by Rick R. Reed
“What?”
“You’re friend is lonely. I want you to get back there and join him. It’ll be safer that way.”
Miranda felt like crying, but held it in: she didn’t want to give him the pleasure. “Look,” she said, “you’ve got a gun. I’ll behave myself. I promise.” She thought about Avery, alone in the back of the truck and assuaged her guilt by thinking that with two of them squeezed into the back, it would be just that much more uncomfortable.
“Promises from garbage like you are meaningless. Let’s go.” He got out of the truck and came around to open her door. Miranda followed him, her steps uncertain.
“Hurry up,” he whined. “Somebody could come along any second.” He took out the gun and held it in his right hand, switching his keys to his left.
Miranda prayed someone would come along.
He unlocked the topper and it popped open. He immediately shoved the gun in Avery’s face, who stared out, terrified. “Don’t try anything.” He motioned with the gun for Miranda to get in. “Just squeeze yourself in. I don’t care how, just do it quick.”
Avery scooted back into the truck to make room for her. She climbed in, thinking that at least she’d have Avery’s arms around her, if nothing more. She held out her wrists numbly to Dwight, who bound them, then tied her ankles to Avery’s, so that the two of them became Siamese twins. Dwight’s last act was to cover her mouth with duct tape.
Miranda wondered why someone couldn’t come along. Where was everybody in this city of millions when you needed them?
*
“You idiot! I always knew you couldn’t do anything right! Why, you almost lost it back there. Can’t you even control a couple a kids?” The strident voice filled the car. Dwight did everything he could to quell it: first, he hummed, then broke into song, singing loud to drown her out. Finally, he switched the radio on, raising the volume to its highest level, where the sound from the speakers was uncomfortable.
But her voice rose with it, always clear, each word discernible.
“Please, Aunt Adele,” Dwight whined, his hands shaking on the steering wheel, driving too fast. “Just quiet down. Let me get home.”
“Yeah, should have known you couldn’t drive and listen to me at the same time.”
Dwight finally pulled into his garage. The voice stopped and Dwight snapped the radio off. He sat for a moment in the front seat, bemoaning the fact that he’d lost precious time.
But time (Dwight slid out of the truck) could be made up. And those who caused him to lose time could be made to suffer for it.
He slammed the door and headed toward the rear of the truck.
As he was making his way to the back of the truck, Dwight lifted his weary eyes to the line of windows across the garage door and froze.
A Chicago police car had blocked his driveway and two officers were just getting out.
Chapter 23
Waves crashed against boulders. Richard watched the grey water rising from far out, ready to hurl itself in mute fury against the shoreline.
He stood just south of Ardmore Street Beach, his navy-blue coat pulled tight around him. The rocks here were terraced and rose up three levels to a small park area with trees and benches. The boulders making up the terrace were spray-painted with many different hues of neon graffiti. Kids must have come here and painted the gang logos and sayings, the philosophical questions and the professions of love.
Kids like Jimmy.
Richard imagined him on a summer evening, spray-paint can in hand, on these very boulders.
It had been only minutes since he left the Chicken Arms, just the time it had taken him to walk south and east to this spot, so lonely on a winter Sunday morning. But solitude was what he’d thought he’d wanted.
In the sky, the sun was a pale orb behind the clouds. What had just happened at the Chicken Arms had caused a mixture of feelings to rise up within him: guilt and desire the most prominent. He sat down on a cold rock, thrusting his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. He could visualize everything, and the vision caused an achy need to rise up within him, one that made him tremble, made him wonder why a God he had served so dutifully continued to give him this cross to bear.
“He gives us nothing more than we can handle,” Richard heard himself saying to a parishioner, any number of parishioners really, who had come to him for counsel when life got to be too much.
Who could he turn to when life became too much for him? He thought of the faces gathered around the table at SAA meetings. He could call one of them, talk about the temptation he felt. They would try to make him feel proud of the fact that he had resisted that temptation.
But he knew that deep down, he wanted nothing more than to act on it, to follow it through, to take what was offered. He knew that running out of that room was the only thing he could have done to stop what had been about to happen, running as hard and as fast as he could.
The spray from the waves made him cold. He felt the same inside.
Where was the freedom for me to choose? I wanted to help that boy, be a comfort to him, and show him that life could be better. Better, how? With faith and trust? How could that boy learn trust when a so-called representative of the Holy Father lusted for him? Richard realized he had done nothing more than reinforce the lessons Jimmy had learned in the street: expect nothing and you’d never be disappointed.
He thought of just hurtling himself into the surf, letting the cold fingers of water drag him down into a frigid, dark slumber from which he’d never awaken. Perhaps it was his only escape.
He wasn’t alone. A man and his son were walking along the beach. The little boy looked to be about four years old. He toddled along behind his father, a black man wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a ski parka. The little boy stopped every so often to examine whatever detritus the lake had washed up: everything from soda cans to pieces of driftwood. Every so often, the father would stand, his hands on his hips, and watch the boy, waiting for him to catch up. The wind took away his voice, so that all that came to Richard was pale sound, distinguishable as language only by tone and timber.
The father turned after the boy caught up with him and they continued toward Richard. The same scene repeated itself over and over: the boy dawdled and once he was far enough behind, the father would reproach him, waiting for the boy to catch up.
“Good morning,” the man said to Richard once the two reached the boulders.
“Hello,” Richard responded. “Cute kid.”
“Thanks,” the man said, taking a seat on the bench above Richard. “He’s a handful, though. His mama’s at church, you understand.” The man looked at him as if the two shared a secret: what can organized religion do for us? Richard smiled at the irony of it.
His gaze returned to the horizon and the man admonished the little boy to be careful on the rocks.
It happened so quickly.
One minute the little boy was clambering on the boulders, deft and nimble, making his way up and down the graffiti-scarred terraces, the next the quiet morning was shattered by the screams of the little boy, who had tumbled off the edge of the boulders. His cries were interrupted by watery choking and sputtering.
Before Richard could even make it to his feet, the father had gotten off the bench, bounded down the three terraces, and was in the water. He held the screaming child aloft in his arms, wet and cold, and told him he was going to be all right.
Then he hugged the boy to him, unzipping his ski parka and pushing him close, inside the coat.
Richard stood above the man and extended a hand to help him up.
“Thanks,” the man said, his voice quivering with alarm, his face looking panicked, almost as if he were about to cry.
“Can I do anything for you?” Richard asked.
The man shook his head. “No, no, we’re just parked over on Ardmore. I just need to get this boy home…and quick, before he freezes his clumsy self.” He looked down at the lit
tle boy, whose mouth was wide open and crying. “He’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure? I could—”
“No, mister, it’s okay. Appreciate the offer.” The man hurried away and Richard watched his smooth pace as he ran across the beach, his strides long, unencumbered by the screaming weight he carried.
The child’s cries were carried away by the wind, growing fainter and fainter as the man moved away from him.
Richard continued to stand. His heart was pounding: he’d been afraid he was about to witness a drowning. Nervously, he rubbed a scrap of paper in his pocket. Back and forth, back and forth, its smoothness a comfort to him.
Once he calmed down, and the boy and his father had gone out of his sight, Richard pulled the paper out. On it, he found the verses from Corinthians he had copied down the other day. A couple phrases jumped out at him: “And I was with you in weakness, and in fear, and in much trembling.” He thought again of the boy and his father and an image rose up before him: the black man pulling his screaming son from the water and lifting him aloft. “And my speech and my preaching was not with enticing words of man’s wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power.”
He saw the father unzipping his jacket so that he could wrap it around his son, drawing him close to warm him.
He shook his head. Sometimes we have to just do what needs to be done to help those around us.
Jimmy was alone in a place where he was in danger. The priest began walking. He needed me to pull him up and out of that danger, to warm him.
There, in that act, lay God’s grace.
As he hurried across the beach, he prayed that he was not too late.
Chapter 24
Dwight’s hands clenched into balls when he saw the police car. His knuckles became white.
Suddenly there was no air in the garage, no saliva in his mouth. A painful drumming began in his ears: the pound of his blood rushing through his body, searching for an escape.
It’s all over. He stood in the garage, watching as the two officers began to make their way up his drive. His breathing became labored as a tight band formed across his chest, squeezing the air out of him.
What would he say?
He imagined what they would say, the search warrants they would produce. He pictured them descending into his basement and finding the rows of boxes he had so carefully constructed there.
“You have the right to remain silent.” Dwight stared at the officer, seeing the face of his aunt Adele before him, her thin lips turned down in disappointment. Peripherally, the other officer hurried into the garage where the whimpering and excited accusations of the garbage there began to fill the officer’s head with lies about what Dwight was doing.
“What you say may be used against you in a court of law.” Dwight fought to find his tongue, to find saliva in his mouth, to explain, to defend. All he could do was stare stupidly at the officer, his mouth gaping open, feeling shamed and knowing that Aunt Adele, who had sized him up as a good-for-nothing all his life, was right.
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you before questioning, if you wish.” And then the evil creatures were running free into the streets, their provocative clothing swirling to reveal soft, bare skin.
Dwight shook his head, ridding herself of the images so that he could deal with these assholes. Assholes who could never understand the intrinsic goodness of his purpose. He hurried out the side door of the garage, heading them off before they came inside. The officers, if they saw the redhead and the fat boy, would be outraged, of course. He didn’t expect their understanding even though they were supposed to “serve and protect.” Decent people looked up to them to rid the streets of garbage like those he had captured in his garage and basement.
If they were doing their jobs I wouldn’t have to be doing what I’m doing.
But who could ever understand?
He thought briefly of Aunt Adele, but that thought was cut short when he caught up to the officers and they faced each other. Dwight hoped the worry and the terror weren’t so apparent on his face.
What will I say?
Dwight looked down at himself, trying to lower his head so the policemen wouldn’t see the gash in his forehead and ask him about it.
Both officers stared at him. They looked like brothers: both were tall and broad-shouldered, menacing in their dark uniforms and leather jackets. The one nearer to Dwight had dirty blond hair and a reddish mustache, cold blue eyes spaced too close together above an aquiline nose. His partner had darker hair and a mustache that turned down into a frown…hard to get a bead on that one because he wore aviator-style mirrored sunglasses.
Sunglasses that reflected Dwight’s reflection back to him. Blood had dried on his skin, encrusted in a trickle that ran down the side of his face from his forehead to his chin.
He swallowed hard. Thinking there was really nothing for him to do but follow the officer’s lead, he stepped closer to them and had enough presence of mind to lead the officers away from the garage; he didn’t need his “precious cargo” attracting the officers’ attention any more quickly than was necessary. Dwight moved away from his house, leading them.
The blond policeman addressed him. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Dwight Morris?” A smile played about the officer’s lips as he looked Dwight up and down; he looked as if he was about to burst into laughter. Dwight imagined ripping his throat out with his bare hands.
“Yes,” he managed to get out, barely able to form the word, but able to imagine what the officer would say next: I have a warrant here for your arrest.
Instead, the officer said, “One of your neighbors reported some suspicious behavior to us earlier this morning. We just wanted to stop by and make sure everything was all right.”
Damn that Alice Martin! The busybody was always at her window. What did she see? Could she see into his garage somehow, see through the narrow windows? Dwight’s stomach twisted into a knot.
How had everything collapsed so quickly?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer.” Dwight threw his hands up in wonder. “Suspicious behavior?” He figured he might as well play things out; admit nothing.
The police throwing up the garage door and finding two teenagers stuffed inside the back of his pickup would be incriminating enough.
The darker officer spoke up. “Yes, sir. We heard that you might have been injured.” The officer was looking at Dwight’s forehead.
Dwight reached up gingerly and touched the place where the kid had hit him with the wrench. It felt crusty and swollen.
But wait a minute! These guys weren’t pressing him about missing kids and murder.
They seemed more concerned about his welfare.
Dwight shook his head and launched into it: “You know. Officers, this used to be a safe neighborhood. This morning, I was just getting home from a friend’s house and all I did was get out of my truck and this heavyset youngster came up to me and demanded some money. Came right in my garage. Can you believe it?”
Dwight rolled his eyes and smiled at the officers, wishing they would at least look sympathetic. “Naturally, I didn’t have any on me.”
The officers gave him nothing more than a blank stare.
“Anyway, when I tried to tell this young man that I had no money, he got upset and struck me with a wrench.” Dwight hoped Alice Martin hadn’t seen very much and continued: “I slipped and fell to the ice and when I got up he and his little friend, a girl, I believe, were running off. Toward Harlem, I think.” Dwight looked at the blond pointedly, meeting his eyes. “I hope you can do something.” Dwight then added: “I was just on my way to Doctors on Call. They’re expecting me.”
The dark-haired officer spoke. “Did you get a good look at your attacker? Can you give us a description?”
Dwight reached up and touched his scabrous forehead. “Sure, Officer. He was a white ma
le, approximately fifteen years old, with curly brown hair. He was very, very overweight, with glasses and bad acne. Very nasty-looking, really.”
Dwight continued to talk and the officers continued to write. They promised Dwight they would keep an eye out. “In the meantime,” the blond one said, “maybe you should be more careful with your comings and goings. Close your garage door before you get out of your truck.”
“Funny you should say that, Officer. I had the same thought myself. I’ll be sure to do that.”
Both officers looked back at him as they headed back to their car. The blond one wore an amused expression; his partner’s face was a blank.
The blond said, before getting in the car, “I’d get going to Doctors on Call if I were you.”
Dwight smiled dumbly at the officers as they drove away.
* * *
Dwight went back inside. He paced around the garage, sweating, then glanced back outside, checking to see if the officers had come back, testing Dwight to see what he’d do after they left.
Dwight wiped the sweat from his forehead, sat down on the floor, and stretched his legs out before him, leaning back against the wall. He immediately thought of the kids in the back of the truck, how he should be getting them out and into the basement; the neighborhood was already getting busy.
But he didn’t want to, didn’t want any of the pressure right now. Didn’t want to think about the police coming by, didn’t want to think about the fact that one young man knew his name and where he lived and the possibility that others might know, didn’t want to think about that hateful Alice Martin across the street and what she did or didn’t see. Dwight shook his head, trying to clear it, to stop the onslaught of thoughts rushing in. Just a moment, please, of peace. But thoughts of Aunt Adele intruded and he wondered what she would have to say about all of this. He hugged himself, rocking from side to side, trying to make his mind blank.
And then he began to think of his job at Ansel-Goldback Market Research, where he was a computer operator and where he hadn’t been back in two weeks, ever since that little slut Jimmy Fels burned him. He hadn’t answered the phone and even watched one afternoon when Jane Clinginsmith, his boss, came by after work to check on him. How humiliating, he had thought at the time, crouching below the living-room window with the lights turned off, while she made her way around the house, peering in and knocking when it should have been obvious to the silly cunt that no one was home.
