by Lee Brait
his lungs, the chirping crickets. To pause and savor the senses of the forest was a rare treat. The noise of the city was inaudible and the only clue to it's existence was the faint glow it cast, an amber halo around the edges of the foothills. The full moon lurked behind an oily haze and delicately bathed the shadowless rocks and grasses by the roadside with silver. His eyes adjusted and the dark smudges beyond the verge resolved to detailed forms. A bush with leaves that shone almost black. A straight trunk, leathery bark lined with moss. Rows of crooked trees faded into the black of the forest.
He wanted to drop everything and walk home. Savor the experience. Leave the baggage behind. But there was no time. He threw his gear in the trunk and drove slowly with lights off and the windows down. At least he could have that.
Was everything worth having so fleeting?
He crawled for a few minutes until headlights glared from behind a rise and blinded him. He flicked on his own and hit the gas. Washed away in the flood of light, nothing was left to savor now. He wound his way north and west along Chadbourne Road, back to the dirty glow, back to the orange street lamps and the neon signs. Back through the streets and the noise and the bustle of the city and then out to the suburbs.
So many evenings he'd spent in the city instead of the suburbs. So many evenings staring at the screen on his desk and talking to his workmates instead of the TV and his family. So many evenings helping the company complete their profits instead of his son complete his homework. And so many evenings Jim and his family stepped in when he was missing. Janie babysitting Ryan so Angie could have some semblence of a life. Mandy keeping Angie company on lonely winter evenings. And Jim seeing off the prowler. The prowler who was gone before the police arrived. The prowler who was always persistent, waiting a week or two for Linc to give in again to the demands of the office. To give his evenings to the company again once the threat had passed. The prowler who never returned after the unmistakable red dot hovered on his chest and an invisible Jim explained the consequences of his return.
He owed his marriage to Jim and his family. Without him he would have lost Angie by now.
He pulled in to Jim's driveway and parked in front of the garage. The door was open. The lights were on. He got out and hung the tools back, neatly in the empty slots, so empty and out of place in that immaculate workshop.
The hallway door was open too, bugs circled the light and bounced off the hot bulb and stank the room of burnt moth. The sound of some TV reporter talking about the latest farm closures reached the garage. He hit the garage door button and entered the hall.
"...the fourth farm to close this week due to contaminated crops. Mr Larson said the farm had been in his family for one hundred fifty years and that it was heart breaking to have done everything right and then forfeit because an entire season's crop has to be destroyed."
"Jim? You in here?"
The reporter continued talking about various strains of hepatitis and E. coli that had been found on crops.
He emerged into the kitchen, the dining room on his left. Both empty. He moved to the lounge and found Jim slumped in a chair.
"Long day buddy?"
No response.
He put his hand on Jim's shoulder and shook. His head rolled to the left and his cap fell off, revealing a red mark on his right temple. He checked for a pulse. There was none.
At the opposite end of the room the words were scrawled on the wall in red above the sofa:
1. Jim
2. Ryan
3. Angie
4. Linc
Linc staggered and reached for the wall. It wasn't there. He toppled, watched the door frame slide past and felt the floor hit him with a distant thump. He wanted to get up, to do something. Fix something. But there was nothing to fix. He lay on the floor and waited for an answer to come but there was none. Jim was dead and nothing would fix that.
He crawled into a chair and waited for what to do next. He was sitting opposite Jim now. His neighbor. His buddy. Slumped in the chair like some helpless victim. How?
And who? Who could do this? Who would be capable of doing this? To Jim? Not just a good man. More than a decent human being. An army sharp shooter, a guy who was always ready for everything.
A knot formed in Linc's stomach and he felt his chest tighten as he realized the truth of it. He forced air in and out of his lungs. This was his fault. Jim was killed for saving Ryan and Angie. For saving his family. He had brought all of this here, into Jim's house. Into Mandy's house. How was he going to tell Mandy about this? And Janie? How would they get by without Jim?
But it wasn't Mandy or Janie's names on the wall. It was Ryan and Angie. They were the ones who needed protecting. Mandy and Janie could wait.
He had to check on Ryan and Angie.
He switched off all the lights and slipped out the back door. Into the yard and through the trees, back to his own yard. He followed the back fence around and stayed in the shadows, but there were none. Not in the light before dawn. If he was seen then he was seen. Nothing he could do but hope they weren't looking out a window.
He climbed the two by fours he'd nailed to the tree, missing the one that creaked. He climbed around the tree house and reached for the branch that extended over the roof of the second floor. Hand over hand he made his way along until his feet touched the tiles. He worked his way up the roof to Ryan's bedroom window and studied the room. The duvet moved softly up and down, up and down. Too slow for conscious breathing. He checked the walls and the chair and pushed his head and shoulders through the opening in the window and checked the corners of the room. Nobody. Ryan was alone. Safe.
He slid the window open enough to squeeze through and climbed quietly to the floor. He slipped out the door and along the hall to the master bedroom. He turned the handle slowly and cracked the door. Angie's breathing was heavy and uneven. But far away in some unsettled dream. The bedroom was clear.
He worked his way through the house, silently checking each room for intruders. The doors were secure, nothing was moved, no foreign smell, not body odor, not cigarette smoke. Not that he could detect. Nobody had been here.
Was the list a promise? Was it a threat to make him toe the line or face the consequences? It made no sense. Perhaps it was a game, played by some anonymous psychopath. If there was a time to see the worst in people it was certainly now.
What ever it was he had to find a way to protect them. He could call the police and explain everything. But then what? He waits in a cell while his family sits in the house like trophies for this nut job? No, not that.
They could leave town. Go somewhere that nobody can find them. But where? Everywhere is screwed. Nowhere is safe. And why should they leave? This was their home. Why should they abandon it for some lowlife? No, not that either.
Ryan and Angie can stay with her sister until it's safe to come home. She might not like it, but it works.
This can only be the bikers. The brother must have had an accomplice. Someone saw the shooting. He must have waited until Jim was asleep and surprised him. He'll find out who it was and who else knows. He'll make it safe for them to come home. Safe for them to be where they belong. He had dealt with the bikers once already. He could do it again. He had needed no help from police or anyone else. If they had left him alone then he would have left them alone. But they had started this. They had forced his hand. And he would be the one to finish it. This might be some game to them, but not for him. For him this was his everything. That was his advantage.
He thought of the keys, jingling and catching the light of the lantern. If only he had kept them. If only he hadn't left them at the bottom of that dry hole. The bikers were easy to find; the street he passed often enough on his way to the warehouse, the street that everybody tried so hard not to talk about.
The keys could be his way in. To wherever the bikers were planning, to whatever they were planning. He could turn this around. He would be the one with the surprises.
The keys were where he left them.<
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Again Linc dug. Again he put all of his weight on this shovel. And again his shovel bit into the dirt and the roots and the dry earth. But this time it penetrated. This time it gorged itself on the soft earth, already turned. This time there was no mountain to climb, just a silky pit-full of dirt and a set of keys that would soon be his. His way in. His way to end this once and for all.
He focused on the digging. He found his rhythm and kept his goal in sight, visualized the keys at the bottom of the hole. Closer and closer with each carving scoop.
It could have gone better, and he supposed it could have gone worse. He knew by now never to tell Angie "because I said so". That one led nowhere. But explaining with the right amount of detail was not so easy either. Enough to be convincing. Enough to gain the trust. But not so graphic that she can't sleep at night. In the end he'd resorted to saying "if you trust me, then go to your sister's. I can explain everything later, till I'm blue in the face, but do this now if you trust me." Coerced cooperation. But still cooperation.
He gasped for air and realized he'd been holding his breath. He did that when he was thinking too hard about something else. It was the down side of his free dive training, learning to hold his breath for so long. Sometimes the instinct kicked in when he felt isolated. When the solitude felt good.
He let the sweet air of the forest
