Dead Enemies

by K. E. Garvey

  “Hey, I sure hope you’re writing a book ‘cause if not someone might think you was looking to kill someone.”

  Warren and turned in Rodney’s direction. He held a black composition book in his hands.

  “What are you doing with that?” His tone was more annoyed than questioning.

  “It was sitting on the desk. What’s the big deal anyways? Unless you are looking to kill someone.”

  Rodney was still smiling, but his voice had taken on an edge. Warren knew that if he didn’t handle him just right, he was going to end up with another loose end. That was something he refused to let happen.

  He reached out and pulled the book from Rodney’s reluctant hands. “It doesn’t mean nothing really. Just remembering some story a guy in the joint told me years ago. I thought I’d look it up once I remembered enough to find it on the computer.”

  Rodney studied him a moment. “Reads more like a plan than memories.”

  Warren returned to his seat at the desk. “What do you know about notes or reading anyway. Hell, what do you know about much of anything? You sit in front of that damned tube from the time you get up until the time you go to bed stuffing your face with pork rinds and washing it down with swill. You ain’t taken a shower since I got here.”

  Rodney said, “I ain’t done nothing to need one,” as he dropped into his chair.

  “You smell like God knows what and those shows are turning your mind to sludge, but I believe you’re too far gone to even notice.”

  Rodney let out a puff of air, but did not rebuke anything Warren had said.

  Having taken control of the situation, he continued, “So, tell me, what the hell do you know about anything? Do you know it was me who cleaned out the valuables from the garage? No, you’re so fucking stupid I did it right under your nose. Had people driving in and out of here all day long while you sat in there rotting your mind and hardening your arteries.”

  “You? And sister came here balling me out ‘cause she thinks I done it.”

  Warren stood. “Yeah, that worked out kinda pretty.” He took casual steps toward the couch. “Did you know she came to see me at work?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Afraid not. She came to ask me to keep an eye on you. She’s moving away and she doesn’t think you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You, a grown-ass man and she thinks you can’t wipe your own ass.”

  “Fuck you. She didn’t say that.”

  Warren now stood at the back corner of the couch, only several feet from Rodney’s chair. “Sure did. She ain’t sure if you’re selling the shit in the garage or if you’re just letting thieves walk off with it, but it seems she thinks so little of her brother she put a total stranger in charge. Ain’t that a kick in the pride?”

  “You need to get the hell out of here. I’m gonna set her straight, but you need to leave.”

  Warren lifted the broken extension cord and held it behind him, out of Rodney’s sight.

  “This is my house, I’m not going anywhere. But if I tell the police about that murder book of yours, you’ll be going back to prison for sure.”

  In two steps Warren was standing directly behind Rodney, who sprung up at his sudden movement. In a fluid motion, Warren looped the cord around Rodney’s neck and yanked him backward bringing him down hard in his chair. Rodney fell hard into the chair. He reached for Warren with one hand, the cord around his neck with the other. He dug at Warren’s arm with his dirty fingernails, drawing blood.

  “I have to give you credit, bud. I always thought of you as one stupid little fucker, but you fooled me. You figured me out. I am planning on killing someone.” He tightened his grip on the cord and pulled with everything he had. “That is, after I kill you.”

  Rodney gouged the flesh on his neck as he tried to get his fingers under the cord. He let out several guttural sounds and his body stiffened briefly before it went limp. Warren walked around the side of the chair to find blood oozing from the slash the embedded cord had made in Rodney’s neck. He reached to the table and picked up an empty can of beer. Prying Rodney’s fingers open, he placed the can against his palm and then curled his fingers around it. He did the same thing with the remote in his other hand. Almost perfect. He then picked up the near-empty bag of pork rinds and dropped it in his lap.

  He stepped back and looked over his handiwork. Satisfied, he let out a cluck between his tongue and cheek. “When you get to where you’re going, tell my old man I’ll see him soon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Warren - 2018

  The phrase, “Go big or go home,” ran through his head each time the stakes of his life got high. His father hadn’t been one to overlook or accept inefficiency or laziness in anyone. With those words in mind, the first thing Warren did after leaving Rodney parked in front of the tube was to find a car the same make and model as the one loaned to him. He had made quick work of switching the plates and hoped the owner wasn’t observant by nature. He wasn’t sure the act would buy him much time, but it eased his nerves a little.

  It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had quieted Rodney, but he felt more on the run than he had after the shooting. How long would it be before Rodney’s sister found him and notified the police. Of course, she would know who had killed him. There were people who could walk by a homeless person on the street and kick him in the head for no reason other than the fact he was homeless, but no one went looking for people like Rodney. Anything worth stealing was in the garage and even a thief wouldn’t have ventured further than a few steps into the house after getting a look at the inside.

  She wouldn’t be able to tell the police much, but then, he didn’t know what Rodney may have told her during one of her visits. Had he told her about the notebook? Thinking no one would find it or give it more than a moment’s thought if they had, he had been quite explicit in his note-taking. He had even used real first names, and why not? What was done was done and worrying about it now served no purpose. Every minute going forward would be better spent staying ahead of the authorities, so he put the thoughts of potential mistakes out of his head.

  To his left, past the trees, he spotted a baseball field. The broken bleachers and runaway ivy spreading its way across the fence told him it hadn’t been used in some time. The dugout that faced away from the road would make a suitable place to spend the night, but he had to find an equally suitable place to stash the car. The parking lot was too open, too conspicuous, and someplace he could see a nightshift cop parking to get a few winks away from watchful eyes. The presence of Howard’s car might raise the suspicions of an alert cop.

  He circled the block and decided to park in plain view. He’d parallel park along the street with everyone else, after all, criminals hid their illegal acts, never flaunted them.

  Once he found a suitable spot not too far from the field, he pulled out the duffel bag he had taken from Rodney’s and headed straight to the dugout while trying to keep from looking around and behind him too much. According to his parents, his eyes always gave him away when he was up to no good. He’d look to the floor while telling a lie, and his eyes flitted from one object to another when he was trying to hide his wrongdoings. Nervous eyes they’d say. It was a habit as involuntary as blinking and something he had to consciously work on to this day.

  Only after he slipped behind the wall of the dugout did he turn and quickly scan his surroundings. When he saw no movement, he disappeared into the three-wall structure. There was a bench that ran from one end to the other and in the corner, something bulky covered with a ratty, army-green, wool blanket. He searched the field, looked through the green ash trees with their yellowing leaves. Confident no one had seen him, he moved closer to the blanket and whatever it was hiding. After another quick scan of his surroundings he lifted one corner of the blanket: two bulging and torn canvas bags, a pair of rubber boots, and several plastic grocery store bags tied together with a rope. He took another look around the field in the dimming ligh
t. How long would it be before the owner of the items returned? Were they living here or stashing their belongings while they were off doing God knows what? Although the last thing he wanted or needed was to be seen, if it had to happen he was better off being spotted by a vagabond with no access to current events than a cop or someone walking their dog. He dropped his bag on the ground opposite the covered items and sat.

  His stomach growled and twisted. Only now did he realize he hadn’t eaten all day. When the rumbling came again, he clenched his stomach as tightly as he was able to squelch it. He thought about taking a peek at what was in the bags on the other end of the bench, but decided against it. With no way of knowing how long they’d been sitting there, any food he might come across lost its appeal.

  He pulled the notebook out of his duffle bag, but the sun was too far gone to read by. He clutched it to his chest. Unable to close his eyes, he thought about Gail and Cheryl, or Sali and Amy as they were calling themselves these days. He couldn’t come up with an explanation for the name changes that made sense, but it didn’t matter. It was a curiosity, one he’d have satisfied once they came face-to-face.

  It was a warm evening, quiet except for the sounds of nighttime insects and a stream in the distance. Peaceful? He hadn’t known much peace in his life, but thought this must be what it was like. At this very moment, the only thing he had to worry about was the return of whoever owned the belongings sharing the dugout with him. Although it would probably turn out to be some drunk who stepped out for his next liquor fix, he couldn’t get the image of some crazed drug addict out of his head. Nothing would suck more than to get offed by some lunatic when he was so close to accomplishing what he had set out to do.

  Keeping his arms folded over the notebook, he leaned back and rested against the cinderblock wall. Rather than putting his next steps together, thoughts of those from his past danced through his mind. The first person to appear was his mother; a sweet woman he always thought was too sweet, too normal to be married to his father. He still missed her from time-to-time: the flowery scent of her hair after a shower, the look of helpless sympathy in her eyes each time his father went off on him, and the softness in her voice. Next came his father; a man of the cloth who put his own spin on religion and interpreted the Bible to suit his needs. Not only did he not miss him, but he still said a blessing over his passing on occasion, and wondered how much differently his life might have turned out had he not grown up under his father’s influence. The image of his father was replaced by one of his old lady. He was able to break free from the hold his father had had on him, but once Wanda got her hooks in him it was all over. On the day she said the words, “Warren, I’m pregnant,” he heard, “Man, you’re fucked.” He had been toying with the idea of leaving his wife of only two months when she blew out the flame of his wish for freedom. Not only would the state hunt him down and force him to pay for a child that wasn’t even his, but at that time, he was still living under the belief that one day he would have to answer for his wrongdoings. But time passed. And over the years, the wrongdoings had accumulated to the point that he realized answering for them wouldn’t be enough. He was going to hell.

  Gail had been cute enough, but chatty, strong-willed, and busy. From the time she was about two, he’d come home from work each evening wanting nothing more than to collapse onto the couch and down a couple beers while he waited for dinner to hit the table. But that never happened. “Daddy, read me a book,” “Daddy, can you color with me,” “Daddy, look what I can do.” The sound of her voice began to invade his sleep. He wouldn’t have said he was having nightmares, but the nights he heard her were always followed by mornings listening to his wife tell him how restless he had slept.

  He blamed her. For being the reason he was tied to a loveless marriage. For being strong-willed and outgoing. For stripping him of his hopes. He had never thought of his secret time with her as a punishment for all the things he blamed her for, but on a subconscious level, maybe that was exactly what it had been. Punishment for her very existence. At one point he began to think it might have happened because he needed to feel like he was in control of his life, the life his old lady had turned inside out with her pregnancy.

  He had long ago decided that God called the shots of his life using the trickle-down effect. God wanted him to live in his likeness, so he gave him a pastor for a father to ensure righteousness was drilled into his head daily. His father wanted him to follow in God’s word, so he pushed him into marriage with what his parents referred to as a “good Christian girl.” His wife wanted him to live a life of honor and integrity, so she forced a child upon him thinking the child would serve as a constant reminder of the promises he’d made and the responsibilities of being a husband and father. Each person in his life had found a way to force him to be and to act as they had wanted him to, and by the time his second daughter came along, he felt like a rat stuck to a sticky trap; not by the leg where he still had a chance of freeing himself, but flat on his back. He was convinced God, through his father, his wife, and his children, had turned him into an emotional eunuch. Someone had to pay for the destruction of his life. He had chosen Gail as her birth represented the stake through his foot that kept him tethered to a life of misery. The fact that he derived pleasure from the punishment he inflicted was simply sprinkles on the ice cream.

  When he opened his eyes, it was brighter than it had been when he closed them, but gloomy. Muted shadows moved in his blurred vision and he rubbed each eye to clear it without letting go of the notebook. The man who stood before him was hunched, his filthy and torn shirt hanging off him like he had shrunk within it.

  “Did you touch my stuff?” the man asked in a ragged voice.

  “What? No.”

  “Were you snooping through it?”

  “No.” Warren sat erect. “I didn’t touch anything. I stopped here to get a little sleep.”

  “You lie. You’re bathed and you got hardly no belongings. This is my spot. You can’t stay here.”

  From the corner of his eye, Warren spotted a spider slowly making its way up his leg. Using the notebook, he swatted at it and watched as it balled up and fell to the ground. The man jumped back a step and raised his arm over his head. It was then that Warren saw the baseball bat. It was metal and as gray as the sky.

  “Whoa!” Warren jumped from where he’d been sitting. “I swatted at a spider and you want to take my head off for it? It was just a fucking spider.”

  The man’s arm lowered part way. “Who are you and why are you here? Did they tell you to chase me out?”

  “Who? No. No one sent me. I told you, I just wanted to rest, that’s all. I’m leaving now.”

  The man set his bat next to his pile of belongings. “You got any food?” he asked.

  Warren shook his head. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d been asked.

  “I got rolls from the bakery if you want one.” He pulled three flattened rolls from the front pockets of his worn trousers.

  The dumpster outside the bakery, Warren thought. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  “Everybody’s hungry,” the man said before he bit into one of the rolls.

  “You take care, bud.”

  The man sat on the bench next to his belongings and acknowledged Warren’s goodbye with a grunt as he ripped off another bite from the roll.

  He was halfway to his car before he stopped glancing over his shoulder, convinced the transient wasn’t going to follow him. Something told him if the guy knew he had a car, he’d want, or maybe even demand, a ride somewhere. Although under normal circumstances he might not have had an issue with dropping him off someplace, today he couldn’t afford the extra time it would take. He was on borrowed time and he knew it. The police had probably already talked to Hoffman and Howard. They were probably looking for the car at this very moment and the stolen plate might distract them, but not fool them. He would only have a short time to use the car before he’d have to ditch it. He hoped they did
n’t catch up with him before that time came.

  He had been unable to find Gail’s address on the computer, but Cheryl’s address proved to be much easier to find. He had been calling the phone number listed for her, but had yet to have anyone answer. He figured she must be staying with Gail. Possibly a boyfriend. The way he saw it, he had to get from where he was to someplace he could stay without being discovered. The dugout worked for a night, but it had no promise of permanence. If the hobo with the baseball bat didn’t beat him to death in his sleep, someone would surely stumble onto him. It was only a matter of time. He had to think fast and act faster.

  He crouched in the front seat of the car while he weighed his options. One-by-one, people left their homes and got into their cars, ready to begin another day. While watching the monotonous start of their middle-class routine, it came to him. The police had had plenty of time to process the crime scene at Katherine’s house. Even the number of curious passersby would have dwindled by now. It was perfect. No one would think to look for him there, after all, everyone knew criminals never returned to the scene of their crime, especially when they had nothing to gain by doing so. As long as he stashed the car, didn’t enter through the front door, and used no lights, he’d raise no suspicions.

  With a turn of the key the engine came to life. Smiling to himself, he said, “Seems God has a soft spot for sinners after all.” He looked to the sunless sky and mouthed a silent thank you.