RANDOM SCENE
| AUTHOR'S NOTE: This here is a random SCENE (not a complete story) that I wrote for some reason, from one of my D Is For Damien novels. I'm not certain which one it's from but it's probably from around the time of The Ties That Bind, post-Scorpio Murders (circa 1998). I know that this isn't the most interesting scene; plus the second part of this is incredibly vague, with confusing references to two "he's"--there's a reason for that, as you'll see. Just felt like posting it.
Potential spoilers: Trooper Broderick's wife and little daughter were murdered quite a while back; his son, away at the time, was the only survivor. The two have never gotten along and he left home. Broderick (he is Luther's uncle for anyone who has checked out my other Damien stuff) took to drinking heavily shortly after the murders. In this scene, years later, his son Jordan has returned unannounced and the only one home to greet him is Anna Clare, who has been living at Broderick's house. Broderick comes home to find... 
TROOPER BRODERICK GOT out of the Blazer, slamming the door shut behind him and going up the walk and the steps to his house. He pulled out his keys as he reached for the doorknob--and froze. Even as he'd been looking for the housekey his hand had instinctively flexed over the knob, twisting it slightly, and it was now clear that it was unlocked. He never left the door unlocked. Especially not in recent times. Not that Anna Clare was staying there. And he knew that she wouldn't have left the door unlocked either. His other hand replaced the keys and went for his gun. He unsnapped the holster and pulled it out, keeping it aimed away but ready. His whole body had tensed on finding the door unlocked; now he twisted the knob slowly, pushing the door open and sliding silently inside. He held the gun with both hands out in front of him now, ready to shoot. His eyes scanned the den and kitchen. They were both empty, though his mind's eye was projecting images of blood spattered all over the floor and wall of the former, and something lying in the middle of that blood-- He turned to the stairway. There was no blood there, either, though he could almost see a faint trail of it, leading upwards. That made no sense as there had never been a trail of blood leading up the steps; but it was what he thought he could see, in any case. His senses must have been preternaturally tuned by now, as he heard a very faint noise from upstairs. He knew that it could be Anna--probably was--but he also knew it could be something else. There was no reason that door should be unlocked. Any reason why it should be must be a bad one. That was the way it had been last time. He took the first step and paused, listening; a faint rustling. After a moment he continued up the stairs, his finger tensed over the trigger, completely silent. When he reached the top of the steps he paused again. The noise was louder now; it sounded like the pages of a book turning. It wasn't coming from his bedroom, though, which, besides downstairs, he knew was the place Anna preferred to keep to. It was coming from further down the hall--his son's old room. His grip on the gun grew tighter. He slipped past his bedroom, not daring to look inside; the door was shut, and he knew that if he looked inside now and found something horrible, he'd never make it all the way down the hall. His mind would just have to wait to find out what might be in there until after he'd found out what was down there. The door was slightly open. That also wasn't right; he'd kept it shut for as long as he could remember. As he approached, the flipping sound didn't abate; whoever was in there must be taking their time. That would be their mistake. Bringing his gun up to the ready, he slowly crept forward, taking one step, then another...
He was looking through an old photo album, with old family pictures; the pictures seemed much older than they really were with how drastically things had changed since it happened. He smiled wistfully over a few, frowned at a few others; most of them he just looked at with a blank expression, forcing himself not to get maudlin or sentimental now that it didn't much matter anymore. He'd been worried about entrance into the house at first; but it hadn't been empty, a woman with dark hair, wary eyes, and a very soft voice had answered his knocks, asking what she could do to help him. That had surprised him; he'd never even seen her before, and at first had thought he must be gone after all. But he'd mentioned his name and she'd given him a look, up and down, finally coming back to his eyes; and that must have decided her as she'd opened the door and let him in, though still keeping a certain distance. That didn't bother him much; all he'd wanted was to talk with him, and since he wasn't here he would take a little look around. No harm. She'd evidently believed him, as she'd gone back to the kitchen; he'd gone upstairs, and not long after had heard her do the same. He didn't bother her again. He would find his own way out. He decided he must be at the police station. Of course he would be working; that was what he always did, wasn't it? Why should that change any? Maybe he could catch him tomorrow--or maybe it would be a good idea to just forget about it all. He probably didn't want old things brought up now that he'd evidently started over, judging from the presence of that woman. It was the only reason he could think of why she should be there. He sighed and closed the album. The door burst open and he jumped back with a startled gasp as he found himself face to face with a policeman, gun aimed right between his eyes. The policeman's own eyes were on fire; yet as soon as they saw him the look died away, being replaced by stunned surprise. They both stayed frozen that way for a moment or two. After a bit he found his voice and tentatively spoke. "...Dad?" The cop was silent for another moment, then answered, "Jordan?" Jordan nodded slightly, his hands still up at his sides where he'd put them on seeing the gun. Neither of them moved. There was a tense pause. Then the policeman let out his breath as if he'd been holding it for a long time, dropping both his aim and his head. Jordan still didn't move; being unable to see his face, he wasn't sure if this was a sign of relief or what. A minute later Trooper Broderick simply turned away from the door, leaving the room without saying a word. Jordan could hear his footsteps on the stairs, and finally, slowly brought down his arms. He went to the door and out into the hallway, going to the stairway and down the steps. Downstairs he found his father in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. It was water; Jordan could see the clear liquid as it spilled into the glass. Broderick's hands were shaking slightly; he wondered how badly he'd scared him. He'd never thought of that. Then again, he supposed simply dropping in uninvited after what had happened years ago would shake up anybody. He didn't speak, just stood in the entranceway and watched. His father hadn't changed much; he was older, though he didn't quite look it. It hadn't been there at first, probably had been latent until he'd shown up, but Jordan could also see that dead look in his eyes now, even though he was turned away. It pained him slightly inside to see it; after that display upstairs, he'd thought it might be gone for good. "What do you need?" he asked suddenly. Jordan actually started, hearing his voice. He hadn't expected any words to pass between them. For some reason, he'd never expected that. Not this way. "What do you mean?" he finally asked, forcing the words out of a mouth that didn't want to work. Broderick turned to face him. The dead look was still there. There was no anger. Only a kind of resignation, as if he'd been expecting this all along, yet had been reluctant to believe it. "You must be here for a reason," he said. "So what do you need?" Jordan felt a pang, and was sure it showed on his face, as Broderick turned away again, taking a drink of water. He actually thought he was there for some reason--money, probably. How would he ever believe it if Jordan told him it was nothing like that? Jordan doubted he'd believe it at all. "There is no reason," he managed, taking a hesitant step forward. Broderick looked at him again, and now there was skepticism in his eyes. "I just--I came back..." He trailed off, not sure what to say. Again his father turned away, finishing off the water and letting out a sigh which was more than a little quavery. He set the glass down with a clink and stared at the countertop as if it interested him. Several times Jordan tried to speak, only to find there were no words. He swallowed. Why did this have to be so difficult? It obviously had been a bad idea to come here, after all. He could tell he'd just dredged up old matters which had best stayed put to rest. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably, turning back to the den. "I think--" he started. "I'll just--I'll go now." He turned to the door before his father would get the chance to see the color creeping up into his face. "Wait." He paused, and, when he was sure it was safe, turned back. Broderick still stood in the kitchen, only now he was looking at him directly, and Jordan could sense he was warring to keep the dead look out of his eyes. He must have succeeded; for he averted his gaze so Jordan couldn't see what his eyes looked like. "You don't have to go," he said, managing to keep it from sounding like an open invitation. Jordan knew it wasn't; it fell more along the lines of resignation again. "It's as much your house as it is mine." Jordan started to say thanks, but his father didn't give him the chance. He left the kitchen, heading back up the stairs. It was a long time before Jordan could move again; his first motion was to go to the refrigerator, open it, and peer inside cautiously. There were no bottles. A mild surprise passed over him and went. He wondered how long this had been going on. How much had changed, anyway? With a slight sigh he shut the fridge softly, following his father up the stairs, and going back to his old room to look it over.
Broderick steeled himself and opened his bedroom door. Almost immediately he saw Anna; she saw him too, and stood up, coming over to meet him. He tried to keep the relief he felt from showing on his face; she hugged him and he returned it halfheartedly, breaking away when she did to look her over briefly. "You let him in?" he asked softly. He wasn't sure if Jordan--if he were upstairs at all--could hear them or not; nevertheless, he didn't want to take the chance. She nodded. "He said he was looking for you." "Why?" He couldn't stop the question from coming out; he still found it hard to believe Jordan would just pop up again after so many years for no reason other than to see him. Anna shrugged slightly. "That's all he told me. That he wanted to see you. I told him you weren't here, but he could wait if he wanted to." "How did you even know he was telling the trth?" He didn't want to sound so reproachful; he just also found it hard to believe she'd simply let him in, knowing how careful she was with strangers. She looked at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if the question were serious or not; then shrugged one shoulder again, offering a slight smile. "He looks kind of like you," she said. "He's got your eyes." He didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say. Of all the reasons she would have let Jordan in the house while there alone, that was the only logical one he could think of. It was the only one he could think of. He stared at her for a moment, then sighed, dropping his head again. END |
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