Carlin Romano: Philadelphia Noir

The man crashed through the kitchen door, lunging as Richard brought the knife down with all the force he could muster. The man yelped, like a dog, and stumbled back onto the counter as the blood from his wounded arm soaked through his shirt.

“Richard!” Corrine yelled from the bedroom.

“Stay there,” Richard managed to bark out as he slashed the man’s cheek with a sideways stroke of the knife.

The man ducked when Richard swung the knife back in the other direction. His fist pounded Richard’s kidney, knocking the breath from his body and forcing him back into a cabinet. The man rushed toward him. Richard gripped the knife with both hands and swung upward. The man grunted, and warm blood flowed from the ragged gash that extended the length of his stomach.

A second passed, then two. Richard’s heart beat wildly. The weight of the dead man pressed against him, pushing him into the cabinet as the blood saturated his clothes. The wind moaned and whisked through the broken glass in the kitchen. The rain fell in a thousand tiny drumbeats, tapping out its own timeless percussion.

As Richard pushed the man’s body to the floor, another sound tore through the house, biting into him like nails against a blackboard. The sound was Corrine. She was screaming.

“Help me!” she shrieked, and the wind seemed to fade into the echo of her voice.

Richard turned and ran toward the bedroom, slipping on the blood-soaked linoleum of the kitchen floor. He ran, pushing himself toward the sound of his wife screaming. He ran, forgetting the body that lay in his kitchen, the pain shooting from his side, the blood covering his hands. He had only to get to Corrine. And when he did-when his feet had carried him up the steps and into the bedroom-all he could see was a shadow in the darkness, straddling his wife as she struggled to free herself from its grip.

Richard charged into the room, slashing into the back of Corrine’s assailant with the knife. The man rolled onto the floor, arching his back against the pain when Richard brought the knife down again. Corrine joined the fray, her tiny fists striking the man’s head angrily. Richard pushed her away and raised the knife high into the air-a madness playing in his eyes as he delivered the killing blow.

A split second passed. Then something whistled through the air. Richard was momentarily blinded by a white flash of light as a burning sensation gripped the back of his leg. He dropped the knife and grabbed at the bullet wound, then turned around to see yet another shadow coming toward him.

Corrine screamed when the shadowy figure aimed a gun with a silencer. There was another whistling sound. This time, the heat glanced Richard’s shoulder. He reached for Corrine. There was a final silenced shot, and as the shooter lowered his weapon and retreated down the stairs and into the windswept rain, Corrine’s blood spilled onto Richard.

He wrapped his arms around his wife, and as her eyes went vacant, Richard’s mind went to a place he thought he’d forgotten. It was a place with bullets flying, people running, tires screeching, and a hell-bound cloud of black smoke filling the air.

He winced, not at the pain he was now experiencing from the wound in his leg, but at the pain he had once caused. Then he pulled a T-shirt from his drawer and wrapped the wound tightly, clenching his jaw while he tried to ignore the pain of the present and the past.

Suddenly, he saw a light penetrate the darkness. He looked down slowly and realized that his iPhone was glowing through his pocket as a text message came through. The light was like an alarm, awakening something that Richard had long since laid to rest. He watched it blink for a few seconds more. Then he pulled the phone from his pocket and saw his memories come to life.

No matter where you go, we’ll always find you , the message said. We’re attached, Richard. We’re family. Now leave the houseand come out through the back door. We’ll be waiting .

There was no number. The text was from a private caller. Not that he needed a number to know who they were. After eight years, they’d found him, just like he’d always known they would.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and kissed his wife’s cold lips. “Goodbye, Corrine.”

Richard took off his wedding ring and placed it gently against her breast. Then he rooted under the bed for the 9mm Ruger he’d always kept, waiting for this day to come.

He snapped in a clip and chambered a round, quickly throwing on a T-shirt and sneakers. He took a deep breath and told himself it didn’t matter if he made it through the night. By daybreak, his past would be buried, one way or another.

Richard held the gun at his side and crawled down the steps to the kitchen. The dead man who’d crashed through the window was still slumped against the counter. Richard made his way over to him the way he’d been taught, flat against the ground and pulling himself forward with his forearms.

Quickly, he searched the body. In his right pocket, there was nothing. In his left, there was a Glock 9mm with a silencer. Richard took it, then crawled to the stove, extinguished the pilot, and turned the knob.

“Richard!”

The voice calling from outside his house was familiar. It was a sadistic verbal smirk that was at once arrogant and deadly.

Richard didn’t answer.

“Come on out, Richard,” the man said. “We can talk.”

Richard knew that talking was the last thing they would do. He had crossed the line with them. And once you crossed the line with people such as these, there was no turning back, there was no statute of limitations, and there was no reprieve. They could never allow him to live. He knew it, and they knew it. So as the kitchen filled with gas, Richard ripped a piece of cloth from his pant leg and wrapped it around his face. Then he knelt down next to the dead man and hoisted him up from his seat on the floor.

As his wounded leg began to throb, sweat dripped down into his eyes. The rain seemed to tap harder against the broken glass. The wind whipped up angrily. He counted to three. Then he was up, running toward the door and bursting through it as he held the dead body like a shield.

Bullets whistled from muzzles equipped with silencers. A barrage poured in through the kitchen window, sparking a blast that ignited the house and lit the night sky.

Richard dropped the body and leaped to his left, running across 33rd Street and into the park. The rain poured down thicker, and as four men emerged from the gutted school bus at the old tire shop across the street, they lost sight of him for just a second. It was long enough for him to disappear.

“Okay, he’s in the park,” said the hefty man with the smirk in his voice. “My guess is he went southwest, but I think he’s hit, so he couldn’t have gotten far. Tyson and Robinson, you two take the right side of Reservoir Drive. Me and Montgomery will search the woods on the left.”

“And if we find him before you do?” Tyson asked.

“Try to take him alive.”

The men fanned out and melted into the shadows of the blackout while Richard disappeared into the park. He passed by the driving range with its dilapidated caddy shack and ancient golf cart. He moved through the heavy foliage surrounding the Frisbee golf course. He heard sirens from fire engines and police cars blaring in the distance.

As the pain from the bullet wound in the back of his leg intensified, he stopped with his back to a tree, panting and looking over his shoulder at the flames from his burning house. He imagined Corrine, trapped inside without him, her body being consumed by the fire. The thought of it was grisly, but he’d gladly trade places with her now, because the hell of living without her was far more severe than the flames that were cooking her flesh.