Darkfall

“This time they caught him.”

“Too late for you.”

“Much too late. But it was after that when I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a cop, so I could stop people like that junkie, stop them from killing the mothers and fathers of other little girls and boys. There weren't women cops back then, you know, not real cops, just office workers in police stations, radio dispatchers, that sort of thing. I had no role models. But I knew I'd make it someday. I was determined. All the time I was growing up, there was never once when I thought about being anything else but a cop. I never even considered getting married, being a wife, having kids, being a mother, because I knew someone would only come along and shoot my husband or take my kids away from me or take me away from my kids. So what was the point in it? I would be a cop. Nothing else. A cop. And that's what I became. I think I felt guilty about my father's murder. I think I believed that there must've been something I could have done that day to save him. And I know I felt guilty about my mother's death. I hated myself for not giving the police a better description of the man who shot my dad, hated myself for being numb and useless, because if I had been of more help to them, maybe they'd have gotten the guy before he killed Mama. Being a cop, stopping other creeps like that junkie, it was a way to atone for my guilt. Maybe that's amateur psychology. But not far off the mark. I'm sure it's part of what motivates me.”

“But you haven't any reason at all to feel guilty,” Jack assured her. “You did all you possibly could've done. You were only six!”

“I know. I understand that. But the guilt is there nevertheless. Still sharp, at times. I guess it'll always be there, fading year by year, but never fading away altogether.”

Jack was, at last, beginning to understand Rebecca Chandler — why she was the way she was. He even saw the reason for the overstocked refrigerator; after a childhood filled with so much bad news and unanticipated shocks and instability, keeping a well-supplied larder was one way to buy at least a small measure of security, a way to feel safe. Understanding increased his respect and already deep affection for her. She was a very special woman.

He had a feeling that this night was one of the most important of his life. The long loneliness after Linda's passing was finally drawing to an end. Here, with Rebecca, he was making a new beginning. A good beginning. Few men were fortunate enough to find two good women and be given two chances at happiness in their lives. He was very lucky, and he knew it, and that knowledge made him exuberant. In spite of a day filled with blood and mutilated bodies and threats of death, he sensed a golden future out there ahead of them. Everything was going to work out fine, after all. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing could go wrong now.

X

“Kill them, kill them,” Lavelle said.

His voice echoed down into the pit, echoed and echoed, as if it had been cast into a deep shaft.

The indistinct, pulsing, shifting, amorphous floor of the pit suddenly became more active. It bubbled surged, churned. Out of that molten, lavalike substance — which might have been within arm's reach or, instead, miles below — something began to take shape.

Something monstrous.

XI

“When your mother was killed, you were only—”

“Seven years old. Turned seven the month before she died.”

“Who raised you after that?”

“I went to live with my grandparents, my mother's folks.”

“Did that work out?”

“They loved me. So it worked for a while.”

“Only for a while?”

“My grandfather died.”

“Another death?”

“Always another one.”

“How?”

“Cancer. I'd seen sudden death already. It was time for me to learn about slow death.”

“How slow?”

“Two years from the time the cancer was diagnosed until he finally succumbed to it. He wasted away, lost sixty pounds before the end, lost all his hair from the radium treatments. He looked and acted like an entirely different person during those last few weeks. It was a ghastly thing to watch.”

“How old were you when you lost him?”

“Eleven and a half.”

“Then it was just you and your grandmother.”

“For a few years. Then she died when I was fifteen.

Her heart. Not real sudden. Not real slow, either. After that, I was made a ward of the court. I spent the next three years, until I was eighteen, in a series of foster homes. Four of them, in all. I never got close to any of my foster parents; I never allowed myself to get close. I kept asking to be transferred, see. Because by then, even as young as I was, I realized that loving people, depending on them, needing them, is just too dangerous. Love is just a way to set you up for a bad fall. It's the rug they pull out from under you at the very moment you finally decide that everything's going to be fine. We're all so ephemeral. So fragile. And life's so unpredictable.”

“But that's no reason to insist on going it alone,” Jack said. “In fact, don't you see — that's the reason we must find people to love, people to share our lives with, to open our hearts and minds to, people to depend on, cherish, people who'll depend on us when they need to know they're not alone. Caring for your friends and family, knowing they care for you — that's what keeps our minds off the void that waits for all of us. By loving and letting ourselves be loved, we give meaning and importance to our lives; it's what keeps us from being just another species of the animal kingdom, grubbing for survival. At least for a short while, through love, we can forget about the goddamned darkness at the end of everything.”

He was breathless when he finished — and astonished by what he had said, startled that such an understanding had been in him.

She slipped an arm across his chest. She held him fast.

She said, “You're right. A part of me knows that what you've said is true.”

“Good.”

“But there's another part of me that's afraid of letting myself love or be loved, ever again. The part that can't bear losing it all again. The part that thinks loneliness is preferable to that kind of loss and pain.”

“But see, that's just it. Love given or love taken is never lost,” he said, holding her. “Once you've loved someone, the love is always there, even after they're gone. Love is the only thing that endures. Mountains are torn down, built up, torn down again over millions and millions of years. Seas dry up. Deserts give way to new seas. Time crumbles every building man erects. Great ideas are proven wrong and collapse as surely as castles and temples. But love is a force, an energy, a power. At the risk of sounding like a Hallmark card, I think love is like a ray of sunlight, traveling for all eternity through space, deeper and deeper into infinity; like that ray of light, it never ceases to exist. Love endures. It's a binding force in the universe, like the energy within a molecule is a binding force, as surely as gravity is a binding force. Without the cohesive energy in a molecule, without gravity, without love-chaos. We exist to love and be loved, because love seems to me to be the only thing that brings order and meaning and light to existence. It must be true. Because if it isn't true, what purpose do we serve? Because if it isn't true — God help