Seldom Seen in August

Kealan Patrick Burke SELDOM SEEN IN AUGUST

CHAPTER ONE

Sirens wailed three blocks away.

Garden railings and high wooden fences whipped past Wade as he ran, his feet pumping the earth hard enough to send bone-jarring jolts through his legs. Frantic, he cast desperate glances at the houses whose backyards let out on either side of him. Each one seemed to be a carbon copy of the other, their windows visible over the fences like the eyes of mischievous children. They all appeared new too, which made sense to Wade. After all, he’d lived in this city his whole life, knew its highways and byways as if the veins on the back of his hand were a topographical map, and couldn’t remember ever seeing a street called Seldom Seen Drive before. He figured it had materialized while he was in jail. Good thing he didn’t give a shit about preserving Harperville’s historical assets or he might have taken offense at the audacity of the city’s planners, because if memory served, an old cathedral had once occupied the space where now stood about sixty cookie cutter homes. Whoever had purchased the lot had apparently done so without fear of divine retribution, and though Wade appreciated that kind of balls-to-the-wall confidence, he had no time to ponder it.

As he ran, the gaps between the fences made the neatly manicured lawns flicker like projections from a vintage show reel. Here and there he saw brightly colored toys scattered in the grass, or doghouses missing their dogs, the chains snaking into the grass and ending in nothing, as if the animals had burrowed down into the earth and died there.

Breath like fire in his lungs, he picked up the pace, sweat running freely down his back, dripping from beneath his arms, slithering into his eyes in an effort to blind him. The midday sun was a helicopter spotlight roasting the skin on the nape of his neck. In a body that felt like it was cresting a thousand degrees, the only cool spot was at the base of his spine, where his revolver was tucked snugly into the waistband of his jeans.

All the gates appeared to be locked, and all the locks looked the same. Wade wondered idly if the community had a pre-approved list of merchants they dealt with for such things, and thought he wouldn’t survive a minute in such an anal-retentive neighborhood.

The alley between the rows of houses seemed endless, but the sirens kept him moving. Sooner or later it would open out onto a larger street—Kendrick Avenue, if he remembered correctly—and then he’d be even more exposed. And that was not good, not when the cops were so goddamn close. He had to find a place to hide, if only for a little while, just long enough for the cops to expand the radius of their search somewhere other than right up his ass.

He was thinking clearly and that was good, because the adrenaline was doing its best to disorientate him, making him feel as if he was a cartoon character, fleeing for miles past a looping, unchanging background.

Sirens wailed two blocks away.

Dammit. Rather than quicken his pace, he slowed to a jog. This was getting him nowhere, because although he had kept himself in shape over the years and could easily run for another ten miles if he had to, the reality of the situation was this: He was on foot, the cops were in cruisers. How long did he think it would take them to catch up? The only reason they hadn’t already done so was because he suspected they weren’t entirely sure where he’d gone, so for a brief time, the advantage had been his. But it wouldn’t take much looking to spot him, thus, whatever he was going to do would have to be done fast.

You’ve got a gun, chief, he told himself. Use it. You’re surrounded by houses. Houses with people in them. People who have cars and can be persuaded to transfer ownership.

The jog became a trot that became nothing. He stood still, the sirens sundering the hazy air around him. He had maybe five minutes before those cruisers came tearing through the alley. He looked at the nearest gate to his right. Locked, just like the others. It also seemed that every single one of the gates had a BEWARE OF DOG placard screwed onto it, as if having a mutt was a requirement of occupancy here in Stepford. A moment of scanning, however, revealed a gate a few houses down that didn’t. Remembering the dog-less chains and vacant kennels, he decided this was the safer bet. It wouldn’t do to break into a yard and get mauled, a possibility that might still be realized if it turned out the sign had simply fallen down, or been blown off. His options scarce, he decided to take the chance and made his way toward it.

He wasn’t surprised to see yet another padlock.

He reached for his gun then thought better of it. The sound of the shot would be like a public announcement, and besides, shooting locks only worked in the movies. In real life, chances were if the bullet hit the hard steel casing, it would bounce right back and put a hole in him. He thought about using the butt of the gun as a hammer, but that didn’t seem reasonable either. It would take too long and his hands were so sweaty he didn’t have much faith in his ability to keep a hold on the barrel.

Wade put a hand to the wood, craned his neck to peer at the width of the slats and nodded one time.

To hell with it. He positioned himself squarely before the gate, drew back and delivered a solid kick to the panel just beneath the padlock. The lock rattled, stayed intact, but the panel itself swung in from the bottom like a cat-flap. Another kick to the adjacent panel and he had a gap wide enough to squeeze through, which he did without pausing to look for splinters or jagged spars of wood that might cut his throat. Once inside, he cast a quick look over the house for a sign that his less-than-subtle entry had alerted someone, then, satisfied that the eyes of the windows had developed no unwelcome pupils, he quickly inspected the gate. The first panel was still attached, albeit barely; the second had been blown out entirely. That wouldn’t do. Leaving it as it was would be as good as erecting for the cops a sign with an arrow pointing toward the house. He made a hasty but serviceable job of setting the panels so they appeared undamaged. Of course, all it would take would be a nudge and the hole would reveal itself, but with any luck he’d be long gone from here before anyone thought to try. Plucking the largest of the splinters from the grass and pocketing them, he moved fast and low toward the house, one hand behind his back, fingers pressed against the butt of the gun.

A pair of garden gnomes, their bearded faces split wide by identical smiles, regarded him without judgment as he stepped onto the pristine patio and hurried into the cool shadow thrown like a dirty rug at the foot of the house. To his right was a koi pond, the colorful fish wavering lazily in an artificial current among polished stones made rough by algae. A stunted elm leaned over to gaze into the water. From one of its palsied branches hung a quartet of fake robins spinning in eternal circles, their route dictated by a motorized brass hoop. One of the robins was missing a leg, which Wade found oddly amusing despite the uncomfortable feeling of familiarity that came, he could only assume, from seeing so many bloody yards and their inane accoutrements.

He was startled then by the screech of tires and the staticky squawk of a radio from somewhere up the street.

Shit. They were almost on top of him, and he congratulated himself on having the sense to make the gate appear unbroken. With one hand still behind his back, he grabbed the gun, hefted it and hurried to the pair of sliding glass doors directly ahead of him. Only darkness showed within. Cupping his hands around his face he peered inside. He could just about make out the hunched silhouettes of furniture, the dull gleam of a mirror, but no movement, which didn’t mean that someone wasn’t in there, just that he stood a better chance of gaining access before anyone noticed.

Yeah, right.

There were any number of flaws in his plan, and though he tried not to think about them, they persisted, driven by self-preservation to remind him of the risk.

The door might be alarmed.

Someone might be waiting inside, hidden in the shadows with a gun aimed at where Wade now stood second guessing himself.

One of the neighbors might be watching him, a phone to their ear as they quickly related to the emergency operator what they had seen, and were seeing still.

Paranoia brought upon him the undeniable sensation of being watched. He felt it like lying like a cape across