Spilled Milk, no. 1

by Michael J. Scott

  By this time, they had to have confirmed the Judge’s car. That explained the door to door knock and talk.

  They pounded on the door two rooms down from mine. I could hear them talking to the guest, asking him if he’d seen anyone suspicious in the area, or if he recognized my photograph. He denied everything, and went back inside. They politely thanked him as he closed the door, and then moved on to the room adjacent to mine.

  I’d be next. I tensed on the gun, easing the hammer back into its cocked position. I grit my teeth, feeling tears straining in my eyes. I didn’t want to do this. I wished to God that the bathroom had had a window—something I could scramble out of and get away. Of course, if it had, they’d have had someone watching for it.

  A trickle of sweat beaded on my temple and ran down the side of my cheek. I watched as the officers moved to the door, muttering to each other as they knocked. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

  Neither were they.

  Two explosions, one right after the other, shattered the peaceful morning and blew a pair of holes through the motel room door beside mine. The first officer fell backward, pitching into the railing, breaking it, and dropping to the sidewalk below. His partner dropped and rolled backward, yanking his gun from his holster even as he fell.

  Someone, screaming obscenities, burst through the mangled door and ratcheted a shell into the shotgun he carried, leveling it at the cop on the ground.

  I didn't plan what happened next. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the wisest move. But I was acting on instinct, something of the sort that led me to take over the bailiff's gun and shoot him and the judge in the first place.

  I stuck the barrel of the revolver out of the door and emptied it into the man with the shot gun. He staggered with every blow and fell backward to the landing.

  I poked my head through the door, and checked the other side of the walkway. I saw no one. I kept the barrel of my now empty gun trained on the guy I'd just blown away. I glanced at the officer and said, “You hit?”

  He stared at me, shaking his head. I knelt and lifted the shotgun, setting the revolver on the floor. With the gun held upright in front of me, I straightened against the wall and peered around the corner.

  Inside the darkened room, I could see a woman lying naked on the bed. A trail of vomit ran out of her mouth and onto the pillow. Beside her on the nightstand, I saw a pair of hypodermic needles, rubber tubing, spoons and a candle that had burned almost completely out. I didn't have to ask what was in the small plastic packets that littered the floor along with half-empty bags of Funions and empty cans of beer. The television was still on, even though it showed nothing more than a blue screen. Evidently, the cable was still out.

  I slipped into the room, checked the bathroom quickly, and then put two fingers to the woman's neck. Her eyes were open and sightless, and I couldn't find a pulse. I shook my head and retreated to the outside.

  “Looks like you guys interrupted somebody's party,” I said, rounding the corner. I stopped when I saw the officer aiming his gun at me. I still held the shotgun, but had no desire to use it. The cop had turned white as a sheet, and I could see he was sweating.

  I put a hand out, taking it off the trigger of the gun, and then lowered it to the ground. “Easy now.” I spied his name plate. “Your name is Hanson, that right? You can call me Gerry. Everyone else does.”

  He coughed, and now I could see the matted wet on his side where shrapnel had torn into his gut.

  “You are hit.”

  “You shot that judge. T-torched the court.”

  “They were keeping me from my family.”

  He swallowed and said nothing.

  “You gonna arrest me?”

  He coughed again in response. He was having a harder time holding that gun at me. I leaned away, peering through the broken railing at the ground below. His partner lay crumpled on the parking lot in a pool of blood. I met his eyes when I straightened and gravely shook my head.

  “Sorry about your partner,” I said. “There's a woman in that room. Looks like a drug overdose. I'm thinking heroin, judging from the spoons and candle.” I could read in his eyes what he thought of that. Pure irony. In a way, I suppose this was my fault. If they hadn't have been looking for me, they wouldn't have knocked on the wrong door. Instead, they'd probably be sitting in their cruiser munching doughnuts and radar-gunning speeders. On the other hand, it's not like I'd shot them or anything, even though I'd been crouched there lying in wait just the same.

  “You saved my life,” he stammered.

  I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Why don't we just call it even?”

  When he didn't say anything, I reached forward and put my hand over the gun slide. After a moment, he relinquished the weapon. I dropped the clip and ejected the round in the chamber, then put the gun down. Moving to his shirt, I undid the buttons and peeled the fabric back, studying the wound patterns. From the dark seepage, it looked like the fragments had pierced his liver. He need a hospital right away.

  “Hang on,” I said, and raced into my bedroom. I grabbed a pillow off the bed and came back out, stuffing it under his head. Opening my backpack, I pulled out the antiseptic and gauze bandages I'd purchased for myself the other night.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “What I can. Can't make it right about the judge, but that don't mean I can't help you.” In the distance, I heard the sirens closing in. Somebody'd called the cavalry. They'd be there inside of two minutes. I poured alcohol on his wounds, making him wince, and then started packing the wounds with gauze, hastily taping them down. When I finished, he grabbed my hand.

  “Go,” he said. “You earned it. I'll tell 'em what you did.”

  I nodded curtly, and spun around to the body of the druggie behind me. Quickly, I relieved him of the bulge in his right pants pocket, and pressed the unlock button on the car remote. A Camaro chirped in the parking lot below. I grabbed my shoulder bag and hurried down the stairs. My banged up knees protested every step, and did not let up as I scurried over to the car. I stuffed myself into the front seat, kicking the empty cans of beer and empty food bags out of the way. I turned the key and the car roared to life, blasting me with thunderous noise from the sub-woofers in the back when the stereo kicked on.

  I slammed the car into gear and tore out, leaving black streaks of rubber behind as I careened onto the road. I turned right down the first street I came to and hit the accelerator, putting as much distance between me and the motel as possible.

  ***

  I contemplated ditching the Camaro right away, given that I'd stolen it from the man I'd shot making my getaway. I didn't know whether or not Hanson told them that I'd been there or how I'd left. I was pretty sure he had. After all, I'd shot the druggie and patched Hanson up. And it's not like I hadn't left my fingerprints over everything. Still, he struck me as a man of honor. I wanted to believe he'd at least stall them on the details.

  In the end, I chose to use the Camaro as long as I could. At least the rest of the day. I had to find a better place to plan my operations, and I needed to score a ride—something a little more nondescript and a lot less stolen than my current ride.

  I drove to the north end of town and found a strip mall with a hardware store and a Wal-Mart. This time, I did some serious shopping. I picked up a hat and sunglasses to better hide my face, as well as another change of clothes, a sleeping bag and pillow. I also scored a couple gallons of bleach, a coffee maker, filters, a glass pot to cook in, a hot plate, a couple of boxes of small nails, a kit of assorted tools, a six pack of incandescent light bulbs, ammo for the .38, enough groceries to last a week including a four pack of salt substitute, and some threaded pipe with caps from the hardware store. I also grabbed five more disposable cell phones.

  I may not have been an expert in demolitions, but I knew enough to be dangerous.

  I loaded all this in the car, and then, using the local Auto Trader circular and my activated cell phone
, arranged to purchase a used pick up camper later that afternoon.

  I abandoned the car a block away from the camper and took the plates off it, leaving my stash locked in the trunk. I figured it’d keep safe for at least the hour or so I needed to sign the papers on the camper. After that, I might as well leave it where it was. Let someone else deal with it.

  The camper wasn’t in quite as nice shape as it sounded in the trailer. The engine looked like it had been through a major rebuild already, and the tires showed significant wear. Still, it bore a current registration and inspection sticker, and with the plates from the Camaro, I figured it’d pass muster. I only hoped it would make it all the way to Mexico and across the border before conking out on me.

  I spent a few minutes haggling with the owner. I figured paying the money outright, no questions asked, might raise a few eyebrows. I didn’t want there to be anything suspicious about this purchase. He did ask how I got there, and I lied and told him a buddy had dropped me off. I waved my cell phone and said that I’d told him I would call him back if we couldn’t come to terms.

  After thoroughly inspecting the engine, camper, cab, and the underbelly of the truck, I agreed and signed the title. With the plates on from the Camaro, I felt a surge of relief. The engine caught on the second try, and I gave the guy a little wave as I drove off.

  After stopping by the Camaro, I unloaded the trunk into the back of the camper and spent a few minutes wiping everything down. Lastly, I popped out the VIN tag from under the windshield and scratched it out from the door frame. I knew it was still stamped on the engine block, but that was hard enough to get to that it’d slow them down. Even once they ID’d the car, they’d still have to figure out whatever happened to me. By that time, they’d have other things to worry about.

  As I left the Camaro behind and drove out of town, I began to feel free for the first time in many days.

  Naturally, it wouldn’t last.

  Chapter 9

  I didn’t want to kill anyone else—not even hurt them. I just wanted to get my kids back. That first night in the camper, parked out in the middle of the woods on the north end of town, all I could think of as I lay huddled under the sleeping bag was how Matt and Sara were doing, what they’d been told about me, why I’d done what I’d done. I’d heard the denial and accusation in Matt’s voice on the phone. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what was running through their minds now.

  Surely they must’ve felt utterly abandoned and alone. I prayed they were still together—that the state hadn’t taken that away from them, too, like it had taken everything else.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t recall any dreams—though I did wake up several times in the night with the vague impression that someone was breaking down the door or stealing the truck right out from under me. At one point I heard a lot of movement outside, but after grabbing the .38 and checking through a corner of the curtained window, I finally realized it was just a herd of deer passing through, and nothing more.

  By the time morning staggered across the woods, filling the air with a gray light devoid of warmth I’d given up on getting any more sleep. Everything hurt now: my knees, arms, back, and especially my head. I checked the dressings on my scalp as best as possible, but couldn’t tell much in the dim light of the camper. Most of my first aid kit I’d used on that cop, and I foolishly hadn’t thought to purchase more when I was at the store yesterday. Thank God, at least I still had the pain killers.

  I made a pot of coffee and heated up some toaster pastries for breakfast, and then started the truck to recharge the battery. I didn’t have any plans to go anywhere just yet, but neither did I want to stay in one place too long.

  Once I finished clearing up from breakfast, I sat in the cab of the truck, steeling myself for what was to come next. A part of me truly did not want to do this, but I had no other choice, and no one else to turn to.

  I called my sister.

  She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Angie, it’s Gerry.”

  “Gerrold, Omigod! What in the hell is going on up there?”

  “Ain’t something I can really get much into.”

  “It sounds like you done gotten yourself into plenty. What is going on? They say you shot a cop or something?”

  “A judge, actually. I shot a judge.”

  “A ju—a judge.” I heard her voice go muffled, as if she’d put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Frank, he shot a judge.”

  “Hang up on him,” Frank said. Frank was Angie’s husband. Worked for the phone company. He and I never really saw eye to eye on much.

  “What on earth did you go and do a thing like that for?” Angie said. “I hope she was wearing antlers and a deer skin or something so you got some kinda reasonable excuse.”

  “They took Matt and Sara from me.”

  “Matt and Sara?”

  “Hang up the damn phone, Angie,” Frank interrupted.

  I ignored his outburst. “That’s right. Just when I was getting him fixed, they took him from me, and now they’re gonna pump him up full a drugs and such. I can’t let them do it.”

  “Where are Matt and Sara now?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I was hoping you might be able to find out.”

  “That’s it.” I heard Frank get out of his chair.

  “You want me to what?” Angie said to me. “Oh hell no. You ain’t bring me in on this.”

  “Give me the phone,” Frank said.

  I raised my voice. “You’re already in this. Knee deep. They’re you’re blood, Angie, same as me.”

  I could hear Frank take the phone away. A click told me he’d disconnected the line. I hit redial. Seconds later, his voice filled my ears. “Now you listen here. I got me twenty news vans parked out on my front porch shoving cameras and microphones in my face every time I step outside for a smoke. Why don’t you do the responsible thing and turn yourself in afore someone else gets hurt?”

  “They got my kids, Frank. Your niece and nephew.”

  “And I’m sure they’re better off than running around the country with some lunatic murderer.”

  I swore. “Frank, I just shot a bailiff and a judge for keeping me from my kids. You sure you want to piss me off?” When he didn’t answer, I feared that he might have hung up. I tried a different tack in the hopes he was still on the phone. “Look, all I’m asking you to do is make a phone call. I just want to talk to them and say my piece.”

  “We can’t get involved in this.”

  “You’re already involved. You’re family. That’s why those news crews are out there. And probably the feds, too. Am I right?” His silence told me I was. I lowered my tone. “I’m real sorry it’s gone down this way. And believe me, I’d make it right if I could. Right now, all I want to do is make sure Matt and Sara are okay. That’s all.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I promise.”

  After a moment, I heard the phone pass back to my sister. Angie’s voice sounded shaky. Frightened. “What do want me to do?”

  “Call child protective services here in New York. See if you can’t get a direct line to the kids.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Tell them the truth. Tell them you’re their aunt, and that you’re very concerned about them. Point out the fact that you’re family. Maybe even offer to take them in, instead of a foster family.”

  “But we can’t take them in. You know that. We ain’t got but the one bedroom here.”

  “I know that. I ain’t saying you gotta do it. You just need to ask about it. You could even talk to the judge, see if you can’t arrange a time to call them directly.”

  “But you shot the judge.”

  Sometimes I am reminded just how stupid my sister is. Often it’s when I speak to Frank, her beloved husband. But sometimes, she makes it clear without any help at all. “They’ll assign them another, Angie. It’s not like they’re hurting for bureaucrats up here. Besid
es, it don’t matter what they believe. I’m just trying to get you to find them a number so I can call and talk to them. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “And then what are you going to do?”

  “I ain’t thought that far ahead yet,” I lied, “but I’m sure I’ll be talking to the authorities real soon. Now, you think you can do that?”

  “All right. I’ll do what I can.”

  “You’re a peach.”

  “Don’t sugar talk me.”

  “You’re still a peach, and I love you.”

  “I love you, too, and Gerry? Please be careful.”

  “Will do.”

  We said good bye and hung up, and then I sat there awhile, staring through the windshield at the green fauna all around me, wondering whether or not she’d follow through, or if they weren’t calling the feds even now.

  In the end, I supposed, it didn’t really matter so long as they came through with a number. I didn’t want this to go through Child Protective if I could avoid it. I hoped to score the number of the foster family where they lived. Once I had that in hand, I was fairly certain I could either get an address, or arrange some kind of meet.

  Regardless, it was time to move on.

  I started the truck and drove west for a while, heading for the interstate. Once I rejoined civilization, I pulled into a truck stop and grabbed some clothes, then went inside for a shower. Felt good to wash up. Made me feel human again. After this, I grabbed some lunch from the diner and plugged in to one of the electrical outlets set aside for travelers needing to recharge.

  I had something different in mind.

  My first task was building fuses. For this, I took some wooden matchsticks and medium grade wire. After stripping the wire, I pressed it into either side of the match stick and looped it over the head, with enough trailing from the back end to connect to my timers. Next, I turned to the light bulbs. I snipped off the screw cap and popped free the glass fuse enclosure, then gently broke the bulb itself into a box, removing the precious filament without damaging it. I did this for each of the light bulbs I’d purchased until I had a set of winded filaments in front of me and a box of broken glass and shredded screw caps to one side. I ran a current through the filaments until I could stretch them out without breaking them, then took the gossamer threads and began winding them around each of the match heads, sealing the heads to the copper wire on either side and gluing each in place. Lastly, I snipped the wire loop off the top of each newly constructed fuse. Once they were completed, I set them aside.