by J K Ellem
“Including us?”
Shaw could see the panic in her eyes, the desperation in her voice. Good, she needed to be worried.
“Jessie there are over two hundred dead men, women, and children strewn across a field in Wyoming.”
“I knew some of them, the crew. It could have been me.” Jessie had moved on from feeling sad. She was now filled with pure anger.
“The country will be crying for blood, for justice. Can you imagine what would happen if they found out the very agency that is tasked with protecting Americans actually had Rasul in custody and let him go because some Saudi king picked up the phone and told them to? The Saudis would cancel billions of dollars’ worth of armament contracts they have with us. Soon after that they’d cut our oil supply and America would plunge into a gas crisis.”
Jessie slowly began to see the picture Shaw was painting for her, a picture that showed America was at the beck and call of Saudi Arabia and had been since oil was discovered under the vast deserts of sand.
Shaw continued, “I went back to his apartment, a few days after they let him go, and found nothing. He was gone, cleared out.” Shaw had spoken to the landlady and she told him Rasul had paid her an extra two months in cash, apologized for the inconvenience, and left no forwarding address.
“Where did he go?” Jessie asked.
Shaw shrugged. “Maybe Syria, maybe Egypt. I don’t know. All I know is I have him, and I ain’t giving him to anyone.”
“So what are you going to do with him?”
Shaw said nothing for a while, content to stare through the slit in the curtains. It was quiet and dark outside. Shaw knew exactly what he was going to do. The problem was, it could get both of them killed.
“I want you to go. Leave,” Shaw finally said. “This isn’t your problem. Let me deal with it.”
Jessie frowned angrily. “I don’t think you heard me before.” For a moment Shaw wondered who was more threatening: the man unconscious on the floor of the bathroom or the hot-headed young woman standing in front of him now.
“He’s a murderer,” Jessie snarled, teeth gritted. “He killed innocent people, my friends.”
“So what do you want, Jessie? What do you want to do?” Shaw asked.
She stepped closer and looked him directly in the eyes. “I want what you want. I want justice.”
12
The back office was where the CCTV monitor and recorder were set up. It was in a small, tight space behind the counter, made even smaller by the three people now crammed into it. Freddy stood just inside the door, keeping a lookout for any customers who might wander into the store. During the graveyard shift very few people drove in, maybe the odd truck driver or lone driver pulling an all-nighter to get to Reno or Vegas before sunup.
Three chairs formed a ring around a worn timber desk where a large video display sat together with a keyboard and computer case that hummed and whirred. Davis was more tech savvy so he operated the mouse while Beth and Taylor sat on either side, watching the screen.
The computer screen was split into six segments, each segment showing the view from one of the six cameras positioned inside and around the exterior perimeter of the gas station. Freddy explained that there were two cameras out in the plaza positioned on opposite ends so they captured the two rows of gas pumps. There were two cameras in the store, one behind the counter high in the corner and another in the back corner near the restrooms pointing toward the counter where Freddy sat. There were also two external cameras around the rear of the property that captured one entire side and the loading dock where supply trucks parked and unloaded.
“There!” Beth pointed at the screen.
Davis clicked the mouse backed up the footage. They could see the VW Golf pull up at one of the pumps. The timer at the bottom of the screen ticked over a full minute before anything else happened. “What are they waiting for?” Taylor asked.
“Not sure,” Davis replied. “Maybe having an argument over who was going to gas up the car.”
With a click of the mouse the image sped up. Then a woman got out of the car and hurried across the plaza toward the entrance at double speed.
“Pause it,” Beth said. The screen froze with the woman almost directly under the other camera that was positioned under the awning outside the automatic doors, her face tilted upward, mouth open. The woman’s eyes bored right into the lens of the camera and Beth felt unsettled, like the woman was looking directly at her right now, right here.
Taylor cocked his head. “What’s she saying?” he asked, looking at the frozen image of the woman who was looking directly at all three of them.
Davis backed up the footage then ran it forward at quarter speed, back and forth three times. They watched the image of the woman in slow shunted movements. Each time the woman looked up when she passed under the camera, she mouthed something at the camera.
Beth leaned forward. “Help.”
“What?” Taylor squinted at the screen. He couldn’t make out anything.
“She’s saying help,” Beth repeated, wondering how Taylor ever made it through the academy.
“Holy shit,” Taylor said. It was true. The woman’s mouth was open wide, slow, deliberate lip movements, each letter pronounced.
For the next few minutes they watched the scene unfold inside the store. The woman went to the toilet and her companion entered after her but just stood near the front counter.
“What sort of person wears a hat in the middle of the night like that?” Taylor asked.
“The kind of person who doesn’t want to show his face,” Davis replied. “I can’t get a clear picture of him.” Davis toggled between the different camera views. No matter what he did—slowed the footage, sped it up, or froze it to view it from different angles—the man’s face was always facing away from the cameras, or his head was tilted down at the floor, or his face was obscured by the cap he wore.
“He knows they’re there. It’s like he doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Or recognized,” Beth countered. “That’s because he’s on the run, has a criminal record, maybe skipped bail.”
For the next few minutes they watched as the second man entered the gas station, walked to the back near the coffee station, and grabbed something.
“Here we go,” Freddy snickered from the doorway, a lopsided grin on his face. It had gone so quickly he didn’t get a chance to see what had actually happened. Now he was looking forward to seeing it all over again in slow motion. “Here comes that dude with the coffee.” Freddy stepped into the room. “This is where he goes all Jason Bourne and opens up a can of whoop ass on the boyfriend.”
The fight was over in three seconds. You couldn’t really call it a fight because that would suggest two people trading punches.
Davies tapped the screen. “Guy from the Golf has got a knife or gun in his pocket. Goes to get it out but is too slow.”
It was about as one-sided a fight as Beth had ever seen, which was strange because the man who climbed out of the Golf looked like he could take care of himself. Plus he had some kind of weapon in his pocket and went to tug something out but got hit fast and hard before he had a chance.
For a moment Davis thought he had accidentally clicked the fast-forward and the footage was at double speed. But is wasn’t. The guy who had thrown the coffee seemed to move twice as fast as the other guy.
“Told ya,” Freddy said. “Jason fucking Bourne. Just like in the movies. Makes the other dude look like a slow old man.”
The three police officers sat back in silence, not saying a word, absorbing what they had just seen.
Finally Davis spoke. “Who the hell was that?”
“Probably the woman’s real boyfriend,” Taylor scoffed. “Maybe she was cheating on him and he found out.”
Beth turned and looked over her shoulder at Freddy, “You’re sure he got out of a truck like he had just hitched a ride?”
Freddy nodded. The arc of the CCTV camera didn’t cover the spot
where the tanker truck had pulled up. “Saw him plain as day through the window. The truck pulled in and he got out. Didn’t look like they knew each other.”
“Who?” Davis asked.
“Kung-Fu man and the woman,” Freddy said. “That ain’t her boyfriend, the dude who got out from the tanker truck. He was just some random stranger.”
Beth rubbed the back of her neck, her muscles sore and tight like tree roots. “Freddy, go back to the counter. Thanks for your help.”
Freddy nodded. “No probs.” He skulked off.
“Dumb hick,” Taylor muttered under his breath.
Beth rounded on Taylor. “Cut it out,” she snapped.
When Freddy had left Beth turned to Davis. “I want freeze frames of everyone’s face, blown up and enhanced.”
Davis nodded. “Got a clear shot of the plates on that Golf too. I’ll run them and see who owns the vehicle.”
“Good.” Beth got up and stretched. It was a puzzling sight. She had never seen anything like it before. Maybe the two men knew each other, had some kind of feud going on. But that wouldn’t explain why the second man had arrived from the truck like he was a complete stranger who happened to be passing through. What had made him so angry? Something had triggered him. One minute he was pouring himself a coffee, minding his own business, the next minute he was all over the woman’s companion like an ape gone mad.
“We need to find that car. Run the plates and let me know ASAP.”
“I’ll do it,” Taylor said, wanting to redeem himself. He got up with the piece of paper he had scribbled the number on and left.
Beth walked out of the small room and back into the store. She paused in front of the counter. Freddy had just mopped the floor and was busy stacking candy into the racks and checking the coffee pots.
The TV on the wall behind the counter was on, but the sound turned down. A yellow a-frame plastic wet floor sign marked the scene of the incident, placed there by Freddy after he had mopped up the mess.
From what she had seen on the CCTV footage, she tried to position herself exactly where the man had stood when he had thrown the coffee.
She angled her head, like he had on the footage.
What did he see that made him react? What was the trigger?
Her eyes met the TV screen. It was the same footage she had seen when she first walked in, the scene of the plane crash, a reporter standing with a backdrop of flashing lights from first responders.
Then a face appeared on the screen. A suspect the authorities wanted to question in relation to what was looking more like a terrorist bombing than an accident.
Beth smiled. “Clever bastard.” She had just discovered the trigger.
She turned and retraced the man’s steps, trying to work out what had made him pause, go to the shelves, and grab something before dragging the injured man out of the store.
As Beth walked along the aisles, she kept her eyes on the camera that was pointing at her from the back corner. In her head she reversed her point of view, trying to envision the mirror image of where the man had walked before he rushed out of the store.
She stopped and checked her position relative to the mental image she had of the CCTV footage she had just seen.
In front of her were an assortment of small hardware items in neat rows hanging from thin metal rods, the typical things you need in case of an emergency on the road. She gave Freddy credit, he kept a well-stocked store, replacing items when needed.
Each row of hanging items was full, all except one.
A line of small clear plastic bags hung from a particular display rod. Inside were thick strips of black plastic. The yellow cardboard label stapled to the top of each packet said there were twenty units inside.
Beth glanced back to the counter then back to the rear camera, triangulating her position.
She smiled. It would have been what she would have used to restrain the bastard.
Cable ties.
But where was he taking the man? And why?
13
Five miles to the east was a mobile home park named Three Pines. But no pine trees grew anywhere near the park. In fact the nearest pine tree was in a forest in another state more than a thousand miles away.
Maybe the name gave the fifty or so residents the feeling of living amongst a lush Nordic landscape rather than a dry, arid plain, surrounded by low scrub and a scatter of Joshua trees next to the highway. The closest vertical thing to a real pine tree was the neon green sign at the front of the park that flickered and hissed in the darkness, throwing a pool of jittery green across the shadowy landscape.
During the day the place looked like the surface of Mars. At night the landscape looked like the surface of Mars—minus the sun.
Beth Rimes pulled off the highway and drove down a narrow strip of road, passing rows of pre-fab homes on each side. Despite the late hour, the barest of glows came from behind drawn curtains and lowered blinds.
There was no grass, no trees, just fifty almost identical structures of curved vinyl and pressed aluminum siding sitting amongst a field of asphalt. Nothing here resembled the home she used to live in. There was nothing homey at all about the place, just rows of people habitats, like a mining colony.
She hated everything about the place when she and her husband Frank moved here ten years ago. Over the years, the place hadn't grown on her. In fact, her resentment had grown with each turn of the calendar.
She hated how the place was referred to as “the community” by the other residents and by the onsite manager. She hated the shades of taupe, sand, and beige each home under “the community regulations” had to comply with. She hated listening to the daily conversations, the rants, the bickering, and the late-night groaning that went on within spitting distance of every other person around her. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Privacy was non-existent.
Frank had taken an early retirement package from his job. It was a decent amount that added to the 401K money they had saved. In total, it was more than enough to retire comfortably in the nice, proper community in Florida where they’d lived. But life took a wrong turn and they ended up at a dead end.
The GFC happened and their retirement savings took a hit. Beth didn’t count on Frank gambling away the rest of their retirement savings either. By the time she had discovered the cell phone Frank kept hidden from her and the five online casino accounts he had running, it was too late. She had almost pulled her gun out that fateful day and shot him herself.
It was all gone. All of it. More than forty years of hard work, sweat, and savings. Frank had even gotten into their home equity account and drawn money against their home, maxing out the debt and gambling that away too. They had to sell their home in Florida, a home Beth had planned to be their retirement home, where the grandkids could visit and play in the pool, where they would throw dinner parties overlooking the canal their house backed onto. It was sell or foreclosure. Take your pick.
Selling in a real estate downturn meant they’d lost money. After paying off the fully-drawn loan, Beth had placed what little cash was left in a separate account with sole access, herself as the only signatory.
Beth made a right turn and followed the narrow road until she reached the end. She parked under the carport awning, climbed out, and looked at what $25,000 got you at Three Pines, a constant daily reminder of how far they had fallen.
At least they could afford a double-wide block even though it was about an eighth of the size of their ranch-style home on a canal in Florida.
Wearily, Beth climbed up the front steps to a small patio that gave her an uninterrupted view of dusty roofs, satellite dishes, and patios with plastic deck chairs.
Inside was neat and cozy, but no matter what nice paintings she’d hung on the fake pine walls and trinkets she’d brought from her previous home, they could never hide the fact that the place was cheap and claustrophobic. She felt more at home in her SUV. At least the scenery changed.
There were two bedrooms,
a bathroom, a small open-plan kitchen, living room, and small dining area.
Frank had left the kitchen light on for her. He would be in bed. Beth threw her keys on the counter, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer.
She looked around. She had never felt so alone in her entire life. A row of plastic prescription bottles were lined up on the counter. Beth grabbed one and stared at it for a while, red and white gel caps inside. She wanted to make sure Frank had taken his antidepressant before he had gone to bed. Most days he just sat in front of the TV, his body listless, a vacant look in his eyes. She made a mental note to speak to the doctor next week, maybe increase his dosage.
After taking a shower and towel-drying her hair, Beth took a glass dish from the refrigerator. Inside was a chicken casserole she had made that morning. She got up most mornings while Frank slept and made dinner for them both. Frank didn’t cook. Frank didn’t really do anything anymore since they had moved here. He just withdrew into himself, his self-esteem shot to pieces. He understood it was his fault they ended up here, but he didn't make any attempt to remedy it. He could work, Beth was sure of it, but it seemed like too much effort for him just to get out of bed each day.
Ten years. She felt tears well up just thinking about it.
Despite the money Frank had earned as a bank manager, Beth had worked as a cop back in Florida. She loved it. It was what she was wired to do, helping people. She just couldn't help herself.
While dinner heated in the microwave, Beth dried her hair and grabbed another beer, her limit for the night. Balancing the beer bottle on top of the microwave dish, she took her keys and unlocked the door to the spare bedroom.
She had the only key.
She pushed open the door, flipped on the light, and entered a world that made it all worthwhile. A world that gave her a reason for living, a world that drove her with steely resolve and unbridled determination.
She wasn't alone in this escape world she had created; other people lived there too.
