The Last Night at Tremore Beach

by Mikel Santiago

  He escaped from the hospital, stole his neighbor’s car, and plowed it into a tree. Thank God, his kids are safe. So whatever happened to Peter? Oh, he’s living out his days in a nice place surrounded by nurses and beautiful gardens.

  As for my head? The pain started again as I rounded Bill’s Peak. My old friend was back. I felt the painful pulsing deep in the center of my skull. Ticktock. Stronger and stronger.

  I was tempted to close my eyes and take my hands off the wheel to rub my temples and scream out in pain. The pain was no longer content in being a dagger deep in my cerebral cortex, no. It grew like it never had before. It blossomed like a flower, like a great white shark opening its maw to devour everything inside my skull.

  It bit down.

  And just at that moment, I again felt that blinding light envelop me, like another bolt of lightning. Everything blanched to white for a few precious seconds as the pain reached its climax, as if some mad scientist had turned the dial of an electroshock up to the max and kept it there to see how long it would take my head to explode like an egg in a microwave.

  I clenched my teeth so hard I thought they’d shatter like glass. But somehow, I managed to hold on to the steering wheel and keep my eyes open—and that’s how I finally saw what I saw, like a movie playing out in front of my eyes. It took less than a second for this new vision to unfold in my mind.

  Judie and the kids had lingered. They had packed their backpacks with pajamas, towels, and toothbrushes, but now they were in the living room because Beatrice wanted to play something on the piano for Judie. They liked being with one another. Even though they were worried about Dad, it was a comfort to have Judie to care for them. Judie was sweet, pretty, clever. They wanted Judie to be Dad’s girlfriend. Judie would be like a big sister to them.

  They really had to get going, Judie told them, patiently, as Beatrice fooled around at the piano. But then they heard a noise and saw lights flood in through the living room window. Judie went to take a peek while Beatrice ran to open the front door. Maybe it was Daddy coming home.

  But Jip, who stood frozen with his backpack on, yelled out.

  “No! Don’t open the door! We have to hide!”

  It was then that Judie noticed the van turning up the drive—its shape, its particular color, its chromed rims—and felt chills race up her spine.

  “C’mon! Out the back door! Quickly!”

  The children ran into the kitchen but as Judie opened the back door, she stopped dead in her tracks. Why?

  A rumble overhead. The ground shook. Thunder.

  My mind snapped back in an instant. I was back in Leo’s car. The movie had ended abruptly, and I was back to seeing the world through the rain-covered windshield when I noticed the headlights racing over sandy dunes—and I realized I was driving toward the edge of the ravine.

  I slammed on the brakes, but the SUV skidded along the gravel shoulder. The SUV slid and went over the edge. My face crashed into the steering wheel, and I nearly lost a couple of teeth as the truck went down the steep, sandy face of the cliff. I tried to control the SUV but felt two wheels leave the ground, and the truck tipped and tumbled on its right side. I crashed into the door, and my head smashed against the window as the vehicle came to rest on its side, down on the beach, as the rain continued to pour down from above.

  It felt like waking from a deep sleep, but maybe I lost consciousness for only a few seconds. Either way, when I came to, the smell of gasoline was everywhere. I was terrified. I thought the SUV was going to blow (Isn’t that what happened in the movies?) or at least catch fire.

  I stirred and hauled myself across the passenger seat toward the door, which was now a hatch on the roof of this tin can. It unlocked without a problem, and I was able to push myself halfway out of the SUV. Then I remembered Frank’s gun. I dropped back down and started to rifle around in the dark for it. It must have gotten wedged under the seat or something. But there was no way to tell in that total darkness. I have to find it. I have to.

  No luck. The inside of the wrecked truck was pitch black, and the smell of gasoline was only getting stronger. There was nothing to do but get out fast before this thing blew to high hell.

  I hopped out and landed on the sand, and if there was a single body part left that didn’t hurt, I didn’t know what it was. I realized now that everything was repeating itself in a way. Again, I was at the bottom of a ravine after a tumble. All of the events from real life and my visions started to jumble together until they created a new reality.

  There was no time to lose. I bolted toward the house.

  IT TOOK five minutes for me to stagger to the house. The front facade was illuminated by the van’s headlights. I crouched down and made my way toward it behind the dunes, just as I’d done in my vision. But this time, I couldn’t hear any conversations. Instead, I saw a light on in the living room. I couldn’t see anyone inside. I came up alongside the wooden stairs, walking on the sandy dune instead of the creaky steps.

  When I’d reached the top, I hid behind one of the big pots by the patio, and I could see inside a little better.

  Judie was sitting on the couch, her hands tied and a trail of blood streaming down her head. Manon was standing in front of her. She looked like she’d tired of hitting her. Judie’s face was swollen and one of her eyebrows was split open. She sat stock-still, neither crying nor pleading.

  Manon was speaking into the walkie-talkie—or at least she was trying to. She pulled it away from her mouth and looked at it, as if it weren’t functioning. I figured she was trying to reach Frank. She yelled something at Judie, but Judie just shook her head. Manon reached back with the hand holding the walkie-talkie and smashed Judie in the face. She fell over sideways on the couch.

  I felt a sudden urge to run and jump through the window and strangle that goddamn bitch. And then I remembered: the shed. There was an ax in the shed.

  There was no sign of the burly guy. No sign of my kids or Marie, either. I crouched down and slithered across the sand like an awkward iguana until I was out of sight of the living room. I couldn’t stop wondering where Jip and Beatrice were, and my fear became terror because I also couldn’t account for that fat bastard, Tom.

  I snuck around to the shed and watched the house from my new hiding place. There was a light on in the kids’ room. Were they up there? Was Tom with them? Was that son of a bitch having his way with my daughter? The thought was so sickening my mind simply shut it down.

  I slipped inside the shed and found the ax. It was small, used to cut firewood, but it was big enough to split a grown man’s head in two. With the ax in hand, I went out into the yard and headed toward the kitchen door. But just then, I noticed a shadow flicker nearby, like a spider creeping around the corner of the house.

  Amid the rain and shadows, the only thing I could make out was Tom’s gleaming knife—coming down toward my unsuspecting throat. I raised my hand instinctively and blocked the knife with my ax handle. That’s when I first saw his face. A wide, toothy smile and dead eyes, like a monster.

  He was too strong, and I swung the ax around and stepped back to give myself some room. Tom could have called to alert Manon, but he didn’t. Instead, he grinned in the silence between us and waved his knife in the air, cutting glimmering figure eights into the night.

  “So, you want to fight?” he whispered, moving to my right.

  I turned, mirroring his movements. Like the earth and moon. Two bodies in perfect orbit. I thought about something I’d heard or read or seen on television about knife fights: Rule No. 1, never try to grab the knife hand. Rule No. 2, use a counterattack. Rule No. 3, you won’t last long if you just play defense.

  Tom’s knife was like a charmed cobra, dancing and hypnotic. This guy was faster than he looked. He zigzagged in short bursts, and I tried to match his movements.

  “You’ve got no shot. Not a shred of a chance,” he said. “Just let go. It’ll be quick and painless.”

  “That’s the same thing Frank and Ra
ndy said,” I told him. “They’re dead now.”

  I thought that would intimidate him a bit, but it didn’t seem to register at all. He continued wearing that Cheshire cat grin.

  “You’re lying,” he said, advancing toward me. I realized he was trying to back me into the wall.

  I sidestepped and swung the ax at head level.

  I thought about counterattacking when he lunged, but in near darkness, under a driving rainstorm and with my body bruised and battered, I imagined that gleaming blade eventually sheathed in my liver, kidney, or lung. Tom wouldn’t stop smiling.

  “Stop struggling, man. You know how this is going to end. You’re no match for me. What are you, a lawyer? An engineer? You’re not a fighter. Look at your dainty little schoolgirl hands.”

  He lunged in my direction, and I sprang back. Tom skillfully whipped the knife in the air, and I so clumsily swung the ax down that I nearly drove it into my knee. Tom attacked again, and this time, the tip of his knife drew a hairline across my right cheek. I felt warm blood run down my face.

  We’d drifted away from the house and were at the farthest reaches of the backyard, away from the beach. He was trying to corner me against another wall, I realized, the cliff face behind me. Each time I tried to move away, he shepherded me straight back with a swing of his knife. Once he had me backed against the cliff face, it’d be easy to filet me. There was no place left to hide from that eager knife.

  As I backed up, my foot bumped against something. It was the septic tank drain cover. It was still sticking out of the ground. I’d made a mental note to fix it, Now I’m glad I forgot. Looks like the little schoolgirl has a shot, after all.

  I carefully paced backward, like a cat walking along the edge of a fence, until I was standing right on top of the septic tank drain. Tom was focused on my hands and hadn’t noticed the dip just ahead of him. I raised the ax to keep his attention up by my hands. And just then, his left foot dropped into the hole. It wasn’t more than a seven or eight inch drop, but it was enough. He lost his balance, looked down instinctively, and gave me just enough time to drive the ax down into his head. There was a loud crack, a strange moan. And Tom fell to the ground like a rag doll, the ax wedged into his skull. Tom was dead, and I had won a fight I had no right to win.

  SUDDENLY, everything went completely silent. Yes, it was still raining and the wind blew in from the ocean and battered the house. Bolts of lightning flashed in the swirling clouds overhead. But for some reason, it felt like the rest of the world had gone perfectly still. And that every step I took resonated for miles around.

  I reached for the kitchen door and noticed my hands. To say they were trembling was an understatement. I was barely able to hold on to the doorknob. My legs were shaking, too. I’d killed two men that night, after all. I guess I wasn’t doing so bad, all things considered.

  I carefully opened the kitchen door remembering the last vision I’d had in this place. But when I stepped inside, the kitchen was empty. There were no children sitting at the table with their hands tied, executed, and my fear subsided a bit. Thank God, I muttered.

  I opened a kitchen drawer, holding my wrist with my other hand to keep it steady, and drew out a knife as quietly as I could. I didn’t grab the big chef’s knife, but a sharp, smaller one I could wield dexterously. The same one I’d used a few days back to slice tomatoes while I kissed Judie. I held it tightly in my hand. That night I’d killed with a gun, an ax . . . I guessed it was time to try out a knife.

  “Tom?” Manon called from the living room. “Is that you?”

  The kitchen and hallway were dark. I steadied myself against the refrigerator and waited. If Manon came through that door, I’d grab her by the neck and drive the knife into her kidneys.

  “Tom . . . ?” she said again, and then she sighed, almost with a cackle of laughter. “Ah, I see. You’re not Tom, are you?”

  Two explosions rang out, and the refrigerator door caved in, right by my face. I fell flat on my ass and dragged myself to one corner of the kitchen. I thought this was finally the end, that Manon would come through that door and shoot me where I sat, like a rat. But she didn’t come in.

  “Who is it? Blanchard? The neighbor? Jesus, Frank and Randy. What a couple of worthless shitheads.”

  “The cops are on their way!” I yelled. “You’re through!”

  Manon’s response was another blind gunshot through the kitchen door that ricocheted through the kitchen window.

  “I have the woman,” she said. “And we’re leaving together right now. If either of you two even puts his head through that door, I’ll kill her.”

  For some reason, she wouldn’t come into the kitchen. From the way she spoke in plurals, she must have thought Leo and I were both here. It stood to reason we had Frank and Randy’s guns, too.

  I heard a scream—Judie!—and Manon ordering her to move. There were footsteps, and then I heard the sliding glass door open. They were going outside. I was just about to slip out the back door, hoping to ambush her while she tried to load Judie into the van, but then I heard a scream, and then another. Someone spit out an insult. I jumped up and hurried down the hall into the living room. There, in the doorway to the patio, three women were tussling: Judie, Manon, and Marie, who’d come out of nowhere.

  It turned out that Marie had run down the beach and arrived just ahead of Tom and Manon. She’d hidden in the yard and had watched me arrive, but hadn’t dared move. She was scared out of her mind. At the sound of the two gunshots, she’d inched closer to the house and run into Manon, trying to escape with Judie. She grabbed Manon by the throat just as I came running into the living room.

  I watched as it all unfolded. Manon had let Judie go when Marie grabbed the hand holding the gun. The gun was pointed toward the ceiling, and Marie fought to hold it that way with both her hands. But Manon started punching Marie in the stomach with her free hand. Judie fell to her knees and tried to bear hug Manon to keep her from hitting Marie. But Manon kicked her away, wriggled her gun hand free, and pulled the trigger.

  Manon fired right into Marie’s chest, whose body shuddered with the gunshot. Her purple pajamas were instantly soaked dark red. Marie stayed on her feet for a brief moment before collapsing into the grass on the patio.

  “Marie!” I yelled.

  I rushed Manon and felt her body slam against the doorjamb. Still, she managed to squeeze off a shot that disappeared into the night. I grabbed her hands and then felt how strong she was. I managed to grab her gun hand, but with the other, she punched me in the throat. I choked. I instinctively reached for my throat and doubled over as she punched me on the side of the head.

  Before I knew it, that bitch had gotten the better of me. She kneed me a couple of times as I dropped to the ground, and she landed on top of my stomach.

  We looked each other in the eye. She had blood running down one side of her forehead. Her hair was disheveled. Her dark eyes were furious.

  “Say goodnight, you son of a bitch.”

  I watched the gun barrel come down toward my face, and I turned my head, waiting for the shot through the eye that had ended my life in my vision. Peter Harper was found lying dead with a hole in his skull inside his lovely beach cottage on Tremore Beach. Dad would open the newspaper tomorrow and see essentially the same image I’d seen in my vision. Bodies wrapped in white coroner’s blankets, police standing guard. He’d start drinking and smoking again. He wouldn’t live long after that. Maybe he’d even find the resolve to throw himself in front of a train and end it all.

  Everything from my visions had come true. The storm. Marie running down the beach. The broken fence. The killers and their van. Tom’s knife. The tumble by the cliff. The shed. Would my own death be next?

  “How’s this, you stupid bitch!” I heard a voice say.

  It was Judie. She’d gotten to her feet, grabbed the fireplace poker, and swung. Manon only had enough time to gasp. She swung through and bashed Manon with all her might. Manon’s face exploded in
a burst of blood and bone, and she slumped to the ground in a heap.

  I crawled to my feet and clasped Judie to me. Her body was shaking. She couldn’t stop staring at Manon.

  “Did I kill her?” she sobbed.

  “I hope so.”

  Marie was lying prone on the ground with her lips parted, her eyes open.

  Judie ran to call an ambulance, though in the distance, despite the storm wind, you could already hear sirens wailing.

  TEN

  AFTER TRAVELING through Turkey’s Central Anatolia Region for two days, Clem finally got back into cell phone range and found back-to-back messages on her phone. In the first message, an attaché from the Dutch embassy in Ireland asked her to call as soon as possible; that was the night I’d passed out at home and ended up in the hospital. The second message was from me. It said: “You have to come to Donegal right away. Something terrible has happened.”

  She and Niels hopped breathlessly on a flight from Istanbul to London to Derry and arrived in Dungloe the next day at about four in the afternoon. Despite my phone calls since—one for every time she changed planes—and the embassy representative who met her at the airport and tried to calm her, Clem arrived white as a ghost.

  My father had arrived a few hours earlier. He paid for the most expensive cab ride of his life from Dublin (at least something made him finally leave his house on Liberty Street) and arrived in Dungloe that morning. By that time, dozens of reporters, police officers, and curious onlookers filled the hospital corridors, and my father worried what he might find. When he’d determined his son and grandchildren were safe, he became “the Chief” again and took control of the situation. He took care of the children, spoke to the police and reporters and kept everyone else at bay. When Clem finally arrived, he was the one who gave her an explanation of sorts: “Some men tried to rob Peter’s house and there was a shoot-out. But the children slipped out to the beach and hid behind the rocks. They missed the whole thing. They’ve caught a bit of a chill and a couple of scrapes, but they’re fine.”