Time to Steal

by John Gilstrap

  Officer Bailey gripped Ethan’s biceps and helped him to his feet. “Sometimes balance is a little hard when you don’t have your hands.”

  “Okay,” Officer Vince said, “I know that you’re on the record not wanting to answer any questions, and that’s fine, but these are just for information’s sake. Nothing about the charges against you.”

  Ethan gave his name (again) and his address (again). No, he didn’t have any medical conditions, and no, he was not on any prescriptions. No, he was not addicted to any drugs, and no he wasn’t intoxicated—as if they wouldn’t find that out for themselves. And finally, no he was not experiencing suicidal ideations. He wondered what percentage of the people Vince processed had any idea what that term even meant.

  Officer Bailey donned a pair of black leather gloves and Ethan stood still as the cop rummaged through his pockets yet another time. They’d already stripped him of everything out at the scene of the attack, and he didn’t wear any jewelry. Bailey unfastened Ethan’s belt and pulled it free of the loops. He wrapped the leather strip around his fist to make a loop, and then stuffed the loop into a plastic bag that was then inserted into the other plastic bag that contained his stuff.

  Officer Bailey left after that, handing Ethan off to a towering cop whose name tag read Taylor, and who his colleagues called Bob. “Promise me you’re not going to be a problem,” Officer Taylor said.

  Ethan didn’t answer because he didn’t think the cop needed one. He allowed himself to be led farther down the concrete hallway. Next came the mug shot—full-face and profile—followed by finger printing. Ethan was surprised that they did the printing behind his back while he was still cuffed, manipulating his fingers one at a time while instructing him which digits to extend. How big a risk did they think he was?

  “You’re doing fine, Ethan,” Taylor said. They turned left and were buzzed through another door. The room was small, maybe ten-by-ten feet, and it smelled wet. An industrial-looking Dutch door dominated the left wall, heavy metal, with a panel at the top that swung away from Ethan, exposing bank-teller bars that had a half-moon slot along its lower edge. Another deputy stood on the other side. He looked unhappy.

  “Remember your promise not to be a problem,” Deputy Taylor said. He moved behind Ethan and fumbled with the handcuffs. “Just hold still.”

  Ethan didn’t bother mentioning that he had never promised anything, though he had no intention of fighting anyone. As the handcuffs fell away, he brought his hands around to the front and rubbed his wrists. The bracelets had left red grooves in his skin.

  “Now we need you to take your clothes off.”

  Ethan’s guts stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “Get naked,” said the guy behind the bars.

  “Why?”

  “Every new guest gets a shower,” Taylor said in a light tone. “And then you get your new wardrobe.”

  “I took a shower this morning.”

  “It’s just procedure,” Taylor said. “No big deal.”

  Ethan felt his heart race. He wondered if color had drained from his face. He felt a rush of dizziness.

  Take your clothes off and be quick about it.

  I don’t want to.

  I don’t care. Don’t make me hurt you.

  That was before, he told himself. That was not now. The monster was not here. The monster was dead. He knew that because he’d witnessed the blood spray.

  “Look,” said the guy behind the cage. “There’s an easy way to do this, and there’s a hard way. You can shower and be clean, or you can shower and be bloody. Your choice.”

  Taylor seemed to sense something. He cocked his head. “You okay?”

  Ethan didn’t answer. He opened the three buttons at the top of his polo shirt, and pulled it over his head. He hovered it in the air, unsure what to do with it.

  The deputy at the window tapped the top edge of the lower door. “Right here.”

  Ethan draped the shirt, and then kicked out of his shoes. Reeboks, the most expensive shoes he’d ever bought, purchased four months ago in celebration of his first real job. He picked those up and placed them on top of the shirt. They were still damp with his piss. He bent at the waist to pull up his pants legs and get at his socks.

  “You can sit on the bench if you want,” Taylor said.

  Sit on the bed if you want. I can help you.

  Ethan sat. He took his time, pulling each sock down below his ankle bones before scooping them off his feet one at a time.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, we don’t have all day,” Window-man said.

  Be quick about it.

  He unbuttoned his jeans. Unzipped them. Paused.

  “We’re not going to hurt you, Ethan,” Taylor said.

  I’ll go easy. It won’t hurt. I promise.

  He lifted his butt from the chair and pulled his legs out of the holes. He folded them vertically at the seam, wet leg over dry leg, and then folded them again, and then again, creating a nearly perfect square.

  Those tight little underpants, too.

  “What?” His head shot to Taylor.

  “What what? I didn’t say anything. But we need to get on with this.”

  Ethan hadn’t worn tight underwear in eleven years. Not since that day. He stepped out of his soaked boxer shorts, folded them, and placed them on the bench atop the rest of his clothes. He felt tears pressing behind his eyes, and he saw that his hands were shaking.

  “Over here.” Window-man beckoned Ethan with two fingers.

  Naked now, Ethan carried his clothes to the deputy and placed them next to his shirt and his shoes.

  “Try not to gain or lose too much weight over the next twenty years,” the window cop said with a chuckle. “These are your go-home clothes, too. And holy crap are they gonna stink by then.”

  Ethan hated the man behind the bars. He was a shithead bully with a badge. An asshole who sensed weakness in others and preyed upon it. He was a predator.

  “This way,” Taylor said. He beckoned for the next door. This one was wooden and needed no buzzer to pass through. On the other side, a row of three shower heads protruded from the wall, dripping water onto iron-stained once-green tiles. Taylor gestured to them with an open hand. “There’s soap in the dispensers on the wall. I advise you to be thorough. After this, once we transfer you to the Adult Detention Center, you’ll be limited to two showers a week.”

  Ethan hesitated, his hands covering himself. “Are you going to watch?”

  “’Fraid I have to. Believe me, there are other things I’d much rather be doing.”

  Ethan moved hesitantly, haltingly. With his hands still cupping his genitals, he stepped over the two-inch curb that marked the edge of the shower and shivered as his feet hit the ages-old accumulation of water. The water spigots were a knurled wheel-and-spoke design that looked more appropriate to an outdoor hose bib. They were unmarked, but Ethan bet on the standard arrangement of hot on the left. Standing to the side, he cracked the knob, heard a rush of air, and then dodged a formless spray of frigid water that hit him even from his offset of ninety degrees. The chill took his breath away. Five seconds later, the temperature transitioned to scalding. After fifteen or twenty seconds of balancing with the knobs, the spray was tolerable.

  Eyes closed, Ethan took his time. He tried to recall the tricks the psychologists had taught him about focusing away from the demons and toward the positive. He needed to find that boat dock in the woods that he’d never actually visited, but that he’d conjured as his place to retreat mentally. If he could make it to the dock, the bad thoughts could be kept at bay.

  It had worked so well then. But back at that point, after he’d been rescued and returned, the reality of his life was indeed safe. Now, he was back in the hands of—

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Taylor said. “Rinse off and let’s get going.”

  Ethan leaned forward into the wall, into the spigots, and let the water flood for just a few more seconds over his face and hair. Down his back. T
hen he shut the water off.

  Keeping his back turned to the deputy, he said, “Where is my towel?”

  “That comes in another two minutes. Turn around and look at me, please.”

  Covering himself again, Ethan turned. Taylor had donned a pair of blue rubber gloves.

  It won’t hurt. Just imagine you’re at the doctor’s.

  Ethan’s heart rate doubled. “No,” he said.

  “It’s procedure,” Taylor said. “Nobody enjoys the cavity search, but—”

  It did hurt. Oh, my God, it hurt so bad. And the monster laughed as Ethan yelled.

  “No!” Ethan shouted it this time.

  Taylor seemed startled. “Come on, Ethan, don’t—”

  —make this any harder than it needs to be.

  The color in the room changed in Ethan’s head. Reality transformed into something unreal—unrooted. He knew it was impossible, but he was eleven years old again. But now he was big. Now he could defend himself.

  He launched himself at the cop. Not the shithead predator deputy, but the nice one. The one named Taylor. Like Andy Taylor from Mayberry, the show that played without end on TVLand. The deputy was taller by a head, but Ethan knew a trick to make up the difference. As he lunged forward, he tucked his chin just a little and then on contact, thrust his head up under the deputy’s jaw. He heard a snap, and he heard someone yell. It might have been Ethan’s own howling, but he couldn’t be sure.

  They were on the wet floor now, bare skin against leather and hardware. Ethan threw punches and he received them, but he didn’t feel anything. This was not going to happen to him again.

  The space around him reverberated with noise and he saw more shoes and he felt more hands. He swung at as many of them as he could. His guts exploded as someone landed a kick, and then he saw the stick coming.

  Darkness.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 John Gilstrap, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL, LYRICAL UNDERGROUND, and the Lyrical logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First electronic edition: April 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3700-4