Dead Enemies

by K. E. Garvey

  He sat cross-legged on the floor, which kept his head lower than the window sill. With the cleanest of the two cloths he had, he wiped down everything he had brought with him and returned it to the case. As long as they couldn’t lift a print from any of the items, he had no need to take them with him when he left. What to do with the gun was still an unanswered question. In this case, brazen was synonymous with stupid. Guns could be traced. Period. And once it was traced back to Rodney’s family, it would take little more than a few pointed questions and a game of connect the dots to lead them straight to him. From there, the connection between her and Kate and he’d never see daylight again.

  The dust he stirred up while moving his belongings had irritated his eyes causing them to itch. He scrubbed his eyelids with the knuckles of his index fingers. Once his vision cleared, he took another look around the room. If only there were an elevator shaft he could hide in until things calmed down he could then casually walk out unseen after dark. He thought about building all of the flattened boxes with the duct tape he had brought with him, stacking them in a corner, and hiding in one of the bottom boxes until the police had scanned the entire area. He wasn’t sure if they would go through the trouble of opening every box when they realized the top layers were empty, but he was sure they’d see that none of the boxes were coated in the dust that had settled like snow on the rest of the building. That might cause them to scrutinize them more closely. His box plan was almost as lame as his plan to beat feet immediately after the shooting and just mosey through town carrying his case like he wasn’t aware of what had just happened around him. But a man carrying a gun-sized plastic case through the streets immediately following a shooting might as well be wearing a sandwich board that said Arrest Me on both sides.

  He looked at the many tables, and then to his case of belongings. Then he looked around the room. Where was his father to praise him when he came up with a truly ingenious idea? Why not tape the gun to the underside of one of the many tables that littered the first floor and the basement? Who would think to look under each one? Grabbing the roll of duct tape from his case, he zig-zagged between tables until he reached one that sat furthest from the broken window. He pulled a three or four-foot length of tape and ripped it with his teeth. He attached one end to the underside of the table and let the rest hang. He repeated it three more times. When he was through, he examined his work. It was perfect. When he finished he would hold the rifle against the underside of the table and pull the loose ends of tape over it and attach them to the table. That task shouldn’t take more than a few seconds. He could have it done and be out of the building before anyone on the street figured out what had actually happened, and before the police could swarm the area. As he wiped and returned the tape to the case, he let out a long breath. A calmness washed over him. It was as if the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and he could now see the whole picture clearly. He squatted, and using his hand for balance lowered himself to the floor. He leaned his back against the closest table and crossed his legs at the ankle.

  And waited.

  ~

  A glance at his watch startled him to his feet. Had he drifted off? The sounds coming from the street filled his hideaway, which filled him with anticipation and worry at the same time. Thoughts born in that worry kept popping into his head. What if kids bored with the race stumbled into the old building to snoop around and found him? What if an observant spectator noticed his shadow or something reflecting in the glass? What if he made an unexpected sound that drew attention? But his rationale had answers for the questions asked by his own paranoia. The coating of dust over everything told him no one had been inside this building in years, if not decades. Who knows, this place could have been empty for so long that it may be something of folklore in town; the building where something ominous once happened which keeps everyone away including kids looking for someplace to smoke cigarettes stolen from their parents.

  He edged his way to the window and stood sideways against one of the upright supports between each window. A white ribbon still stretched across the finish line telling him he wasn’t too late. He worked the kinks out of his neck before returning to his plastic case. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out the gloves he had found in the medicine cabinet in Rodney’s bathroom. From his other front pocket, he retrieved three bullets and stood them on the table. Next, he lifted the gun out of the case doing his best to keep his hands steady under his growing nerves.

  This is it, he thought as he placed one of the bullets into the rifle. It wouldn’t be long before he accomplished what he had come to do. She had destroyed his life. He had loved her and in return, she had used it against him and destroyed his life. Killing was wrong in its general meaning. He knew that. But, in the words preached tirelessly by his father, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The way he saw it, a very long time ago she had done unto him as she would have had him do unto her.

  Another of his father’s favorite sayings came to mind, “An eye for an eye.”

  He returned to his spot between the windows. Although he was close enough to the podium to get a clear shot, it was more difficult than he had anticipated to see faces clearly. There was no one standing near the podium. He began scanning the nearby crowd in search of a woman with the same characteristics. Aside from the newscast on TV, he had only seen her once and that was following a day at school. He had no way of knowing how she would dress to present an award, or how she fixed her hair when not at school. Would the boyfriend be with her? Answers to those questions might have helped him locate her before she was actually standing on the podium, and give him a few extra seconds to take aim. Although he had brought three bullets, he knew he would only have time for one shot.

  When the cheers became deafening, he rested the barrel of the rifle in the V of the broken window pane and stepped onto the milk carton. The commotion outside grew so loud it could have broken his concentration had he let it. He stood back from the window to keep from being seen. A young man in blue and yellow broke through the tape first followed closely by two more boys. The crowd went wild. After a few seconds, several more runners crossed the finish line.

  He spotted two women making their way to the podium. Both with hair pulled into a pile on top of her head, either could have been her. Several reporters joined the women and he cursed them under his breath. The crowd began to shift toward the two women and the reporters, moving together, covering the area surrounding the podium like locusts on a tree. He realized it wasn’t the podium the crowd was swarming, but the winner as he moved through the crowd. For the first time since he put his plan together, he feared he might not get the shot he was looking for.

  He braced himself with a knee to the wall under the window and lowered his head until it was inches from the stock of the rifle. Until he could single her out, he aimed directly at the center of the podium and hoped she would accompany the young man alone when he ascended the stairs to accept his award. The crowd began to open around the young man, and close as he passed through. He grabbed hold of the railing and separated from the crowd. Warren shifted to even his weight between his legs.

  When the young man reached the top step, the two women he had spotted earlier appeared on the stairs. Which one was she?

  He pulled his right hand away from the gun and wiped it on the leg of his jeans. He blinked hard and returned his index finger to the trigger and waited. The shorter woman lifted her arm as if to wave to someone, and he noticed something in her hand. Brown, not too large, a box of some kind? The medal, or course.

  That had to be her.

  He closed his right eye and peered down the barrel of the gun with his left. He could wait until she reached the top of the podium to take his shot, but then he ran the risk of hitting the boy if he missed.

  Without any further thought, he took a deep breath and settled into his stance. Suddenly, it was as if the world fell away. Every sound around him faded to quiet. He became almos
t weightless as he took steady aim, and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty

  Warren - 2018

  Tall, red-brick buildings gave way to 1950s ranch-style houses with freshly cut grass and manicured yards. Warren kept his casual pace even though he had put enough distance between himself and the commotion to keep from looking suspicious, unless he was counting the blood stain around the L-shaped tear in his jeans. He had kept his mind busy while walking by replaying his last minutes in the warehouse through his mind, and the cause of the tear and the laceration were never part of the picture. He had narrowed it down to two possibilities. In the first, he fell into the corner of a steel table when the force of the blast knocked him off the milk crate he’d been standing on. In the second, he could have cut himself as he shimmied out the basement window. His adrenaline had been pumping so hard in the moments following the shooting that he could have broken his leg in two and still been able to run from the building.

  Once he hit the main road out of town, he pulled his cap low and stuck out his thumb each time he heard a vehicle approaching from behind. It didn’t take long before a young kid in a Jetta pulled up alongside him.

  “Where to?” asked a freckled boy with red hair.

  “Jonestown.”

  “Cool. I’m going to Hershey, so I can get you most of the way there.”

  The driver waited until the door closed behind Warren before putting the car in drive. When he failed to pull onto the road, Warren followed his gaze to the bloodied tear in his jeans.

  “Wrecked my bike a few miles back. Lousy insurance of mine only pays a tow up to ten miles, which wouldn’t get me anywhere near home, so—”

  “You think you should get that looked at?” he asked with genuine concern.

  “Nah, looks worse than it is. You think this looks bad, you should see the bike,” he said, doing his best to look harmless. When the young kid continued to stare, he added, “Seriously, it’s only a flesh wound. I’m on blood thinners, so it bled more than it might have otherwise. I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. Really.”

  For the first time since he had spotted the wound, the kid looked him in the eye. “You sure, man? I could drop you at the hospital.”

  All he wanted was to put as much distance as possible between him and the frenzy in town, and as quickly as possible. Keeping the annoyance from his tone, he said, “I’m fine, but thanks.” He lifted the torn area of denim. “See, stopped bleeding a while ago. Besides, this is nothing compared to what the old lady will do to me if I miss dinner with her parents tonight.”

  His last remark seemed to calm the kid’s nerves. “I hear ya,” he said as he stepped on the gas.

  Warren smiled at the kid knowing he hadn’t a clue as to what his fictitious wife would do over a missed dinner, but on the inside, he clenched his stomach to keep the rising bile down. Pain induced sickness. He prayed he could keep it together until he got out of the car. If his leg wound wasn’t enough to cause the kid to remember him, covering the inside of his car in puke was sure to do it.

  “Do you mind?” the kid asked as he reached for the radio knob.

  “Have at it.” He tucked his chin to his chest and turned back to the window.

  Every now and again over the next forty-five minutes, the kid would sing along with whichever song was playing, or inject a random fact into their comfortable silence. Warren learned he was headed to Hershey to see a concert; the tickets had been a birthday gift from his girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend. After he caught her cheating she demanded them back when he ended the relationship. He had only relinquished one of them. Warren pretended to listen as he took in the scenery offering an “Uh-huh,” and “Yeah,” every so often to show gratuitous interest.

  The last sign they passed said Lebanon - 12 miles. It might as well have been 1200. His leg throbbed and his stomach burned. In the middle of a story about how he was restoring his dad’s old Chevy, Warren interrupted. “Kid, pull over.”

  “What?” he asked as he turned the volume down.

  “Pull over, I need to get out.”

  The kid looked scared, but did as he was asked.

  Warren didn’t wait until the car had come to a full stop before swinging the door open. He stepped out using the door to steady himself.

  “Man, you don’t look so good.”

  “No shit.”

  “OK, for real, do you want me to take you to the hospital? There’s one about a mile or so from where I’m headed. I don’t mind.”

  He let go of the door and straightened. After a deep breath, he said, “Thanks kid, but I’m good. Just a little claustrophobic is all.”

  The kid nodded as if he had just put together the last pieces to the world’s most difficult puzzle. “Ahh, no wonder you ride a motorcycle.”

  “Nothing gets by you.”

  The kid smiled wide. “Cool. If you’re sure you’re OK, I’m going to take off then.”

  “You bet, and thanks for the lift.” He waved him off.

  The kid put the car in drive. “No problem.” Pointing at Warrens’ leg, he added, “Listen guy, you should get that looked at,” and pulled away before Warren could tell him he would.

  Rather than to bum another ride and risk someone else remembering him, he tugged the brim of his ball cap over his eyes and began to walk in the direction of Rodney’s house. The throbbing in his leg had turned into a biting pain as he covered the distance in what felt like baby steps. He tried to keep his mind on other things, anything to take it off the increasing pain. The single shot. He had only had time for one, but that was all he had needed. She seemed to go down as he pulled the trigger. It had happened so much faster than he had anticipated. The crowd began stirring even before she hit the ground while the woman next to her tried to catch her from falling. That was all he saw before his weight shifted and tipped the crate. The gun had made quite a racket as it skittered across the floor, but not enough to penetrate the noise outside. It had only taken him a matter of seconds to pick himself up, tape the gun to the underside of the table, and break for the door. The alley had been empty. No first responders, curious bystanders, or terrified spectators running for cover. His getaway had been smooth. Almost too smooth, which left him with unease. He gave more thought to his ride, and decided he wasn’t a concern. Nothing more than a young kid on his way to a concert. Aside from natural concern over an obvious injury, the kid had displayed so little interest in his passenger that he hadn’t even asked his name. Not that he would have shared his real name anyway. He may not be Einstein, but he wasn’t exactly stupid either. He had put too much thought into his plan to make such a foolish mistake.

  In front of him, a sign that read Jonestown - 6 miles. He needed a drink. He needed to rest. He needed cover. Yet even more, he needed to know if she was dead.

  ~

  By the time Warren reached Rodney’s the sun had dropped behind the trees to the west. The shade did little to cool him. He was so tired and thirsty by the time he arrived that he briefly contemplated sitting at the end of the driveway and napping for a few minutes to enable him to finish the last fifty-foot stretch.

  He had worked out the story he would tell Rodney or anyone else that might ask when presented with his current appearance. He’d tell Rodney he had hooked up with a woman he met at a bar the night before. After fucking her brains out all night, her husband returned home from a trip unexpectedly and gave him a good dose of what for. He’d make it colorful enough that Rodney wouldn’t give the finer details much thought.

  When he reached the top of the driveway he heard sounds coming from the garage. Rather than to investigate, he headed into the house and went straight to the bathroom to wash the dirt and sweat off himself and to give his leg wound a closer look. Just as he mounted the top step, he heard his name called out from behind. He turned to find Rodney walking toward him, a legal pad in hand.

  “Been wondering where you took off to. I coulda used some help with this.”

  “
This?”

  “Shit, you don’t know. Sister was here this morning. Noticed more things gone missing. Gave me this pad and told me she wanted me to list everything in the garage on it. Busy work if you ask me. Ain’t a thing in there worth the space it takes.”

  He sat gingerly on the top step and expelled a deep breath of air, partly from pain and partly from annoyance. He offered the short version of the story he had created for Rodney’s benefit, and then promised to help him with the list just as soon as he washed the beating off himself.

  Rodney raised a hand and opened his mouth as if to protest, but must have decided against it and nodded in agreement.

  Satisfied that Rodney had bought his excuse, Warren stood and turned toward the door. With a hand on the knob, he turned back, and said, “Is that all she comes here for… inventory control?” Before Rodney could answer, he added, “Never mind. Ain’t none of my business.”