The Dead Peasants File

by L. Craig Harris

  It was so busy, in fact, that it kept Dillon occupied watching for shoplifters. He had seen hundreds of people put merchandise back when they saw him coming. Others hoped he didn't notice what they had stuffed up their shirts or down their pants. Sometimes he chased them to their cars. If he saw someone steal from the store and they made it to their car, he would jump in his car and chase them. It was the only way he could ever recover anything – he had to catch them with it. The laws were fuzzy about him pursuing criminals on public streets, but Walter Gray wasn't, he made it crystal clear that he wanted his stuff back and he wanted the word out that Dillon would chase crooks down if they ran with it.

  At lunch, Dillon usually ate in the dining area of the store. The food was good and he got an employee discount. He could select his food items and the scanners would read his tattoo and deduct the cost from his salary. It was one of the conveniences of the built-in bar code. In fact, he could make purchases in any Morgan store the same way. It always made him mad, though, when someone stole something and ran while he was trying to eat. He had lost more than one meal after leaving it on the table to chase some scofflaw and then someone coming along and throwing it away.

  Dillon sat at a small table by himself during lunch and ate a chicken salad sandwich, some potato chips and diet green tea.

  A boy of about four came up and stood for a minute studying his gun. “Is it real?”

  Dillon didn't speak, but raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. The boy's eyes grew large and he turned and went back to the table with his mother. Dillon grinned at her as she scolded her son for bothering a stranger. “It's okay Ma'am,” he said, gathering up his tray. He dumped the trash in a bin and began walking through the store again. He would do this for the next four hours. He hoped no one was going to disturb his afternoon by taking a five-finger discount in front of him. He walked over to a cashier and stood behind her as she took someone's groceries and merchandise off of the conveyor belt, scanned them, and loaded them into plastic sacks. Blip. Blip. Blip.

  Then something caught the corner of his vision. A man that Dillon had chased before was going through a self-checkout line twenty yards away from him. It was Joe Gallegos and his wife, Anne. Joe was a big man with a white beard, wearing denim overalls. Anne was not much of a beauty with several teeth missing in the front. Joe had worked for Morgan in the past, at the warehouse south of Springfield. One of the mysteries was why the scanners didn't alert Dillon that he was in the store. Joe had been given the tattoo just like every Morgan employee.

  Joe and his wife had stolen from the store not more than a month ago and gotten away with it. Dillon had chased them all the way home, but they got into the house before he could get to them. He had no authority to enter their home – or stop their car for that matter. They had to do that voluntarily and, well, that was something they refused to do. Walter had told Dillon to keep a close eye on them. That's why he knew their names. Walter had made sure of it. He had shown Dillon surveillance video of them in the store and demanded that Dillon go all the way into their home if he had to. He wanted them caught at all cost. He had pounded his fist on his desk and told Dillon they were stealing him blind and he wanted it stopped.

  So much for Dillon's peaceful afternoon. He eased toward them. He noticed Anne had funny shapes in her loose clothing. Joe was scanning some of the items, but slipping others into a sack on the floor. They were at it again. Dillon knew he had to catch them with the merchandise. He quickened his pace and began to jog through the crowd toward them. They looked up and saw him and took off running, leaving the stolen goods in the sack on the floor. Dillon began to run, but they had already dashed out of the entry way. They had parked in a handicap spot right in front of the door. Dillon yelled at them but they ignored him. He tried to get to them before they got in their old beat-up truck, but they were too fast. He pulled his gun and stood behind the truck, but Joe floored it backward. Dillon had to dive to get out of the way. They sped off toward the exit. Dillon ran to his car, parked around at the side of the building, trying to keep an eye on the truck so he didn't lose them. Soon, though, they were out of sight. He knew where they lived, however, and floored it toward their house. He was going to get Morgan's merchandise back this time, even if he had to break into their home to get it.

  He pulled up to the curb in front of their house just as they were getting out of the truck and running into the house. He calmly walked up to the door and knocked loudly. “Open the door, Mr. Gallegos, and no one gets hurt. I know you’re in there.” He knocked again. Silence.

  “C’mon Joe.” Dillon was about to knock again when he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Anne was coming toward him from around the house. He ducked behind a brick wall just as she pulled the trigger on a shotgun. The sound of the blast bounced off of houses in the area, and brick shrapnel stung as it bit into his arm and face.

  “You get on outta here, mister.” She fired again, hitting just above his head.

  He was pinned behind a four-foot-high wall. He knew she could appear above it at any second and shoot him from point blank range. Sweat poured down his cheeks in the few seconds that seemed eternal. He drew his gun. “Back off, lady. I’ll shoot back if I have to.” He heard the doors to the pickup open. He didn’t dare look, but held still. The doors slammed and the truck roared to life. He listened as the tires spun in the gravel and squealed on the pavement of the street. He peeked over the top. Joe had come from the back of the house and joined her in the truck, and she was speeding away.

  He stood up and brushed himself off. His pulse was racing and he fought to regain his composure. A trickle of blood joined the sweat on his face. She had nearly shot him with that twelve-gauge. He ran to his car and jumped in and sped after them, his ears ringing from the blast.

  Their pickup was old and he caught up with it after a few blocks. She pointed the shotgun out of her window and fired at him, missing. He slowed and stayed back, keeping them in sight. That is one tough old gal.

  Joe ran red lights and stop signs. He drove up on the sidewalk to get around one car. He sped away as fast as his truck would go. He nearly missed a big truck at one intersection and caused another car to wreck. Dillon stayed with him.

  Joe tried to turn onto a side street, but he was going too fast and lost control. The truck rolled over several times, landing upside-down in a cloud of dirt. Dillon took the cellphone out of his pocket and padded 911 as he pulled up to the wreckage. “I need to report a wreck with injuries at Carson and La Vista,” He said to the dispatcher. He slowly walked up to the overturned truck, its wheels still spinning. “Joe? Are you okay?”

  “I’ll shoot!” Anne shouted.

  “Are you okay, Joe?”

  “Leave him alone!”

  Dillon bent down and peeked into her open window. Joe was hanging upside down, still strapped in and unconscious. Anne was lying on the roof of the truck on top of the shotgun. Her left arm was bent in an unnatural position, broken.

  Dillon stooped beside her window for several seconds, pondering his next move. He knew he could use some help dislodging this wounded and cantankerous woman and was relieved to hear the wail of an ambulance coming toward him. “Let me help you get out,” he said.

  “You get away from me.”

  “Your arm’s broken. We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

  She moved her head to look at him and cried out in pain. He tried to open the door, but it was stuck.

  “Can you climb out?”

  “I can’t move.”

  At that moment, the ambulance arrived. The EMTs jumped out and ran up to the truck. “Anyone hurt?”

  Dillon kept his eye on the pickup. “I think they both are.”

  The EMT looked through her window. “Ma’am, can you move your arms and legs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Her arm’s broken,” Dillon said.

  The EMTs tried to pull Anne free. She cried out. As they continued to dislodge her, Joe woke up
and began to yell. Dillon wanted to help, but there was no room for him in the one open window. He walked around the truck, pushed the button on Joe’s door handle, and it responded. “This one works,” he said.

  One of the EMTs ran around and helped open it further. As he reached in, Joe struck him in the face, knocking him back. “Hey! What’s going on here?” the EMT shouted, rubbing his bruised cheek.

  A police car arrived on the scene and two officers got out.

  Dillon showed the driver his lanyard and ID badge. “I work for Morgan. This couple has been stealing us blind. I'm trying to recover our merchandise.”

  The officer eyed him for a moment. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and I appreciate your cooperation. I know the store will want to file charges on them.”

  The officer brushed past him and walked up to the truck. They were just pulling Anne out of her window. She continued to cry out in pain. The police officers helped get her to the back of the ambulance.

  “Don’t let that man take us,” she yelled as they immobilized her arm.

  One of the officers got down on his hands and knees and spoke to Joe. “I’m going to unstrap you, and you’ll have to catch yourself.

  “Okay.”

  The officer reached up and clicked the seat belt. Joe fell in a heap on the ceiling below. The officer helped him right himself and he climbed out, brushing his pants.

  “Are you okay?” An EMT said, looking him over.

  “I’m all right.”

  For the first time, Dillon got a good look at Joe's forehead. He could see why the store scanners were not picking him up – Joe had an ugly scar high up on the forehead. He had somehow managed to cut away his tattoo. Dillon knew his only hope for making a case against them was that something stolen was either in the truck or in her clothing. Now, he had to figure out how to find that out.

  Suddenly, Anne jumped out of the back of the ambulance and lunged at Dillon, knocking him to the ground. She reached down with her good hand and grabbed his .38 and pulled it from its holster. It stunned Dillon how strong she was. She had taken him by surprise again, and was aiming the barrel of a gun at him. But before she could pull the trigger, an officer grabbed her. She shot the gun into the air as he spun her around. The officer grabbed the gun from her and restrained her, slamming her into the side of the ambulance, making her cry out in pain. Dillon stood to his feet and sighed deeply with relief.

  In the melee, Joe ran into the woods. While one officer retained Anne, the other one joined Dillon in chasing him into the thick brush near the intersection.

  Thorn vines grabbed at Dillon as he ran deeper into the forest. Joe was just ahead of him and he was catching him. Suddenly, Joe tripped and went to the ground. Dillon and the officer jumped on top of him. He thrashed like a cornered animal, but Dillon restrained him and got him to the ground, on his stomach. The officer pulled his arms behind him and put the handcuffs on his wrists. They stood him to his feet, and Dillon bent over, breathing heavily. “Don’t try that again,” he said to his captive.

  When they got back to the street, the ambulance had already taken Anne away. The officer read Joe his Miranda rights and placed him, still cuffed, in his back seat, strapping him in the seat belt so he could not escape again.

  Dillon walked over to the overturned truck. He looked in and saw an unopened smart phone lying on the roof. Now we're getting somewhere. He looked back at the police officers. “Will you come take a look at this and verify that this phone is in this truck?”

  “Sure,” one of them said as they both walked up and looked into the cab.

  Dillon typed their names into his cell phone. Then he reached in and took the phone. “Now, I've got to see if our records show this was stolen from us.” He shook the officers’ hands. “I appreciate your help. I'll be in touch.”

  Chapter Four

  Christopher Forrest stood at the back of East Springfield Fellowship Church Sunday morning, greeting parishioners as they came in for the service. He was glad to see Phyllis Eastland walking up the cement steps. It had been only three days since her husband's funeral, and since Christopher had stood in her home and listened to her tell him that Ron's company had somehow murdered him. “I'm so glad to see you this morning, Phyllis,” he said.

  “Well, I'm glad I was able to come.”

  “Are your sons still at your place?”

  “They're leaving today.” She adjusted the collar on her brown knee-length dress. “None of them would come to church with me. I told them fine, but I was going and they could eat left-overs for lunch before they go.”

  Christopher grinned and nodded. “Well, good for you Mrs. Eastland.” He tilted his head, studying her face. Then he softened his voice. “Are you okay?”

  “I guess so.” She continued past him. “I will be.”

  At eleven o'clock, the service began. A young man took the stage with his acoustic guitar and began the service with a Chris Tomlin worship song. The congregation stood to their feet and sang along. Christopher couldn't help but notice how down the attendance was that morning. The fall was usually good for attendance, but not this year. Where was everyone? The summer slump was over, school was back in session, the weather was pleasant. He had seen his church grow from about forty people when he came from Texas, to nearly two hundred in church on any given Sunday. But now, he had only a hundred or so on a good day. He tried not to think about it before his sermon. He didn't want to step into the pulpit discouraged.

  When it was time for his sermon, he stood to his feet. “I appreciate your being here this morning. Thanks for all the prayers and cards and flowers for Phyllis Eastland. She's here this morning and I've seen a lot of you hugging and encouraging her. I want to thank you for that. I've said before that we are Jesus in the skin today. When God wants to give me a hug, he uses your arms to do it. When he wants to encourage me, he uses your voice. It's so important that we love each other and encourage each other, especially in times of sorrow and loss.

  “If you will, stand with me as I read from Matthew eleven, one through six, this morning.” Christopher gave them a few minutes to stand and find the passage. Then he read from it. “After Jesus had finished instructing his twelve disciples, he went on from there to teach and preach in the towns of Galilee. When John heard in prison what Christ was doing, he sent his disciples to ask him, 'Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?' Jesus replied, 'Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor. Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me.'

  Christopher looked up from the text. “May God bless the reading of his Word this morning. You may be seated.” He watched the seventy or so people sit back down. The church had wooden pews and stained-glass windows. It had an old-timey feel to it, but most people dressed casually and the music was mostly contemporary. Sunlight spilled in through the windows and illuminated the empty seats in the front of the church. Only his wife and two sons were sitting near the front of the sanctuary.

  “This is an amazing passage when we think about who John the Baptist was. He was the man who baptized Jesus himself. Just after this passage, in verse fourteen, Jesus said he was the fulfillment of the last paragraph in the Old Testament, that said Elijah would return before the Messiah. Elijah was not reincarnated, but the prophecy meant that another Elijah would come to usher in the Christ.” He paused for effect. “John the Baptist was that man. The Bible says John the Baptist leaped in his mother's womb when Mary, who was carrying the Christ Child, came near. John the Baptist was full of the Holy Spirit, yet he began to doubt that Jesus was the Christ in this passage.

  “Why did he doubt? The same reason we doubt today: life isn't turning out like we thought it would. John was accustomed to being out in the open spaces, out in the desert, eating locust and honey, preaching and telling people to repent. Now, he was con
fined to a small jail cell. He undoubtedly expected Jesus to declare himself king, overthrow Rome, and come rescue him from prison. But instead he heard that Jesus was simply out preaching and healing people. This was not what he expected at all. So he began to wonder if Jesus really was the Christ.

  “This should encourage us today because if John the Baptist, the very man who baptized Jesus, had doubts, then we should know that it's okay if we do too. There will be days when we don't understand what Jesus is up to. Days when we feel he has let us down or that he isn't all he claimed to be. But Jesus didn't scold John. I want us to see what he told him in response.

  “Jesus quoted from two different scriptures in Isaiah. Two passages that show what the Messiah would do. He would heal the blind and the lame, the deaf and people with leprosy, and he would preach to the poor.” Christopher paused. “And Jesus added something more, he said that the dead were raised. Jesus was doing more than Isaiah said he would.

  “Jesus answered him by showing that he was fulfilling prophecy. Jesus didn't remind John what it felt like when he baptized him and heard the Father speak from heaven. He said for him to base his faith on the evidence and not on his feelings. That's the same message he has for us this morning: we should base our faith on the facts, not on our feelings. Our feelings will let us down. Doubts will creep in. But we cannot get away from the facts.”

  He pointed his index finger in the air, then counted upward with the others. “Fact: Jesus fulfilled more than three hundred and fifty direct prophecies from the Old Testament. Fact: The disciples were a bunch of cowards who ran when Jesus was arrested, but who gave their lives spreading the Gospel after they saw the risen Christ. Fact: Historians from two thousand years ago corroborate the Gospel narrative. Fact: We have more than twenty five thousand Greek manuscripts, some dating to within a hundred years of the autographs, the original writings. Fact: we have innumerable changed lives throughout history from people, some skeptics, who have believed and given their lives to Christ.