I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River

by Shawn Underhill

  Ryan went around to the back door. Went in and grabbed a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts bags. They were good bags. Much sturdier than grocery store bags. Useful for various purposes. He brought the bags out and held them up for Murphy to see.

  Murphy lowered his window and took the bags and thanked Ryan quietly and then handed them off through the open passenger door to the smaller guy. They put the big guy’s sweatshirt in one bag and laid the other across the seat.

  Finally the big one climbed gingerly into the passenger side and sat there slumped against the door, paint in his hair still visible from the dim interior lights. Then the smallest one grabbed the bats and got in the rear passenger side.

  Ryan had moved back near Sharky by then. He motioned for Murphy to drive forward. He stepped wide of Sharky and the brown building. Murphy eased forward and lowered his window.

  “One more thing.”

  Murphy nodded.

  Ryan went around back and inside again. Got a paper towel and wiped the worst of the yellow paint from the toecap of his right boot. Then he stepped on the trash can’s delicate pedal. The lid opened like PAC-MAN’s mouth. He dropped the towel in and grabbed the trash bag up and cinched it tight. Grabbed the bag with the backpack in it. Went back out and walked over and lifted both bags over the side and dropped them in the truck’s bed.

  Several birds, one stone. One less chore to worry about the following day.

  Murphy said, “You’re kidding.”

  “Put it in the dumpster behind Enzo’s.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Suddenly you’re a law stickler?”

  “He’s got cameras.”

  “Not out back,” Ryan said. “Trust me, I do it every week. Just drop it and go home. You’re saving me a trip. I appreciate it. Maybe I’ll even buy you a pizza one of these days. Fully loaded.”

  Murphy said, “Okay, but just this once. I’m not your bitch forever.”

  “It’s not about that,” Ryan said. “It’s a lesson in humility. You screwed up, this is the punishment. Don’t repeat it. That’s all.”

  “Fine,” he said miserably.

  “Do your coaches let you pout?”

  “No.”

  “You have a sore foot and you had one rough night. Big picture, that’s not so bad. Life kicks the hell out of some people. Be thankful.”

  That said he showed him the Kimber from his coat pocket, then pocketed it again.

  “You never know who you’re messing with. Learn it now rather than from some guy that doesn’t care who he shoots.”

  Murphy nodded and said, “Loud and clear.”

  “Okay. Good enough.”

  “I’m only taking the trash once.”

  “Deal.”

  Murphy got the truck turned around and drove out and turned left, then left again. Went around behind the restaurant. Ryan watched through small leafless trees behind Enzo’s. The smallest guy hopped out and handled the trash. Then he got back in and the truck circled around front. It stopped near the road, its driver looking both ways, so as not to suffer another traffic near miss. Then the truck pulled out and moved away and was gone in the dark.

  “Look at that,” Ryan said to Sharky. “Another life changed.”

  Chapter 15

  Denny and the boys from Lawrence Street took the Fall River exit. They were in Denny’s mom’s new boyfriend’s car, a Ford Fusion. Decent car. Denny was driving. He liked the Fusion. The passenger seat was occupied by Denny’s cousin, the guy with the crappy car that was low on gas. The rear seat was occupied by only one of the quiet guys. The other quiet guy hadn’t joined them. Because he’d gone home after the porch meeting, smoked a bowl, and had fallen asleep watching reruns of Roseanne.

  “Check the map again,” Denny told his cousin.

  His cousin initially obeyed. Because Denny was older and craftier. And because he had access to a car with more than half a tank of gas.

  Then he said, “It’s easy to find. Just go north across the bridge over the river and stay on the same road for two miles.”

  “You were here during the day,” Denny said. “Things look different at night.”

  “I’m not that dumb.”

  “You might be.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Fine,” Denny muttered. “I’ll trust you.”

  The quiet guy in back stayed quiet.

  They crossed the bridge over the Merrimack River and drove for a mile to the lights. The light turned green before they stopped. No traffic on the road. There was a farm down the slope to their right. Not much ahead but a straight stretch of road, with a few street lamps way up ahead.

  They continued on and began passing houses and businesses. A dark Burger King and Dunkin’ Donuts. Then they saw the wooden sign for the storage place. The sign was just ahead of a decorative white fence.

  Crappy car guy said, “That’s it.”

  “Office looks dark,” Denny said. “The whole town is dead.”

  Crappy said, “Good for us.”

  “That’s right. Nobody will have a clue.”

  Denny turned around at the market and headed back south. Passed the nursery on the right, a real estate place, and a place that might have been a house, might have been an office of some kind. He hung a right on School Street and drove off into the darkness away from Main Street’s scattered street lamps. He found a section of road with a wide shoulder. Got the Ford turned around and parked facing Main. They could just see a patch of Main Street’s pavement from their dark hiding spot.

  “Okay,” Denny said. “Now we wait for the coyote.”

  ***

  Matt Ryan watched the rest of Fire in the Sky. It wasn’t any good. The mood of rising suspense and tension had been totally derailed by Murphy’s interruption. They’d ruined the movie for him. Now he’d have to wait a few months to try it again.

  He got up and grabbed two donuts. Set them on a paper towel on the coffee table. Sat down again and started searching through his watch list.

  ***

  Denny saw headlights in the rearview mirror. Only ten or fifteen minutes had passed.

  “Let’s hope it’s not a cop,” he said.

  It was a cop. A police cruiser pulled up behind him and flashed its lights. Some nosey local cop, making the rounds, passing the time. The cruiser stopped and a tall guy got out. At least six foot four. Maybe five.

  “Stay calm,” Denny told the other guys. “Let me do the talking.”

  Crappy said, “Okay.”

  The quiet one nodded.

  Chuck Reynolds looked the guys over with his flashlight. Wasn’t impressed with what he saw. He asked the driver for his license and registration.

  Denny rummaged through the glove box and found the registration. He had once had a driver’s license, but that was years ago now. Only suckers paid money and stood in line at DMV. He was above stuff like that. He told the officer he’d forgotten the license at work.

  “Let me get this straight,” Chuck Reynolds said. “You’re driving someone else’s car and you forgot your license?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chuck nodded. He knew bullshit when he heard it. But he also knew that dealing with this guy would be a big headache. Time, paperwork. He was already in a bad mood.

  He said, “What are you doing in Fall River tonight?”

  Denny stammered something about it being a nice night for a drive.

  “That so?”

  “Yes,” Denny said. “Look at all those stars.”

  “You got a telescope in the trunk?”

  Denny laughed and said he’d left it at home.

  “What about you?” Chuck asked the passenger.

  Crappy said, “I have my license.”

  “Hand it over.”

  He did.

  Chuck looked it over. It was legit. The guy was at least an hour from home. He handed it back.

  “Is this car stolen?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Denny said.

 
; Chuck nodded, watching the guy closely. He seemed like a moron, but he also seemed to be telling the truth. About the car, at least. Then he stood back with his hand ready to reach for his weapon, should they try anything stupid.

  “You two switch spots,” he said. “Now.”

  Crappy got out and proudly walked around the front of the Ford. Denny walked around the back. His authority had been challenged and his position had been taken from him. Now he was relegated to riding shotgun. Like a loser.

  “You, baldy,” Chuck said to Denny. “Don’t let me catch you driving without a license again.”

  “No, sir. Honest mistake. Won’t happen again.”

  “Furthermore,” Chuck said to both of them. “Don’t let me catch you clowns in this town again. I’ll follow you to the bridge. Get on the highway and go home. If I see you back again, you’re both in trouble. Understood?”

  Crappy nodded sharply and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Denny sat there sullenly in the passenger seat, muttering to himself. He hated pigs. He hated authority.

  “Forget about the cash,” Chuck said. A statement out of nowhere, to test them.

  It worked.

  Both of them reacted visibly to a statement that would have sounded completely arbitrary to anyone without a clue.

  Crappy finally said, “What?”

  “You heard me,” Chuck said.

  “What money?” Denny asked.

  “Forget it ever existed,” Chuck said. “Forget your way to Fall River. I see you again, it’ll mean deep trouble. And I mean so deep you’ll never get out. Are we clear?”

  Both kept awkwardly quiet, merely nodding in response.

  Chuck tipped his hat and said, “Get lost. I’ll follow you to the bridge.”

  They started off down the road, crawling along. Crappy used the Ford’s turn signal at the stop sign. He turned right and headed back toward the lights and the bridge and the highway ramps.

  As they crossed the bridge, Denny noticed the coyote’s car heading north.

  ***

  They got off the first exit they came to and looped around to the northbound ramp and got up to speed again. Got off at Fall River, crossed the bridge, and pulled over at the small park and ride.

  Crappy car guy was enjoying the Ford. He said it was much nicer than his car.

  “Just don’t do anything to it,” Denny warned him. “You hurt this car, I’ll never get to drive it again.”

  Crappy said, “How do we handle this now?”

  “Switch seats for starters.”

  “But the cop said—”

  “I don’t care. Get out.”

  They both got out and reassumed their previous positions.

  Crappy said, “What now?”

  Denny answered, “We wait till we see him. He won’t recognize the car. We block the bridge and get out, guns blazing. That simple.”

  Crappy said, “What if the Ford gets damaged?”

  “How stupid are you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You said we can’t hurt the car.”

  “If it gets damaged, we’ll have enough money to get it fixed.”

  ***

  Matt Ryan and Sharky stepped out of the apartment into the cold and darkness. The sky was mostly clear and the stars were twinkling in the frigid sky. Ryan lit a cigarette while Sharky sniffed around. He had been agitated, asking to go out. Apparently nothing to do with business. He kept scenting the air and staring in the direction of the storage units.

  “What’s up?” Ryan asked him.

  Sharky grumbled his reply.

  “Smell something?”

  Sharky looked at him, grumbled again. His posture was tense, on edge. Could be something, could be just a squirrel.

  “Better not be a skunk.”

  Sharky started down the grade toward the complex and Ryan followed, more curious than concerned. Raccoons and sometimes bears were known to patrol the area, sneaking up behind the restaurant and all of its tempting odors.

  But Ryan was thinking more about Murphy and the guys. They better not have grown a pair and come back for another round. He wasn’t in the mood. He wouldn’t be as friendly. He really didn’t want to brutalize kids still learning their way in the world. He didn’t want to see them in wheelchairs and body casts if it was at all avoidable.

  But enough was enough for one night.

  Sharky pulled a quick lead as they descended into the complex, then disappeared around the end of the nearest row of metal units.

  Walking faster to catch up, Ryan suddenly heard a brief snarl, a quick bark that swelled into a roar, a sound that might have been a scuffle, and finally a resounding thud. All in the matter of a few seconds.

  He ran the last twenty yards. Took the Kimber from his coat pocket and edged around the corner of the metal building. Everything was murky, gray light and black shadows.

  He looked. The scene before him made no sense at first. It was so random, so unusual. He had to stand there staring for a moment to piece together what had transpired.

  Chapter 16

  Sharky was looking back at him, chest out, wagging his tail. Making his best attempt at a proud dog smile.

  Look what I did, Dad.

  Between Ryan and the dog there was a man. He was on the ground, looking to be laid out cold, arms and legs awkwardly splayed. The guy was on his stomach, a few feet from a concrete post. The posts were positioned at intervals all around the buildings, painted yellow for visibility, to keep snow plows from damaging the buildings after big storms. Beyond Sharky there was a triangular bolt cutting tool on the pavement. Like pruning clippers, but stronger. Ryan couldn’t tell at a glance how many locks had been cut before Sharky’s intervention. It didn’t matter. One was too many. He guessed a handful at a glance.

  Sharkzilla had interrupted a burglar, and the guy in his haste had apparently panicked, lunged away, stumbled, fell forward, and smashed his head into one of the concrete posts.

  “That’s pretty impressive,” Ryan told Sharky.

  Sharky panted, sitting there as proud as could be.

  “I’ve never met anyone who can cause other people to hurt themselves just to get away from them as fast as possible. That’s amazing. You are a force to be reckoned with, Sharky. You’re John Rambo’s dog.”

  While Sharky basked in his victory, Ryan turned the guy over with his boot. He was tall and thin with a distorted look to his face. Tattoos, apparently. His eyes were open. Ryan didn’t have a flashlight in his pocket, but from what he could see the guy was conscious, though very far away. Seeing stars. Probably concussed. Ryan was far from being an expert on such matters, but clearly the guy had rung his own bell pretty hard. He was breathing, but not smoothly and quietly.

  He took out his Zippo and squatted down and lit the lighter. Held it out a foot from the guy’s face.

  He blinked. The tattoos covered most of his face and neck and buzzed head. There was definitely more ink than skin. Maybe ninety percent ink. Not a common trend in Fall River. Ryan looked him over and couldn’t make any sense of the patterns. There were designs and symbols and letters that meant nothing to him, all blending together into a collage with intermittent peeks of natural skin. In all he looked closer to something from Star Trek than an average human being.

  Clearly the thing to do was call Chuck. Then dispatch would wake up the local paramedics and they’d have to rush to the volunteer fire station and jump in the ambulance and come give the tattoo guy medical attention and provide transport to the hospital. Which was twelve miles away.

  A lot of trouble for decent people to expend. Time and money. All for a guy trespassing with bolt cutters in the middle of the night.

  Ryan stood and closed the Zippo and got out another cigarette and lit it as he started walking along the ends of the rows of metal buildings, looking down the long aisles. Searching for a getaway vehicle. Didn’t see one. He turned and looked up the driveway. It climbed up and away gradually toward Main Street. He saw nothing a
nywhere. No vehicle between himself and the white fence behind the sign near the road. No vehicle of any sort anywhere along the outer edges of the complex.

  He went back over to the guy and nudged him with his boot. The guy breathed and mildly groaned. He wasn’t in full control of his body, and besides whatever pain he might be in, he was probably getting cold. It takes very little time for the cold to conduct through the ground into a sprawled human body. The temperature was well below freezing, so Ryan figured the guy could easily become hypothermic before he regained his senses.

  If he regained them.

  If he had any to regain.

  “Get up,” he said.

  The guy turned his head slightly. Blinked.

  “Get up, chief.”

  No answer.

  “How’d you get here?”

  Nothing.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Zilch.

  He nudged him again and the guy groaned louder and rolled slowly and difficultly onto his side, away from Ryan. A painfully slow escape. He kept on rolling. Put his arms out. Bent his knees and drew them up and tried to get his feet under him. He was aware enough to know what he wanted to do, but not aware enough to make it happen quickly or smoothly.

  “Who are you?”

  No answer. Just more clumsy effort to stand up. Like learning to use his body for the first time.

  “Stay back, Sharky.”

  Sharky watched obediently and the guy kept on groaning and breathing and struggling to his feet. He stood up in painfully slow motion, one hand on the concrete post that had bested him. He straightened up momentarily and then slouched over, like a drunk, and started ambling forward, away from the building. Toward the woods. He looked wrecked and dizzy. His motor skills were no better than a toddler’s. But he kept on making slow progress toward the woods. Apparently some flickering corner of his malfunctioning brain was reminding him where he’d come from, and therefore where he needed to return.