Dead Enemies

by K. E. Garvey

  “What did you do that for? My show’s not over.”

  Warren went to the desk, reached around back of the computer and pulled its power cord up from behind the desk. “You’re going to end up with pudding ass if you spend every day sitting there stuffing your face with garbage. Besides, the shit you watch’ll rot your mind.” He unplugged the computer from the old cord and plugged it into the one I his hand. He looked around and found an unused outlet on the wall leading into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m working my way through this shit storm you call a house in the hopes of getting that damned computer working.” He plugged the extension cord in, returned to the desk, and hit the power button on the computer before looking for a reaction from his roommate.

  Rodney made the pretense of being offended with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. He grabbed the arm of his chair and shifted his ass around in his seat without getting off it. “That’s kinda ignorant considering you’re living here scot free.”

  As Warren watched the three blinking dots on the screen, he said, “You’re confusing ignorance with honesty, bud. You got eyes, take a look around. If any of your neighbors cared enough they’d of had the city inspector condemn this place long ago.”

  Rodney’s mouth twisted. He scanned his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. Finally, he relaxed back into his chair, and said, “Sister never was the domestic type.”

  “But your sister doesn’t live here, does—Shazam!” Warren pulled the chair a bit closer to the desk when the splash screen stretched across the computer.

  “Why are you so hell-bent on getting that old thing working anyway? Thought you was waiting on a call from the factory.”

  A small, rectangular box with the word “PASSWORD” underneath it appeared. He re-entered the combination of letters and numbers he now knew by heart and waited for the screen to come to life. “I have more on my to-do list than finding a job.”

  Either satisfied with the answer, or busy thinking about how to get the TV working without an extension cord, Rodney didn’t add anything more to the conversation leaving Warren to focus on the task at hand. When the machine had finished booting up, he clicked on the blue “E” and waited for the Google homepage to pop up. He typed “Sali Bloo” in the address bar and watched the hourglass tumble as he awaited the results. He knew it was a stretch, nothing more than a wish that it could be this simple. He recalled something his grandfather used to say about wishing in one hand and shitting in the other. Under his breath he muttered, “Let’s hope I choose the right hand,” and leaned in closer to the screen.

  Page after page of links to Sali Bloo came in. He scrolled through a few dozen pages beginning with the song made famous by The Iveys and ending with a range of topics from blood to Salisbury Steak. Had he read the name on the television wrong? That thought disappeared like a puff of smoke. He despised people who always second guessed themselves. Unsure and insecure, mottled confusion in a sheath of skin. He’d always been more confident than those people, and now would be no different. He knew what he had seen. Just because finding the woman with the unusual name proved to be harder than he had anticipated, it didn’t mean she couldn’t be found.

  He glanced to Rodney who was slumped to one side of his chair, mouth gaped open, and snoring like a Moped. The cigarette hanging loosely between his middle and index finger had burned down to the filter. Warren considered leaving it as it was until it burned the sleeping man’s fingers, but then decided he liked him better when he was asleep. After stubbing the butt in the overflowing ashtray, he returned to the glowing computer screen, typed Sali Bloo marathon runner into the address bar, and awaited the results, which only took several seconds.

  This time, three photos of the woman he’d seen on TV appeared in a box of images. He clicked the first one. A larger view of the same image appeared. He studied it, her size, hair, facial features. Could it be? It had been twenty years since he had last seen her and the years had seen her from a child to an adult. Although the hair was a bit darker than he remembered, the face was similar enough to warrant a closer look. He clicked on many pictures and links all related to the runner, but none of them offered any personal information.

  And then.

  A photograph pictured on a private elementary school website where she taught second grade. Same woman, for sure.

  …A native of Pennsylvania, Ms. Bloo lives in Jackson Mills, NJ and has taught second grade at the Saint Frances School for the past eight years. In her spare time, she is a world-class marathon runner who recently qualified for the 2019 Boston Marathon…

  Not one to believe in coincidences, signs, or Deja vu, Warren weighed the facts. Different name, but one with ties. His old lady had been the one to introduce her to the song, and Gail had come to love it as much as he had hated it. Dark hair. Didn’t mean a thing when so many women dyed their hair regularly, but didn’t most women go lighter? Teacher. He knew it was a stretch, but playing teacher with her sister was one of the games they played most often as children.

  He stared at the image a moment longer, ran a hand over the top of his head, and said, “My gut never lies.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Warren - 2018

  Warren had stayed up half the night, all of it spent on the computer. As it turned out, navigating his way around wasn’t nearly as hard as Rodney had made it seem. After a meal of two freezer-burned TV dinners, and while he waited for Rodney to take another of his cat naps, he scoured the Craigslist ads looking for someone who might be interested in buying any of the items he had noticed during a quick look through the garage. God only knew how old the stuff packed into the small space was, but since it wasn’t his to sell, anything he got for it would be profit.

  He had a guy coming in the morning to look at the air compressor, and another for the battery charger and car ramps. Like metal left sitting in the rain, his powers of persuasion had rusted while in prison; but like riding a bike, he thought once face-to-face with the buyers he would fall into the shuck-and-jive that had once been his signature.

  There was a lot at stake. Whether or not Sali Bloo was the woman he was looking for, he had to score enough cash to get him to Jackson Mills and back before Rodney decided to stroll out to the garage, unlikely as that was. If it turned out to be her, the more he was able to sell off, the longer he could afford to stay in Jersey. He went over a mental checklist of the facts, something he’d done several times since seeing the dark-haired woman on TV. It fit. Crazy as it seemed and falling under the category of coincidence, it fit. His life had been shit for as far back as he could remember, so it seemed unlikely his luck would suddenly swing so far in the other direction.

  He hadn’t watched the news to see if they had any new leads on Kate, but why would they? Anything they could possibly find tying him to her death would have been found on the first night. Even a hot trail cooled off with each passing hour after the crime, but his trail had begun tepid at best. He relaxed into that thought.

  The cuckoo clock that only worked on the half-hours spit out a sorry ass excuse for a tweet. Ten-thirty.

  “I think your cigarettes have sucked all the oxygen out of the room. I’m going to get me a breath of fresh air. Be back in a few,” he said on his way across the living room. Rodney threw a hand up and let it fall back to the armrest of his chair.

  He found it truly baffling that anyone could spend copious hours in a chair watching mindless garbage while stuffing their face with junk food and chain smoking. If he didn’t know better he’d swear that guy’s ass had rooted to his chair.

  The sun was bright and still hanging to the east, which cast a shadow across the garage. He looked back once to see if Rodney had decided to follow him, but there was no one in the yard. He slid between several piles of scrap metal and a workbench until he could no longer see the house, and waited. He picked a tire iron off the bench, and thought, this guy better be on time.

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nbsp; He had made no plan as to what he would tell Rodney if he were to catch him selling off his family’s things, but luckily, Rodney either hadn’t heard the vehicles coming and going over the blare of the TV, or he had fallen asleep. Either way, it was another lucky break.

  The first guy was a hard sell, scrutinizing the air compressor, finding fault with everything from its surface rust to the hoses that appeared to be dry rotted. He had been on the verge of telling the guy to go screw himself, when he finally broke. “What the hell, at this price I’ll tear it down and use it as parts for the one I got at home.” He gave the guy a hand loading it onto the back of his pickup before he could change his mind, or Rodney could change it for him.

  The second guy was a crook’s dream. All money and no sense, he could have sold him a boat with no bottom if he’d have had one. By the time Mr. Moneybags pulled away, Warren was three-hundred and seventy dollars heavier than he was when he woke that morning.

  His chest tightened when he returned to the house and found Rodney in the kitchen trying to open a can of pork and beans with a pen knife. He asked, “What are you doing?” to test his attitude.

  “I run outta pork rinds. Figure I’d heat up a can of beans. Want some?”

  He let out a breath and his shoulders relaxed. “No thanks. I think I’m going to walk into town. Can’t spend my days sitting and waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe when I get back, I’ll have a message from the factory waiting for me.”

  “Whatcha gonna do in the city?”

  Warren tucked his shirt into his pants and straightened his belt. With a laugh, he said, “Not sure yet, but I’m sure I can find me some trouble if I look hard enough.”

  “Want some company?”

  He hadn’t considered that the couch potato might actually want to tag along. “Nah, I need to clear my head, besides, I’m liable to get halfway there and decide it’s too hot to walk. Eat your beans and maybe we’ll go shoot a game when I get back.”

  His attention already back to the can of beans, Rodney offered a nod to end their conversation. As Warren slipped out the door, he heard Rodney yell, “Mother—,” and assumed the pen knife met flesh. He took long strides through the yard and didn’t slow until the house was out of sight.

  A vehicle approached in the distance. Its radio drowned out the whine of the engine and the tires sticking on hot tar. As it got closer, he heard the always recognizable sound of Patsy Cline’s voice belting out, Walkin’ After Midnight and couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across his face. It had been his mother’s favorite song.

  He moved to the shoulder of the road and slowed his step. The vehicle went by him as a blur, a woman looked straight ahead as if she hadn’t seen him standing within arm’s reach as she passed. She was moving along at such a lively speed he wasn’t able to make out a single detail about her or even the make of the truck. Too bad she hadn’t been headed in the opposite direction. He would have thumbed a ride and reached his destination in half the time and a fraction of the cost after throwing her a ten for gas.

  The bus stop was in the center of town, a busy street where everyone seemed to be walking through internal fog. No one paid him any attention and even the clerk behind the ticket counter seemed to be more interested in his phone than his next customer.

  “I’d like to buy a one-way to Jackson Mills, NJ,” Warren said to the preoccupied man.

  He looked away from his phone long enough to glance at a schedule taped to the counter, pulled in a deep sniffle, and swallowed. “Next bus leaves in thirty-five minutes, but it’ll only take you as far as Trenton.”

  “Would another bus get me closer?”

  The young man shook his head as he let out a breath of air Warren could smell from his side of the counter. “Nope. They cut budget at a state level. A lot of places we don’t go anymore. Last I knew, Greyhound still goes to Jackson Mills, but their terminal is across town.”

  Warren glanced at the clock above the guy’s head. “Trenton it is.”

  Once they had exchanged money for ticket, Warren took a seat closest to the door while the clerk went back to staring at his phone looking almost as if he’d never disturbed him. His indolence reminded him of Rodney, which aggravated him. Had the world gone soft while he was away? He had always thought of his father as being a lazy man because he stood behind a pulpit and slung words for a living while his friends’ fathers had callouses and twisted backs from years of working as laborers in logging and stone yards. Guys like Rodney and the clown behind the counter made his father look like a ball of energy. For the briefest of moments, he wondered what his father would have looked like now, and what pearl of wisdom and guidance he’d have given had he known what his son was planning.

  A middle-aged woman with an armload of grocery bags boarded the bus during the first stop after Warren had boarded. The bus was almost to capacity, he’d admit that; but of the empty seats remaining, she chose to sit with him. He pushed up against the window and turned his head away in the hopes of discouraging conversation, but she was obviously unfamiliar with subtle signs.

  “Lord, how did people do this years ago before there was a public transportation service. Can you imagine having to walk several miles with a week’s worth of groceries hanging off your sides like some kind of pack mule? No wonder the average life span was so short back then.”

  He nodded and threw her a terse smile.

  “I keep saying I’m going to go out and get myself a license and a car, but never seem to go through with it. It’s something like a diet, you know? Much easier to talk about than to do.”

  Warren kept his head turned toward the window hoping if he ignored her long enough, she’d get the message and shut up.

  “How about you? Are you headed out or back home?”

  He wanted to say something outrageous like he was running from the law or on his way to buy an unregistered gun, in the hopes of scaring her into silence. But such a momentarily satisfying remark could kick him in the ass later when the police started asking questions. She’d surely remember him. Instead, without turning toward her, he replied, “Headed home from Tennessee.”

  “My, you were a long way out. Me, I’ve never been further than Maryland and that was only once for a cousin’s wedding. Back when my Author was still alive he’d take me into the city, that’s New York City, once a year around the holidays to see the tree at Rockafellow Center…”

  Rockefeller, you fucking hick. Everything that followed blended with the music coming through the speakers and the murmur of quiet conversation behind him to form white noise. If she had asked him anymore questions he’s sure he came off as a rude prick when he didn’t acknowledge or answer, but he didn’t care. If he had a pen on him he might have been tempted to pierce his eardrums to get away from her incessant rambling.

  After what seemed like a ride that circled the gates of hell, the bus pulled into the station in Trenton, the sound of its air brakes bringing an end to the torture. When Gabby Gertie stood, she stood next to their shared seat and offered a smile. Warren stood and pushed past her skipping the middle step as he exited the bus.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Warren - 2018

  Although he had more than enough money to get him to Jackson Mills and back, he hadn’t planned on spending more than the cost of a bus ride. When the clerk at the Trenton terminal told him Jackson Mills was thirty miles from where he stood, he had no choice but to pay a taxi or miss getting there before she left school for the day.

  The driver hadn’t made any attempt to talk on the ride, and he was grateful enough that he gave him a five-dollar tip after having already made up his mind to stiff him.

  Saint Frances was a small, white brick school that might have once served as the rectory to the much larger church to its right. The grounds were well-kept, the sidewalks unbroken and even, and the brick of the building seemed to shine as if it had been power-washed. There was only one exit at the front side of the school. He walked around the building and l
ocated one exit on the side and another in the back. He had no way of knowing where the teachers would emerge when school let out, or even where they parked. There was ample street parking and a parking lot across the street from the rear exit. He decided to position himself so that he was able to keep an eye on both the side and back doors. This way he could keep more cars within his field of vision.

  He had only been standing for several minutes when a bell rang through the playground and surrounding area. Within twenty seconds, children of varied size and age poured from the exits. Several ran to one of several bike racks and unchained their bikes. Others meandered through the playground, obviously in no rush to get home.

  Then he saw her.

  It was definitely the woman from the news report, but was it her? He was too far away to be sure. She stood halfway through the play area talking to a blonde woman in a full-length skirt. He headed for the gate at the rear entrance of the playground taking long strides, but not moving fast enough to draw attention. He noticed she used her hands a lot as she spoke. Did she always do that? He couldn’t recall.

  He rounded the block just as she waved the other woman off and turned toward the street. He kept up his brisk pace sometimes having to weave through a huddle of children. He had to get close enough to get a good look. He had to be sure. A student called out to her as she stepped onto the sidewalk, and she turned. This gave him enough time to reach her.