On the Run

by Christopher Padgett

On the Run

  Short Stories

  by

  Christopher Padgett

  Copyright 2013 Christopher Padgett

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Vila Design

  Table of Contents

  On the Run

  Habitat for Inhumanity

  About the Author

  On the Run

  I

  Byrd stood under the hot pulsating shower. Steam filled the bathroom, while the small blower in the ceiling proved inadequate to vent the air. He slowly scrubbed his arms and torso while the extra hot water beat upon his scalp. The water ran clear as it flowed from his head to his feet to the drain. The slow mechanical action of the soapless rag was all that remained of the shower meant to cleanse him of his wrong doing. He needed to be clean, sober, and in fresh clothes when the police arrived. The longer he stayed in the shower, the more likely he would be arrested naked and dripping. Byrd wrung out the wash cloth and let it fall to his feet. He turned off the water, opened the shower curtain, and reached out for his towel. Its whiteness radiated a purity he lacked. He stifled a hesitant sob, not only for what he had done – nothing could be done about that now – but also for the inevitable future that now loomed overhead ready to unleash its fury.

  He stepped out of the shower and ran the towel down his body in firm wide strokes. If the police were headed his way, he wanted to be dressed when they arrived. Byrd wrapped the towel around his waist, deodorized, and walked into his bedroom. The ceiling fan whirled quietly. He lay back upon his bed, not to relax, but to gather his senses. The covers were cool. He stared up at the fan imagining his life spinning forever in a direction he had not planned. From the bed, he could see his clothes hanging in his closet. He flipped on the light and got dressed.

  If the police were coming, they should have been here by now. It had been nearly two hours since he fled the scene. It was possible the incident hadn’t been reported yet. He walked into his kitchen fully dressed, opened the refrigerator, and removed two bottles of MGD. The cold bottles felt solid in his hands, grounding him in the moment. He twisted the top off the first one and downed half of it in the first pull. He belched and downed the rest of it. The bottle clunked in the empty trash can. The stillness broken, Byrd remembered why he was fully dressed, keys and wallet on the corner of the table, and beer in hand. Condensation covered the second bottle like sweat on the brow of the condemned. He cracked it open. This one he drank slower than the first. Beer sloshed around in his belly as he grabbed his keys and wallet and headed back into the now steamless bathroom. He drained his bladder and headed out the front door.

  He was acutely aware of every sound. The birds, crickets, and the crunching gravel beneath his shoes seemed amplified in the still evening. He tried to appear natural, like he was just going out for paper towels at Wal-Mart or going to see a movie. His guilt seared into him the perception that everyone knew what he had done, and it was only a matter of time before a policeman tapped on his window at a traffic light. He would be pulled from his vehicle and violently beaten, just like Rodney King. Byrd adjusted his rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of himself. He looked scared. Eyes too wide, tears welling up, jaw clenched. Breathe. Put the car in drive. Relax. No one knows it was you. It’s possible no one will ever know it was you.

  His wooded neighbourhood gave way to the brightly lit down town area. An idea occurred to him as he pulled into a convenience store: He could not return home tonight. Worse, he needed to get a room somewhere, but could not get one in town. What justification could he give for staying in a hotel three miles from his house when there was nothing perceivably wrong, or especially right? He decided to drive to St. Louis for the night.

  Three hours from home with precious little money, a case of beer, and not enough gas to return, Byrd found himself not only on the run, but stuck with no clear way out of his situation. He could rob a store or a gas station, but he did not have a gun or the experience. That left robbery, mugging, getting a legit job, or maybe even murder. There were plenty of dark alleys filled with low-lifes that no one would miss anytime soon. The problem with killing was it was generally messy. He couldn’t walk into Motel 6 with a blood spattered face and ask for a room. How would he even know if his target had any money, or enough to get him out of this jam? Killing was out, robbing a store was out, and mugging didn’t look too promising.

  The only option he felt he had left was burglary. It was late. Most respectable people with money would be asleep. People often left windows or back doors unlocked at night, certain no one would bother them. A false since of security made them feel impenetrable.

  Byrd got back in his car. The rough part of town he was in would do him no good without a gun, some guts, and some know-how. He passed a respectable looking neighbourhood a few blocks earlier. He would scope it out. His salvation was certainly in one of those darkened dwellings.

  II

  Rebecca was invited to watch the game with Byrd and Wally. Even though she wanted to go, she worked late most evenings waiting tables at Grady’s Diner and wouldn’t be able to make it. She thought about surprising them with a bottle of Jack once she got off work. Her shift dragged slowly towards nowhere, until the clock finally struck twelve. She clocked out and hurried to her car.

  She searched for Wally’s number on her phone’s computer-like touch screen. It rang several times before his voice mail picked up. She left a message, “Hey, Wally, it’s me, Rebecca. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” She dropped her phone onto the passenger seat and drove towards Wally’s house. Rebecca wasn’t much of a football fan, but she enjoyed the intense rivalry between Wally and Byrd. Wally loved the Rams, while Byrd was nearly obsessed with the Bears. Even if they were too caught up in the game, she had her friend Jack with her. He would keep her as warm and cozy as she wanted. She picked up the phone at a red light and tried again. When Wally didn’t answer, she figured they would know she was coming when she arrived. Jack, dressed in his best brown paper bag, sat in the seat belt next to her.

  Rebecca wound her car down the tree-lined gravel road that led to Wally’s house. Rocks popped under her car and a cloud of dust rose above the driveway. She pulled in and parked the car. Through the cloud of dust, the car’s headlights showed someone lying on the ground. Whoever it was wasn’t moving. The body had the general shape of Wally. She got out of her car and approached. After a few steps she quickly realized it was him. She picked up the pace. A pool of blood had spread into an oblong area nearly the length of his body. The red-black liquid was undisturbed. Its sheen reflected the porch light from the house. She called 9-1-1 from her phone.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “I think there’s been a murder. Blood is everywhere, and Wally isn’t moving.”

  “Ma’am, what is your name?”

  “Rebecca. My name is Rebecca. There’s so much blood and he’s not moving.”

  “Ma’am, please verify your location.”

  “I’m at 1873 Will o’ Wisp Way.”

  “Ma’am, the police and paramedics are on their way. Please stay on the line.”

  “He doesn’t need a paramedic,” Rebecca sobbed, “he’s already dead.” She hung up the phone and sat down next to her dead brother.

  Less than five minutes later, blue flashing lights strobed in the distance. She could hear the siren, but it sounded more like a cheap sound effect in a cheaper movie. Where was Byrd?

  III

/>   Byrd drove down a well-lit street beneath a canopy of large trees. Broad driveways extended hundreds of feet from the street to the houses hidden by more trees. He was convinced one of these homes would have an open door or window and have money lying out in the open. He looked at his watch. It was 2:17 in the morning. People should be sound asleep, but there was still the possibility of running into someone.

  At 2:20, he parked his car and started the walk back into the neighbourhood. A long row of shrubs bordered the first yard. He scooted between a break in the line. Sticking to the shadows, he peered into the darkness. The back door and windows of the first house appeared to be secure. He continued to the second house: same thing. This one also had motion detector lights that came on when he entered the area. He quickly made it out of range before anyone noticed. He listened until his ears hurt to make sure no one was coming. He couldn’t hear anything beyond his breathing and beating of his heart. Spooked by the second house, he almost gave up. There had to be an easier way.

  With heart pounding and stomach in knots, he nearly crawled into the third yard. He could see the curtain on the back door flutter. He moved closer. The door was open. He made it to the porch and looked into the cracked doorway and saw it led directly into the kitchen. Byrd steeled his resolve and pushed open the door. He stepped across the threshold into the darkness of the house.

  It was darker than he imagined it would be inside. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies lingered in the air. He realized he hadn’t eaten in several hours and was hungry. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of getting caught robbing this home with a cookie shoved in his mouth. His eyes needed to adjust to the nearly pitch black conditions. Slowly, images began to form in front of his eyes. Grey, grainy objects appeared – a refrigerator, a stove, a counter top, sink, but no pot of gold. Byrd extended his arms to judge his distance to the objects around the room. Moving slowly, he began his search.

  He ran his hand along the kitchen counter. There was nothing there, except a water glass that was still cold and damp. Despite his concern, Byrd continued his thorough examination of the kitchen. On the corner of the counter, near the stove top, he found a fashionable butcher block with knives of various sorts sticking out. He selected one and carefully ran his thumb along its edge. The blade sung sharply.

  Next, he walked into the dining room which was really just an extension of the kitchen. He could see well enough now not to have to run his hand along anything. There was a fruit bowl in the center, but there were only apples and bananas in it, no wallets.

  A small wooden table sat by the front door. A ceramic bowl was on top of the table. He reached his hand into the dark bowl. Something soft and square met his grasp. He picked it up. To his amazement, it was a wallet. He opened it to find several bills and a couple credit cards. He pulled them out and quickly shoved them in his pocket. There was another wallet in the bowl, a larger one, a woman’s. He unsnapped it and found more of the same.

  Byrd’s financial problems now solved, he needed to get out of the house undetected. He thought for a moment and decided to retrace his steps through the house and out the back. While passing through the kitchen, he paused long enough to find the source of the smell. Just as he figured, a plate of neatly stacked cookies sat on a cooling rack next to the stove. He grabbed three before heading out the door.

  IV

  “He’s about five foot ten and thin as a rail,” Rebecca said to the police officer with the stubby pencil and notepad. “He has short brown hair, well, it is kinda long on top, but generally pretty short.”

  “Does he have any tattoos or scars that will help us identify him?” asked the stubby pencil cop.

  “He’s got a few tattoos. Not sure what they are, just know he has some on his arms. He got them with Wally a few months ago.” Rebecca started to sob again at the mention of her brother.

  “Take your time, ma’am. I’m sure this isn’t easy for you,” reassured the cop. He put the notepad and pencil back into his pocket. He motioned for a paramedic to bring her a blanket. It wasn’t cold out, but his training taught him to provide comfort to the living in the presence of the dead.

  The medical examiner examined Wally and determined he had been stabbed in the heart, a lucky shot. Not many people had the skill to place a blade between the ribs with enough force and accuracy to puncture the heart, let alone in only one attempt. He ordered the body to be placed on the gurney and wheeled onto the ambulance. The white sheet was clean and stiff, perfectly masking the reality of the dead body enshrouded beneath it.

  “Officer,” Rebecca called out to the stubby pencil cop, “should I go along with the ambulance, or what should I do now?”

  “Go home and get some sleep. Someone from the coroner’s office will call you in the morning. The number you gave is good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s good. Just wish there was something more I could do.”

  V

  Byrd ran to the back of the yard. He crossed through the neighbours’ yards and squeezed through the hedges. His car was no more than a few hundred yards up the road. There was no one around, so he continued to run until he got to the edge of the gas station parking lot, where he slowed down to a walk.

  He had the money and credit cards on him. The cards could be used to purchase gas tonight, but would not be used to pay for the room. Too many transactions would make him easier to track down. This was just a temporary get away; he didn’t plan on staying on the run forever. The commotion would blow over in a couple days and he could return to his shabby apartment. He would tuck the murder into a tiny compartment in his mind, and feign disbelief when told about the grisly death of his friend.

  He unlocked his car and drove away. It would be far too suspicious if he pulled straight to the pump and inserted one of the stolen credit cards. He drove carefully for a few minutes until he found a gas station that did not appear to be big on surveillance. He lowered his cap over his eyes. He got out and swiped the card at the pump. It asked for his billing zip code. His heart froze. He thought for a second and tried the zip code for St. Louis. The machine beeped and a message scrolled across the little screen: “Select Pump.” With a sigh of relief, he selected the cheapest gas and filled up his car. He declined the receipt and drove away.

  Not twelve hours earlier, he and his friend were watching football and cooking on the grill. Now, he was a fugitive – a murderer in serious need of food and sleep. The cookies put a slight pain in his side. His under nourished body went into slight shock from the sweetness.

  Byrd steered his car towards the nearest strip of motels. This, he knew, could very well be his last night to sleep in a bed as a free man.

  VI

  Two police cars arrived outside Byrd’s shabby apartment building situated at 1211 E. 7th Street in what was once a fashionable part of town. Now, behind each run down façade was a questionable character with an equally unbelievable story. Byrd was no exception. Although he once had dreams of rising above his upbringing, this was as far as he made it. He managed to escape run-ins with the law, but most people he knew had been arrested at least once. Drugs, violence, and break-ins were common amongst those he grew up around. The same officers who questioned Rebecca stepped out of their cruisers. One lit up the rickety metal stairs with his Maglite to ensure they were clear of debris or living things.

  “Let’s get on up there. Probably not even here. Bet he skipped town knowin’ we’d be comin’ around,” said the stubby pencil cop.

  “You think he did it, or just know who did?” asked his partner.

  “Who knows? Can’t put anything past these guys. Heard of one who killed his own mother just because she wouldn’t stop cooking Hamburger Helper.”

  “Yeah, I can believe that. Had to eat that crap growin’ up.”

  The two police officers ascended the stairs. Stubby tapped the door with his night stick. After a moment, he tapped again, louder this time and announced, “Byrd, this is Officer Desoto of the Metropolitan
Police Department. I just need to ask a few questions about your friend, Wally.” No one answered. Stubby’s partner tried the door. It was locked, but the curtain was askew. He looked inside the austere dwelling. There wasn’t much to speak of as far as furnishings were concerned, but it was by no means as bad as he imagined. There was a card table in the center of the room with four folding chairs around it. The sofa along the wall had one of those colourful knit blankets old ladies made in nursing homes draped across the back. The linoleum floor looked clean but unwelcoming. He muttered, “Not too different from what I had as a kid.”

  Stubby shrugged and led the way back to the cruisers. He radioed Dispatch saying they had negative contact with the suspect and to request a search warrant. He knew the judge wouldn’t bother signing the search warrant until the following morning.

  “You try that new Key Lime Pie donut yet?” Stubby asked his partner.

  “Yeah, I tried it a couple days ago. My old lady always says I need to try something new, so I did. Little too sweet for my taste. Heard there’s a new joint further down Maple Boulevard. Wanna hit up that place for a bit?”

  “Alright, I’ll head east and you go west. Let’s see who gets there first.”

  “Lights or no lights?”

  “Lights, of course.”

  “Siren?”

  “If you think you need your siren to beat me, go ahead and use it.”

  VII

  A steady rain began to fall. Its rhythmic drumming eased Byrd’s nerves and cleared his mind. Slow peels of thunder accentuated the steadiness of the rain. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep, but fought against it. He turned the television back on, settling on a morbid documentary of how Hitler orchestrated his symphony of death. The yellow subtitles were blurry and hard to read. Byrd grabbed the beer from his side table and drank as if it contained his salvation. He knew that he would not be able to fight against sleep for more than a few minutes more, but the idea of the police banging on his door in the morning terrified him. Dark images of going to jail began to bleed into the images of the death camps and mass murder on the screen.

  Byrd flung the cool white comforter off his freshly washed body. He stood up, finished his beer, and headed to the window. A thin band of light hung to the furthest point of the horizon. It was already after five in the morning. Breakfast would be served in the lobby in an hour. Out of the $360 he stole a couple hours earlier, he had plenty to hold him over for a couple days. Byrd stood and watched the sun rise for a few moments. A rumble in his stomach brought him out of his introspection.

  Another beer in his stomach, clothes on his back, and shoes on his feet, Byrd headed down to the lobby. He was met by a parade of old people neatly dressed in their polyester garments. They were scented with all-natural body fluids, and just a hint of the free hotel soap. Waiting patiently in line, Byrd grabbed his brown cafeteria style tray. He loaded his tray with three hard boiled eggs, two cups of yogurt, two bagels with strawberry cream cheese, a freshly made waffle with butter and syrup, a cup of coffee, and a cup of orange juice. Most of this was to take back to his room to save money throughout the day. He found a table that didn’t smell like adult diapers and ate his food in silence.

  It was still raining outside with no end in sight. The morning news was on. The weather man said it would stay in the area for at least the next twenty-four hours. Great. At least it waited until I was done at that house. Byrd gathered his trash and what he was taking for later. He refilled his coffee cup and headed back to his room.

  VIII

  After spending a second drunken night in the hotel room, Byrd decided to face his fate. There was no way he could continue to live in the hotel. His life, or what remained of it, lay three hours away in a rundown apartment, which he was sure had been ransacked by the police. He drove the speed limit, and stopped for coffee and gas more frequently than he needed to. The three hours quickly stretched into five.

  Byrd felt the same dreaded sense of doom he did the night he killed Wally. His blood ran cold; tears were in his eyes; and his stomach was in knots. Just about an hour outside of town he pulled over and wretched. The coffee and cheap donuts burned his throat and mouth as they made their appearance. He had to go through with this. He had to accept his situation: either he would stay on the run where he would have to live a life of crime, or go back home and turn himself in. Crime didn’t agree with him, but neither did the thought of going to jail.

  As his street neared, he decided to drive by his apartment to see if there was any sign of forced entry by the police. There was no obvious sign anyone had stopped by. The urge to barricade himself inside appealed to his terrified psyche. Maybe he could call Rebecca and set up a meeting. No, that would lead to her calling the police and he would be taken by force. The only other thing he could think of was to go straight to the police station. That was it. That’s the only thing he could come up with that left him the slightest measure of control in this situation. Having accepted this course of action, Byrd managed to take each necessary step towards the police station.

  The police station sat on a massive corner lot across from a gas station that was notorious for drug deals and prostitution. Crack houses and whore houses once sat where the large, elaborately designed police station now sprawled. Crime in the area plummeted once it started operation a couple years earlier. The bar that sat opposite the gas station was also knocked down. It was too difficult for the drunks to drive away when there was a police car sitting in its parking lot. The bar owner started to lose business when her best customers started getting DUIs.

  Byrd pulled his car into the excessively lit parking lot. He parked neatly between the painted white lines, turned off the car and unbuckled his seat belt. The front door sat no more than one hundred feet from where he sat. With a deep breath and a final grip of the steering wheel, he opened his car door. He walked the one hundred feet, pulled open the glass door, and approached the service counter. A young police officer approached.

  “Good evening. What can I help you with tonight?”

  Byrd stood for a second too long. His bravery escaped him. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not. Tears started to spill down his face, and his body began to shake. The police officer called for assistance. They escorted the now incoherent Byrd to an interrogation room, not to shine the spot light on him, but to give him some privacy.

  An older police officer came in. “Now, son, what is it that has you so shook up?”

  Byrd gathered his last bit of inner strength. “My name is Byrd Campbell. I have information concerning the death of Wally Fischer.” He gripped his head in his hands and sobbed violently for the loss of his one real friend.