by Greg Jolley
“Wildwood Lake.”
Jame calculated. She was about twenty-five miles shy of there. He’d been there once for that town’s Fourth of July fireworks.
“You would have never had made it. Not out in that,” Tory spoke up, the words sounding planned and brave.
The bells chimed over the front door of the market; the sound was faint, but went on longer than normal, like someone was standing there with the door open. All four turned toward the storeroom door. Jame wished he had the rifle.
“Hey,” was shouted from the door. The voice was loud and firm.
“Oh hell, it’s Wesley,” Mrs. Sheaan responded. “Exactly what we don’t need.”
“Dent’s ex-cop,” Tory explained to Wiki.
Jame liked the way Wiki didn’t acknowledge. She continued to simply observe and listen.
Heavy boot steps crossed to the closed storeroom door.
“Open it,” the firm voice demanded.
Jame took a step back. He had an unpleasant past with the ex-cop. A beer party in high school ending with him being cracked in the head with a bottle from behind by Wesley, who a moment before had been pouring suds into the dirt. He had been singled out for no apparent reason—he wasn’t even being mouthy like his buddies. He was the smallest. He was cuffed and beat up some more as his friends looked on.
Tory opened the door and there was Wesley, standing tall and wide in the light from the storeroom. He was dressed in the uniform of his former job, minus the badge. His shoulders were dusted with snow, and he was holding a handgun pointed at the ceiling.
“Who’s she?” he demanded of the three familiar faces, not looking at Wiki.
“Passing by and got stuck,” Mrs. Sheaan said. “And put that down.”
The gun didn’t lower. Wesley was watching as if he was judging.
“Not gonna happen,” he said. “We’ve got some idiot shooting up Dent. And you,” he turned to Jame, “Saw you out on Main with a rifle. Wanna explain?”
Jame looked from the gun to Wesley’s face. He saw that the big man was injured. His temple and ear were bright red and there was blood in his greasy brown hair. Wood splinters stuck out from his skin. On his cheek, some of the splinters were nearly an inch long.
“What happened to you?” Mrs. Sheaan asked. “And where’d you get that uniform?”
“Yeah,” Tory added. “That wound’s really bad.”
Wesley was staring at Jame when he answered the first question, “I fell,” he said, the words sounding like a lie, and as if he didn’t care.
“Wesley? Why are you wearing that?” Mrs. Sheaan asked a second time.
“Where’s the rifle?” Wesley asked Jame, ignoring the mayor’s wife.
Jame saw Mrs. Sheaan and Tory watching him. He could feel Wiki’s gaze.
Before Jame could reply, the ex-cop asked, “Seen Doyle?”
“That’s a big problem,” Mrs. Sheaan said. “He got killed.” She turned to Wiki, “In the accident.”
“Doyle’s dead.” Wesley replied, not making it a question. He lowered the gun to his side and turned the good side of his face to Jame.
“What were you up to?”
“Someone was shooting at the C.O. from the church. I shot back.”
“Really,” Wesley asked, not making it a question. “Any shots after you fired?”
“Yes. One.”
“Then it appears that you missed. The bunch of you stay inside. How did Doyle get himself killed?”
“He got run over,” Tory said. He did not add by who, but he was looking at the lovely silent, mysterious Wiki.
“Sounds messy,” Wesley flatly replied. “You four grab some chairs and park yourselves in them.”
Wesley reached for the doorknob.
The lights went out of their own accord.
“Everyone stay still!” Wesley commanded.
“Power’s out again,” Mrs. Sheaan said, explaining the obvious.
“Another reason for all of you to stay here,” Wesley told the group.
As the door closed he added, “I’ll be by once I have this sorted.”
Cain Lorenzo, Wesley’s son, was sitting on a stolen snowmobile with his ski goggles up onto his forehead. The vehicle was idling and purring white exhaust. The teenager was watching the transformer atop the pole at the south corner of town through his riflescope. He pulled the trigger. The night lit up as the transformer exploded in white brilliant arcs.
When the fireworks ended, Cain waited for the red spots in his vision to fade before he lowered his goggles. Embers of white were burning on the snow out on the street. He waited for these to extinguish. When his vision cleared, he looked out across the south and east sides of the lake.
Cain put the snowmobile in gear. Operating it was awkward—the rifle he carried did not have a shoulder harness. He had the weapon across the handlebars and drove slow and smooth, headed for the second transformer that serviced most of Main Street and the rest of Dent.
He had his father’s list stuffed deep inside his clothing, in the pouch of his sweatshirt under his winter parka. No way was he going to mess with getting that out, and anyway, he could see the five typed lines in his father’s favorite large Papyrus font. He mentally placed a check mark in the box to the left of the first line.
There were a few lights still on inside stores and cottages, but no matter, he headed for list line two: the transformer in the parking lot of the market and hardware store.
Main Street had some of the highest snowdrifts he had ever seen. The headlight beam shown on the low mountains. He intentionally drove through three drifts, kicking up bursts of white waves. The snow explosions would be more impressive if he gunned it, but he’d been instructed to protect the rifle and to not hurry.
His father thought of himself as witty, especially when he was in his odd and rare jovial moods. Wesley had many moods and few of them were less than extreme. Sometimes, for Cain and his sister, the giddy ones were the creepiest. They had watched and cowered earlier that evening when Wesley had stomped around the kitchen, his booming voice in singsong, “Checking it once and checking it twice. Gonna remove who’s…”
His father was quick and deeply wounding with his cruel vicious mouth, his fists, and boots. Cain and his sister understood that silence and humiliating respect were the only means of survival. So Cain was working his list, as father worked his own, the teenager not feeling anything because, really, he wasn’t capable of feeling much beyond fear and the dread of each and every day.
He steered into fresh tire furrows that swept out from the telephone company building, and he kept the skis between them. He was aware of the snowmobile ratcheting wickedly loud as he moved up through town. At the Sew What shop he braked, looking up into the sky.
Above the rooftops in the distance was the second transformer. It was a bit hard to see in the falling snow, but he could make out the fat-bellied canister and the tangle of connectors alongside it. He had been told to study its shape and to learn it, and he had, so Cain didn’t hesitate. He took off his snow goggles, aimed the rifle and, holding his breath, pulled the trigger.
Just like item one, the second transformer went up in fireworks of electric white light. This time Cain lowered his goggles to watch the show. He sat with the rifle across his chest until all of the embers had hit the snow and melted deep.
The small town of Dent went dark. The only light on Main was from the mayor’s car door. While he didn’t understand the car door light, he saw the mayor’s name checked off his father’s list.
Balancing the rifle over the handlebars and gripping it in place with his gloved forefingers, Cain upped the throttle and steered for the edge of town where item three was located; the transformer that serviced the north and west sides of the lake.
Tory was moving about the storeroom shelves, the others listening. An electric lantern came on, washing everyone in sickly white light with black shadows.
“Better, and thank you,” Mrs. Sheaan said. Tory h
anded the lantern to her and started another, which he set on the sorting and pricing table.
“Can I have one?” Wiki asked.
Jame turned to the sound of her refreshing voice. He studied her closely, wishing he could see her eyes.
Tory located another lantern, turned it on, and handed it to Wiki.
“Do you have a box of .270s?” Jame asked.
“Not supposed to, but yes.”
Tory went to the rear of the storeroom, and they all heard a metal case being unlocked and opened. The Quickee had been selling ammo without a license for over forty-five years. This was deer hunting country. It was illegal, but that was okay with the store’s owner and the folks of the small town of Dent; the Quickee didn’t sell weapons, just the bullets, and the mark-up on ammo was good and high.
Mrs. Sheaan raised her lantern when Tory returned with a box of .270s.
“Thanks Tory,” Jame said, opening the box and pouring bullets into his coat pocket. He tossed the empty box into the trashcan by the pricing desk. “I’m leaving,” he added.
Looking to Tory and Wiki, Mrs. Sheaan said, “We’re staying right here. At least until daylight.”
“What are you gonna do?” Tory asked Jame.
“I don’t know. Yet. I want to get to my folks and see that they’re good.”
Jame’s parents were better known in the town, more than he was. They were both popular but in ill health, and too young to be so. His dad was second-generation telephone company, shuffled off into retirement at the age of forty-nine because of car accident injuries and disability. His mom was refusing chemo and was most often curled and bundled on the couch in front of the television.
“I’ve got my road-kill rifle in the truck,” Jame shared. He was not known in town as a hunter.
“Jame. It’s a heck of a lot safer in here. There could be more shooting,” Mrs. Sheaan said.
“Maybe not. I did get a shot off at the guy. Least I think I did.”
“When was that?”
“A while ago.”
“A while ago? What’s that? An hour? A half?”
Jame frowned, “I’d say about a half.”
“Well that’s no good. There’ve been shots since then.”
“Yeah…”
“Going to try and knock down the shooter?” Tory asked doubtfully.
“I might, but I wanna check on my mom and dad.”
“You won’t make it halfway around the lake. Look outside lately?” Mrs. Sheaan said.
Jame was looking at the storeroom door. He didn’t reply. He did not have a clear idea or plan; just knew, or sensed, that staying locked up in the storeroom all night felt wrong. His mom and dad had a gas furnace, so they were warm but in the dark and likely flustered. Outages in Dent were common with the winter storms and the thunderstorms in the spring, but his parents were easily alarmed. He hoped that they were sleeping right through this.
“I want to go with you,” Wiki said.
Jame turned from the door. He looked Wiki up and down, noting her very un-winter clothing.
Before he decided, before he could respond, Mrs. Sheaan said to Wiki, sounding very skeptical, “Why, hun?”
Wiki didn’t answer right away. Her eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses, were aimed at Jame. She tilted her head to the side, to the door.
“Hiding out, hiding and hoping for the best—not my style.”
“Anyone thirsty?” Tory asked, stepping away.
That question went unanswered.
“Sure,” Jame said to Wiki, the word coming out before he had really decided.
“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Sheaan breathed. “You two at least be careful. And after you get stuck out there, hike to your folk’s place and stay inside.”
Jame studied Wiki’s dark glasses as he agreed. “Let’s go then.” He reached back and opened the door. Wiki stepped closer with her lantern raised.
“I think you better leave that here. I think the lights are targets,” Jame told her. She paused, thinking that through, before she set the lantern on the table and followed. The two of them stepped out into the store, hearing the door close behind them.
Jame led the way, weaving through the shelving, feeling Wiki’s hand clenching his shoulder.
“We need to get you into real clothes,” he said to her. She didn’t say a word, but continued to follow.
“Are you always so quiet?” Jame braved the question. It felt somewhat personal.
“Usually, no. But this isn’t usual.”
He liked the sound of her soft, raspy voice.
“What’s usual?” he asked another personal question.
Wiki smirked.
Jame stopped and slowly turned, not wanting to disturb her hand on his shoulder. The lilting sound echoed from his ears to his heart. Its timing was refreshingly odd and random. Unexpected.
He tilted his head, indicating a question, as he had seen her do earlier.
“What happened to the ‘s’ in your name?” She asked instead of answering his question.
Jame smiled. The question was right out-of-the-blue, like her voice and laugh.
“Third grade,” he said, braving a look to her eyes, which was easier because of her crooked sunglasses. “James this, hey James, and James! I kept looking for the other kid. It sounded plural. I was already having trouble in school. Didn’t need the added confusion, so I cut off the ‘s’.”
“That works. Good decision.”
Jame thought there was a smile on Wiki’s face, but it was too dark to see.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He reluctantly turned from her gaze, and they crossed to the front doors.
Jame opened the door, and Wiki stepped to his side. The crumpled body of Denny Moore was a couple of yards away. There was a purple spray of Denny blood. Didn’t know him well, but I liked him. Jame looked away with rare sad eyes.
“It’s cold out,” he said.
Her silence told him that he had just stated the obvious.
“You’re really not dressed for this,” he added, hoping to explain, before realizing that he had been obvious again.
“That your truck?” Wiki asked.
“Well, yeah,” he replied, liking that she could also state what was perfectly clear.
“A surfboard?”
The tail of the board extended out over the raised tailgate. Snow covered the board, and the single blue fin stood out.
Jame almost replied with her kind of silence. Then he got a clever idea and said, “What? You’ve never surfed a lake?”
“Not yet.”
“Where have you been all your life?” He thought he was up to her flavor of banter. Her reply deflated that.
“I’m from Mismaloya. More recently from Castellon de la Plana, south of Barcelona.”
The first place was a mystery to Jame. The second spoke of the unknown and never-considered exotic Europe. He was trying to place Spain on a map in his mind when Wiki hip-bumped him. The two walked out into the night, stepping around Denny in the snow, to the silhouette of this truck.
Just as his father always did, Jame rounded the back of the truck to get the door for Wiki. He opened it and looked for a sign of gratitude from her. She let go of his shoulder and climbed in—no nod or expression—as if she was used to gentlemen gestures. He closed her door and rounded to his, climbed in, started the truck, and adjusted the heater from medium to high.
Wiki raised his rifle from the seat to make room and held it awkwardly, clearly not used to handling weapons. The barrel of the gun pointed at her window.
“How far can we go in this truck?” she asked.
They were both looking at the drifts in the parking lot and the heavy falling flakes that the wipers were brushing away.
“Not far,” he told her. “We can go get Denny’s plow.”
“Back to the highway exit?” she said flatly.
“Well, yeah.”
He turned and watched her take off her sunglasses. The light was faint at b
est. His chest tightened when he saw intelligent, slightly puffy, eyes.
He realized that he was staring as she worked the shades into the pocket of her heavy black coat.
“Let’s go steal the plow,” Wiki told him.
✳ ✳ ✳
Driving away from the Quickee, Jame wanted the headlights, but didn’t turn them on. They drove past the single sixty-year-old pine that marked the edge of town. The road wove through dense trees and low hills for a half mile. Earlier that evening, Denny had plowed his way to the accident and Jame drove within the smooth swath, marked by footsteps headed back to town. The blinking orange lights of the tow truck warmed the final bend. Jame felt around inside his coat pocket and struggled before extending four bullets to Wiki.
“Load it, please?” he asked.
They drove a ways further, into the blinking light. He looked away from the wreck to Wiki, who sat with the .270 across her lap and the four bullets in her hand.
“Don’t know how?” Jame asked.
Wiki was studying the wreck. She absently shook her head, once. Her rental car was crunched against the plow of the tow truck, just past the other smashed cars. She looked at the side of her car, the snow halfway up to the doors. “There’s a policeman underneath,” she said quietly.
Jame braked the truck to a stop and asked her for the rifle and bullets. She handed them over, continuing to look at her car. He loaded the rifle and told her to make her way to the passenger side of the tow truck. She shivered when the cold storm swept in through Jame’s open door.
Looking out her window, Wiki pulled the door handle and paused. She was looking at the police car. It was closed and running—she could see how the warm engine was keeping the hood cleared of snow. The car’s headlights were burrowing into the black, frosted trees.
The cold got her moving. Jame stood alongside the big truck, one hand out and the other holding the open passenger door. Snow dusted his head and shoulders, and he was watching her closely as she entered the drift that separated them.
Jame helped her up into the cab. The tow truck was purring and warm inside. He closed her door and circled for a moment. He was bright in the headlights before the smashed cars and the off-ramp.
