Somewhere in the night
shadows he saw something move. He
thought the worst but then an alley cat squeezed between two ash cans
and ran across his path. In the dark it
looked like a black cat, but he was not one to believe in superstitions.
Home was only half a mile
from the gym where the Saturday-night dances were always held. Tonight it
seemed like miles. I should've listened to my old man. So I missed the
dance. Vickie wasn't there anyway.
What had convinced her not to
go should have convinced him.
"I figured we raised a
bright kid," his father had said sarcastically to his mother. "More
like an idiot. I mean, there's a lunatic out there, a serial murderer, for
crissake! An escapee from Graystone, and this kid's going to a dance!"
"So tell him not to
go," his mother said, tired of hearing him holler. It sounded to her like
the obvious solution, but Pete's father was never big on the obvious.
"You want to go to the
dance? You want to be a big man and risk having your heart ripped out by some
psycho? Go ahead. You got my blessings, Hot Shot!"
So here he was, close to
midnight, on the way back from a dance less than uneventful. How quiet the
night was! All he could hear was his heart pounding in his chest, throbbing in
his forehead like a flickering light. He was scared, no doubt about that. Two
days now Van Kreiten was, as his old man said, on the loose. For all Pete knew,
he could be right here in Randolph, hungry for a killing, sniffing out the fear
smell of one more victim.
Vickie. He let himself think of pretty Vickie in biology
class. His dork friend Walter said Vickie liked him. Vickie had told Walter and
Walter had told him. She loved to dance. She told Walter that, too, so
the dance made sense.
But now, only eight blocks
from his house, Pete wasn't so sure. Thinking about a warm bed, a safe home,
the doors locked, he wished his old man had put his foot down and said,
"No way, Kid. You ain't going no place!" as he usually did. The smell
of the night air told him snow was coming. Maybe not snow. Maybe just that kind
of bitter cold that cut like a knife. A knife. He touched his chest to make
sure it was still there, safe and ready
in case he needed to use it. His hunting knife. A beauty. It rested inside his
suit jacket pocket and he prayed to God he would not have to take it from its
sheath and use it to try and kill a killer. Still, he felt safe.
When he reached Cottonwood
Drive, he thought he saw the tall shadow of a man
mingling with the shadow of a
sycamore tree. He wasn't sure. Oh, God, I am almost home. Let me get there.
Don't let this be Van Kreiten setting me up. But when he got to the tree, the man shadow
was gone; only the tree shadow was there with its stretching branch arms
reaching out to seize the stars.
Pete let himself take a deep
cold breath, then realized he had assumed too much. The man shadow was back or
it was another shadow. It was somewhere up ahead, and from where he was
standing––trembling in his new black suede shoes––he noticed it suddenly
disappear.
It made sense to take a
different street home. He listened to the sound of his silver cleats almost
musical against the pavement and it made him regret again his pigheaded
insistence on going to that dance. He exhaled the white air from his mouth in
trembling bursts. Again he touched the hunting knife and promised himself he'd
use it if push came to shove. No way he’d lie down and die. He'd go down
fighting if he had to.
Then at Brighton Road the man
shadow in the distance re-appeared so Pete ducked the other way and headed into
Seaford Street. Before long he saw him again, coming closer, illumined by the
full brightness of the full moon. This time, almost running, Pete moved himself
down another street––a narrow one, a street he hardly knew, and shaped his back
against a side wall of a school and waited. Cautiously from his side pocket he
extracted the knife, shimmied it out of its cowhide holder, teasing his thumb
against the sharp edge. All the while he waited for the man shadow to find the
end of the narrow street where Pete now stood backed against the wall and ready
to do or die.
Before the sound of
footsteps, he thought he heard his name called out from somewhere, which he
discounted as wishful thinking that it was his father's voice, his father come
to save him. So close to home and yet so far. I am not going to die. I am
not going to die. All the while he squeezed the hilt of the knife, gripped
it, aimed it in the direction of what soon enough would be the enemy.
Finally, out there in the
darkness, the man shadow grew shorter and shorter as it approached where Pete
braced himself against the grey brick wall. No time to waste. Strike first
or be struck; kill or be killed.
Pete waited only a few more
tense moments, long enough for the shadow to pass through the narrow street. He
did not trust himself to turn away from the wall and take a hard look at the
shadow's face. There'd be time for that later. For now he timed it all, started
trembling again, felt the sweat like frost coat his forehead. Suddenly the
echoing footsteps died out; the shadow cast upon the opposite wall seemed to
freeze motionless and Pete seizing the moment, pivoted away from the wall with
his knife high above his head, and began stabbing away at the man shadow now a
flesh-and-blood man––blood spurting hot and thick against Pete's face.
Now he stood above the figure
crumpled on the pavement.
In the darkness Pete moved
aside. He noticed the glow from a streetlight giving some definition to what
lay at his feet. Though he felt safe now, his heart still pounded.
When he looked at his right
hand, he saw the knife still within his tight fist and, as if
scalded, he pitched the
hunting knife away.
What does a serial killer
look like? He turned the body over.
Then he heard his name again, but this time it wasn't far away at all.
At his feet, not yet dead,
his voice a strained whisper that voiced itself in labored gasps, the victim
could barely be heard.
"I came to bring you
home. Your mother and me––we was worried
'bout our boy."
Salvatore Buttaci is an
obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared in such venues as The
New York Times, Newsday, U.S.A. Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine,
and widely elsewhere in America and overseas. A
retired teacher and professor, he was the recipient of the $500
Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. Buttaci has lectured on Sicilian American pride
and conducted poetry workshops and readings.
A retired teacher, Buttaci
lives in West Virginia with Sharon, the love of his life.
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