The Run

by Tyler Wolfe

  I tucked the blackmail notice into my pocket and started working on the list of forms. They were so simple and dull that I could do them unwittingly while my mind mulled bullies past and present, and how I wanted to deal with this one.

  They’re always the same. Some huge guy who looks like a pregnant ogre, or some tall muscled jock with a longer reach than mine. Back when I was a kid, they came in groups. Here in my adult life, they tended to walk alone; my guess was that even they got sick of each other’s bullshit, eventually. So, they went their separate ways.

  But the way they were and the way they acted, that never changed. Somehow they always held a position of power: a cop, a politician, or middle management. Then they used that advantage to cause suffering so that they could feel even more powerful. They weren’t hurt; they were lost kids passing on pain to anyone they could. They were sadists, and I hated every last one of them.

  No-Neck might well have his reasons for needing money. Hell, for all I knew, the kid who had attacked me might have been financially desperate too. But it was amazing how I had gone my whole life, even when I was barely able to afford Ramen noodles, without wanting to beat anyone down for power, pleasure or money.

  Now, the matter was survival, and the survival of my marriage. I wasn’t going to die in prison because some fat, bullying fuck thought I looked like an easy target. I would defend myself. I would defend my life with Zoe.

  But even with all the extra muscle I had been putting on, could I possibly take a guy twice my mass?

  There’s the gun, I thought—and then pushed that out of my head hastily. I filled out a few more forms and then found myself musing again on how to take out a man twice my size who would probably be under the influence of something.

  “Hmm, maybe I’ll use a bat or something.” I thought of all the mob movies I had seen over the years where some poor bastard had gotten his kneecaps broken. The bat seemed to be effective, and barbaric enough to frighten.

  I liked the idea of punishing the fat bastard. Beating him until he cried and bled for what he had tried to do. Perhaps the old Louisville slugger that I had in the garage would do, or maybe the tire iron from my truck.

  My smile began to fade as I snapped out of my fantasy and started thinking more rationally about my plans. Okay, say that I do a drop of mostly fake money at the time and place he requested…he comes to get it, I follow him home, and I beat him until he can’t move. But then what?

  My would-be blackmailer was obviously going to know who just beat the shit out of him and why. Could I intimidate him into silence? What were the chances that he wouldn’t just freak out and run to the police for his own protection?

  Beating him up would give him even more of a reason to call the police. I’ll end up in jail anyway, only this time with a murder charge and whatever charge it is for assaulting a witness.

  Ugh. The odds were not looking good. I quit entering data and printing forms, and just stared at my screen looking through the numbers.

  There is always the gun, came the thought again. I stiffened.

  No. I could not start thinking like that. What had happened with that poor, stupid kid had been accidental, and unintentional. What I was contemplating right now, in this moment, was a whole different animal. It would be murder—the cold-blooded kind.

  But there is the gun, or other ways. A baseball bat? Just beat him a little longer and harder. A tire iron—even better. Hit him in the head enough times, and he’ll never be a problem again.

  I drew a sharp breath and closed my eyes, thinking about my mundane, safe, comfortable life. I had a loving wife that I was winning back my connection with day by day. I also had a hope for a new start in some other state. I’d be putting everything at risk if I followed the path that had suddenly opened before me.

  You stand to lose them all anyway if you don’t do this. He won’t stop, any more than the other one would. Bullies never stop. They never ever stop, until you stop them.

  My heart was beating so very hard again, and I was trembling slightly. But this was not the same weak, faltering shaking that had run through me so often in the last month. This was a vibration, the barest shiver of muscles tightening with a strange and terrible excitement. I sat up straight in my chair while a rush of energy ran through me like a stream of electricity.

  I was being pulled in two directions. Part of me recoiled in horror as the option I was contemplating made more and more sense. After all, what I was considering was premeditated murder. Murder One. I could get the death penalty. I was crazy to even consider it.

  It’s survival, though. This is how you survive.

  I was also terrified of what would happen if Zoe found out, but how would she? Right now, I had the chance to make sure our lives would continue to be the way we wanted and not be ruined by some scummy son-of-a-bitch looking for a quick handout. So far there’s been no body, no evidence, no family coming forward, and no investigation. Just one nosy witness. And once he’s gone, that’d be it. All I had to do was take care of this one last thing.

  The unwanted thoughts filled my head with a seductive promise of relief, safety, and a secret that would be buried with one last corpse. Maybe I was desperate, exhausted, or just so burned out on being pushed around that I couldn’t take it anymore. But that little voice in my head was making more and more sense.

  Silence the threat and end the problem, by ending the man causing it.

  “It’s self-defense,” I heard myself mutter in a low, gravelly voice full of terrible resolve. It was self-defense last time, and an accident, and even so I still feel bad about that. But this time, the guy’s not just some idiot kid. He’s a grown man who wants to extort me and ruin my life. And he won’t stop until I stop him. “It has to be done.”

  I looked around the sunlit office, with its rustle of phone conversations, keyboards clicking, the low hum of the air conditioner. So peaceful and mundane, especially now that Bob had stepped out again—and that was all kinds of irony. In the middle of that warm afternoon, I filled with ice-cold resolve. I’m going to kill that motherfucker.

  CHAPTER 13

  Too Much to Lose

  “I’m sorry, hun. I’m just on edge.” It felt like I was apologizing to Zoe for snapping at her for the dozenth time in five days. “I overreacted. You’re not acting bitchy. I really kind of am.”

  She looked at me dubiously, fists on hips, then sighed and rolled her eyes. “Babe, if the job is stressing you out this much, maybe you should just put in for that transfer. It really does seem like Bob is after your job, or you, or something. I can see what it’s doing to you.”

  I looked at her optimistically. “So you’re not mad?”

  “Of course I’m mad,” she grumbled, dropping her hands in exasperation. “Don’t take your stress out on me. Instead talk to me so I can help you deal with it. We’re in this together.”

  I stared at her sadly. Baby, I wish I could. But I could never do that to you. “Okay. I’m sorry. No excuses. And yeah, Bob is toxic, and now he’s starting to act erratically.”

  “Erratically? What do you mean?” Her brows drew together in worry. “Beyond his petty tantrums and crap?”

  “Yeah.” I puffed out my cheeks in real exasperation. “He’s nervous, shifty, and always taking off suddenly.” I didn’t tell her that it seemed to have something to do with me. I still didn’t know why Bob kept acting like I was some poisonous snake in his office. I was starting to suspect that Luis had told him some made-up story about me being a gun nut or something, as a prank.

  “I wonder if he’s been skimming. They’re conducting audits now that they’re expanding, right?” She tapped her lips with her finger, then took another swallow of her sweet tea.

  “Yeah, they are. If it’s that, I hope they catch him before he fires the rest of his department.” I said jokingly.

  The days had flown by quicker than I could have ever imagined. It felt like rushing toward the edge of a waterfall and not knowing if I would survi
ve the drop. My stress level had me snapping at my co-workers, and worse, at Zoe.

  I couldn’t entirely help it though, any more than I could explain the real reason that I was so stressed out. Each day was getting closer to the day where everything was going to happen. But that didn’t make it right for me to take any of it out on Zoe.

  “You know what?” I plastered on my fake smile. “You’re right. How about I get you a list of cities we could pick from. You pick three and I’ll put in for a transfer at their branches?”

  Her eyes lit up. “You mean it? Awesome! Yeah, get me that list and I’ll take a look.”

  I bobbed my head, mouth aching from holding that totally fake, cheesy smile. Yeah, baby, I’m sorry, but first I’ll need to kill some guy who’s trying to extort us for almost all our savings. Then we can move anywhere you want. The further away, the better.

  Too bad they don’t have any branches in Mexico.

  Over the past few days I had developed my plan and made preparations to set my trap. I withdrew five hundred dollars from our savings, in twenties. The bank teller never even batted an eye. Then I went to the local party store and bought out all their packets of fake cash. It was the same size, color and texture as real money, but had the face of a clown on the front instead of the head of a dead president.

  I went home with the cash straps and started making bundles of (mostly) fake twenties. Five in all, with ninety-five fakes, three real twenties at the top of each stack, and two at the bottom. It looked like a big beautiful pile of cash: good enough to pass for ten thousand in twenties.

  No-Neck would have to examine them closely before he would be able to tell that they were mostly fakes. If he did that in the abandoned lot, he would for sure need to check with a flashlight. Then I would hit him from behind, wrap his ass up and dump him in the lake next to the kid. If he went home, I would get him there before he could figure it out and call the cops.

  There were still holes in my plan though. Guns were traceable. Mine was registered to me all nice and legal. If I used the gun, the body would have to never, ever be found. Also, I was still trying to figure out how the hell to get that done with a corpse the size of No-Neck’s.

  That night before Zoe came home, I put all the money into a small black gym bag I had bought from a local thrift store, and stowed it behind the passenger seat of my truck. I wasn’t sure if that fat bastard would be picking up the money or if someone else would, but I was sure the bag of money would suffice for the drop. Hopefully, like myself, he preferred to keep his crimes from involving anyone else.

  The plan was simple. I would drop the bag of money off in the vacant lot as requested, then take cover somewhere close and wait to see who picked it up. Once the money was retrieved, one of two things would happen. Either the guy was local enough to just walk back to his house—in which case I could just trail him home—or he had a car. If the second was the case, my plan was to snap a picture of the car and license plate, and then use them to track down his residence.

  From there, either way, I would enter No-Neck’s home, shoot him, retrieve the money and destroy the evidence, including his computer and phone. It was crazy. I hated the whole idea of all of it. But, it was the only plan that kept me out of jail.

  The note demanded that the money to be dropped off at 10:00 pm. I could hardly believe how stupid that fool was for arranging the drop at night. He probably thought that the dark would allow him to retrieve the bag without anyone noticing. Maybe he figured that I was scared, and that he was thus safe to grab my money and go home. If that was the case, he was seriously underestimating me.

  I could just shoot him in the vacant lot and be done with it. But then everyone would hear the noise. Indoors the sound will be more muffled. People might just think it was late fourth of July fireworks. Kids around the neighborhood loved to save an extra few for future entertainment. I knew that I was going to need to play it by ear. There was no way of knowing for certain how the night would play out, or who would be out there in the dark besides the two of us.

  There might be passers-by. He might bring backup or have an accomplice. He might be armed. I have to be careful. This isn’t a prank I’m pulling. This is real. This is war. I was prepared to kill to defend my family and my future. I was not prepared to die.

  Eight o’clock finally rolled around and I stood in my kitchen facing the lake. I had everything laid out before me on the kitchen table including my black hoodie, my pistol which was oiled and loaded, with a round chambered, and my cellphone in case things went awry.

  I looked out at the lake; dark clouds blocked the moonlight, and I caught the faint reflection of my face in the darkened window. My eyes looked like empty pits, and my mouth was a resolute line. Whether he has backup, I’m ready. I’ve got eight bullets for whoever wants them. The clip could hold more but hopefully this wasn’t going to turn into a damn shootout.

  I stared at the gun for a long time, then turned my back on it and went into the living room to wait. My stomach churned. I had not been able to eat a single bite of the burrito Zoe had left me. It was a favorite of mine from a Mexican joint down the street, but how could I stomach food at a time like this?

  It was completely crazy, but my only choice now was to go out, kill a man I didn’t know, dispose of his body, and come home before Zoe did. Also, make sure that she never, ever found out. Another secret to carry to my grave.

  With nothing else to do but wait, I sat down on the couch in the black sweatpants I had picked up with the bag, and turned on the television. The news was on. It was all I ever watched anymore when I was alone.

  They still hadn’t found the kid’s body. After a month, in this warm weather, the fish, turtles, gators and warm water must have started to do their work. The kid would be unrecognizable in a few weeks if he wasn’t now, and in another month or so, he would be bones. Eventually he wouldn’t even be that.

  But how the hell am I going to get rid of the No-Neck’s body? He’s twice my weight out of the water, and in it, he’ll float! I’d have to weight him so much that I would probably sink the boat between him and the cinder blocks.

  The news then showed a story about some guy who had molested his girlfriend’s 1-year-old while she was at work. Sick. I hated the news because it always reminded me of how crazy the outside world was getting. I watched the stories on the most recent deadly mishaps and the president’s latest embarrassing political gaffe for a little as I sat and thought about how to get rid of the damn body. I don’t have anything caustic to dissolve it in and burying it somewhere is too obvious and too risky. And God help me if I have an accomplice to bury too.

  I suddenly felt sick again and tried to turn my attention to the news. Now they were doing a report on all the people still without power in Puerto Rico. My mind slid to another subject in desperation.

  Zoe. She was working at the restaurant tonight, but would be home around midnight. By then it would all be done, and I could stop living my double life and go back to being her husband again. I wished to God that I could jump forward, without so much as the memory of doing what had to be done.

  My wife was a great person, simple and sweet. She had moved to Lakeland for school and then stayed, liking the weather—and the lack of her mother’s presence. We had married a year ago after three years of dating, and two of living together.

  In the beginning, our relationship had been perfect. It had even started out like a romantic movie. I had met Zoe by chance at the restaurant where she had been working one night after I got off work. I was picking up my to-go order, and she was the one at the counter. She smiled as she took care of getting my order, like it was the best thing to happen to her all night. Her smile was perfect, and had a warmth to it, like it could make a dreary day sunny.

  It’s funny how something as common as picking up food can become a life changing moment. We had stood and chatted at the register for a good five minutes, enjoying each other’s witty comebacks. I remembered joking with Zoe ab
out whether it was appropriate to tip on a to-go order. Needless to say, she won the debate, and I left her a ten-dollar tip on a $9.79 bill.

  The tip debate had become a thing that Zoe and I would joke about every time that I came by the restaurant. After about a month of casual encounters, I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out. She wrote down her number on a napkin and handed it to me, smiling, just like she had the first time we met. The rest was history. We had been together ever since.

  I often wondered how I had been lucky enough to find such an amazing woman. Zoe was close to my age and not only smart and ravishingly beautiful, but single, mentally stable, and had no children. It was crazy. It was fate. Almost like God had brought us together. At least, that was what I said when I was happy with our relationship.

  We were different in a lot of ways, and most people would never have pegged us as being a compatible couple, but we really did all right. Especially at first. We liked the same foods, the same movies, neither one of us really fit in in Florida, and we had figured out pretty quickly how to live together in relative peace.

  We were great together, we had just lost our way. Zoe filled in where my strengths weren’t. For example, she handled our budgeting and paying the bills, that way I didn’t have to deal with more math when I came home. In return, I dealt with handling the people in our life, so she could have a break from having to use her people skills once she was off shift. We were a good balance. She shopped; I fixed stuff. She cooked; I cleaned. We always had each other’s backs and anytime we had a big problem, like an expensive fix on one of our vehicles or an unforeseen doctor bill, we handled it together. Day to day, we did well.

  But cracks had started to appear. I hated that I was thinking about this now, but it was true. Some problems and differences had gotten ignored. Some arguments just had never been resolved. The restaurant Zoe worked at went out of business, which forced her to pick up a night shift elsewhere. She made better money now than before, but her schedule left us with only a fraction of our usual time together.