Crossover Earth '98
House Call
by Paul Cocker
As if in a relentless nightmare, Bernard Clute wishes he would wake up and dispel this torment. He tastes the clay of the planter that smashed over his head, the grit of it mixing with the hot taste of his own blood and the cold taste of his own defeat. A slight snicker, mad and maniacal, peals from the darkened corners of his living room, a toppled lamp casting a useless light across the hardwood floor. Unlike any nightmare, Bernard’s torment is real.
And the voice snickers.
Like a dying animal, instinct propels Bernard, and he drags himself across the shattered glass along the hallway. His trembling fingers searching for gaps, however so small, between oak planks. His breath coalesces in spurts of spittle, pink with blood. His failing muscles contract, and he pulls himself forward another few inches. Another few hopeless inches. For even in his home, at this time, he has nowhere left to hide.
The snicker is like a gunshot.
Bernard hears footsteps behind him, the tread is heavy yet limber, like a dancing bear. If only he can recognize their distinct rhythm.
The unknown figure pounces towards their final confrontation.
Barnard rolls against the shard-strewn ground. There is a dull metallic clang as his NYPD badge slips from his frail hand to fall through the grate of floor vent, lost forever, the shield eclipsed.
The snicker turns to a laugh.
Bernard heaves himself against a formless mass of ravaged bookshelf. The figure stands before him, a hulking frame curtained by the shadows of the dim-lit hallway. But clearly through the gloom, he sees the figure’s entire body grow cold and still. He sees lips curl back from pointed incisors and nostrils flare. The figure is a man. A looming three-hundred-pound man.
"Mastiff...how did you get in here?"
"Heh, it’s funny ya should ask. I’ve this theory that anyone can get in any building on the Middle and Upper West Side by leaning on the right buzzer, putting on the right accent, and saying ‘pizza guy’ in the intercom."
Bernard narrows his eyes against the dimness surrounding him, forcing himself to focus on Mastiff. At first, he sees nothing with eyes still bleary by the beating he has endured. Then his vision gradually regains clarity and he notices that the large man is not wearing his usual leather attire, but rather denim pants and a flannel shirt. More striking, however, Mastiff’s hands are protected by surgical gloves.
"Wh...Why?" Bernard asks in desperation.
Mastiff rolls his eyes. "C’mon, ya work for forensics. I’ve killed people. Do the friggin’ math."
"Puh...puh...please. You don’t have to do this. I can fix everything."
Mastiff snickers again as he crosses his arms before his massive chest. "Too late, little man. Ya know too much, ya have too much shit on me. Nah, the way I figured it, ya better dead. I mean, look at me. I’m wearing friggin’ latex gloves because of you."
Bernard feels a chill run through his body as the large man smiles at him. He can see it all in that smile, knowing without doubt that death is imminent. Mastiff’s smile is gleeful, not forced. People driven by life’s circumstances into crime, they have a tight-lipped grimace about them that is disturbing and sad. This is different, a look Bernard had seen rarely himself but still all too many times in his life. It is the look of anticipation, of sadism.
"My wife...?"
"In the bedroom. Ya wanna say goodbye?"
Before Bernard can even muster an answer, powerful arms lift him off the ground. Mastiff carries him down the hall and throws him before the bedroom doorway. Bernard looks up to see his wife lying motionless across the width of the bed in a drying stain of her own blood. Her throat has been slashed from ear to ear, the jugular vein severed. Her nose is broken, maybe also her jaw -- certainly many teeth. Viscous streaks of crimson graffiti mark the walls and cake the closet door. Bernard’s lips tremble with cold, with trauma, with loss beyond anything he has felt before. He cannot form the words he needs to say, the apology he must make for the failure his life has become.
Bernard howls in rage, fear, and despair.
Bernard senses Mastiff pad across the floor to stand at his side but can do nothing. He feels cold rubber-covered fingers across his face. At first they are gentle, almost a farewell caress, and then the barrel of a gun pressed hard against his bloodied cheek. He wills his battered arm to obey him, to claw at Mastiff’s face, but he is like a child trying to fend off an adult. His legs fumble and kick, but to no avail.
"Thadda boy, kick and scream." Mastiff laughs.
Bernard continues to struggle, and the madman allows him to do just that. In fact, he enjoys every hopeless attempt Bernard’s musters.
"Yeah, yeah, your wife looks pretty bad," Mastiff says, "but I thought it’d fit. Gotta make this look like a household quarrel or something. Figured there’s lotta feelings with family members. Figured a heated argument could get nasty, with emotions running hot. Hell, you’re the specialist, ya know what I’m talking about. A burglar would stab and run, it’s the loved ones that are victims of savagery. Heh heh, so I thought I’d make it authentic like, ya know."
Bernard says nothing. His head collapses into his cradled hands, and he cries.
Mastiff turns away from Bernard, focusing on the butcher knife on the bedside table. He shakes his head guiltily. "Figured ya had a struggle with the old lady. Ya shook her around a bit and she fought back. It then started to get rough, real rough, ending with ya cutting her up like a carved turkey. But she tried to defend herself. Ya know, with the .22 you keep in the dresser drawer."
Bernard ignores his words, his eyes swelling as tears sting his face.
"Well, catch ya on the flipside, eh?"
Bernard feels the trigger press down, the springs within the gun becoming taut. Then there is darkness.