John Lutz - Fear the Night

Strong was wearing jeans, a western shirt, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. Dante had on jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt and was wearing a long-billed baseball cap.

Beside Dante, Strong slowed his pace slightly. He had his European single-shot breechloader broken down and balanced over his shoulder, freeing both his hands. This enabled him to remove his hat with his right hand and simultaneously swipe his left forearm across his forehead, where the hat’s leather brim had left a red indentation.

“Sun bother your scars?” he asked Dante.

Dante momentarily broke stride, surprised by the question. His burn-scarred face was something Strong never mentioned. Everyone on the ranch had learned not to mention it.

“Some,” he said, hoping Strong wasn’t going to pursue the subject.

“I been talking to some doctors in Phoenix,” Strong said. “Will you hear me out on what I learned?”

“Don’t I always hear you out?”

Strong smiled. “Yeah, I guess these days you do.”

“What kinda doctors?”

“The kind that can repair the damage to your face. It’s their specialty, helping people like you.”

Dante stopped walking. He swallowed. “I don’t wanna hear no more. Nothing about plastic surgeons.”

They began walking again. Strong said nothing for another dozen steps.

Then: “You scared?”

“It isn’t that.”

“Okay, we’ll let it drop.”

Neither of them spoke until they reached the truck.

“Not plastic surgeons, though,” Strong said, as they made sure their rifles were unloaded and placed them in padded cases, then in blankets in the pickup bed. “Cosmetic surgeons, they call themselves. They showed me pictures. They can show them to you. It’s amazing what they can do.”

“I thought we were gonna let it drop.”

Strong slapped the side of the pickup, startling Dante. “Listen, I know how you feel, and I’m only gonna push this so far. But I’m duty-bound because I’m fond of you, Dante. I want you to hear the facts, to think about them. Affection works both ways, you know. You really oughta give me a chance.”

Dante looked off to the horizon. The distant mountains were purple. The sun would be setting soon.

“I’ll listen,” he said.

For the next twenty minutes, then on the drive back to the ranch house, Strong told him what the doctors in Phoenix had said. They couldn’t make Dante perfect, but there’d been important advancements in dealing with scar tissue, and burn scar tissue in particular. They could make him normal.

It was dark when Strong parked the pickup alongside the tractor shed, in what he knew would be morning shade. He and Dante got out and walked around to the back of the vehicle to remove their rifles.

Strong smiled. “You gonna think on this, Dante?”

“Not much use. I’ve done some reading about it myself.”

“Then what do you mean, not much use?”

“I know how expensive it is. And I know I’m here because I don’t have any money.”

Strong removed his rifle from the back of the truck and shook his head. “I’ve got money, Dante.”

“Foundation money. You fix my face, you might have to do stuff for everyone here.”

“My money,” Strong said. “It’ll be my personal money.”

Dante stared at him in the dying orange light. “Why would you do that?”

Strong bit his lip. “Because I. . think of you as a son.” He reached out with his free hand and drew Dante close, hugging him.

Dante hugged him back. They stood that way for a long time, each awkwardly clinging to the other with the arm that didn’t hold a rifle.

Dante began to cry. Strong held him even closer until he gained control of his emotions.

It was several minutes before the sobbing stopped. By then Dante knew he’d do whatever Strong wanted.

He knew that this time the father-son bond would never break.

The present

Officer Michael Skeppy was dropped off by a radio car at his intersection at eight that evening. Con Ed was doing street repairs in midtown, and select strings of traffic signals were scheduled to go black a few minutes past eight and remain so until ten o’clock. For two hours, that section of Manhattan would have to do without electric signals and rely on old-fashioned traffic cops.

Skeppy had drawn the busy intersection of Fifty-fifth and Lexington. He stood on the corner observing the still-functioning traffic signals, noting that there were still a lot of vehicles on the street despite the end of the after-work rush. Pedestrians veered around Skeppy’s stolid blue form with a glance; he was as much a part of the New York scene as the Empire State Building or Radio City Music Hall-the fabled New York cop. You could buy into whichever fables you chose, from Serpico and corruption, to the Twin Towers and incredible heroism. Skeppy could study the faces passing him by and pretty much know what their owners thought. There were variations, unless they needed directions or had just had their pockets picked. When people needed help, the faces were the same.

A subtle change in the rhythm of the passing traffic, then the distant blaring of horns, told Skeppy that the signals up Lexington were going dark one by one. Time to do his thing. He waited for a break in traffic, then strode like an emperor out into the middle of the intersection, whistle clamped in his teeth.

He surveyed the traffic, reading what must be happening blocks away on Lexington, then gave a shrill blast with the whistle and took charge. He raised a hand and fixed the driver of a minivan with a neutral but stoic stare, stopping traffic from turning off Fifty-fifth onto Lexington. Then he waved on the twenty or so cars that had raced the last block to arrive at the intersection and were waiting at the blank signal.

Skeppy knew how to direct traffic. A part of him even enjoyed it, when the weather was good like this evening. He used his hand signals expertly, getting into the rhythm, extending a hand palm-out, using his other arm to wave through vehicles waiting to make a left turn. In heavy traffic, like tonight, it could be almost a dance. Skeppy didn’t hotdog it like some of the cops working traffic, but he definitely was into it. So much so that a few people stopped and watched his skillful ballet done to the tempo of traffic and the shrill music of his police whistle.

They watched him spin like a dancer and wave an arm gracefully but decisively for a stopped truck to make its left turn, then come square with Lexington traffic, and with a blast of his whistle summon waiting vehicles on with both hands raised to shoulder level. Husky as he was, he possessed the elegance, balance, and daring of a matador. Onlookers watched as he demonstrated an amused disdain for speeding cars that almost brushed his clothing as they passed. They watched him not so much ignore danger as embrace it.

They watched him drop to his knees, as a sudden, reverberating crack like near thunder rolled and echoed along the avenues.

Skeppy kneeled there with his arms limp at his sides as traffic streamed around him. A few drivers glanced over at him as they passed and their expressions changed slightly. Inside their cars they’d heard the report of a rifle and knowledge was beginning to sink in.

Onlookers up on the curb saw the blood on Skeppy’s chest and the growing puddle of scarlet at his knees. They saw the police whistle drop from his lips and dangle on its cord slung around his neck. Then they saw him pitch forward and his chest and face strike the concrete hard. He hadn’t moved his limp arms or turned his head to avoid contact with the pavement. There was a collective gasp when he fell, because the way he fell, everyone somehow knew he was already dead.