Tucker

I put my hand on the back door handle, and for a moment I can't find the will to push it.

I thought losing Lizzie was bad enough. Now everything else is crumbling around me, and the ground's quaking under my feet, and I don't know where the slide will come to a halt.

My family. What's going to happen to them? How did all this happen? When did it all start? How the fuck did it all go so wrong?

A hand squeezes my arm. Hoshi. I don't know how I'd even imagine facing this without her.

"It'll be okay, Trip," she whispers.

It won't, but I love her for saying that. As long as I can go on pretending it's true, maybe I can go on acting like it is.

There are three people in the lounge.

Mom and Dad, of course. The third, I don't recognize for a moment. Then I see the dog-collar.

"You must be Trip." The guy stands up and extends his hand. Of course, he's Pastor Newman, the stand-in till Pastor Cunningham gets well again. Oldish, not bad-looking, though he's got that sort of anxious smoothness that clerics always seem to have in a crisis, pouring oil on the troubled waters. What I don't understand is what he's doing here at this hour of the morning. It's not like he might somehow have been passing the front door and just happened to see it standing open.

"I called him, Trip." Mom sees my bewilderment. "He mentioned to me after the service, that if we ever needed… and your Dad … your Dad needs to talk to someone. Under the seal of the confessional, of course."

The pastor nods sympathetically. "I'm sure something can be arranged. It was an act of God's grace that I happened to be nearby. One of the parishioners… this terrible attack has affected so many people."

"Elaine Sherman, I'll bet," Mom says immediately. "Calls Pastor Cunningham out all the time. Lost both her sons… I don't think she'll ever get over it."

He nods again, looking saintly. "It's my duty to minister to those suffering grievous loss."

Dad's sitting in an armchair, all by himself. His hands are clasped across his face and he's rocking, rocking, rocking. Pastor Newman turns towards him and puts a hand gently on his shoulder.

"You do understand, Mister Tucker, that under these circumstances we find it of the greatest benefit to the soul if the penitent unburdens themselves of everything. Every last detail of their trouble, of any activities they may possibly feel conflict with their Christian duty of love and forgiveness. The Church likens it to a full cleansing of guilt, of enormous value both spiritually and psychologically."

"I know he understands that, Father. Don't you, Charlie?"

Dad nods, but doesn't stop rocking.

"Perhaps, in the circumstances, it would be best if we began straightaway. Mrs Tucker, is there a room where your husband and I can be perfectly private for a while?"

"Certainly, Father. There's a little room where we store the wine racks. My eldest daughter, she's very into experimenting with home-made wines. You'll have to take a bottle with you when you go." She's nervous, and prattling, but she helps Dad to his feet. "Come along, Charlie. You know you'll feel so much better afterwards."

"Lizzie," he moans as he gets up, an old, broken man. "My little girl. My sweet little girl."

Lizzie was her sweet little girl too, and my sweet little sister, but Mom doesn't waver. "I know, Charlie. I know."

"She is with the blessed in heaven," intones the pastor. "We who are left must comfort and console one another as best we can in the spirit of the Lord."

Respect for the cloth keeps my mouth shut, but Hoshi and I trade a glance. At a guess she thinks the guy's a sanctimonious bore just like I do. Pastor Cunningham's a good man, and does a lot of good work in the community, but ministering to the need there's been around here since the attack must have worn him into the ground. No wonder he's gotten sick, he must be totally exhausted. Mrs. Sherman was bad enough before Joe and Stephen … before they …

They…

It's kind of a relief when the three of them are out of the room. We hear them shuffling down the hall, then the door to the storeroom opens and closes. There's a little table in there where Catherine sits to do her stuff with the wine, and Mom will organize something else as a second seat. And hopefully talking will do something to ease Dad, at least a little. Though I haven't even started to imagine how I'll forgive him for what he wanted done to an innocent man, a good man, who was a guest in his house.

I look at my chronometer. I want ten minutes to have passed, but they haven't quite.

Hoshi and I sit on the sofa like we expect it to collapse underneath us. We clasp hands, and for all the strong front she's keeping up I can tell by the way her fingers close on mine that she's as glad as I am to have someone's support.

The storeroom door opens and closes again a few minutes later, and we hear Mom's footsteps in the hall. She comes into the lounge and looks across it at me. "Is he dead?"

I'm not sure who she means by 'he'. "Carl's still breathin'," I answer evenly. "He won't be wearin' low-necked shirts for a while, but thanks to Hoshi here he'll live to answer for what he did."

"No … not Carl. Malcolm."

"No thanks to that sick bastard. He…" I have to swallow the thick bile that's rushed into the back of my throat. "He horsewhipped him. If we hadn't gotten there he'd have …" Hoshi squeezes my hand gently, but I've already realized there are some things Mom doesn't need to hear – whatever else he may be, Carl's her sister's boy. As soon as we've called the emergency services we'll go down and remove the things Carl had ready for his sick games; okay, it's interfering with a crime scene, but I'm sure Malcolm will understand. The way the police will see it, a whipping's bad enough, they'll have enough there to put Carl away for the duration. Starfleet will nail him to the wall. As for the rest of it, what the eye don't see the heart don't grieve over, and I have to protect Mom.

I check my chronometer. Shit, eleven minutes. "I've got to call an ambulance." I stand up quickly.

"He's that bad?" She puts a hand to her throat. "Why didn't you call them at once?"

"Because he said not to." I walk out into the hall so she won't ask me why a badly injured man should want the emergency services delayed. I don't have an answer.

I pick up the phone. It feels weird in my hand, slippery.

Nine. One. One. I know the number but I've never dialed it before.

"Emergency, what service do you require?"

Just for a second I can't answer. The whole unreality of the situation just rushes over me like a wave. Then I hear my own voice speaking, low and toneless. "Ambulance. And police."

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