Lorne quit drinking the day after his daughter was killed.
He also quit eating, smoking, and living.
He only wanted to kill. He wanted only to maim, blind, hurt, castrate, crush, pummel and then slowly squeeze the last dribble of life from the monster who had taken his Rebecca.
The silly policewoman was still in the house, making tea and patting Lorraine's knee. But Lorne had had enough; enough of bad news and useless phone calls and old friends wanting to help.
Funeral homes were calling, chrissakes; silky voices pretending they shared his pain and offering their well-established services.
He'd have no part with services he thought hotly as he stuffed his wallet in his pocket and strode out the door. The only thing he craved was a murderer's warm blood splashing on his hands.
He heard the policewoman call his name from the front door. He heard her speaking on her squabble box. He walked on into the night, inky darkness in his heart.
He'd know where the monster had taken her. He'd sense it. Then he'd find the devil-spawn, and laugh as he broke bones and sliced arteries and spat on its beating heart.
As Lorne loped across the park, he brushed the hand of a whiskered man with a tattered coat on his back and a beagle at his feet. "A few coins for soup, Sir," croaked the beggar. Lorne turned and grabbed and lifted him up against the trunk of an elm. He pressed his right forearm into the old man's neck, and watched as his eyes widened. The dog bayed a long and lonely note.
Snowy motes tumbled before Lorne's eyes. He eased the beggar to the ground, and ran again. He slumped on a bench by the swing set and willed the wild drumbeat of his heart to be stilled. He squeezed his eyes tightly. A circle of blue flame danced behind his lids, and in them he again saw his Rebecca.
"Wait here for the show, Daddy," she'd say. "Right here." She'd point to a tile on the kitchen floor and disappear into her room, fussing to put on the grass skirt made of paper, and tiara and bangles. Then she'd say ta-da and sashay out, hula dancing as well as any four-year old could. "But Stitch is eight, you know, Daddy," she'd explain as he tossed extra marshmallows into her hot chocolate after the show. "When I'm eight, I'll make the steps better."
"I made a card for you, Daddy," she's say as she rushed to greet him at the door. And the card would have hearts and coloured-in flowers and butterflies on it, and the weight of his day at the foundry would lift like dew in the warmth of her blue eyes.
Rebecca often fell asleep in the crook of his arm as he watched the game. No matter the score, he'd turn and stare long at her. The steady rise and fall of her chest was his life, and he'd nuzzle the firm fatness of her cheeks, and tuck her blanky closer to her chin.
His eyes flew open.
In a veiled vision, a garage had flashed; a garage with windows and a green door.
Lorne felt flame leap in his chest. His blood beat iron. He sensed bone turning to mush in his grip. He heard a monster's whimper, laughed, and snuffed it.