NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  Avellanos, who was not someone who drove very often, cursed under his breath at the poorly maintained roads and the lack of street lights in River Gardens and Little Mexico, breathing a sigh of relief when he cleared Scahentoarrhonon Station, and emerged into the bright lights of downtown Poison Springs. He made a left turn on Reagan Plaza East, merged onto Route 1081, and continued past WillyMart and the construction site at Winterborn II. He drove on until he came to the strip of cheap motels a few miles south of the Scahentoarrhonon Bridge.

  There he found the "American Patriot Motor Lodge," a rambling dilapidated, run down motel with a broken neon American flag over the front office, a place where the local hookers took their tricks, and, more importantly, the one motel in town where you could pay in cash and sign in under a fake name. He parked the car in back, took Quinn's handcuffs out of his pocket, and locked Cathy Chegoffgan, who was drifting in and out of sleep, to the steering wheel. He walked back out to the front and went inside the motel's office, where he was met with the gaze of an obese woman, a display shelf selling prepaid cell phones, and the smell of burnt popcorn. He leaned on the desk.

  "Sorry about the smoke," she said, taking out a carton of butter. "I'm trying to lose weight. Popcorn is filling and it doesn't have many calories."

  "No problem," he said, looking at the woman pick a dirty spoon up off the counter, scoop out half the carton of butter and put it on the popcorn. "I'd like a room."

  "By the hour, by the day or by the week?" she said, stirring the butter into the popcorn. "Single or double?"

  "By the week, one week."

  "Single or double?" she repeated, sticking her hand into the bowl and grabbing a handful of the hot buttered popcorn.

  "I'd like a single, but I want a room in the back. I can't sleep next to traffic."

  The woman stepped back, opened a drawer, and took out a set of keys. She handed them to Avellanos, who put them on the counter before wiping the butter off his hands on his jeans.

  "That'll be 225 dollars."

  Avellanos picked up the keys, put them in his pocket, and took out the cash he had found in Steve Quinn's pocket. He counted out 225 dollars, and handed it to the woman before he noticed that there was a blood stain on the corner of one of the bills. The woman reached down for another handful of popcorn before counting them out. When she finished, she put them in the cash register.

  "Sign the register," she said, licking her fingers.

  Avellanos reached down, picked up the pen, signed the register, went over to the display of prepaid cell phones, and put one down on the counter.

  "I'd like one of these too."

  “That'll be 67 dollars. Mr. Jackson. You related to Steve Jackson?"

  "I have no relatives named Steve," Avellanos said, putting 67 dollars on the counter. "Jackson's a common name," he added.

  "You look just like Steve Jackson. Thought you might have been his son."

  "Definitely not," Avellanos said, turning on the phone to make sure the battery was charged. "Thank you very much."

  "Enjoy your stay in Poison Springs," she said, handing him two towels.

  "Thank you."

  Avellanos walked back to Cathy Chegoffgan's car, breathing a sigh of relief when he looked through the passenger side window to see that she was still asleep. He locked the driver's side door, and walked around to the passenger's side, unlocked her, led her into the motel room, and handcuffed her to a pipe next to the bed.

  "Where are we?"

  "We're in the emergency room at the hospital," he said, going into the bathroom for a bucket, putting it down next to the bed, then filling up a pitcher of water and putting it on the table. "I have to leave town for a few days but George Kozlowski is going to come to pick you up."

  "OK. I'll wait for George."

  He walked back, bent over and kissed her forehead.

  "Goodbye," he said, turning around. "Goodbye forever."

  "Where are you going?" she said as he closed the door. "Where are you going?"

  Cathy Chegoffgan tried to get up to follow John Avellanos, but the handcuffs held her in place. She reached under her shirt with her free hand, and pulled out a set of three keys that she had tied around her neck, the ones Muffley had given her. There was the key to the archive room in the old wing of City Hall, the key to a fire exit, and the universal key that opened all the handcuffs used by the Poison Springs Metro Police.

  "Come back," she said, holding them up. "You forgot your keys."

  Chapter 34 - The Mouth of Hell

  John Avellanos drove north on Route 1081 over the Scahentoarrhonon Bridge back to WillyMart. He parked next to the bus shelter, laughing out loud when he realized how careful he had been to stay on public property so he wouldn't get arrested for trespassing. He got out of the car, locked both doors, opened up the trunk, and took out the plastic garbage bag. He took Cathy Chegoffgan's smart phone and battery out of his pocket, replaced the battery, turned on the phone, browsed the Internet, and made a few token calls, then walked across the parking lot to Route 1081. He dashed across the highway, and continued north to the construction site at Winterborn II. He looked up at the block of condemned houses.

  "Attention Illegals. America's Guard Is Watching You."

  He put his hand on Quinn's 9mm pistol.

  "I hope you called in sick today TJ," he said, switching off the safety.

  But there was no sign of America's Guard.

  Avellanos hopped over the drainage ditch, and slipped through the gap in the fence that Cathy Chegoffgan had pointed out the day before. He walked across the unfinished parking lot, and continued onto the service road, then onto the old railroad bed. He climbed up West Hill, treading carefully along the way, periodically turning around to look back down at Route 1081, which moved along like a river of light through the dark suburban sprawl. WillyMart had gone partially dark after closing time. He laughed bitterly. Just a few weeks before, he had been working on the loading dock, happy in his anonymity, but in less than a day he was going to be the most famous man in the Winterborn County, perhaps even in the United States. If he had just left town over the summer, he could have gone on to another monotonous, dead end job, and he would have been just as content, but that was not to be. This was his destiny. It was in his blood. He knew it. He had not been born, so much as lit, a very slow fuse destined to ignite the bomb that would blow up the town his family helped found 300 years ago. This was his cross. He would carry it.

  When he reached the top of West Hill, John Avellanos looked up, realizing why he had made the climb in the pitch dark without breaking his leg. It wasn't pitch dark at all, but bright with a full moon. He continued along the railway bed to the back of the West Hill Coal Breaker. It was an eerie, intimidating sight in the moonlight. But he wouldn't be climbing to the 12th floor this time, just walking by on the way to an even more intimidating site, the tipple and the old mine shaft 100 yards farther. He paused briefly to examine the broken beer bottles he and Cathy Chegoffgan had used for target practice, then continued on his way, carefully walking the remainder of the old railroad, threading his way through the metal hopper carts until he reached the edge of the mine shaft. He was already covered in soot, but as far as he knew he still had a change of clothes, soap, and a toothbrush at the Abercrombie and Fitch in the east block of Winterborn II, 900 feet and two miles below. If they were still there, and the water was on, and there was no reason to believe they weren't, he could clean himself up without going back to the motel.

  John Avellanos took a deep breath. He looked at the cart pushed up to the edge of the mine shaft. The smell was overpowering. He dropped the plastic garbage on the ground, and took out Cathy Chegoffgan's bra and panties. He ripped apart the panties, and threw them to the ground. He hung the bra up on a rusty nail hammered into an old wooden support beam, and tossed the heavy plastic garbage bag into the cart, where it landed with a thud. He took her smart phone back out of his pocket, noting with a grim satisfaction that he had recept
ion on the top of West Hill, all 5 bars, and called 911. He waited for the phone to connect, hung up, called again, and then threw the phone down into the cart after the dispatcher picked up.

  "Hello," he heard inside the cart, "hello. Poison Springs Metro Police. Do you have an emergency?"

  Avellanos put his hands on the cart. Martin Ruiz had tried to push the same cart into the mineshaft the year before and failed. Then, determined to kill himself in the most painful way he could imagine, he tried again and succeeded. Avellanos knew he was physically stronger than his older cousin. He could do it the first time. He was not the misfit intellectual of his imagination, but tall, dark, and menacing, freakishly strong like his uncle Nicholas Felton. He would make the perfect villain, not because he was a foreigner, although that would help, but because he was a cursed, Byronic anti-hero, a fallen archangel with a dark past who had gone very, very bad. Nobody would have any trouble believing he killed Steven Quinn with his bare hands. He pushed. The cart moved, the wheels creaking on the broken tracks. He pushed some more, then some more, rocking the cart loose of the years of rust it had been accumulating. He put his hips into the motion, getting down low to give himself enough leverage to counteract his height. Finally, the rear wheels of the car moved forward, an inch, then a few inches, then the rest of the way to the edge. He stepped back as the heavy metal cart crashed into the mine shaft, gasping in horror when he realized it had almost hooked his pants and carried him down into the inferno.

  "Boom," he heard below.

  Chapter 35 - Calling in a debt

  The traffic was heavier when John Avellanos got back down to Route 1081. Car after car, truck after truck went by before he finally managed to dash into a gap between two sets of headlights, and make it to the northbound side of the highway. He walked through the parking lot at WillyMart, warily looking around for any sign of a security guard before he dashed over to Cathy Chegoffgan's car, and went inside.

  He was clean. The water had still been on in the old Abercrombie and Fitch. The clothes had still been there, untouched, which had also meant, sadly, that Martin Ruiz had not been back. In any event, wherever Ruiz was, whether or not he was still alive, he was going to get his name back, if not his clothes. Avellanos went into the glove compartment. He took out a notebook, a pen, and an envelope and started to write, finishing as the sun came up. He wrote "George" on the envelope and sealed it, got out of the car, locked the door, leaned up against the hood of the car, and took out the disposable phone he bought in the office of the American Patriot Motel. He dialed George Kozlowski's number. He took a deep breath.

  "Hello George. I don't want to talk about on the phone, but it's very important, but would you be able to meet me at WillyMart? At your usual spot? You'll come? Thanks."

  Avellanos threw the disposable phone to the ground, and crushed it under his boot, grinding it up and done on the pavement in order to destroy the electronics inside. After the disposable phone had been thoroughly dismembered, he picked it up, and threw it into the trash can near the bus stop. He walked back to the shipping department's parking lot, paced around nervously, and tried to calm himself down by breathing slowly and deliberately, feeling his breath leave his body each time he exhaled, until he heard George Kozlowski's truck come around the corner. Kozlowski parked in his usual spot alongside the fence. He was wearing a plain blue flannel shirt, and a pair of jeans. He had gotten a haircut.

  "You're going to get arrested for trespassing."

  Avellanos laughed bitterly.

  "I killed a cop," he said before he could stop himself. "It was your fault."

  "You what?"

  "I killed a cop. You're the one who introduced me to Cathy Chegoffgan. So it was your fault."

  "You're joking."

  "There was a cop in her apartment. I think maybe he was her ex-boyfriend. I went into a jealous rage."

  "You're serious."

  "Why would I call you down here to joke about something like this?"

  Kozlowski stared at Avellanos, taking a step forward to examine him more closely. He put his hand up to the young man's face to examine the dark circles under his eyes. He stepped back.

  "She did it. You're right. It's my fault."

  "You listen to me," Avellanos said, grabbing Kozlowski by his shoulders and shoving him up against his truck. "I killed a cop. I beat a cop to death with my bare hands. You feel that? You think I'd have any trouble killing someone with my bare hands?"

  He released Kozlowski, who stepped back and brushed himself off, trying to regain his composure.

  "I don't think you did."

  "I need your help. I'm going to turn myself in this morning."

  "Where is she?"

  Avellanos handed him the keys to the motel room.

  "She's in this motel room. I kidnapped her. I chained her to a pipe. I had to. If she gets loose she's going to turn herself in for something I did. She blames herself. She thinks she did something to make me jealous, but it's not her fault. God did not choose wisely when he gave me this kind of physical strength and then filled my soul with darkness. I have a history of going into uncontrollable rages. I don't know if it's a chemical imbalance, or if it's the traumatic event I went through as a little boy, but it all come out when I saw that cop. I went into a jealous rage. I just lost it. I could have just as easily done it to her. I could do it to someone else tomorrow. I could do it to you right now. I need to get myself off the street, and locked up."

  Kozlowski looked down at the keys and read the address, American Patriot Motor Lodge, 887 North Route 1081. He put the keys in his pocket and looked back up at Avellanos.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "I need you to go to that motel and unchain her. Get her into your truck and take her with you to the southwest, that place where you get that raw milk. I want you to call the number I put into this envelope. That's my father's number. I'm going to turn myself in. After that it won't matter."

  Avellanos handed Kozlowski the envelope.

  "How can I call your father," Kozlowski said, "when he's dead?"

  "My father is not dead. You'll understand everything when you read the letter."

  He reached into his pocket and found the key to Quinn's handcuffs.

  "That's the key for the handcuffs. Go down to that motel, or at least call, or she'll be chained to that pipe for days. Just go down to that motel room. Even if you don't believe me, go down to that motel room and get her out of those handcuffs, please."

  Kozlowski took the key and put it in his pockets. He looked at Avellanos. He started to nod his head. He seemed to understand.

  "She did it," he said. "I know her better than you. I've known her since she was a baby. She's the one who goes into violent rages. She has the chemical imbalance. She's the one who had a traumatic event when she was a little girl. You're just taking all of her sins on yourself, aren't you Jesus? But I told you I owed you one, and I meant it. So if you want to frame yourself for something she did, that's your choice. You're a grown man, and we all die someday anyway. So I'll go to this motel room. I'll go down there and get her side of the story, but not until the afternoon. That will give you six hours to change your mind. I'm going to give you six hours. Think carefully before you throw your life away for some girl who's not good enough for you."

  Avellanos extended his hand.

  "George Kozlowski, you're a true friend."

  Kozlowski shook his hand. Then, just like that, so quickly that Kozlowski had trouble believing he had even been there at all, he turned around and dashed through the gap in the fence. Kozlowski looked at the empty parking lot. He looked at loading dock bays, still closed, and the big, soulless building. He looked at the gap in the fence. He looked down. He was standing in the same spot where he had been held at knife point. He would keep his word. He got back up into the cab of his truck and began to read the letter. The sun was shining. It was going to be a beautiful day.

  Chapter 36 - The Cabal

  Michae
l Catalinelli stood up when the bells rang out. He put his hands to his ears, and looked outside. The foliage, like a great red and gold knit hat that covered the trees on the eastern side of Reagan Plaza, was brilliantly illuminated by the sun, which had just peeked its head above Scahentoarrhonon Station. At the table were Peter Muffley, and Dan Grossinger. After the bells stopped, Catalinelli sat back down, and looked at Grossinger, who, in turn, kept looking at his watch.

  "So Dan, what's this big scoop you keep telling me about?"

  Grossinger looked at the table.

  "It's not my scoop. It's Quinn's."

  Catalinelli put his elbows up on a small square of sunlight.

  "So tell us?"

  "I don't know what the scoop is. He was originally going to have me do the research for him, but then he decided to do it for himself."

  "It couldn't have been very important, or that idiot wouldn't have figured it out. Where is he anyway? The one thing I require in dumb, cheap muscle is punctuality, and that's one thing he's usually got."

  "You're right," Muffley said. "I've never seen him late for anything."

  "Nor have I," Grossinger said.

  "I will give him this," Catalinelli said. "He's certainly filled that park with bums quickly enough. Congratulations gentleman. You've turned that park from an organized center of discontent to a problem the citizens of Poison Springs will now look to my administration to resolve."

  Muffley looked down at the table.

  "You may be less pleased when I tell you my bad news. It's about the project we discussed last week."