“And now I’m doing my job. You owe me four cents.”
Grim scanned the counter for one of those take a penny/leave a penny dishes. He found it, and all it contained was a wad of chewed gum.
As he searched the floor for dropped coins, a guy came in behind Grim.
“Dude, I’m four cents short. Got a nickel?”
“Don’t carry cash.” The man waved his credit card.
Grim checked his pockets again, including his wallet, and there, wedged behind his useless health insurance card…
“Keep the change.” He flipped it to the girl and walked out.
At the pet store, it took Grim five minutes to muscle the tank onto the top of a shopping cart, and another five to carefully push it inside without knocking it over.
“I’d like to return this.”
The guy at the counter had a nametag. Chuck. “Do you have a receipt?”
“Of course.” Grim handed it over. “And I’d like cash back.”
Chuck peered at the receipt. “You paid with a credit card.”
“I know. But I want a cash refund.”
“I can only put the refund back on the card.”
< Hell.>
Grim’s card was over the limit by almost five hundred bucks, so even with the return, Grim couldn’t use the card until he made a payment. Which he didn’t have.
“Look, can’t we work something out? You give me cash, I give you twenty bucks? These big multi-billion dollar banks don’t care about little guys like us. They charge twenty-two percent interest, and then fine you if you’re a minute late making your payment. Screw them, am I right?”
“This conversation is making me uncomfortable.” Chuck picked up the phone. “I’m calling my supervisor.”
“You don’t have to—”
Chuck called his supervisor. Seconds crawled by like drunk, three-legged spiders.
Grim didn’t follow any religion or worship any higher power. But just in case some higher power existed, he offered that power his silent plea.
The supervisor, when he finally came by, was younger than Chuck. He didn’t wear a nametag.
“You paid with a credit card. I can only put the refund on the card. Is that what you want?”
Grim thought of the Osmonds, still in the bathtub. If he couldn’t get cash back, he might as well keep the aquarium.
“I’ll keep it. Can I get some help bringing it out to the truck?”
They helped him, allowing Grim to retain a tiny shred of faith in humanity, and then he considered his next move.
“You can give up, tomorrow. Today, keep fighting.”
Grim sighed. “Fine.”
Grim needed cash, fast. He tried to think of jobs that paid in cash.
No. He waited tables in high school, and they had a training period, which meant no tips.
Grim washed cars back in his teen days. He and Fabler, before they joined the army. But since then a self-serve carwash chain moved into Wichita, killing the hand washing biz.
A fancy coffee shop had opened nearby, and Grim drove there, trying to stay optimistic, thinking that maybe he’d hit rock bottom, and this was the bounce back to the top.
He parked and waited in a lengthy line, eavesdropping on customers’ orders.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Grim buried the shame and stood up straight and tall. “I’d like an application, please.”
The twenty-something behind the counter gave him an odd look, but reached down and grabbed an application and a pen.
“Can I get a small cup of black while I fill this out?”
“Sure.”
“Can you bring it to me?”
“Of course.”
Grim found a table and got to it, whizzing through all the contact info. Then he arrived at the more complicated questions.
Reason for leaving last job.
Instead he put, ‘Left to seek other opportunities.’
Previous job.
He wrote, ‘Military contractor, killing insurgents in Afghanistan, $15k per month.’
What qualifications do you possess to bring to this job?
‘Good with people.’ Then he added, ‘Unless they are insurgents.’
Grim ended the sentence with a smiley face, to make sure they didn’t think he was going to kill anyone.
“Been a while, Grim.”
Grim glanced up—
—and saw Fabler standing over him.
Emotions threatened to overwhelm Grim. Surprise. Rage. Jealousy. Remorse.
Fear.
He tried to keep his face neutral, his tone even. “Hello, Fabler. Murder any redheads lately?”
“Been kinda slow. Maybe you heard. I was away for a while.”
“A shame it wasn’t for longer.”
“And a shame about your job. But now you finally have time to catch up on your TV bingeing.”
Grim tried to read Fabler, to see if his former brother-in-law meant anything deeper, like he knew he was being watched via cameras. But, as usual, Fabler was impossible to read.
“You here to get some coffee, Fabler?”
“No. Saw your truck outside while I was driving past. Thought I’d stop in and say hello.”
“Good catching up. I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
Fabler’s eyes darted to the application. “Job hunting?”
“I listed Lori as a reference. Why don’t you tell me where she is so the management here can get in touch?”
Fabler’s eyes went steely. “Remember to put down that you’ll do whatever it takes to get things done. No matter the cost.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Your black coffee, sir.”
The manager guy set it down next to Grim, who didn’t take his eyes off of Fabler.
“That’ll be six forty-three.”
That pulled Grim’s attention away. “I’m applying for a job. I thought the coffee was free.”
“No. The coffee is six forty-three.”
“What about an employee discount?”
“Employee discount is fifty percent. But you’re not an employee, sir. You’re filling out an application.”
<
br />
“It’s just black coffee. None of that fancy pantsy mocha latte frappe garbage. A small black coffee is six bucks?”
“Six forty-three.”
“My friend has had some financial difficulties lately,” Fabler reached into his pocket, “since being fired from his last job, for dishonesty. I got this.”
Fabler pulled out a fat wad of hundred dollar bills, and peeled one off, handing it to the manager.
“I’ll be right back with your change, sir.”
“Keep it.” Fabler’s eyes never left Grim.
At that moment, Grim had never hated another man more. Not even that loser, Mitch, who stole Heather.
“Watch your back, Fabler. Karma has a way of catching up to people.”
Fabler smiled, and it was a cold thing. “Here’s hoping it does. You’re welcome for the coffee.”
Fabler left.
Grim waited a few minutes for the rage to simmer down, then crumpled up the application and walked out. He took the coffee with him.
PRESLEY ○ August 12, 2017 ○ 2:26pm
“Okay, stop here.”
But Fabler obviously had a specific location in mind, because he kept referring to his GPS gadget and adjusting their course.
He also carried a pump action BB gun.
In contrast, Presley had on her shoulder holster with the .45 Glock, and ten full magazines in pouches on her utility belt.
“I need you to put your goggles on.”
A few days ago, Presley had convinced Fabler to exchange the unwieldy welding mask—which remained a training regimen staple—for less bulky welding goggles.
“I didn’t bring any flares.”
“Neither did I.”
“If I put on the goggles, I’ll be completely blind.”
“That’s the point.”
Presley hesitated. Being sightless in an unknown environment was a recipe for an accident.
But after her recent freak-out, Presley eagerly wanted to show Fabler her strength and reliability. So on went the steampunk goggles.
“Can you see the sun through the tree tops?”
Presley titled her head up. “Barely.”
“Okay, hold my arm. I’m going to take you another thirty meters east. Put a hand out ahead of you, and place your feet carefully.”
She placed her hand on the crook of his arm, and they slowly walked through the woods. The terrain, smooth as glass before, became incredibly rugged.
“So… what’s the BB rifle for? Am I going to hunt squirrels blindfolded?”
“No.”
She waited for more. No further comment came.
Rather than worry about what this was all about, Presley focused on her footing, and the space around her. She stumbled once, when the tip of her hiking boot caught some vegetation, and steadied herself on Fabler’s arm.
They stopped.
Fabler took his arm away from her, and she heard a rhythmic, mechanical sound, accompanied by a rattling.
There were more sounds, snicks and clicks.
“Listen.”
A moment later came a click and whoosh, and then, in the woods, a high-pitched clang.
“Hit what I hit.”
“I… uh…”
“Do you need me to do it again?”
“I’d like to know, um, what the target is?”
“Doesn’t matter. Shoot where the sound came from.”
“There’s nothing behind it?”
“It’s my property. Nothing for miles.”
Presley hesitated.
“Pretend its dark out. Really dark. You should be able to find a target in the dark.”
“Isn’t that what the night vision goggles are for?”
“They can get lost. So can flashlights. You have to rely on your senses. Even if your senses are hampered. Or backwards.”
Presley drew the Glock and aimed in the general direction where the clang came from, left hand supporting her right, feet spread in a Chapman stance.
“Am I close?”
“Only way to know is to fire.”
Presley adjusted her grip on the weapon, pushing with her left, pulling with her right, as if a more rigid pose would make the bullet find the unseen target.
“Are you okay? Are you going to freak out again?”
Presley squeezed the trigger.
The .45 boomed and kicked, the sound painful without ear protection.
“Got ear pro?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
A moment later, Fabler handed her rubber plugs. She pushed one deep into each ear. When Fabler pumped his BB gun again, Presley barely heard it.
“Once more. Listen hard.”
The clang was much harder to detect, but she could sense her aim was too high, and too much to the left. She adjusted and fired.
Since Fabler didn’t say she could only take one shot at a time, Presley made a minor adjustment and fired again.
“You’re getting further away.”
“You think this is easy? How far away is the target?”
“How far away does it sound?”
“Ten meters.”
“Correct.”
“How big is it?”
“Two feet by two and a half.”
Presley blew out a breath. “Okay. Hit it again.”
Fabler pumped, shot, and clanged.
Immediately after hearing him hit the target, Presley imagined the sound as a bullseye, trying to point at it with the gun barrel. She fired.
CLANG.
“Good.”
“Different target.” Fabler pumped his gun. “Three o’clock.”
He fired and hit.
So did she.
Presley grinned.
“Don’t get cocky. That was closer and bigger. Her
e’s a tough one.”
Fabler pumped and fired. The clang came a little later, and was higher-pitched, than the others.
Presley fired, missed, and kept adjusting and shooting until her magazine emptied.
“Drop the mag and reload. Fast as you can.”
She obeyed, brought the gun up again.
“Way off. Use your muscle memory.”
“I thought I was.”
“You’re not.” He pumped and fired.
Presley adjusted and fired.
CLANG.
“Now hold it there. Feel how it feels. Use your proprioception.”
An unfamiliar word, but Presley knew what Fabler meant. Humans had more than five senses. Besides sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound, people could sense time, acceleration and direction, temperature, and the location of their body parts in relation to other body parts.
She focused on how far her hands were away from her chest, the tightness of her muscles, how her ligaments and tendons stretched in her arms, back, legs, neck.
“Now drop the gun and find the same spot.”
She tried.
Failed.
It continued to be hard for the next twenty minutes, drilling again and again at the three targets until she’d emptied five mags and her ears rang hard even with protection.
“Okay. Let’s switch. Take off the goggles.”
The shadows under the forest canopy felt like interrogation lights after all the time in the dark. She exchanged the Glock for the BB gun, and Fabler put on the goggles and ear plugs and spun around twice.
Presley pumped and aimed at the nearest target, which she now recognized as an aluminum realty sign nailed to a tree.
LORI FABLER REALTY.
She aimed at the O in LORI. Fired. Hit it.
Fabler aimed and missed.
“Need to hear it again?”
“Yes.”
She pumped and shot.
He emptied the mag, going way off to the left, missing entirely.
Presley didn’t try to hide her grin. “Like I said. Not easy.”
“It’s hard.” He dropped the magazine, reached blindly for Presley’s belt, and grabbed another. “That’s why we’re practicing.”
THE WATCHER ○ August 12, 2017 ○ 8:38+pm
Timing.
The timing is the thing.
Smaller than Epoch milliseconds. Down to the zeptosecond. Planck time.
What Happened to Lori Page 14
