loose. The man got his hands free, spat the rag out of his mouth then took the knife from him, hacking the tape off his ankles, shouting at Aaron now, saying, “Aaron, Aaron, let her go, don’t kill her.”

  But Aaron kept yanking on the belt, his words turning into wretched sobs Graham couldn’t understand. Maggie wasn’t moving at all anymore, her arms dangling at her sides, and now the man was up, grabbing Aaron’s wrists, prying the belt out of his hands. The man stood for a moment with the knife aimed at Maggie’s head, as if afraid she might leap up and grab him. When she didn’t move, he did a curious thing. After using the duct tape to quickly tie her to the chair, he filled his chest with air and kissed her, blowing the air into her mouth, then he did it again, and again. Now he stopped to look at her saying, “Come on, god damn it, don’t you dare die on me,” and gave her that blowing kiss again. This time her body jerked in the chair, her hands bouncing up, and the man backed away from her, aiming the knife at her again. She started coughing, big throaty hacks, spraying the windshield with spit, and now her eyes rolled open, blood red and leaking tears. The man called her a bad name and pushed her head back, holding the knife to her neck. “Tell me what you did with my son,” he said, “right now, or I’ll bleed you where you sit.”

  Grinning at him with blood on her teeth, Maggie said, “I stuck your friend out there in the spleen. You might want
to tend to him.”

  The man looked over his shoulder at the house, then taped her wrists to the steering wheel and her neck tight to the head rest. She said something to the man Graham couldn’t quite hear, and Graham was sure the man was going to hit her; but he slid the keys out of the ignition and took Graham’s hand, tugging him to his feet. Waving the knife at Aaron, he said, “You too, kid,” and Aaron got up, knuckling his glasses higher on his nose, going out the door ahead of them.

  Behind them Maggie rasped, “Clay, honey, come back here to your ma,” and Graham hesitated, looking back at her. But the man tightened his grip on Graham’s hand, telling him not to worry, it was over now, he was going to see his mommy and daddy soon. Then he went back to Maggie, stuffed the same oily rag in her mouth that had been in his own and taped it into place.

  On the way across the yard, the man asked Aaron if he knew where the other boy was, the other boy that looked like Clayton, the one who owned the dog tags around his neck, and Aaron started shaking his head, his gaze aimed at the ground. Grabbing Aaron’s arm, the man took the dog tags off him and put them in his pocket, then told Aaron to go sit in the gray car and close the door. Then Graham went up the porch steps with the man, almost running to keep up, the man sinking to his knees beside his friend with the blood on his shirt.

  * * *

  Peter’s eyes were closed now and he didn’t seem to be aware of Roger’s presence. Roger touched his arm, alarmed at the amount of blood he’d lost, and Peter’s eyes fluttered open. He said, “Did you get her?” in a voice that rose barely above a whisper and Roger told him that he did.

  Roger looked at Graham now, the poor kid leaning against a porch beam with his fingers in his mouth, fat tears standing in those blue eyes that were so much like Jason’s. Getting to his feet, Roger said, “Is there a phone around here, kiddo?” and the boy pointed through the screen. Roger took his hand again and said, “Show me.” To Peter he said, “I’m going to call 911, then I’ll be right back. What can I get for that wound?”