She was real!
The gun was warm in his hands. It was April’s gun, the one he had given her for protection. He couldn’t contain his happiness. “You’re real. Jesus! You’re real! ”
He turned and scooped up the fat man’s gun. Two quick steps and he was in the garage, closing the oak door behind him. April had stepped from a dream, but she could also fire a gun. She was real! He closed the hasp-the one he had installed only a few hours ago, when he was certain that April’s corpse was going to be a permanent resident in his basement-and threaded a Masterlock through it. The lock made a satisfying click as he snapped it closed. He stood back and stared at the door and the lock.
He pinched himself, and he had to laugh at that.
Sure he felt it. He was awake. But she was a dream.
Her fists beat a steady rhythm against the door, and he retreated, afraid that he might lose her again.
Would a locked door keep a dream?
The door rattled under her fists. The Masterlock jumped and slapped against cherry-stained oak, scratching the finish. She screamed, and the sound was sharp and clear.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, and his soul was wrapped up in every word. He knew that she was frightened. She couldn’t understand what was happening. Not yet. “Believe me, April, I’ll make it okay.”
He had to explain things to her.
He had to make her understand.
But first, he had to understand.
Then everything would be okay.
They would be together.
As they were in his dreams.
Hot blood spurted black and sticky, sluicing over his neck.
Doug stared at Amy. She was jammed in a corner, crying. He couldn’t hate her. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t a spiteful person. Not really. He was a good person. But life had put the knocks to him. Starting that night in Todd Gould’s basement, ending this night in Steve Austin’s. Most people got through life without facing such tough decisions. Most people didn’t have everyone tugging and pulling at them like that. They just didn’t know.
He wasn’t spiteful. Not Doug Douglas. Seeing Amy like this…Amy crying…he wouldn’t have killed the kid, Ethan Russell, not if he had it to do all over again…if only people could stop hiding…the kid would still be alive if Amy had ever once cried and showed him…that she had tears inside her if they had come out just once… His eyes weren’t focusing right… All he wanted to do was make things right for April. He knew she was tired of living. She suffered. He knew she had to go. He let her go; he didn’t even try to stop her, and now he just wanted to make things right for her. He was tired of living, too. But he had to make things right, finish the job. For him, for her, once and for…
A girl stood in the corner, wearing a cheerleading outfit.
April Destino. April wasn’t dead after all. Really stupid, imagining something like that. Getting shot over his imagination. Imagining that he’d seen April’s corpse when April was here.
And it was April. It was the eighth of April. It was morning. He ate breakfast in the morning. He eighth breakfast and the date was April ate…
April made his breakfast. She cooked eggs and sausage and hash browns and toast…and she squeezed ripe oranges into juice. And she kissed him. She always kissed him when breakfast was over. Doug dosed his eyes. He kept them closed. He didn’t know why April was pouring warm syrup over his neck, but it was kind of funny. Everything was dark.
He smelled the syrup. It was red syrup, a red smell. It was sluicing over his neck. Cherry, or strawberry or… He waited for April’s kiss.
TWO
And all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances
And where thy footstep gleams-
In what ethereal dances
By what eternal streams.
6:06 P.M.
Bat Bautista stepped from the Jeep Wrangler, gripping his nightstick so tightly that his hand seemed as heavy as concrete. His son Carlos romped on the front lawn, equal distance between Bat and Ozzy Austin.
“Come here, Carlos,” Bat said, his voice low and even.
The boy turned-a big grin shining on his face, a softball held in his hands. “Watch, Daddy!” Giggling, Carlos tossed the ball, and Ozzy Austin took two fast steps forward and caught it.
Austin slapped the softball from one hand to the other. “Want a little pepper, Bat?”
Bat ignored him. His attention was focused on his son. “Go inside, Carlos. It’s almost dinnertime.”
“Watch, Daddy! I’ll catch the pepper!” Carlos ran toward Austin. The big man wound up, his face a mask of bulldog determination, and then he tossed the ball nice and easy.
Carlos made a hobbling breadbasket catch. “See, Daddy, see!”
Bat said, “Do like I told you.”
Carlos held on to the ball. “Okay.” The boy looked at Austin. “Are you from Texas, Mr. Austin?”
Austin pushed his hat high on his forehead and looped his thumbs over his leather gun-belt. “No, I’m not, pardner.”
“I just ask because Austin is the capital of Texas. Did you know that, Mr. Austin?”
“I sure did. But only my name is from Texas. I’m from right here, just like your dad.”
“And you’re a policeman just like my dad, too.”
Austin glanced at Bat’s prison guard uniform, which was somewhere between washed-out brown and mustard, the unfortunate color of baby shit. “Well, I’m a different kind of policeman than your daddy.” He grinned. “Do you want to be a policeman when you grow up, Carlos?”
Bat’s fingers were going numb around the nightstick, and Austin’s words were burning his ears deep red. Enough was enough. “Carlos…go inside.”
“Yes,” Carlos said, but he was answering Austin’s question. “I want to be a policeman. My daddy says I can be one, too. Just like him. If I’m good.”
“Well, that means you have to do like your dad says. If you do that, your dad and me will swear you in and make you a li’l deputy.”
The boy’s eyes were wide, astonished. “You can do that?”
“Sure.”
“All right!” Carlos caught hold of the screen door and threw it open. He was halfway through the doorway before he turned and asked, “Daddy, is Officer Austin going to stay for dinner?”
Bat shook his head, glowering at Ozzy Austin’s dark blue uniform. He glanced to the street, but he saw no sign of a police cruiser. There was only a beat-up sedan pulled close to the concrete curb in front of his house. It had to be Austin’s car.
The cop wasn’t here in any official capacity, that much was plain.
Bat’s son had his answer; he sighed and closed the door. The two men stood on the lawn, separated by clumps of grass that were losing the battle to bindweed and clover. Both men wore gun belts. Both had clubs. Austin’s tonfa hung from his belt; Bat Bautista’s nightstick filled his concrete hand, and now the chipped black wood was slick with sweat.
“The boy’s smart,” Steve Austin said. “Knows his state capitals. How old is he?”
Bat studied Austin as he would study an insane person. “I’m only going to say this once. I want you to stay away from my family, and I want you to stay away from me.”
Austin snorted. “Jesus. I just dropped by for a friendly little chat. No need to get tense, Bat.” He took a step forward, one hand motioning toward the nightstick. “And why don’t you put that thing away? You never could hit worth a damn, you know. That was plain twenty-five years ago on the sandlot, and it’s plain here… Just look at the way you’re sweating.” He laughed, short and low. “I always thought it was funny, you being called ‘Bat’ when you had about as much chance of getting a piece of a pitch with a little old toothpick as you had with one of those aluminum cannons we used to swing.”