Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  By then Greg had started the evening shift, from three to eleven. He had been selected to be the first target. Greg was always one of the first to exit the building at the end of his shift and Clay decided it was the time to hit him. Literally.

  He drove to the plant late the next morning after going to eight promising yard sales. He was looking for a spot down the street from the plant where he could park inconspicuously fifteen minutes before the shift changed. Then he drove past the area where Greg had always parked and continued down the street. This area was unfamiliar to him so he drove around for two hours, covering all the streets in a two mile area on the south side of the plant. Driving back down three of the streets he reviewed features he had noted, parked to walk through several parking garages on those streets, and then went to the gym for an afternoon workout.

  Leaving the gym at four in the afternoon, he drove to the Twelfth Street Saloon to solicit Tony’s help, and then went home for supper.

  After eating supper with the family, watching the evening news and reading the newspaper, Clay drove to a near by train station where he could catch the Metro toward the inner city. A man he recognized walked over, shook hands with him and as he passed a set of car keys into Clay’s hand said, “Black 69’ Chevelle with a 300 horse 327 cube engine, just like you requested, parked at space 364. The other items are in the trunk. You owe Tony two grand for my services. See ya kid.” Clay wasn’t wearing gloves but had a pair in the left pocket of his jacket with two extra magazines. A 9mm MAB Model:D automatic was in the right pocket and a silencer which had been modified to fit the French pistol was in his right pants pocket.

  At nine thirty he got off the train and casually walked three blocks to a tow truck business he was familiar with. The business closed at five each evening and the owner took after hour’s calls at his house, just three miles away. The wrecker he selected was a mid size, plenty heavy for what he intended but also not too slow. Getting inside was easy enough and pulling the ignition switch was no problem either. In minutes he had the truck off the lot and was heading toward his destination. In the rearview mirror he again positioned the fake moustache on his lip and took the safety glasses from his shirt pocket. Pulling up the hood on the maroon colored sweat shirt completed his disguise.

  Traffic was light and even with driving just over the minimum posted speed limit he arrived at his destination at ten twenty. Passing by the factory he spotted Greg’s truck and then drove his escape route for twelve minutes before turning around and heading back to the factory.

  He double parked the tow truck on the same side of the street Greg was parked on, and several hundred feet behind him. The time was ten fifty. From the big truck he could see over the other parked cars to the door through which the employees would exit. Traffic was light now on the street which served mostly industrial businesses but a few cars had to pass him as he sat blocking traffic in his lane. The trucks flashers were on, but several cars still honked in protest of the inconvenience he was causing.

  Shortly after eleven two men left the building followed by Greg. The first two men were parked in the lot, and before Greg was to the fence four other men had exited the door.

  Clay put the truck in gear, turned off the blinkers and started moving ahead slowly when he saw Greg emerge from the building. His timing over the next ten seconds would be crucial. As the target walked down the sidewalk and approached his truck Clay was picking up speed and getting closer to his destination.

  Greg stepped off the curb and started around the back end of his truck. Clay was pushing the trucks engine and had the speed up to forty.

  As Greg rounded the end of his pick up, he looked up the street for approaching traffic, and saw a red tow truck hugging the center lane leaving plenty of room for him. He had his black metal lunch bucket in his left hand and was pulling his keys from the right front pocket of his Levis. Reaching the drivers door he inserted the key in the door lock, turned, withdrew it and wrapped his fingers around the door handle. In the same moment the sound and movement of the red truck caught his attention. He stayed near the side of his truck, waiting for the wrecker to pass. Common sense told him he was safe.

  Clay had been pushing the tow truck to increase speed and had stayed to the left side of the lane, actually a little over the line and into the other lane. As he neared the green pick up he started edging over toward the cars parked by the right curb. He could see Greg take the key from the lock and move his hand to the door handle. He watched as Greg glanced over his shoulder at the approaching truck; saw the questioning look as Greg judged the approaching truck to be to close to open his door and enter his truck.

  As the front right bumper of the tow truck got even with his target, Clay cut the wheel sharply to the right, pinning Greg between the two trucks. He saw the man’s upper torso go by the passenger's window, and could see the right side of his face wearing a shocked and bewildered expression. He heard a rumbling sound as the man was dragged along the front end of the green pick up, then felt his truck bounce as the rear wheels ran over his victims upper legs where he had fallen at the front end of his own truck.

  The front fender of the wrecker was now into the rear quarter panel of a car parked in front of the pickup. Clay cut the steering wheel sharply to the left to get clear of the impediment to his escape and put the gas pedal to the floor with the gear shift lever still in third gear. While up shifting to fourth he looked for the right side mirror, but it was gone. By the end of the next block he suspected the headlights behind him were someone giving chase to the perpetrator of the hit and run accident they had just witnessed. Slowing the truck just enough to make a high speed right turn Clay headed for the freeway entrance ramp two blocks away. The car behind him made the same turn and slid over into the left lane, fishtailing as it came around. He definitely was being chased.

  Getting out onto the freeway he ran the truck up to eighty five, weaving his way through light traffic to pass. There were now two cars trying to catch him. Swerving over into the right lane to go around two slower cars in the two left lanes he hesitated before switching lanes again just long enough to let one of the chase cars pull along side of him and then pass. As the white Buick sedan passed and then pulled over in front of his truck Clay first floored the gas pedal, bumping the car hard, downshifted into third and popped the clutch while jamming on the brakes, causing the car tail gating his truck to run into the back of the wrecker. At the same time, with his brakes locked and his speed dropping, he swerved to the right aiming for an exit off the freeway. The timing of his cut had been off by a fraction of a second and the left rear end of the truck scraped the entrance wall, bouncing the truck off the ground and throwing it to the right. The truck fishtailed for thirty feet in the single lane exit as he fought to regain control and stay off the side walls. Reaching the top of the off ramp, he slowed and then ran the red light, turning to the left in front of two oncoming cars. Crossing the overpass he checked the mirrors and saw what looked like a white Buick make a high speed turn off the exit, following in his direction. Two blocks from the freeway he made a right turn into a narrow side street with parking lanes on both sides of the deserted street. In the second block on his left he saw his destination, an old eight story parking garage.

  As he neared the garage entrance, he exclaimed, Oh Shit. A car was blocking the entrance while the driver attempted to get his parking tag out of the machine. As he passed his blocked escape route he mentally flipped the offending driver the bird and continued accelerating to the next corner. Glancing in the left side mirror he could see the driver of the white Buick was staying far enough behind so he too wouldn’t get trapped into running into the back end of the wrecker. At the corner he turned left and at the end of the block turned left again. At the opposite entrance to the garage an overhead metal gate was lowered across the opening, blocking access.

  Clay silently cursed himself for not anticipating the other entrance being closed during off hours as he continued around
to the first entrance. Rounding the last corner he edged to the right slightly as he approached the opening, hit the brakes and began his left turn into the now open entrance. The big truck hit the curb with the rear left duel tires and crashed through the lowered gate arm at the same instant. Downshifting, he accelerated through the approach and up the entrance ramp to the second floor. Locking up the brakes near the top of the ramp, he stood on the pedal until the truck slowed and made a complete momentary stop. After throwing the gearshift to neutral, he opened the driver’s door and leapt from the truck, moving quickly to the front end as the truck began to roll backward. The white Buick had just turned into the entrance and was at the base of the ramp. Clay placed both gloved hands on the trucks bumper, put his shoulder against the fender, and pushed the truck backward with all his strength. As the truck started rolling faster he continued to push until the truck picked up speed. The Buick had started up the ramp, but stopped suddenly when the driver grasped what was happening. In his haste to back up he killed the engine.

  Clay could hear the driver attempting to get the engine restarted to escape the approaching truck, as he was running away from the ramp and heard the loud crash when the wrecker hit the stalled Buick. Moving up the inclined parking floor he approached a hand rail, stepped up on the mid and then top bar and reached for the base of the railing on the floor above. Climbing up and over the railing he was on the third level and quickly ran to space 364 where the black Chevelle was parked. Driving down the exit ramps he approached the ticket booth where another wood gate arm was lowered. He could see the attendant was not in the booth; the guy must be over at the entrance checking out the commotion there. The Chevelle hit the gate arm, breaking it off back to the operator while Clay continued through the opening and out to the street.

  The white Buick was setting at an angle to the entrance with the wrecker up against its crushed front end. Steam was escaping from the ruptured radiator and eight or ten people were gathered at the wreck site. At the sound of the Chevelle crashing through the gate arm the group as a whole turned toward the source of the new excitement. One man, who must have been the garage attendant on duty, threw up his arms and started shouting and waving for Clay to stop.

  Making a right turn onto the street Clay burned rubber getting away from the area. At the next block he slowed, made a left turn and drove just over the speed limit the rest of the way to an abandoned hulk of an old warehouse where he parked the car inside the building.

  Removing the glasses and moustache he settled back in the driver’s seat to try to sleep for a few hours. The split second image he had caught of Greg, what ever his last name was, as he was pinned and being dragged and crushed between the two trucks was vivid in his mind. The man was trapped and totally helpless to stop what had happened to him. Surprise, fear and pain were apparent in his facial expression; but something was lacking. Clay regretted letting the man die without his knowing why. He needed to see the man reconcile what he had done with the punishment being imposed. The fact that the man was dead was only one segment of his satisfaction. The victim should have been made to accept his act of violence being the cause of his own demise.

  It would be different with Charlie.

  Clay awoke at four in the morning and before leaving the safety of the warehouse, performed the task of changing license plates. A set of plates from Iowa replaced the local plates, just incase the witness’s at the parking garage had thought to get the numbers as he drove away. Then he opened the trunk, removed a shiny gray Rayon jacket from a bag, and threw the maroon sweatshirt in the back seat.

  His first stop was to park at the side and toward the back at an all night fast food restaurant. After buying a newspaper, he stopped in the bathroom to wash his face and comb his hair. Looking around, he decided on a booth where he could see both the black car and the entrance. When a sleepy kid on night shift appeared he ordered coffee and breakfast. He had read most of the newspaper the night before, but wanted a reason to keep his face down with his features out of sight.

  After eating breakfast he headed for Charlie’s work place. He thought it ironic these two men had known his sister intimately, had touched her entire body inside and out, knew her full name, her address and God only knows what else; and he was killing them and didn’t even know their middle or last names. He judged his contact with them to be just as personal as their contact with his sister, yet he would have to read their names in the obituary column to learn who they were and who they left behind. He was still too early to intercept Charlie on his way to work, so he drove through the service lane of another fast food restaurant and bought another large cup of coffee. Twice he had passed police cars and twice he had gotten butterflies in his stomach, each time hoping they weren’t looking for his stolen black Chevelle. Approaching the Clark Oil Refinery he thought of pulling into the employee parking lot. It would be a safe place to hide instead of traveling on the roadways. Finding a spot at the back of the lot was easy and he backed in so he could watch the street and the entrance to the lot. With some effort he slipped the coat off and reached in the back seat for the sweatshirt. Now he was ready for action again.

  At six fifteen he left the refinery and drove toward the parts store where Charlie worked. Six blocks away from the store he found a parking spot on a side street right at the corner and waited for Charlie to approach. After an eleven minute vigil he spotted Charlie’s copper Fairlane coming down the street. Two other cars were close behind Charlie and Clay fell in behind them. Charlie would turn in at the street before the parts store, so Clay passed the three vehicles in front of him, drove on by the parts store, turned right and turned right again into the asphalt alley behind the row of stores. There was no one else insight close enough to cause a problem. Charlie had just parked with four other cars when Clay pulled up behind his car and rolled down the window glass. The silencer was on the pistol, in his right hand, on the seat at his hip.

  As Charlie got out of his car he saw Clay parked behind him, nodded, walked over to his car and said “Hi”, with a quizzical look on his face.

  Clay spoke up, “I was following you and noticed your license plate is about to fall off.”

  Charlie was standing next to Clay’s car and turned partially around to look at his license plate. “I don’t see…"

  Clay shot him three times in the small of the back with the .32 cal. automatic and watched him crumple and fall to the ground; sure he had severed the man’s spinal cord. Getting out of the car he knelt down over the man who was lying on his side and moaning loudly. Grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head around, Clay looked him in the eyes “Greg is dead. I could leave you like this and let you live paralyzed, for your wife and kid to look at everyday with loathing and disgust, after I let them know you’re a rapist. Yeah Charlie, rape is what this is about. You, Greg and Johnny raped my sister. And now all three of you are paying a high price for the ass you got.” Charlie’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He was in a state of mental shock because of what was happening to him so unexpectedly. Clay dropped Charlie’s head, stood up and used his left foot to roll the man’s upper torso over onto his back. Clay pointed the gun barrel at Charlie’s right eye and said “Rot in hell, you filthy bastard,” before pulling the trigger. Charlie’s upper torso flinched and jerked then relaxed. Clay crouched down, and fired three more hollow point bullets into Charlie’s shattered head, changing the angle of entry before each shot. A puddle of blood had already begun to form on the asphalt from the exit holes made by the bullet fragments.

  Before getting back in the car he looked around slowly. A hundred and fifty feet away a woman was scurrying against the wind toward the row of stores, shoulders hunched, looking straight ahead. No one else was in sight. He pulled away from the body, drove quickly to the end of the lot, and made a left turn onto the side street.

  “So far, so good” he muttered to himself as he drove back to the warehouse. Inside the empty shell of a building he again took off the sweatshir
t and put it in the car. He cleaned out the car, putting the pistol and everything he had brought with him into the empty sack. Finally, he took a five gallon can of diesel fuel and a box of wood scraps from the trunk and placed the wood along with his bag of trash in the front seat of the car. After pouring the fuel over the interior of the car he left both doors open, struck a match and ignited the kindling in the wood box. When he was sure the fire would continue to accelerate, he put on the coat and left the old building. Without looking back, he walked quickly toward a bus stop two blocks away.

  Switching buses to get back to the train station where his car was parked took over two hours and at a quarter past ten he pulled into the parking lot at the health club. After a long and strenuous workout he joined an aerobics class and finished the session with half an hour in the lap pool. Then after a hot shower and a shave he soaked in the hot tub while watching T.V. The time was approaching two o’clock so there were no news reports being televised. By then he was hungry and when he left the club he went by Tony’s bar for a beer and a sandwich.

  “You don’t happen to know anything about two guys getting killed last night and this morning, do you?” Tony asked with a knowing grin on his big face.

  “Should I?” Clay queried while grinning and trying to eat a huge thick ham sandwich.

  “Well when two guys get whacked and the cops don’t have a single lead I start thinking of you. And take it as a professional complement from one fella to another.”

  “First, yes I did, and second, thank you, I accept your complement.”

  “One of the cops who went to the morgue for the guy last night said he was ground up like hamburger. And he said this morning's guy would’ve been crippled for life if the hitter hadn’t given him a coup de grace; blew the whole back of the guys head off. The cops can tie them together but don’t know why somebody had real hard feelings for both of them.”