The Way of the Guilty

by Jennifer Stanley

  “We can’t all have bosses as great as Mr. Farmer,” Cooper replied, knowing how much Angela adored their employer. The two had recently begun dating and now Angela’s desk resembled the inside of a florist’s refrigerator. “I doubt Mr. Bank of Richmond presented his administrative assistant with a bouquet of blue hydrangeas this morning.”

  Angela clasped her hands to her generous bosom. “Isn’t Mr. Farmer dreamy?” She fluttered her false eyelashes and sashayed out of the garage, her patent leather heels clicking happily with every step.

  “Dreamy?” Cooper asked her image in the rearview mirror, but her reflection was equally nonplussed. “If you’re into middle-aged men who hole up in their offices drooling over popular Mechanics and can easily double for Danny DeVito, then dreamy’s pretty accurate, I guess.”

  Her amusement over the attraction between Angela and their boss didn’t last long. The executive secretary at the bank’s plush investment branch was the antithesis of Angela. A curvaceous platinum blonde favoring tight pencil skirts, snug sweaters with plunging necklines, dangerously high heels, and Bakelite jewelry, Angela greeted every person with a sincere and cheerful manner. The Bank of Richmond secretary neither smiled nor greeted Cooper, but grunted and tapped her watch the moment Cooper entered the office.

  “I’m Felicia Hawkins,” the reedy, thin-lipped woman announced to Cooper and eyed the nametag on her gray uniform shirt with disdain. “Cooper? Is that a person’s name or a brand name?”

  “It’s a family name,” Cooper replied politely, looking around for the copier. She spied the Canon in the hallway behind Felicia and moved to step around the stern-faced secretary so that she could complete her task quickly and call it a day.

  “I assume you won’t be charging the bank for this service,” Felicia stated flatly. “Your faulty copiers have greatly inconvenienced Mr. Goldvolger.”

  The image of Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger appeared in Cooper’s mind. She could picture his meaty, ringed hand stroking a white, longhaired cat while he and his cohorts cackled in villainous mirth. Looking down at Felicia’s black, squared-toed loafers, she grinned and wondered whether a blade had been built into its sole.

  “Is something amusing?” Felicia growled and Cooper shook her head, hustling over to the copier. She rapidly unpacked her tools and began to unscrew the machine’s back panel. She waited for the secretary to grow disinterested and return to her desk, but the older woman leaned against the wall, crossed her arms, and watched Cooper with a strange look in her eyes.

  “How did you get into this line of work?” she asked, her tone laced with disapproval. “I’ve never seen a woman service our machines before. Are you certain you’re capable of handling this assignment?”

  Now Cooper understood why her coworker Ben routinely handled the Bank of Richmond account. “I’m good with machines,” she answered modestly, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “Fixing them is kind of like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. You just need to see which piece is missing or damaged or dirty.”

  To Cooper’s surprise, the woman pulled a cigarette from her shirt pocket and lit it. “Well, I’m good at crosswords. Does that mean I could repair jet planes?”

  Why is she baiting me? Cooper thought and then felt inspired to say, “I bet you could, if you set your mind to it.” She sat up and placed the faulty drum on one of her blue rags. Studying the other woman’s face, she detected genuine unhappiness beneath the layer of foundation and the etchings of premature wrinkles. “What would your ideal job be, Ms. Hawkins, if you could choose one?”

  At first, Cooper thought the secretary wasn’t going to reply. The woman closed her eyes, puffed on her cigarette, and only opened them again in order to flick ash into the potted ficus. A cloud of nicotine-scented smoke floated Cooper’s way and she immediately felt a pull of longing. It would be so easy to simply ask the secretary for a cigarette, but she rooted noisily around in her toolbox until she came up with a breath mint. Concentrating on the sharp peppermint flavor, Cooper picked up a pair of pliers, and prepared to finish her work on the copier.

  The woman across from her remained mute for several minutes.

  “This certainly isn’t what I thought I’d end up doing,” Felicia finally spoke. “I’m almost fifty years old and I’ve wasted my life waiting on men who’ve completely taken me for granted.” She stubbed the cigarette out in the soil, twisting it back and forth as though she wished to singe the dirt. “Yet none of them could last a day without me. I prepare all their reports, research market trends, write their speeches, buy presents for their wives, their children, and sometimes their girlfriends, and I never receive a word of thanks.” She sighed. “Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

  Cooper put down her tools and gave Felicia her full attention. “No, ma’am.”

  “Work at an auction house,” Felicia whispered and then made a noise that might have been a suppressed laugh or a dry cough. “I even practice helping customers during my commute to work. The people who drive by and see me blithering to myself must think I’m not long for the psych ward.”

  “Sounds cool,” Cooper said. “An antique auction? That kind of thing?”

  Now Felicia did laugh. “No! I want to work at a car auction. I love cars! My father was a mechanic, so I guess it’s in my blood. He and I used to spend every weekend at an auto auction, just reveling in the excitement. Have you ever seen a boy buying his first car?” Cooper shook her head. “The look on his face—pure bliss!” Felicia’s eyes were bright and lively. “Oh, the pride of handing over a summer’s worth of paychecks or a year’s savings from having flipped burgers after school.” Her voice rose as she grew more animated. “All the men talking shop, arguing about torque and rims and horsepower . . .”

  As Felicia drifted off with her visions, Cooper was struck by the loss she saw in the other woman’s face. “Listen, Ms. Hawkins, I’m all done here.” She stood up and wiped her hands on a rag. “Would you like to grab a bite? My brother-in-law is in the car business. Maybe I could introduce you and he could give you some tips on how to get a job at one of those auctions.”

  “Why would you do that? I’ve been so rude to you,” Felicia asked, clearly stunned. “Why would you want to spend another second with me?”

  “Because I’ve felt stuck before. Pretty close to hopeless, actually, until someone told me that I could walk through life without taking any risks or I could actually live.” She snapped her toolbox closed. “So what do you say? I’m starving and I’d love to hear more about your love of cars.”

  “That would be nice, thank you.” Felicia smiled. “It’s been a long time since someone asked me to dinner. And please call me Felicia. Only my boss calls me Ms. Hawkins!”

  Later, driving home, Cooper questioned what had propelled her to offer friendship to such an unpleasant individual. After all, she was more of an introvert than not and preferred to work in quiet anonymity. Still, she had sensed a strong, almost urgent need in Felicia, and she couldn’t ignore the inner voice prompting her to reach out to the unhappy stranger.

  “I suppose that was Your doing? Sending me on that last assignment so I could meet Felicia Hawkins?” Cooper glanced at the black, starless sky out her window. She knew the answer, and even though it was nearly nine o’clock and bone-chillingly cold outside, and she was tired from such a long day, Cooper felt energized by the encounter with the secretary.

  Feeling the need to sing for the remainder of the drive, Cooper switched her radio on. At the same moment, her truck tires crunched over an object in the road and her steering wheel pulled dramatically to the right. Though she didn’t share Felicia’s auto expertise, she knew enough to realize that the sudden and dramatic tug to one side was a telltale indication that a tire had gone flat. Really flat.

  “Whoa!” Cooper looked in her rearview mirror. “What the heck did I hit back there?”

  Slowing down, she eased the truck onto the farthest side of the shoulder. Though reluctant to leave the w
armth of her cab, Cooper knew she had no choice. Grabbing a flashlight from her toolbox, she jumped out of the truck, and immediately saw that one of her rear tires had deflated like a spent birthday balloon.

  “Great.” Cooper’s buoyant mood dissipated in the frigid air. Pulling her wool hat down over her ears, she retrieved her emergency road kit from the rear of the cab and unzipped it. After igniting two flares she unfastened the jack and spare tire from the inside of the truck bed. Just as she began the laborious process of jacking up the truck, the growl of a small but loud motor drawing nearer and nearer caused her to pause and look up at the dark highway.

  Her truck had gone lame on a stretch of highway that only saw intermittent traffic at night. Truckers heading west toward Charlottesville were the most common sight, but the approaching engine did not belong to an eighteen-wheeler. It had the distinct, thunderous rumble of a motorcycle engine.

  As she watched, a dark red and chrome Indian Chief motorcycle edged onto the shoulder. At first, Cooper had the absurd hope that a policeman had come to her aid, but it only took a brief glance at the fringed leather of the vintage motorcycle’s seat and the rider’s attire to transform her feelings of optimism into heart-racing alarm.

  The Indian’s rider was a man, dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket, whose features were completely obscured by his black helmet. Even when he tipped back the tinted visor covering his face and asked if she needed a hand, the moonless night cloaked him in shadow.

  As he dismounted and began to walk toward her, Cooper’s cell phone rang to the tune of the Beatles’ “A Hard Day’s Night.” The man in black chuckled. “I recollect you mentioning the Fab Four, but I didn’t know you liked them all that much.”

  He stepped forward into the red glow of the flare and Cooper’s jaw dropped as she recognized his face. “Get the phone, girl.” He pointed at the device. “I’ll jack the truck.”

  Answering the call, Cooper was at first too stunned to make sense of Ashley’s frantic and garbled words. There was nothing coherent about the hysterical cries and pleas of “Please! The car! There’s a man! He’s . . . he’s dead! DEAD IN MY HOUSE! COME GET ME!” echoing down the line.

  “Slow down, Ashley!” Cooper shouted in an effort to make sense of her sister’s shrieks. “I can’t understand you! Take a deep breath and try not to yell. I’m right here, okay?” She waited silently while Ashley struggled to control her rapid breathing. As Cooper listened, her eyes were fixed on Edward Crosby, aka the Colonel, as he began to remove the lug nuts from the flat tire.

  Cooper had met him a few months ago when he was still an inmate at Jail West, serving out the remainder of his sentence for the sale and distribution of narcotics. Her only communication with him had been through a telephone handset attached to a plate-glass divider, so she hadn’t been able to appreciate his formidable physical presence at the time.

  He wasn’t tall, like Nathan, but Edward Crosby’s figure reverberated strength. There was a sense of danger about him—something predatory. He stared up at her with his gunmetal gray eyes and waited, his wide hands gripping the wrench. She could see the shadow of the flag of Dixie tattoo that lay beneath the cropped hair of his scalp.

  “There’s a dead man in the trunk of my car! In my house!” Ashley wailed and Cooper was finally able to rip her gaze from Edward’s intense stare.

  Cooper made her sister repeat what she’d just said. After establishing that Ashley was unharmed and that a corpse had somehow materialized inside the locked garage, Cooper promised she’d be right over and told Ashley to call the police.

  “I can’t do that!” Ashley’s voice cracked as it rose an octave. “What if Lincoln gets in trouble? I got this car—it’s a rental—from his dealership to drive while mine’s in the shop! What if there’s something going on at the dealership and his name gets in the papers?” she yelled into the phone.

  “Make the call, Ashley. If you don’t, then I’ll do it when I get there. Now turn on all the lights and fix a pot of coffee,” Cooper directed firmly, even though her sister had begun to cry. “I’ll be right over.”

  She slid her phone into her coat pocket and pulled the lapels tightly over her throat, as though she could block out the sharp air along with her sister’s unbelievable story.

  Seeing that her phone call was finished, Edward stood. “One of these lug nuts is stripped. It’s gonna take time you plainly don’t have. Tell me where you need to go and I’ll get you there.”

  Cooper didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the truck keys from her ignition and stuffed them into her purse. She then strapped on the extra helmet Edward had quickly produced and told him where Ashley lived. Standing in the cold, she felt foolish in her long, woolen coat, hand-knit mittens, and purse draped diagonally across her chest like some paranoid tourist, but Edward smiled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “You best plan on holdin’ tight!” he shouted. “I don’t drive slow.”

  As the motorcycle lurched onto the pavement, Cooper gasped with surprise and threw her arms around Edward’s waist. She’d never been on a motorcycle before and she was struck by the force of the icy air as it careened up her pants legs and slapped the exposed flesh of her neck. Edward shifted gears and the bike shot forward. Cooper tightened her grip on his leather coat, though she was actually more exhilarated by their speed than fearful.

  Edward’s body felt taut beneath his coat. It was as though every cell in his body was focused on getting Cooper to her sister’s side as rapidly as possible. He was clearly skirting the line leading to reckless driving. Yet Cooper trusted his skill, even though she had never driven with him before. Instinctively, she felt she would come to no harm in his care.

  She followed Edward’s lead as he leaned his body into turns and hunched down further during moments of acceleration. He tore through intersections and soared under the pools cast by flashing yellow lights until they had reached the windy, dark corridor that was River Road. Slowing now, he waited for Cooper to tap him on the shoulder, indicating he should make a left or right turn. They had no other way to communicate, but they seemed to have a natural connection—their bodies engaged in a wordless conversation of trust.

  Cooper was confused and shaken by the subtle feeling of loss she experienced when she released her hold on Edward in front of Ashley’s Georgian mansion. However, she had little time to dwell on the sensation because her sister flew out the front door in a tracksuit and slippers and immediately buried her head against Cooper’s shoulder.

  “I’m here. I’m here,” Cooper said soothingly. “Let’s go inside.” She hugged her sister tightly and then gently pushed her away. “I’ll look in the garage, while you pour us some coffee, okay? We had a cold ride.”

  Ashley blinked and suddenly became aware of both the motorcycle and the silent man dressed in black. Her blue eyes widened and she shot a frightened, questioning glance at Cooper.

  “He’s a friend,” Cooper said quietly and smiled at Edward. At this, he removed his helmet and fell in behind the sisters as they passed into Ashley’s house.

  The heat immediately wrapped itself around Cooper. Her fingers and toes tingled as feeling returned to them and her wind-chafed skin ceased smarting. She stripped off her mittens, but kept her coat and hat on as she moved through the kitchen and out to the garage with a greater show of calm than she felt.

  The spot where Ashley’s Lexus convertible was usually parked was occupied by a sleek, metallic gold Cadillac sedan. The trunk was fully ajar and several shopping bags were lying in disarray on the floor behind the right rear tire.

  Cooper breathed in deeply, hoping to draw some courage from the still air and forced herself not to tiptoe to the back of the car.

  Her first impression was that the body was in the fetal position. It was a man, but no one Cooper knew. He seemed small to her, almost childlike in his curled posture within the deep, spacious truck. She looked at his black hair and pecan-colored skin, at the pair of callused and grease-s
tained clasped hands that were bound with duct tape. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, though there was nothing serene or restful about the piece of silver tape covering his mouth and the lower half of his mustache.

  The rest of the trunk appeared empty. There were no signs of a struggle. There was no blood or rents in the plush carpet lining the trunk. It was as if the man had been carefully placed inside, like a young boy being tucked into his bed.

  “You know this guy?” Edward spoke softly beside her.

  Cooper rubbed her arms, which had broken out in goose bumps the moment she’d looked inside the trunk. She shook her head, still staring at the coiled figure, trying to discern why a dead person looked so unlike a living person, even in a position of repose. There was something shrunken and diminished about this man, as though his chest had suddenly caved inward, his limbs had grown instantly thinner, and his face had become waxen and hollow once the energy—the presence of his spirit—was gone.

  Bowing her head, Cooper muttered a quick prayer for those who’d mourn the stranger and then stepped back into the kitchen, gratefully accepting a cup of coffee from her agitated sister.

  “Have you ever seen that man?” Cooper asked her.

  “No.” Ashley grabbed a tea towel and began to twist it around her fingers. “He could work for Lincoln. There are a lot of Hispanics on the lot. His hands are pretty dirty. Did you notice them?”

  Cooper nodded as she sank onto a stool. She sipped her coffee automatically, her mind fixated on the image of the duct tape covering the man’s mouth. Edward held his cup between his palms but did not drink. He simply stared at the sisters, his expression unreadable.