I make the jump from his building to its neighbor, and then over one more before I collapse. The roof's covered with gravel, but I can barely feel it digging into my skin. Cramps pull me into a fetal position, and I've got the shakes so bad that my teeth start to rattle.
It's a long time before I calm down.
It's even longer before I'm scratching at Christ's window.
As I tell Chris about what happened, I start to remember things I saw in Newman's bedroom, things I hadn't noticed when I'd scouted the place out earlier.
"It's going to be okay," Chris tells me.
"But he's seen me."
By which I mean: Now the monsters know I exist.
"Don't worry," Chris says. "What's he going to do? All he saw was a masked woman. It's not like he can recognize you. It's not like there's any way he can find you. He's probably more scared of you than you are of him."
"I don't think so," I say.
On Newman's night table: The police-issue .38 in its well-worn holster. The billfold with the shape of a badge worn into the leather.
"Newman's a cop," I tell Chris.
I remember more: What he was saying about payoffs.
"A crooked cop," I add.
"Oh, shit."
We both know what can happen. Newman can have an APB put out on me. He can make up any old story he likes about why I'm wanted and they'll believe him. Christ, he can tell the truth and I'll still have every cop in the city out looking for me. The police don't take kindly to anyone assaulting one of their own.
I'm bone-tired, but I know what I have to do. Chris tries to stop me when I get up and head for the window, but I turn around and look at him.
"What else can I do?" I ask him.
"You're in no condition to—"
He's actually a really race guy, even though he acts a bit too much like a mother. I can see why kids, even abused kids, like him and trust him.
"I know," I say. "But I don't have any choice."
I'm out the window before he can stop me. I make my way back across town to the roof of the building across from Newman's. The September wind's cold, but I can't feel it through my bodysuit. Don't need it to be chilled anyway. I've got apiece of ice inside me and that's what's making me shiver.
I know I should wait until I'm stronger, but I'm not so sure I'm ever going to get any stronger. I get the feeling that I'm wasting away, as inexorably as the cancer that took Annie.
I wait, crouching there on the rooftop, until I see the light in Newman's bedroom go off. I'm like a ghost coming down the side of the building and crossing the street. I don't feel strong, at least not physically. But I'm determined, and I hope that'll count for something.
7
When I get outside Newman's window, I realize he's not asleep. I can sense him sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, gun in hand, watching the window. He knew I'd be back.
So I go in through a window on the other side of the apartment. My entire being is focused on what I'm doing. Keeping silent. Staying strong— at least long enough to tidy up the mess I've made of things. His wife never stirs as I slip by her bed and out into the hall. I pass his daughter's bedroom and that helps. She makes a little moan in her sleep. The plaintive sound brings everything into sharper focus— why I'm here, what I'm doing— and makes it easier for me to concentrate on getting it over with.
Newman's attention is fixed on the window of his bedroom. He never hears me come in the door and sidle my way alongside the wall to where he's sitting. I'm sure of it. But something— sixth sense, cop smarts— has him turn just as I'm reaching for him.
"What the fuck are you?" he says as he brings up the gun. The bandage on his hand is a white flash in the dark.
Stupid, I think. I'm so stupid. I still wanted to make a try at keeping this clean. Step into his private place and shut him down instead of cutting him open. And maybe I can.
I grab his hand, the one holding the gun, skin to skin. Contact.
Everything stops. He can't shoot me, I can't claw him. We're locked in a space between our heads. Not his private place, but somewhere else. There's a sudden shift of vertigo, a crazy quilt strobing in my eyes, and then we're somewhere else again. It takes me a few moments to realize what's happened.
We're in someone's head, all right, but it's mine. This is my own dreaming place.
I've never tried to step inside when the monster was awake before. It's so easy to make the transition when they're asleep, dreaming. But Newman was so focused, his will so strong, that even though he couldn't have a clue as to what he was doing, he's managed to push me out of his head and then follow me back into my own.
I can't seem to do anything right tonight.
I try to take us back out again, but it's no good. I give Newman a shove and he goes sprawling. As soon as he hits the ground, that crazy-quilt-spinning starts up again. When it finally settles down, things have changed once more.
My dreaming place looks like the kitchen in the house where I grew up. I took for Newman, but he's gone. My father there in his place. He's standing there, weaving slightly from side to side, grinning at me, smelling like a brewery.
"Time to even the score," he says, slurring the words but not so much that I can't understand them.
He takes a step toward me, mad drunk gleam in his eyes, and I lose it. This is too much for me.
I never dealt with what happened to me as a child. I just left home as soon as I could. When I remade contact with my parents— before I told them I was gay— we all just pretended that all the drinking and screaming and beatings had never, happened. That was just the way it worked, I thought. Keep the family unit whole, no matter what the cost.
But I never forgot. And I never forgave. And seeing him like this now, it's like I've stepped right back into the past and all the years between were just a dream. Except I'm not powerless anymore. When he hits me, I don't have to take it. I don't have to cringe and try to hide from his fists. Not anymore. Not ever again.
With his first blow, all of my animal rage comes tearing through me and I lash back at him. My fingers are clawed, taloned, killing weapons. It's like I have rabies. I cut him down and I'm still slashing at him, long after he's fallen to the ground. Long after he's dead. There's blood everywhere. And there's this screaming that just goes on and on and on.
I think it's me screaming, I know it's me, until I fall out of my head and I'm back in Newman's bedroom. I'm crouched over his savaged corpse, snarling and growling, and then I realize how wrong I've been. It's not me screaming. It's not me at all.
I see her in the doorway, the monster's daughter. The screams stop when I turn to look at her, but then I see her go away. She folds away inside herself, going deeper and deeper, until there's just this blank-eyed child standing there, everything that ever animated her walled away against the night creature that snuck into her Dad's bedroom and tore him apart.
Doesn't matter what he did to her. That's gone, swallowed by the more horrible image of what's been done to him.
I stagger to my feet, but I don't even think of trying to comfort her. I almost fall through the window, trying to get out. And then I just flee. Run blind. I'll do anything to get rid of those emptied eyes, their blank stare, but they follow me, out into the night.
I know I'll carry them with me for the rest of my life.
When I finally stop running, the cramps hit me. I lie on my side and throw up. I'm still dry-heaving long after my stomach's empty, but I can't get rid of what's inside me that easily. The guilt's just going to lie there and fester and never go away.