Grave Mistakes_A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  SIX

  IT WAS JUST LIKE BRIAN to show up in a limousine—his initials monogrammed in curvy gold leaf lettering on the car door. It gave me a chuckle and was something I’d have to ask about later. He wasn’t picking me up in a rental and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was money leftover from our Team Two business. He eased back into his seat, eager to talk, a million questions ready to tumble from his lips, but I held up my hand, wanting to take in the quiet of our drive.

  “Sure, sure . . . I totally understand,” he said looking disappointed. He picked up what I thought might be a laptop, and added, “Just going to check in on a few work things.”

  “Thanks Brian,” I said appreciatively. “It’s been years since I heard the quiet.”

  The car’s motor purred like a kitten and it felt as though we were floating on a cushion of air. I eased back into the seat, loving the way it hugged me, and stared at the passing landscape. The prison was behind us, slowly disappearing. An odd sting touched my heart. It felt like I was leaving my home. And I guess I was. But it was a strange sensation considering it was prison. I’d served time that could be counted in decades. To survive, I had to become someone else. I knew the inside—I fell in line with the others and became the number printed on my back. And there were the feelings for my friends. Just the few I’d gotten close to. I’d likely never see them again either. They’d understand though. Once a prisoner is released, they never go back, not even for a visit—that is, unless they’re going back to stay. I had no plans of ever stepping foot inside the walls of Holmesburg again. I gave the prison a nod, a means of acknowledging the end. It was time to face what was new, and that scared me more than anything. Everything beyond the barbed wires, the fencing and wall was new. I didn’t realize it until now, but I had absolutely no idea how to live or what the world had in store for me.

  Brian tapped feverishly on his laptop, his head down, his brow furrowed, his mind in a bubble of thoughts the way I remembered him. He’d grown into a handsome man, a true ugly duckling story. He was so young when I’d first met him—late teens maybe, or his early twenties? I never thought to ask or cared to know. We’d never developed a working relationship where birthday cakes and cards were exchanged. Selfishly, I cared about what Brian could teach me on the computer, about the dark side of the Internet and navigating to where our business lived online. And there were the tools of our trade—the lovely, wonderful, most beautiful tools he invented with his brilliant mind. He was every bit a part of our success as I was. He just never actually pulled the trigger. Instead, he stayed behind the scenes, behind the curtain, like a God figure moving pieces on the game-board. Had he kept anything from the Team Two business? I couldn’t help but wonder what became of our small office. I loved the name, and I loved our office. It was small, but cozy—an old law firm—and it was on my list of places I’d visit. It helped that it was above a hair and nail salon owned by a man named Carlos. And hopefully he was still there too. I needed every bit of help before reconnecting with my kids.

  Concerning thoughts of Wilma came to me. By now, she’d likely be in the infirmary. She might even be a few beds away from Roxanne, eyes-wide, fully aware, afraid to doze in case she’d find a pillow suddenly crushing the life out of her. There’s the chance she was out too. If the gouge in her eye was superficial, she could have been released, taken to the hole for a stay. I hope she only got the standard twenty-four hours. That was the normal sentence for fighting. I’d dumped the shiv, the sharpened toothbrush, taking it far enough away so the guards could never place it with the shower fight. If she did over twenty-four hours in the hole, I’d never know about it. It was the ramifications that worried me. Roxanne was dangerous.

  Brian stirred, his lips moving as though talking to someone on the other side of his laptop. At some point I’d have to tell him about the promise I’d made to Wilma. I’d have to tell him that Team Two was back in business. We wouldn’t bid jobs on the darknet—was there such a thing anymore? But I had a single job to fulfill, a promise to keep, a life to extinguish. But sitting in his limousine, watching him work on the strangest laptop I’d ever seen, I seriously doubted I’d be able to count on getting any of his help. Would I murder again or just put the scare of death into Wilma’s ex, teaching him a lesson he’d never forget? I’d be lying if I said the thought of murder hadn’t crossed my mind, and the world wouldn’t miss a piece of trash like him. While it had been twenty years, I supposed a part of me might have been reformed. For better or worse, being institutionalized changed me, changed who I wanted to be. Still, there was a promise made, and I owed Wilma my life. I decided I’d try to leave Brian out of it. He’d made a change for the better. A change that was blatantly obvious—I was sitting in it.

  Within the hour, we were parked outside of a diner I’d discovered shortly before my arrest. I was happy to see the tidy little eatery was still in business and that its face was nearly identical to the cozy images I’d kept in my head. While so much of my past had soured, the memory of the diner was one of the few that had stayed fresh. I hate to admit it, but some of my fondest memories had turned sad regrets—it was nice to have one or two I could count on. I needed that.

  “After you,” Brian said, holding the car door open for me. I stepped onto the sidewalk and nearly walked into a group of women—their children following closely behind their mothers like baby ducklings. I caught a scowl from one kid and then saw another from her mother.

  “Sorry,” I said, standing up on my toes to walk around the younger girls. That’s when I got another look, the kind that makes you feel dirty and embarrassed. I told myself it was nothing, but then I saw it again—two of the women, looking over their shoulders, their eyes on me with disapproval and disgust. A flush swept across the nape of my neck as I shook my head, wondering. The women turned their backs and put their arms around their children, protecting them.

  At first, I thought maybe news of my release had been published and that a photograph of me was posted in a newspaper or online. Were there even newspapers anymore? But then I glimpsed myself in the limousine’s black glass and saw what it was the women had seen. Denim jeans would never go out of style, but the paisley pink top with the scabby and faded words, correctional center, would stand out forever. While the prison had given back my clothes, I couldn’t make my old shirt fit. No matter how hard I tried to squeeze into it, the shirt was a few sizes too small. Not that it mattered what I wore, anyway—I’d forever feel like a convict, feel like an outsider. And I guess I had to be okay with that.

  “Don’t mind them. I thought your shirt looked kinda stylish—very avant garde,” Brian assured me, taking to my side to stand in front of the diner. He glanced up at what I’d been craving and added, “You know, I’m beyond wealthy, beyond the richest of rich, we can afford to eat just about anywhere in the world. France, Italy, even Japan . . . just name the craving, I’ve got my meso-jet parked a few miles from here.”

  I gave him a peculiar look, but curious, asking, “Meso?”

  “Mesospheric jet,” he answered, pointing toward the sky. “Drives in the planet’s mesosphere. Very fast and efficient too. We can be anywhere in the world in an hour, or two if there’s traffic.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Lots of new stuff for you to see,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ll help you ease into it. You’ll be happy to hear much of it is ours.”

  A part of me wished he was kidding. A part of me wished I could rewind that clock on the prison wall, having served my time and then hit a big fucking reset button so that everything on the outside was the same. Wishful thinking was just that, wishful. I quickly dashed the sentiment, like I’d resigned hope years earlier—I needed to live in today and forget about the past, otherwise I’d trip up what was coming tomorrow.

  I half-nodded, not understanding what he was eluding to and quickly changed the subject. “This is the place.”

  I left my reflection behind and took Brian by the
hand to lead us to the diner. My insides warmed at the sight of the steel and glass and neon lights. I felt like a child entering a circus bigtop. It looked exactly the same, and sameness was what this girl needed. Without a thought, I pressed my hand on the diner’s belly, feeling the cool metal beneath my fingers as my eyes wandered over the shades of green panel decorations and the colorful lights glinted off the glass. Even in the afternoon’s sunlight, the sight of the diner looked like joy—snug and full of life. I dared waste no more time and pulled Brian toward the entrance.

  I opened the diner’s door and any reluctance Brian might have had instantly disappeared. The warm diner food aroma I held onto all these years hadn’t changed. Brian squeezed my hand and declared, “Okay . . . now I’m hungry!”

  “Isn’t it awesome,” I said, agreeing as I drew in a long sniff. I could almost taste the waffles and chicken and coffee. The diner was busier than I remembered as my ears filled with a buzz of sounds—clamoring dishes and dinnerware, orders called by waitresses, and the fry cook hollering pickup table numbers. Teenage boys and girls were dressed in formal school uniforms and lined the booths along the diner’s front, their fingers pinching golden french fries, dipping them eagerly into a tall, frosty fountain glasses the colors of vanilla and chocolate and strawberry. The kids sucked milkshakes through straws while busily tapping on clear glass slabs, showing me mirror images of what it was they were looking at. It was the first of today’s technology I’d seen and not at all like the old tablet the prison guard had used during my exit process. I couldn’t tell if what the kids were tapping on was a phone or tablet. I’d thought to ask Brian about it later. For now, I needed to eat.

  With all the booths full, I searched the front of the diner, toward the counter and the old-fashioned mechanical cash register. Both the counter and cash register were still there, but the antique register was just for show now—another piece of glassy technology saddled the top, numbers showing in reverse as patrons walked by and waved their hands to make a payment. I was glad to see that the counter’s seats were the same round metal pedestals, sprouting up through the floor, their vinyl tops adorned with a new cool navy blue to replace the old greenish yellow. The budding sprouts were topped with men and women, their gazes fixed on plates of food, their elbows bent and perched on the counter-top, a cup of coffee teetering like a pendulum when they sipped the black gold. Another hunger pang, and I realized there wasn’t an empty seat available.

  “Hurry and wait,” I mumbled, thinking back to my life inside. “That’s all we did. We hurried up in a rush and then waited.” Inside, every move involved lineup—guards driving us from one place to the next like cattle, shuffling along, back to front, from one long line to the next. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry.

  SEVEN

  “SORRY AMY, BUT THE PLACE looks full,” Brian said, rubbing his belly.

  “Give it a minute,” I told him, noticing the group of girls in the center booth. Inside, I’d learned to read people, and I could see the girls would leave soon. In prison, everything was about hurrying up to wait. While the guards rushed us along, we’d inevitably stand in line and wait. We waited for chow. We waited for the shower. We’d wait to use the phone (though I made no calls). And yes, we’d even wait to take a shit. With all that waiting, I’d learned a thing or two about patience. Maybe it came natural. If not, it was forced on you like everything else in prison.

  The girls gathered their things and traded glances with one another, telling me I was right, telling me they were leaving. And then came the irony when I saw we’d be sitting in the same booth I’d sat after saving a little girl’s life. I’d saved her from a pedophile who would have surely killed her if not for my having intervened. I peered through the diner’s front window, through the pale lettering that spelled Suzette’s, toward the row of small shops across the street. The old buildings jutted upward into the bright sky and were silhouetted by the sun. They looked like forgotten books on a shelf—some tall, some short, some straight while others seemed to lean. I squinted until I found the storefront and the alcove where I’d killed the pedophile monster before he stole the girl’s life. I felt a hard thump in my chest and braced myself, bringing my hand to my heart, surprised by the sudden feeling. I couldn’t tell if it was a sense of nostalgia or guilt, or maybe it was both. I killed that day, a righteous kill. But I’d saved a life too and isn’t that what mattered? Who was I to second guess everything I’d done and suddenly have a conscience? To do so would’ve made the last twenty years meaningless. There was only one crime I deserved to go to prison for, and even that was questionable.

  “You okay?” I heard Brian ask as he took my arm and put his hand on my back. I leaned against him, welcoming the first real contact I’d had in years.

  “I’m perfect,” I answered. And it was partly true. This is where I wanted to be, and I knew no matter where we went, memories would spring to life and catch me off guard.

  Pigtails, I’d called her, the name popping into my head like a beam of light catching my eyes. I didn’t know her real name, but I’d called her pigtails on account of her golden locks swinging and bouncing as she played. To the monster watching her, Pigtails was like bait to a ravenous fish and from the way he stalked the unsuspecting, he was going to strike. I’d called him Ghoul, but couldn’t recall why. And I’d already had a contract on him for another crime he’d committed. The charges had been dropped on a technicality. But in my world, there were no technicalities, and it was dumb luck I’d intervened during his hunt. I turned the tables on him, offering myself as bait, luring him like the homeless man had lured me. When he bit, I caught him. He died across the street from the diner, in the dimly lit alcove I couldn’t break my stare of. And Pigtails played on until she chased after the voice of her mother. I couldn’t help but wonder what became of the girl, wondered what she’d made of the life I’d given her? She’d be in her mid twenties now, or maybe thirty. Did she find someone to love? Did she have a career? Was she successful? Maybe she’d found someone and married and had a family? I suppose I’d never know, and that was okay. It was better to have the fantasy that way she’d be anything I wanted her to be.

  Like the fluttery palpitation earlier, my gut tightened and a taste of regret rose into my throat. But this time, it wasn’t for Ghoul, it was for another memory. The teen girls cleared themselves of the booth, leaving it empty, just as it had been the day I’d met with Detective Garret Williams. He sat across from me, threatening to take my husband and my family, blackmailing me with an impossible ultimatum.

  If only I’d walked away, I heard in my head, wondering for the millionth time what life would be today if I had. Regretting the past was like a cancer—a lesion on my soul. One day it would consume me whole, I was sure of it. Regrets are forever. From regret came the guilt, and I had to keep both in check or risk going insane. I’d never thought of myself as a person who’d lose their mind over anything, but having sat on regret for as long as I have, I can see why jumping off a bridge was an easy out. An older inmate once told me about regretting the past, about how it’d kill any chance of ever being happy again. I believed what the woman shared with me, but unfortunately, believing and doing are two very different things. Fuck Detective Garret Williams. I know I should have walked away.

  “We can go somewhere else,” I heard Brian say just as a ball of frizzy hair bounced past me. A teen girl offered a polite smile and eased by us.

  “See, Brian. Just need patience.”

  “Patience isn’t something I’m good at,” he answered, sliding into the booth. I took to the other side as a pretty waitress with a bob of short blond hair cleared the table and reset it with clean flatware and two glasses of fresh water. I know this sounds odd, but the touch of a metal fork and knife in my hands made me want to laugh. There was so much I’d taken for granted in my past life, and it seemed all of those things were coming back to me now. It was the little things screaming in my ears for me to take notic
e of them and to never forget. I pressed the pad of my thumbs into the tip of the fork, thinking how useful the utensil would have been on the inside. Brian made a noise, catching my attention. “It’s just a fork.”

  “Sorry,” I said, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Got so used to those plastic sporks.”

  Brian slid a slab of glass across the table, the kind the teens were tapping on. “The old burner wasn’t still working and I thought you could use an upgrade.”

  “Burner died,” I said, sadly. “No juice.”

  “Amy?” he said, asking. I looked up, to see him laughing. “It was a joke. Those phones haven’t been around for a long time. What you have in your hands, it doesn’t use batteries. Never needs a charge.”

  I picked up the piece of glass, the slab suddenly becoming lively with colorful splashes. I was instantly drawn in, mesmerized. I passed the glass from one hand to the next, noticing how warm the material was and not at all like the feel of glass. “What is it made of?”

  “New compound. It’s something like transparent aluminum, but it converts ambient light and the user’s motion into energy. Kinda warm blooded too,” he explained, laughing at his own joke. When I didn’t laugh with him, he stopped. But inside, I loved the humor. His humor. “Anyway, I put some contacts on there for you . . . I’ll let you figure out the rest, let you explore the new world and enjoy it.”

  “As long as it has solitaire,” I joked, raising an eyebrow and putting the phone aside. My interest in it waned in favor of food. “Have to ask though, a limousine? And you mentioned a private jet, and Japan? And mesospheric travel-something or other. Do tell.”

  “What we started, Team Two, it’s still around,” he began just as the waitress returned to take our orders.