by K. E. Garvey
Both women watched him until he disappeared around the corner at the far end of the room.
“He’s a keeper.”
There was an unspoken sadness in her sister’s words. Sali smiled although she knew it didn’t fill her face. “He is, and your keeper is out there just waiting to meet you. Who knows, maybe now that you’re back you and Paul can talk face-to-face and work things out. You know how hard long-distance relationships can be. Distance puts a strain on even the best of them.”
Amy’s expression filled with sympathy. “Do you realize what you just said?”
She did.
Chapter Seventeen
Warren - 2018
For the sixth morning in a row Warren had woke before five. He’d always been good at that. He’d think about the time he had to be up, and he’d wake himself the following morning within fifteen minutes of the desired time without the aid of an alarm clock. The greater his reason, the more likely he’d wake at the desired time.
“What are you looking for?”
Rodney, who had rummaged through each of the many junk drawers twice, replied, “Batteries. Damn remote died again.” He stood and stretched his back. “What’s with you and the bananas?”
Warren needed to remain on good terms at least through the weekend, so he didn’t tell him he bought only bananas at the supermarket because fruit was the one thing Rodney wouldn’t devour in his absence. “Man cannot live on pork rinds alone. That shit’ll kill you.”
“They ain’t my favorite, but sister’s boyfriend gets them by the case where he works and free food is free food. I’m ‘bout halfway through the ones she brought last week.”
Warren placed the peel from the banana he’d been eating on top of the mound of trash in the can. “Your sister was here?” he asked.
Rodney pulled out another drawer and began poking through it. “Uh-huh.”
“How did I miss her?”
“She came the day you walked to the city. Just came to bring me the pork rinds and pick up the mail.” He slammed the drawer shut. “Oh, and to bitch about shit missing from the garage.”
Warren struck a relaxed pose and tried to sound nonchalant as he spoke. “What kind of stuff?”
After a pause, Rodney threw his hands in the air, and said, “I don’t know. Tools maybe. She inspects the place each time she comes, but for the life of little children I don’t know why. Ain’t nothing here worth the gas it takes her to check on it.”
The disinterest in Rodney’s voice put him at ease. “Probably just kids.”
Rodney pointed a dirty finger at Warren. “That’s what I told her.”
Fucking wonderful, he thought. Just what he needed to hear was that he and Rodney thought alike. He quickly changed the subject. “What do you say we head down to Gilpin’s tonight, shoot us a game or two?”
“I ain’t got but a dollar to my name.”
“Don’t worry about it. I gave blood when I was in town last week. Gave me fifty bucks for it and I start at the factory on Monday. It’s on me.” He felt the rise in his chest. The years had been ticking away, but he was still able to think quickly on his feet.
“Gotta have a beer when you’re shooting pool.”
“Of course.”
Rodney agreed with a nod and a smile revealing a partial set of stained teeth. Warren turned and busied himself with getting the trash bag out of the can without the overflow toppling to the floor.
~
It had taken days of careful planning and working around Rodney’s napping schedule to find the items he needed to execute his plan. When Rodney was awake, Warren spent his time on the computer: mapping out directions, researching races, and studying the surrounding areas on something called Google Earth. He was able to see not only the town where she would be presenting the award on Saturday, but the buildings and trees lining the small-town street.
The plan was to head out the night before the race. He’d hide the plastic case he’d found in an alley or behind a dumpster until after dark when he could take his position in the basement of the brick storage building across from the finish line. He was a little uneasy about his getaway, but he’d have to work with what he had. He didn’t have enough money left from the sale of garage items to make an extra trip before the race, and Google Earth only showed him a street view of the main roads in town and not the alleys. Much of the escape route he had mapped out was done using an overhead view of imagery dated 2016, and not as fail proof as he would have liked; but he would have to wait until he was there to decide whether his plan would need modifying.
Another possible glitch in his plan was the dependability and accuracy of the rifle he had taken from the closet. He had removed it during one of Rodney’s many naps, and sat on the opposite side of a large pin oak in the back corner of the yard spending the better part of two hours cleaning it. The barrel was badly pitted and there was a buildup of a substance he couldn’t identify around the muzzle that had practically fused itself to the metal. He wouldn’t get more than a shot, possibly two, and the gun’s accuracy was crucial to his plan. He wished he had been able to sight it in beforehand, but that was impossible. Aside from the noise that was certain to draw Rodney’s attention, he had only been able to find three .308 cartridges. He had never had enough interest in guns to pay attention when his father tried to teach him more about the hobby he loved, but a .308 Winchester had been the first and only gun his old man had ever bought him, and he remembered it well. The fact that the same gun happened to be the only firearm Rodney owned was just a coincidence in his master plan, although it made him feel good to think it was another stroke of luck. Lord knew he was long overdue for a little of that.
After learning the sister had been by, he decided the garage was no longer a suitable hiding place for the items in the plastic case. Since noticing the missing tools, she was sure to take inventory each time she returned and he prayed that wouldn’t happen before he left on Friday. Each time he mumbled the prayer he would look upward, and say, “That’s right. Even us sinners pray,” as a sarcastic dig at his old man. Yes, she’d be the apple on Adam’s tree, a phrase his pastor father had used in regard to every negative that crossed his path.
As he ran through the final details, he made a mental note to search for gloves. He had the gun, the cartridges, the flashlight, and the disguise, lame as it may be. Gloves were all he was missing. He had found several pair of thick gardening type and a pair of knitted mittens, but none of the thin latex gloves he would need to be able to feel his pressure on the trigger. He’d check around the house once more and purchase them if he had to.
“I was thinking…”
His muscles tensed, and Rodney continued.
“How about I dig up a couple poles and we run to Lake Crenshaw, maybe do us a little fishing before you start your job next week.”
He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less. “Lake Crenshaw? Isn’t that like five miles from here?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Bit of a haul carrying poles and tackle boxes, don’t you think?” He left out what he was thinking about Rodney being so out of shape he’d probably end up having to carry him back.
“Sure is. That’s why I was thinking we’d take the car.” Rodney turned the television off and stood.
“When I asked you about it last week, you said the car didn’t run. What’s changed?”
“Thought I told you, it didn’t run because it was out of gas. Sister brought me some her last visit. She just warned me it had to last until she came back again.”
It was as if someone had poured water on a dying plant. Warren straightened in the desk chair and ran a hand over the top of his head. He had access to a working car. This changed everything. No awkward stares when he boarded the bus with his large plastic case. No having to leave a day early and attempt to remain inconspicuous. No fleeing the scene on foot. Luck or serendipity, at this point he didn’t care. All he knew was that mention of a car filled him with renewed exc
itement.
He offered Rodney a genuine smile. “Fishing it is.”
Chapter Eighteen
Gail - 1997
Gail lay awake, on her back, hands folded over each other on top of her stomach. Usually, the finger-strumming of rain on the roof lulled her to sleep. But not tonight. There were a hundred different thoughts shuffling through her head, and she had to file them by order of importance.
Her mother had put her in charge of Cheryl, but only when Warren wasn’t home. When he was home she was to make dinner and clean up afterward, see to it that Cheryl finished her homework and took a bath each night, and make sure she brushed her teeth before bed. Her mother had told her to treat her sister as if she was her own living baby doll and not to let anything happen to her. If something big came up, only then would she ask for Warren’s help.
Cheryl didn’t like thunderstorms the way she did. If the cracks and booms became loud enough, Cheryl would run to their parent’s room seeking a safe spot underneath their blanket. She wondered if she would still run to their bed, or if Cheryl would seek shelter with her in their mother’s absence. She left her bedroom door ajar just in case.
She didn’t know how much time had passed since she had left Warren asleep on the couch and tucked Cheryl into her bed, but the storm had been creeping closer ever since. She had dozed off several times, but the nearing storm would wake her before she could fall into a restful sleep. Dim flashes locked into the far-off clouds now came as glaring bursts that broke just outside her bedroom window, and the thunder came in piercing cracks. She had been expecting her sister when she heard her bedroom door creak open and then click closed.
“Come on, slide in with me,” she said, and lifted the blanket as she slid to the far side of the bed.
The center of the bed sagged under the added weight, the springs pinging in agony. Lightning filled her room exposing the silhouette of someone much larger than her sister. She yanked the blanket to her chin and let out a gasp.
“Ssh. Lay back down now. It’s okay.”
She did as Warren requested without letting go of the blanket she held tightly to her chest. Fully awake, she tensed when he lifted the blanket and slid in next to her. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, his voice soft, soothing.
She choked on her reply when she heard the sound of his zipper, and went rigid as his fingers slid under the elastic of her underwear and pulled them downward. A whimper passed her lips when he pushed her legs apart with one hand. She begged and pleaded with him as he climbed on top of her, but it was if he didn’t hear her. Crying and screams replaced begging and fear as he pulled her thighs toward him until she felt his hardness against her skin. He covered her mouth with his own muffling her screams, and in one painful thrust he was inside her.
Chapter Nineteen
Warren - 2018
Slivers of sunlight pierced the dirty windows of Warren’s basement hideaway. It wasn’t the light that woke him as he had hardly slept since arriving in the early hours of the morning. Even with the countless hours of planning and preparing for this day, he had already run into obstacles he hadn’t counted on, which had spread a pall over his mood.
Yesterday, it had taken him some time to shake Rodney. Although he didn’t know why the guy had decided to follow him like a shadow for the first time since he arrived, he hadn’t counted on that and had to wait until he finally tired and returned to his place on the couch before sneaking out of the house and taking the car. When the car wouldn’t turn over, he managed to get to town just in time to catch the last bus out. A dead car battery should have been his biggest problem of the day, but the bus driver eyed him critically when he placed his plastic case in the storage compartment underneath the bus. His heart beat wildly until the driver plopped down in his seat and closed the doors behind him. Only once he had removed his case at his destination and begun to walk away was he able to relax. Obstacles aside, even at 5:30 in the morning he had seven hours to run through what he came to do before it became real.
The first thing he had done when he arrived was check how easily the window could be removed. Breaking it was a last resort. Unnecessary noise. He didn’t clean it for fear someone would notice a single clean window among all the dirty ones. Unwanted attention. He had mouthed “thank you” when he pried the glass with his pocket knife and it gave way easily.
He stood and peeked out the window without getting too close. There was no one on the street in front of the building, but two small bleachers and the winner’s podium had been set in place at some point before his arrival. He turned back and gave his surroundings a closer inspection than he was able to give them last night. He hadn’t wanted to kill the batteries of the small flashlight he took from the house, so he hadn’t used it any more than what was necessary. In the growing light he could see several metal tables in different sizes and a few roller bar-style conveyer belts. This place was either being used for storage or had once been used as some type of manufacturing factory. There were no packed and stacked boxes, nothing for him to rummage through to help pass time, just tables and various equipment he had no use for.
First, he bent forward as if he were going to touch the floor, and then he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to work out kinks caused by using the plastic case as a pillow. He remembered a time not long ago when he thought prison cots were the most uncomfortable place a person could sleep. Last night had proven him wrong.
He spotted a staircase in the far corner he hadn’t seen in the darkness. It leaned away from the wall, each step slanting left. Making his way through the maze of tables, he scratched the scruff that had formed on his face and eyed the stairs closely. A quick look around the large basement told him if he wanted to know what was above him, he’d have to climb the rickety stairs. At first, he ascended slowly, one step at a time, to test their strength. They were surprisingly sturdy considering the haphazard way they connected the basement to the first floor. At the top of the stairs, the door opened when he turned the knob. Opening it only wide enough to see past it with one eye, it was apparent the building hadn’t been used for some time. Cobwebs curtained the windows and a thick layer of dust blanketed everything else. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped through. He shoved his hands into is pockets and was careful not to brush into anything as he walked around the large, open first floor. More steel tables, dozens of them scattered throughout without a single chair in sight. Each of the floor’s four walls had a door leading outside. He carefully maneuvered his way around the maze of tables to get a look through each window to see where each door led. The one that opened toward the alley faced a tall wooden fence and was virtually obscured from its surroundings. That might be a better escape than the basement which led into an alley along a busier side of the building.
He took a set of sturdier stairs to the second floor. His footfalls echoed through the large, empty space. He knew there was no one around to hear him, but paranoia caused him to retreat as if someone had spotted him and called out to him to stop. Back on the first floor, he went to the windows facing the front of the building. The distance from the window to the podium was about the same as from the basement window to the podium, but his vantage point was much better from the first floor. He had been nervous about foot traffic and interference of what could prove to be the only shot he would get. Taking his shot from here carried much less risk of a miss. He moved to the next window to get a better look at the break most likely made by a rock in the hand of a kid with nothing better to do. Extending his arm as if it were the rifle, he rested his index finger on the edge of the broken glass to see how well the necessary angle lined up with his height. Perfect would have been if he were a couple inches taller, but he could make this work. The options were to either make his own break lower in another window or make do with this one. Breaking was out of the question now that it was daylight, and the first-floor windows were enormous and unable to be pried out of their casing as he had done in the basement.
When he returned to the basement to gather his things and move them to the first floor, he found a stack of boxes someone had broken down and stacked under one of the metal tables. He gave brief thought to covering the windows that faced the street to keep anyone who might look up from seeing his shadow as it moved across the room, but soon scrapped the idea. Anyone accustomed to seeing the windows as they were would question the sudden addition of cardboard. The last thing he needed was somebody asking the wrong questions to the right people. No, he would steer clear of the windows until the cheers began to grow louder, signaling the race nearing its end. By that time, the crowds would be too involved in the last and most exciting moments to pay any attention to the vacant building. Until then, he would continue to run his getaway plan through his head until he could execute it in his sleep.
Getting the gun out of the building with him was impossible. He had assumed he’d find a suitable hiding place for it once he was here and could look around, but he had been wrong. Aside from the large metal tables, there was no place to hide anything regardless of its size. That fact didn’t actually change much. Hiding it in the building would have prolonged the inevitable. A brazen thought crept up on him. Rather than attempt to conceal it, why not leave it on one of the tables in plain view. Go big or go home, right? That would let them know that he was ballsy, someone confident in his actions; and although they’d still come after him, they’d take each step with just a bit more caution. As his old man used to say, “Son, it takes more than muscle and fearlessness to level your opponents. It takes intelligence, patience, and confidence. Intelligence tells you what you have to do, patience tells you the precise moment to do it, and confidence tells the rest of the world you’re man enough to succeed.” Over the course of his lifetime, his father’s words had been like the sand on a beach. Always available in over-abundance and one grain having no special meaning over the next. But every now and then, one of the grains would become a pearl when the timing was just right. Maybe once he finished what he had come to do today, he’d take a moment to thank him for those rare and useful bits of wisdom.
