That Was Before

by Dan Lawton

  “So, Benjamin—”

  “Let me stop you right there. Nobody calls me Benjamin except my mom. It’s Benji.”

  “Fine. Benji. Tell me, what—”

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important right now.”

  Benji disagreed. He stepped toward the door and stretched for the handle, but the man held a hand up against Benji’s chest and stopped him. Benji did not like it.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  The man removed his hand.

  “Now move. Please. I’m leaving.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Are you security?”

  “No.”

  “Do you work for an airline?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m leaving.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Benji froze. He was not sure what that meant, what the context was.

  “And I know what you’re doing, what you’ve done.”

  Not good.

  “Look, man. I’m not hurting anyone. It’s just a little grass. Half the states in—”

  “I don’t care about that. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh. Well, I think you have the wrong guy. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  There was a long silence. The man towered over Benji, folded his arms, flexed his jaw. Benji breathed deeply but shallowly, tried to ground himself, to stay calm and relaxed, to not give in. He braced for the beating he was certain to receive.

  “Who’s that woman you’re with?” the man said.

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Just a friend. We fuck sometimes, that’s it.”

  “Do you fuck all your friends?”

  Benji shifted his weight and sighed, looked at the clock and watched as the hands ticked. “What do you want, man? I’m going to miss my flight.”

  “I want to know why you were looking at the security footage of the supermarket explosion in Cedar Rapids from earlier this week.”

  Benji stiffened, felt his throat parch.

  The man stood and waited, flexed his jaw again.

  “Who are you?” Benji said.

  “Why were you looking at the tapes?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man stepped closer, looked down at him. Benji smelled what he thought was whiskey on his breath, but it also could have been Listerine.

  “I won’t ask again.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Two hands grabbed Benji’s collar and shoved him against the wall. Rage boiled in the man’s eyes as he pressed against Benji’s chest with what must have been all his might. The veins in his neck stuck out like tripwires ready to snatch a perp. Benji’s back cracked as he was flattened against the wall like a pancake. A mancake.

  “What the fuck, man!”

  “I know you were looking, so don’t bullshit me! Now I want to know why.”

  “She’s my girlfriend, okay? That’s why!”

  The man released Benji’s collar and stepped back. Confusion swept over his face. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

  “She’s one of the cashiers. I hadn’t heard from her after the explosion, so I was checking on her. That’s all, man. I swear.”

  The man reached into his hip pocket and fished around for something, scrunched his forehead. Panic rose within Benji. He eyed the door, thought about making a beeline for it, wondered if he could make it before getting shot. What would he do if he did make it, where would he go? Chaos would ensue if he made a scene at the airport. He would be put on a watch list—or worse, blacklisted. The last thing he needed was attention from the federal government.

  He had to wait and react, do nothing.

  If this man, whoever he was, was able to track his activity online, Benji questioned if he was not as smart as he thought he was. Or as careful. What went wrong? He followed all the standard protocols for invisibility. Obviously, as proven by his current situation, he needed to step up his game, refresh his skills. Maybe he had gotten complacent.

  The man pulled out something compact and dark, thrust it in Benji’s direction. He flinched but stayed cool, then relaxed once he saw what it was. A phone, just a phone. It had a video queued up.

  “Which one is your girlfriend?” the man said.

  Benji took the device and watched the screen. His hands trembled, but he squeezed the phone tightly so the man would not notice—he could not, would not, show fear; that would give the man the upper hand. The footage on the screen was the same he saw before—the grainy overhead view, the wide angle. Shay was there, just like before. Despite the grain, she was still beautiful. Just stunning.

  “There,” he said. “That’s her.”

  The man took the phone back and paused the feed. He pointed to the woman on the screen, to Shay. “That’s your girlfriend?”

  “That’s her.”

  The man grinned, then smiled. “I’ll be damned.”—he looked up and at Benji—”Well then, my friend. Benji. I think we may be able to help each other out here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Despite Wyoming being so close, they could not go there. Not anymore. Too predictable. It was disappointing, yes, but he was not bitter. Sheila needed him right now, so he had to react appropriately. Route 20 would bring them there, to the border of Wyoming, to nowhere in particular. But they detoured south on Route 83 instead, the final destination just as unknown as before. He hoped the sudden change in direction would throw off the tail.

  O’Reilly.

  Sheila was rattled. Whatever he did to her in the past left a lasting impact, and despite the separation between them, he still had control over her. Whether Sheila would admit it was another matter—her stubbornness was not hard to identify. But O’Reilly knew and actively took advantage of it. And now, Randolph knew too. Though he did not know what to make of it. Or worse, what to do about it.

  Sheila sat quietly and fidgeted. Her phone was still off and in a cup holder in the center console. The chip she removed bounced around beneath it each time the truck abruptly changed lanes or veered around a corner. Randolph heard his thoughts as if they were spoken aloud.

  While the need to know irked him, he would not ask Sheila for more information about O’Reilly. If she wanted to tell him, she would. He considered the idea that she wanted to forget about that time in her life, so to bring it up would be insensitive—Randolph could empathize with that desire. As much as he wanted to know everything, it ultimately did not matter. Everyone had a past; the past was where it should be left.

  Speaking of the past, how about Patricia? What was that all about? Everything about her—her persona, her vibe, her sudden opinion change about the timing of the divorce—was so strange and unlike her. Though admittedly, he hardly knew who she was anymore. Some days it depressed him to remember who she used to be, of what they used to have. But then he thought about all the events that happened over thirty-two years and wondered where they went wrong. How much of it was his doing, he would never know. He would not ask her because it did not matter anymore. The past was the past, right? Everyone had one; that was where it should stay.

  What about the tape? Was it true? He still had not heard from Larry—his attorney—which he would have by now if something was up. Bizarre.

  The road was clear. Traffic was moving, weather a non-issue. A good travel day. Randolph took his free hand and felt for his phone, grabbed it from the console. The network was still po
or.

  “You okay?” he asked Sheila, who nodded without words. He slid his hand across her leg, to send his love, then pulled away. Further dialogue felt both unnecessary and inappropriate. The moment called for nothingness. Self-reflection.

  After several miles, they returned to civilization—not Valentine’s version of it, but actual civilization. More vehicles to count and vibrant billboards along the interstate and road signs indicating food and gasoline and lodging options were off the exits. It was a relief. Randolph’s phone chirped with notifications and alerts and missed calls as the network reconnected. And a voicemail. He picked up the phone and thumbed the screen, kept an eye on the road. He navigated to the voicemail and pressed play. Listened.

  “What is it?” Sheila said shortly after the message began. Apparently, his expression told a story that did not require a verbal response to indicate something was wrong.

  “I need to make a phone call.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  He flicked his wrist to engage the directional and pulled off at the nearest rest area. He unbuckled and stepped out, left the truck running. He found the number in his contact list and dialed it, waited for Herm to pick up. He did.

  “Randolph?”

  “Herm, I got your message. What’s going on?”

  “I was looking through your accounts earlier—routine check-up, you know?—and I saw something strange. So I called you right away.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Did you authorize another withdrawal from the safety account? It’s your money, but you asked me to flag this account.”

  “That’s right, thanks for monitoring it. And to answer your question—no, I didn’t.”

  “Is everything all right? That makes two large sums in a short time.”

  “I haven’t touched this account. You know I wouldn’t.”

  “Right. Which is why it seemed off.”

  Randolph’s stomach twisted with dread. He had a bad feeling about what might come next. “How much are we talking?”

  “Twenty grand.”

  The wind was sucked out of him. A gut punch. His worst nightmare. “Uh, okay. Which one was that?”

  “Both.”

  “Twenty grand total, then?”

  “Afraid not. Each.”

  Each!

  He had to think. And not panic. There had to have been an explanation. It was a mistake, a clerical error. That was all. Nothing to worry about.

  “Randolph?”

  “I’m here. Just thinking.”

  “I feel terrible. I feel like this is on me. I was out of town with the family for a couple of weeks. Then by the time—”

  “It’s not your fault, Herm. Let’s just figure it out. What do you know?”

  “Thank you.”—he sounded relieved—”Two weeks ago there was a withdrawal. I was out of town then. Then two days ago another one, same amount.”

  “Am I being robbed?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am. I looked into it. The money, both times, was taken out in cash.”

  “What? That’s not possible.”

  “It was Patricia. She’s on the account too. And as a joint account holder—”

  “I get it.”

  Silence.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Herm said. He sounded concerned. Like a friend.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I understand.”

  “Can we stop her from taking more?”

  “To remove her from the account, you’ll both need to come in and sign a few things.”

  Damn.

  “What if that’s not a possibility right now?”

  “I could freeze your account, but it’ll only be temporary. I can flag it under suspicious activity.”

  “Let’s do that. How long will that last?”

  “Hard to say. Out of my control, I’m afraid.”

  Randolph nodded, though he knew Herm could not see. “Okay, okay. That gives me some time to figure out what’s going on.”

  “I must warn you, though. If I freeze the account, you’ll be unable to access any of the funds either. I don’t know what you’ve got going on, but if that will be a problem—”

  “It’s not.”

  “Well good. I’ll set that up when we hang up. If you need anything, Randolph, on or off the record, you can call me. You know that, right?”

  “Thank you. I mean that.”

  “Take care now.”

  They hung up.

  Patricia.

  What was she up to now? First her awkward phone call, now this. He did not know what to believe, if what she said was fact or fiction. But he had a way to find out.

  He quickly scrolled through his phone and made another call. Larry would know what was up.

  “Hello?”

  “Larry, it’s Randolph.”

  “I see that. What can I do for you?”

  “Fine thanks.”

  Larry was a bit of a prick, but that was why Randolph paid him. For matters where an attorney may or may not be necessary, he knew he could count on direct, unfiltered, unbiased advice. Not free, though; $200 an hour, one hour minimum. Worth it? Usually not, but sometimes yes. He had gotten Randolph out of a pickle or two over the years—nothing serious; a domestic issue here, a land surveying issue there—so he was forever grateful. More so, he was an expert in family law, which was something Randolph had always closely protected himself with.

  “I’m right in the middle of something,” Larry said. “Can you make this quick?”

  “Patricia called me earlier this morning, told me the local law enforcement are looking for me.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Did you hear about the explosion downtown?”

  “At the supermarket? Yeah, I heard. What, do you think I live under a rock?”

  “That.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  It was another long story. One he did not want to get in to. “She said there are tapes. Surveillance footage.”

  “I’m sure there is. Nothing I’ve been made aware of, though, regarding you or any other of my clients.”

  “I’m on the tapes.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t do it?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Papers shuffled. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Look into it.”

  “What am I looking for, exactly?”

  “To be frank, I don’t know.”

  Larry sighed. “All right, I’ll make some calls, but I’m not happy about it.”

  “Thank you, Larry.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Just wait until I bill you.”

  Randolph smiled. Fucking Larry.

  “All right,” Larry said. “I’ve got to run now, but we’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sheila stared at him as he climbed back into the truck and wiped his brow. A headache pulsed in the back of his skull. He rubbed his eyes. He sensed everything was beginning to crumble around him, that the jig was up. His life had spiraled out of control—he knew it and watched it happen in real time, yet could do nothing to stop it. He felt helpless.

  “Do you really think making a phone call right now i
s a good idea?” she asked. “Considering everything.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not like he’s tracking me too. It’s not me he wants.”

  Sheila turned and faced the window, crossed her arms.

  “What? Am I wrong?”

  She did not respond.

  He fumed. About everything. The bullshit from every direction had worn him thin. He slammed the truck into gear and floored his way back onto the interstate. Once he merged into the lane and kept pace with traffic, he took some time to cool off, to decompress. None of this was Sheila’s fault—he knew that. It was not fair he took it out on her, or anyone. It was not about what happened to him, but about how he reacted to those events that made the man. He regretted his reaction.

  “I’m sorry,” he said once the guilt set in. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  She stayed quiet.

  “It was my accountant on the phone. And then my attorney. There’s something troubling going on.”

  She faced him.

  “I think my wife is cleaning me out.”

  Nothing.

  “I’ve made a careless mistake. She—Patricia, my wife—has been talking about a divorce for years. I kept pushing it off and pushing it off, hoping it would get better. Hoping she’d change her mind.”

  “I wouldn’t call that careless.”

  “No, not that. That’s not what I’m talking about. I should have been prepared. I should have taken care of certain things, but I didn’t. I blinded myself with hope.”

  Her focus was on him, urging him on.

  “My parents died. Many years ago now. A house fire.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

  “It was a gas leak. They were asleep when it happened. I’ve comforted myself through the years with the thought that they didn’t suffer, that they were killed instantly. But there’s no way to know, so . . .”

  “If this is too difficult to talk about, by no means—”

  “I want to. I want you to know.”

  She nodded.

  “Long story short, they were frugal. My dad, he refused to buy a dishwasher.”—he smiled at the memory—”I can’t imagine how frustrating that must have been for my mother. But it was just the three of us, so I get it. Now at least. Then—no, not then. I thought he was being ridiculous. The funny thing is, she never let him forget it. When they would disagree about something completely unrelated years later, the dishwasher always came up.”—he smiled again, chuckled—”Anyway, he worked hard and they lived within their means. Less so, probably. So they had a sizable nest egg.