by Ponzo, Gary
“What are you talking about?” Bryant said quietly while watching the flashing lights blink off his rearview mirror.
“He’s trying to find a way to get us alone,” she said, urgently. “We have to get away from him.”
“But I can’t just leave. He’ll call for backup.”
“No, he won’t,” she said. She didn’t seem interested in turning around, as if she knew what monster was standing behind her and she refused to look. “He’s working alone. He won’t call it in.”
“Margo, you’re still under the effects of anesthesia. He’s just doing his job.”
“No, he’s not,” she said, her face down now, her eyes darting back and forth as if she were eavesdropping. “He’s friends with Turkle.”
At the sound of the agent’s name, Bryant flinched. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Margo said, a quiver in her voice.
The officer returned to Bryant’s side of the car, handing him back his license.
The man glanced around the perimeter as if searching for something.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” the officer said. “I want you two to get out of the car very slowly.”
Margo gripped Bryant’s arm and squeezed. He could feel her anxiety flush into his system while he sat there with his heart pumping way too fast.
“Dr. Bryant,” the officer said firmly, backing up a step and placing both hands on his right hip. His gun hip.
The way the words came out of the man’s mouth, it was too familiar, like he’d used them before. And how did he know Bryant was a doctor? Bryant felt motion next to him. He turned in time to see Margo pull the gearshift into drive and slam her foot down on the accelerator. Instinctively he grabbed the steering wheel and pressed on the brake, but Margo had viciously planted her foot to the floorboard.
“Stop,” shouted the officer running next to the car as it jerked away from him in lurches. The brakes screeched its displeasure in the quiet neighborhood. Bryant could sense the officer hold out his gun, but he had to keep the car on the road while fighting for control with Margo.
“What are you doing?” Bryant yelled at her.
“Please, we have to get out of here,” Margo cried.
Bryant finally glanced over at her face and saw the sheer panic in her eyes. He decided to let go of the brake. The car squealed forward, jolting them back. Margo was thrown into her seat, while Bryant yanked the wheel left to avoid a parked car. When he looked into his side-view mirror he saw the officer pointing his gun, but not shooting. A moment later the man ran to his cruiser and began the chase.
“Get down,” Bryant shouted.
Margo shrunk down in her seat, her knees to her chest.
“What’s he thinking?” Bryant asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s too far away. It’s too hectic.”
Bryant was accelerating past sixty down a residential street, the police car gaining and the siren now blaring its warning at them.
“I should pull over,” Bryant said. “I can’t outrun him. If he takes us in, I’ll call Detective Meltzer. He’ll get us out of this.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t want to take us to the police station.”
Bryant took his foot off the gas for a moment as they zipped past a side street, then he slammed his foot on the accelerator flying forward with no destination.
“Even if he doesn’t call for backup, he’ll catch us,” Bryant said, searching for ideas, but coming up empty. The smell of burning brake pads finally wafted up from the wheel wells. “Maybe I can pull over in a crowded shopping center, so we’ll have witnesses.”
Margo stared out the front windshield at the darkening sky above them. She seemed to be in a trance.
“Margo, I’m going to find some busy—”
“No,” she said, “I have a better idea.”
They were rapidly approaching a main intersection. The traffic light had just changed from yellow to red.
“Pull over,” Margo said.
Bryant was barely paying attention to the road in front of him. Instead, he was staring at his rearview mirror, watching the cruiser gain on him like a cheetah to a gazelle.
“Pull over,” Margo repeated.
“Are you sure?” Bryant said, breathless, peppering his brakes, preparing for the red light.
“Yes.”
Bryant glided the car to the curb, watching the police car gobble up the space between them and get close enough to tap bumpers. When Bryant stopped completely, he watched Margo pull on the door handle.
He grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”
“I can stop this,” she said with a forced calmness to her voice.
“No,” Bryant said, glimpsing the side-view mirror and watching the officer jump out of the car with his pistol held out in front of him. The siren was off, but the lights still flickered its urgency.
“I know what I’m doing,” she said pushing open her door and looking back at Bryant. “He won’t shoot me.”
“No,” Bryant said, reaching out for her, but grasping at air.
His body felt numb as he watched Margo walk around the front of his car. The officer was crouched in an aggressive position, both hands on the gun and trained at Margo.
“Get in my car,” the officer barked at her, and at first it seemed that was exactly what she was going to do. She strutted right past him and slid into the open door of the cruiser. The driver’s side door.
“Hey, the back seat,” the officer yelled as an approaching car slowed, then crawled past them. Two men inside the car gawked at the incident as if watching animals in a wildlife park.
The police car’s engine suddenly stopped. Margo jumped out of the car, her right hand balled into a fist.
She passed the officer once again as he shouted, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
This merely put a little hop into her step as she scurried the last few feet to Bryant’s car, slid in and shut the door behind her.
The officer sidestepped his way to the front of their car and pointed the pistol while shouting warnings. Bryant felt his body tremble.
Margo opened her fist and showed him the police officer’s car keys. “Drive,” she said.
Bryant put the car in gear and rolled forward, the officer hopped back and forth like a linebacker. As the car gained speed, the officer dodged to the side and gave way as they rolled past him.
In the rearview mirror, Bryant watched the officer aim his gun at them. He saw him shout warnings. He watched the guy dance maniacally next to his cruiser. Bryant kept waiting to hear a shot fired, but nothing came. Finally as the officer grew smaller, he lowered his weapon and stood there with his hands on his hips.
“I told you,” Margo said, twisting around in her seat for the direct view of the officer’s antics. “He won’t be calling this in.”
As Bryant’s heartbeat slowed, he turned right onto Ray Road. Now he knew where he needed to go. The two of them drove in silence. After a while, Margo opened her window and tossed the police officer’s keys onto the side of the road.
“He’s a bad man,” Margo said.
Bryant didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.
Chapter 20
Officer Scanlin sat in his car, door open, head back against the rest. As the black Ford Expedition rolled to a stop behind him, Scanlin busied himself by scraping dried mustard from his steering wheel.
With a sigh in his voice, Turkle said, “You mean to tell me you had her and she got away?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Scanlin said, scraping away at the condiment with his fingernail.
“You couldn’t even apprehend an unarmed teenage girl. It was a routine call. How should I talk to you?”
“There was nothing routine about what happened here,” Scanlin spit back at him, finally facing the FBI agent.
Turkle folded his arms. “Go ahead. Tell me what went wrong.”
“I told you,” Scanlin
said, “she ran from me.”
“That’s it? She ran? End of story?”
Scanlin pursed his lips. “You wouldn’t tell me what she’d done, so what was I supposed to do—shoot her?”
“If that’s what it took, yes,” Turkle said, leaning into Scanlin and locking in on him.
“C’mon, Ron, she didn’t deserve a bullet and you know it.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what she deserves? I ask for a simple favor. Apprehend a teenage girl on the run, and this appears to be too difficult.”
“Shit, I was never going to shoot her and it was almost as if she knew it.”
“So just put the cuffs on her and hold her in the car. How tough is that?”
“I was pointing my gun at her, point blank. The kid never even flinched.”
“So grab her,” Turkle said, seeming to lose his patience.
“You ever point a gun at someone from close distance and have them ignore your warning?”
“Yes,” Turkle said, raising his voice. “After they ignored my warning, I shot them.”
“Yeah, well,” Scanlin said, turning away, looking out his windshield. He didn’t know what kind of hard-on Turkle had for this girl, but he wasn’t about to shoot an unarmed civilian just because an old police academy buddy wanted to question her.
A dark cloud suddenly formed overhead. Scanlin watched as the cloud developed with record speed, blocking out any sunlight and darkening the sky. Starting from way up high in the northwest, to a low spot just to the south of them.
“You see that?” Scanlin said, gesturing with his head.
“Sunspots,” Turkle said without looking up. “I heard about it on the radio.”
“Sunspots?” Scanlin said, skeptical mostly because he didn’t trust anything Turkle said anymore.
The storm system gathered steam and cast a deep shadow over the city. Scanlin couldn’t keep his eyes off it, while Turkle kept on badgering him about the quality of his police work.
“That’s why you’re still with the Chandler PD,” Turkle sneered. “When do I ever ask for anything from you, huh?”
Scanlin got out of the car and squared up on the agent. “You’re right, Ron,” he said, pulling out his logbook and clicking a ballpoint pen. “Let me write this up in my report and let Timlon look at this. Maybe I deserve to be reprimanded. What was I thinking, letting a teenage girl who, as far as I know, hadn’t broken a single law, get away. Maybe you can explain to him what an egregious error in judgment I made.”
Scanlin began writing the date on the top of the form. Turkle grabbed the logbook and pulled it down. He yanked the replacement car key from his pocket and tossed it at the officer. Scanlin grabbed the key as it bounced off his chest.
Turkle’s eyes sizzled with laser-like fury. “Thanks for nothing,” he growled, then headed back to the Expedition.
Scanlin waited until Turkle was out of sight before he took a full breath. He tossed the logbook onto the passenger seat and stuffed the pen back into his shirt pocket. When he got back into the car, he noticed the clouds seemed to dissipate.
“Sunspots,” he murmured.
* * *
The taxi pulled up to the entrance of St. Andrews and stopped. On the back of the passenger seat was a picture of an alien inside of a circle and a red line across the alien’s face. Father Joe paid the cab driver, then got out and shut the door. The cabbie kept looking at him as if the priest should offer him something more than money. Father Joe leaned into the passenger window and said, “You okay?”
The cabbie was older and bearded. His tired eyes stayed on the priest. “We don’t have much time left do we, Father?” He asked the question as if Father Joe kept an almanac with the date for the end of time inside.
Father Joe was tired himself. He’d endured a shooting right outside his rectory that morning, then Margo’s miracle recovery. Somehow the end of time seemed like a reasonable consequence.
“Are you concerned?” Father Joe asked.
“Well, it’s just all these incidents. First that rain cloud that won’t go away, then that alien girl.” He looked up at the sky and pointed, “Then that.”
The clouds had formed a gigantic stream of billowing smoke overhead, like the exhaust from a thousand airplanes spilling out over the sky. Recent events had caused a split among the average Chandler resident. Half thought it was the apocalypse. The other half felt it was aliens here to destroy the planet. Father Joe believed neither was imminent, yet he understood the apprehension of restless souls.
He looked at the cabbie, who seemed anxious for some guidance. “Do you have Jesus in your heart?” Father Joe asked.
The bearded man seemed to ponder the question. “I’m not sure, Father, but I can always make room for Him.”
The priest smiled. “Then you’ll be just fine.”
The cabbie nodded, his troubled expression still lingering. Father Joe took a breath, then held up his Bible as a reference point. “There’s plenty of time,” he said sincerely. “Spend it wisely.”
The cabbie seemed to understand. He saluted Father Joe, then put the taxi in gear and drove away.
Father Joe felt heavier as he walked up the entrance to St. Andrews, as if he wore ankle weights. He pulled open the thick oak door and made his way into the main church. The aroma of scented candles wafted throughout the large, empty cathedral. He glanced at his watch and made his way to the wooden confessionals in the far back corner of the church. They were constructed in the early sixties and moved into St. Andrews when a nearby church decided the ancient structure no longer fit their modern theme. The Christian faith had discovered a new business model. In an attempt to attract a younger, hipper and more affluent crowd, the trend was to begin the service with a short rock concert. Long-haired guitar players and pretty girls swayed onstage to a trio of rock ballads praising the Lord. Father Joe was more of a traditionalist so he gladly accepted the contribution.
The priest placed a sign directing those looking for reconciliation to the open doors of the wooden structure. He clutched his Bible and made his way into the middle door of the three-door confessional. His tiny compartment had a small seat while each of the side compartments had padded kneelers for the sinner to use while confessing his or her sins.
The frequency of visits was sporadic at best. Some Saturdays, Father Joe could go the entire hour without a single sinner willing to repent. Other times, the hour flew by. Once inside, he shut the door and used the tiny rays of light passing through the dark screen window to fumble through his Bible once again. He was still searching for something which could explain some of his questions.
The familiar squeak of the left confessional door opening and closing stopped him. It was followed by the click of the door fastening shut. Father Joe placed the Bible in his lap, then slid open the one-foot-square window of the shared wall. As always, Father Joe leaned toward the opening, but never tried to see through the tightly wound mesh screen which made identifying the occupant practically impossible.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” a man’s voice said. “It has been five weeks since my last confession.”
“Yes,” Father Joe said. “What sins would you like to confess?”
“Well, Father, I’ve lied to my wife.”
Father Joe stayed quiet allowing the confessor to repent at his own pace.
“Do you want to know what I lied about?” the man asked.
“I’m not here to judge,” Father Joe said. “If you feel the need to divulge the details, however, I’ll gladly listen.”
The man took a good long time to gather himself. Finally, he said, “That’s not really what’s bothering me. It’s something I’m about to do that bothers me.”
Father Joe remained still.
“You see, Father, I recently lost my job and couldn’t afford to pay my mortgage. My daughter’s got two years of college left and . . .” The man seemed to consider his words.
The sour economy had brought ma
ny fine people to make unfortunate choices, so Father Joe wasn’t surprised to hear this explanation from the other side of the wooden wall.
“Well,” the man continued, “I don’t have much of a choice, really. I was offered a large amount of money to kill someone.”
“Come again?”
“I’m going to murder someone, Father, and I want to know if the Lord would forgive me.”
Father Joe clutched his Bible tight. He peeked through the opening, but saw nothing. It was too dark. “You must understand, I can’t offer reconciliation for something you haven’t done.”
“Why not?” the man asked, seemingly bewildered at the comment.
“Well, because the Lord gives us the ability to choose. You don’t need to murder anyone.”
“But I do,” the man sounded frantic. “I have no other choice. If I don’t, I’ll lose my house, my wife, and certainly my child’s college education.”
Father Joe felt his tiny cubicle closing in on him. He considered jumping out and opening the confessor’s door to detain the possible killer, but then he’d be abusing the sacred vow he’d sworn to uphold. The seal of the confessional could never be violated.
“Father?” the man said in a low voice. “Can you offer reconciliation?”
Father Joe knew he would have to rely solely on words to keep this man connected to the world.
“You believe in Jesus, right?” Father Joe asked.
“Yes, Father.”
“And you believe he died for our sins?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you’re a Christian and understand the commandment of God,” Father Joe said, blandly, waiting for the response.
“But Father, what about repentance?”
Father Joe let out a breath, grateful to know the man still needed something from him. “My son,” Father Joe said with a paternal voice, “those who sin willfully risk enslavement by their sin and the real possibility that they will not be able to repent.”
“That can’t be true,” the man said, his voice growing stronger and angrier. “I know my Bible, Father, and there’s nothing in there about repenting future sins.”
