After The Horizon

By John Oliver West

Tom Wilson is living a picture perfect suburban life with his wife Emma and their two young children in the outskirts of Toronto. A dedicated family man, he's a well respected teacher who cares about his students and the community. When mysterious new neighbours take residence across the street from his home, Tom becomes immersed in an escalating series of disturbing events that threaten to unravel his life and force him to confront difficult questions about his own past.

A suspenseful and twisting story that builds tension to the final page, After The Horizon raises questions about how well you can really know someone and how the choices we make impact our lives in unexpected ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Oliver West
• Release date: May 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995963504

John Oliver West

John Oliver West lives in Toronto with his family.

Book preview

Prologue

"The myriad choices of his fate,

Set themselves out upon a plate,

For him to choose,

What had he to lose"

The Black Angel’s Death Song,

Velvet Underground

It’s 4AM and Tom is awake.

He’s in a room at the Castle Motel, lying on the bed. It’s not quite dark, moonlight fills the window, mixing with the neon glow from the motel sign hanging outside his room. The last letter is burned out, it now reads ‘Mote’. ‘The Castle Mote’. It’s almost funny.

The motel faces a busy, two lane street in an industrial part of town, however at this hour there’s only the odd car that passes by. One of many similar, nondescript establishments in the area, nestled between diners, gas stations, and strip joints. But he chose this particular one for a very specific reason.

The room smells like a combination of stale smoke and Chinese food. The wallpaper is peeling in the corner, like skin sloughing off a lizard. The mattress cover is spotted with dark stains, as though someone was stabbed on it, forming patterns that look like ink blots. One of them looked like a butterfly.

But Tom doesn’t care about any of this.

He is sweating, the sheets are wet. It is stiflingly hot in the room, even though the air conditioner is running, making knocking noises like an old lawnmower. Mid-August humidity blanketed the city, making the air thick and heavy.

He needs to sleep, but his mind is racing. How did I end up here?

You got yourself here.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. For a moment he is almost able to imagine it isn’t real, that it was all a dream. The fleeting calm lasts only for a few seconds before reality claws its way back in.

He had always been confident in his ability to manage situations, to control outcomes. When he was a boy his father taught him chess, he played constantly, won a few tournaments. He learned to think further ahead than his opponent, to understand how a small advantage can be used to gain control later. The past weeks he had hopelessly lost these abilities. Like a passenger on a carnival ride, unable to slow it down or change its destination.

He opens his eyes again and glances at the glowing red numbers on the clock beside the bed. 7:23AM, he must have drifted off to sleep.

He gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom. Flicking the light switch sends searing pain into his eyes. He closes them, rubs them awake. The face looking back in the mirror is his, but wild, feral. He hasn’t shaved in days, his beard is showing specks of grey that he doesn’t recall having noticed before. He splashes water on his face, quickly dries it, then tosses the towel into the tub.

He walks over to the window and collapses onto the hard metal chair. There’s a construction site across the street, where a grey concrete building has risen five or six stories from the earth. Steel beams pierce the concrete and continue on through the air, as though the blueprints were miscalculated. Workers have already arrived and are scurrying around the structure wearing their yellow hard hats, safety glasses, and steel-toed boots. It’s a hive of activity, like ants moving purposefully and independently, yet somehow co-ordinated, part of a larger plan. He watches the scene intently for most of the morning.

A man in his late forties or early fifties with a boy around seventeen, probably his son, walk into his field of view as they travel along the sidewalk. The family resemblance is clear, even from this distance. The man’s face is tanned and his thick grey hair cropped short. The boy has shoulder length hair, wears a black hoodie and carries a skateboard under his left arm. They walk together, intently talking, with a familiarity and closeness that can only exist between family members. The boy is waving his right arm and speaking with an urgency he’s having trouble containing, while the man listens and quietly nods. Tom tries but can’t make out the words. Maybe they are talking about where to go for lunch. Or maybe they are discussing a matter of life and death, weighing both sides of a choice that will irreversibly alter their futures. It’s a brief window into their lives, but through it Tom can only see what’s on the surface.

Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. She still hasn't responded to his messages. He closes his eyes, feeling a momentary relief of tension from straining them all morning. When he opens them he looks around the room. The gun is still on the table where he left it last night. Memories of another time, long forgotten, long suppressed, float to the surface. Memories of his father.

He needs to find the move that gains him the advantage. He needs to end this, one way or another.

Part One: Turtle Creek

"Tell me now,

And show me how,

To understand,

What makes a good man"

What Makes a Good Man,

The Heavy

Chapter 1

Good morning Daddy! Lisa said cheerfully, bounding down the stairs two at a time.

Be careful! Good morning sweetie! Tom gave her a hug, the squeeze behind her shoulder blades lifting her up just a little off the ground. She was still in her pyjamas, her body felt warm from the bed.

He picked up his mug from the table and took another sip, savouring the feeling of the morning’s first coffee. The sun was peaking in through the back patio door. It was a beautiful June day outside.

Lisa was pouring herself a bowl of cereal behind him. He marvelled at how independent she had become at nine years-old. And an amazing big sister to her seven year-old brother Nick.

He sat back down and picked at the remains of his breakfast, pushing Cheerios around the bowl like little boats floating in the milk. It was nearly 8 o’clock, better get moving or risk being late for school. He put the bowl of milk down for the dog and walked to the back door.

There was a rustling in the tall grass at the end of the yard . Two soft brown ears poked through the grass. The bunny had been appearing in their yard regularly for the past week.

Hey Lisa, there he is! Grab a couple carrots from the fridge.

They walked out, hand in hand, careful not to make any sudden movements that might scare their visitor. Tom waited on the deck while Lisa slowly moved towards the rabbit, offering a fresh carrot in her extended hand.

The morning sun cast a soft, golden light on Lisa's smiling face. She’s so beautiful, just like her mother, he thought. Tom sat on the edge of the deck, rubbing his hands absently over a few droplets of dew.

Tom found himself studying a snail crawling along the railing of the deck. It moved so slowly it seemed an insurmountable distance back to the garden. Yet it laboured with a singular purpose, an unwavering commitment to its objective. The shell a swirl of brown, green, grey, and gold. It provides protection the snail desperately needs, Tom thought, but what a heavy burden to carry. Sometimes that’s a necessary price to pay.

Voices drew them back inside the house. Emma was in the kitchen making toast with peanut butter for Nick's breakfast.

She smiled at him, he gave her a kiss. He remembered the passion they shared last night, he had scratches on his back this morning. Looked at his watch again. Maybe we can sneak back upstairs for a few quick minutes, he mused. She started talking and he snapped back to the present.

Did you notice fifty-eight has been sold?

Hmmm?

Fifty-eight Foster Ave, the house across the street. It finally sold. We’re going to have some new neighbours.

He gazed out the front window at the house across the street. A SOLD sticker had been proudly slapped across the sign on the lawn as if to taunt those who hadn't moved quickly enough to make a deal. The house was meticulously maintained. The lawn and garden lush and green, trimmed with red and yellow flowers. The pristine blacktop driveway sat empty. The house was bright and white, but the front windows dull and dark, like grey, dead eyes. Pretty on the outside but without a soul. Missing a family to give it life and transform it from a house into a home. It suddenly looked ominous and foreboding, stirring a feeling in the pit of Tom's stomach that he couldn't quite pinpoint the source of. He shook the feeling off and looked back at Emma who was watching him, her head cocked to one side and a curious grin on her face.

I guess so. There goes the neighbourhood! quipped Tom, before grabbing his lunch and heading out to face the day.

Chapter 2

Turtle Creek was typical neighbourhood in the Toronto suburbs. When they first moved in the development was bordered by cornfields to the north and east. Over the past five or six years the farmland had steadily been replaced by big box stores, chain restaurants, a new community centre, and sprawling acres of picture perfect, cookie-cutter, family homes arranged on curved streets adhering to geometric patterns and lined with trees no more than six feet tall. A popular area for young professionals commuting to work downtown because of its proximity to the Go Train station that tethered them to the city centre, like an umbilical cord allowing the area to grow and thrive.

For the first time he could remember Tom was putting down roots, building a life with a sense of permanence. As if following the handbook for ‘How to Settle Into Suburban Life’ they bought a minivan, although Tom still kept a motorcycle in the garage, a riding mower, and doubled the amount of furniture they owned. They made many new friends in the area, entwining themselves into the local community with vigour. Weekends regularly included parties within walking distance, kids welcome. Last winter they travelled south with Elsa and Jack Shelby who lived just three doors east of them and had children the same age. Elsa thought Tom was clever and always laughed at his jokes. On Thursdays Jack hosted poker night in his basement, where Tom happily exchanged a pocket full of quarters for an evening of camaraderie.

Tom had been teaching for fifteen years, mostly grade seven and eight. At first he commuted into the city, grumbling daily about the outrageous imposition the train ride represented. After completing the initial school year he managed to obtain a transfer to Eagle Heights Public School, a five minute drive from their new home and the very same school that Lisa and Nick attended. Such transfers could often take years to be fulfilled, if at all. Although he liked to imagine he'd made this happen through his work ethic and charming personality, in reality he owed his good fortune to Emma and her connections at the School Board, where she held a mid-level administrative position. For Emma the commute into the city on the GO Train had dissolved into a part of her daily routine that was scarcely noticed and never considered a hardship.

Not only was education a common thread binding Emma and Tom, it was what brought them together. They first met eleven years ago at the annual International Education Society conference in Washington, DC. Emma was a presenter, running a seminar entitled ‘How To Encourage Perseverance in the Classroom’. The workshop was scheduled to run twice during the three day event.

That year Tom had been awarded ‘Teacher of the Year’ at his school, an annual feel-good distinction awarded by a panel that considered academic results, popularity with students and commitment to extracurricular activities such as coaching and clubs. The recognition, which he'd previously dismissed as a well-intended but somewhat comical farce had suddenly moved into the domain of legitimacy and become an resume-worthy accomplishment. Beyond providing a source of good-natured ribbing by his colleagues, the primary reward was the opportunity to attend the conference. Tom had fully expected the honour to go to Gary McGee, one of the grade four teachers, and was caught off-guard by the win. He wasn't sure he wanted to make the trip to Washington, but he didn't think he was in a position to decline.

It was his first trip to Washington, in fact he had only left the country on a couple other occasions in the past twenty years. During his youth Tom developed a level of distrust towards police and was anxious about crossing the border. The imbalance of power made him uncomfortable, the fact they could send your life careening in an unwanted direction so easily, like a winger reaching out with his stick to deflect the game winning shot into the top corner of the net with a simple flick of his wrist.

A sense of impending doom gripped him as he made his way towards the customs agent. He was sure his forehead was perspiring but when he reached up to wipe his brow he found it dry. The customs agent was a burly man, early thirties, deep voice, expressionless face. After answering the usual questions about where and why, Tom was cleared without incident, the officer making no attempt to hide his apparent disinterest in Tom’s travel plans. He looked to be surfing photos on his phone, glancing only briefly at the passport while applying a generously smudged stamp. I guess I have an honest face, Tom thought.

After settling into the hotel he studied the conference agenda, circling the sessions that caught his interest. There were multiple parallel tracks with some sessions repeated to allow attendees catch them on the second cycle. He had circled five or six before Emma’s session caught his eye. He thought to himself the workshop might be of value considering of some challenges he’d been facing with a couple of his students. In truth, however, what reeled him in was the attractive thumbnail-sized picture of Emma and a bio that said she lived in Toronto.

Tom arrived at the session five minutes late after having to double back to the previous one to retrieve his notebook. There were about twenty-five people in the room, with tables arranged along three sides of a rectangle oriented towards a presentation screen and a small podium. He spotted an empty seat near the corner and moved to it, trying to keep a low profile as the seminar was already underway. As he pulled the chair back from the table to sit down, he glanced at Emma who was speaking at the front of the room. She’s even hotter in person, he thought. Staring at Emma, he lost focus and dropped his notebook and water bottle onto the floor instead of the table. As he bent down to pick it up, he knocked his chair backwards in a crash that sounded as if a stack of china plates had been dropped onto a marble floor. She stopped mid-sentence and looked as most of the heads in the room swiveled to identify the source of the commotion. Tom looked at her sheepishly, Sorry he said. An amused smile crept onto Emma’s face for a moment before she resumed the lecture.

As I was saying, we were able to develop an index comprised of behaviours known from previous studies to foster perseverance and tracked the group over an eighteen month period. The index included behaviours such as goal setting, verbal encouragement, use of progress boards, and others as referenced on the chart. This data was then correlated to academic outcomes for students and change in the level of self-esteem over the same period. We were able to establish a strong positive correlation for six of these factors. Over the next forty minutes we’ll discuss how these strategies can be incorporated into your classroom routines to build resiliency in your students.

Tom was mesmerized. She was the most perfect woman he’d ever seen. The sound of her voice, her shiny blonde hair pulled back in a shoulder length ponytail, the graceful way she moved. He didn’t take his eyes off her the rest of the lecture. He didn’t consider himself a particularly smooth operator, but when the session ended he knew he had to approach her.

Hi Emma, I’m Tom Wilson. I really enjoyed your presentation he said, extending his hand.

Emma St. Clair, nice to meet you she replied, returning his handshake. Her hands were soft and warm, her grip firm. She wasn’t wearing a ring.

That was an excellent seminar. Have you presented here before?

No, that was my first time. I hope the jitters didn’t show! That was quite an entrance you made before, by the way.

Thank you, he said, a little embarrassed by his clumsiness. New feet, I picked them up at the place beside the snack bar this morning.

Is that right? she said, laughing. I guess that explains it.

I noticed in your bio that you’re from Toronto. My home town as well, I teach grade six at Bedford Green.

Really? Small world. That’s a good school. I know the Vice Principal, Carol Chan, quite well.

I’ll let her know I bumped into you. You know she's talking about retiring in the next few years, she's been in education more than thirty years! These days one can only hope for such a distinguished career.

Indeed, please tell her I said Hi she said, glancing at her watch. I’m sorry Mr. Wilson, but I really must be going.

He sensed his opportunity slipping away. Please, call me Tom. Look this is my first time in Washington, and I was planning to see some sights this evening. Would you be interested in taking a walk later?

That’s very sweet but I’m sorry I don’t think so.

Just a walk! And maybe a quick bite or a coffee if you’re interested. A couple Canadians keeping each other company he said, in an apparent attempt to appeal to her sense of patriotism.

I really appreciate the offer, no offence but it's just that I don’t know you. I’m sorry. I hope you enjoy the rest of the conference. She waved across the room at an older woman standing by the door. I really must go, my colleague is here to meet me.

Ah, I … he stammered, unable to find the words to steer the conversation back in the intended direction. Accepting defeat, he said Nice meeting you Emma, hope to see you again.

Tom watched her leave the room. Real smooth Casanova, he thought, mocking himself. As she walked towards the door, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled, waving goodbye. Well, maybe there's still hope, he thought, before wandering back into the throng of other attendees bustling around the conference centre.

Chapter 3

Emma woke at seven-thirty the next morning, momentarily disoriented by the strange surroundings before realizing she was in her hotel room in Washington. She rose, quickly showered, got dressed. Her second and final session was at nine o’clock, leaving her just enough time to grab a quick breakfast and coffee at the restaurant by the main lobby. In the elevator on they way down to breakfast she bumped into a couple participants that had attended her presentation the previous day.

We really enjoyed your talk yesterday, it was the highlight of the conference so far said the tall man in his late fifties, a high school principal from Minnesota, raising his voice to be heard over the elevator music raining down from the speaker above.

Emma thanked them graciously and beamed with delight, basking in a level of professional pride previously unmatched. At breakfast she joined a table of teachers from South America and enjoyed a lively discussion on the previous day's keynote speaker. One egg-white omelette later she was headed back into the conference room with fifteen minutes to spare before her presentation.

She plugged her laptop into the projector, crossing her fingers as she waited for it to power up. She quickly scanned the room to check the audience. The attendees had just started to arrive, however one man was already seated, leaning back comfortably in his chair, coffee in hand. The guy who had approached her yesterday, Tom from Toronto. He was back, watching her intently. She gave him a quick, nervous nod. He smiled back, flashing a mischievous grin. She felt herself blush.

Her presentation went smoothly, attendees nodding and making notes as she spoke. A few questions were asked about how she had collected the data, composition of the control group, and other such minutia. Throughout the hour she was aware of his presence, she imagined his eyes watching her. She tried not to look his way, feeling awkward for rejecting him the day before. When she was nearly finished presenting, his hand came up. She couldn’t ignore it. Yes? she asked.

Firstly I’d like to commend you on this impressive research, very well done said Tom.

Thank you replied Emma. What’s he up to? she wondered.

I think you’ve really hit the nail on the head here, particularly the part that perseverance should be encouraged and rewarded.

Well, you do want to develop resiliency, but at the same time being careful not to damage confidence, self-esteem, in the event they do not succeed for a second time. It’s a balance.

So what advice would you offer someone who had taken a risk, but did not succeed? he asked.

Well, I suppose that depends on the circumstances.

"A hypothetical