Nick of Time

by John Gilstrap

  The doctors had all kinds of euphemisms for it all—final decisions and terminal courses and God only knew what else—but when you cut through all the bullshit, it all added up the same: she had a year left in which to live a lifetime. She could do it her way and have fun, or she could do it her dad’s way and be miserable. Did they think there was even a choice to be made?

  The argument had continued all the way out of the doctor’s office, all the way home, and all the way through the evening. It wasn’t a discussion or a presentation of opinions, it was a real argument, and her father wasn’t about to lose. “We’re not discussing this, Nicolette,” he’d said, his face red and his eyes redder. “I know you don’t think this is fair, but you don’t have a vote. You’re a minor, and you’ll do what I tell you.”

  “I won’t,” she’d countered. “You can’t make me. If they hook me up, I’ll just undo the leads. I’m not spending a twelfth of my remaining life in some stupid hospital!”

  Her dad grew very serious with that, very quiet. Scary, almost, the way his eyes narrowed and his voice became barely audible. That’s when he threatened to have her arrested. Unbelievable. And the thing of it is, he was serious. Either she’d do things his way or he’d have her put in irons and tied down to the hospital bed.

  Then, the beeper had sounded, and for one brief spectacular moment, life had seemed fair.

  Here you go, Nicki. Here are the organs that will save your life.

  Ha! Only kidding!

  God, she hated doctors. Minutes after they had taken her new heart and lungs back, Dad and the mad scientists were treating her like a chemistry experiment again.

  And now she was cobbling together a new life.

  “Adios, assholes,” she muttered, drawing a look from a janitor old enough to have played soccer with Moses. When she fired off one of her patented “screw you” looks, the old man averted his eyes.

  Brad would be proud. He’d given her step-by-step directions on exactly what she should do. He’d told her the place to go, and even how much the bus fare would be to get there. Now she’d just have to hang around long enough for him to get the e-mail she’d sent this morning and then come to pick her up. He was the man with the plan, the one who told her not to worry about a thing.

  On paper, it had all sounded so romantic, but now that she was here, standing in a skanky bus station surrounded by so many strangers, so far away from home, the romance eluded her. Now that she thought about it—you know, really thought about it—how did she even know for sure that this guy who called himself Brad wasn’t some twisted imposter who’d done some really good research? On the Internet, you could be anyone you wanted to be. How many times had her father told her that?

  The familiar fluttery feeling tickled her stomach as a touch of panic gripped her, and she sat down in anticipation of the light-headedness that was never far behind when she got upset. By inhaling through her mouth, and then letting the breath go as a silent whistle, she could actually wrestle her heart rate down.

  And nobody cared. Was that terrific, or what? Nobody rushed to her side, felt her wrist, or offered to get her a drink of water. Out here, no one knew anything about her. It was liberating as hell. As far as any of these strangers knew, she was just a regular teenager; maybe a runaway, maybe not. Maybe a fugitive from the law. Or, maybe just a girl waiting for her grandmother to get in from Toledo.

  It was as if she’d been given a chance to reinvent herself, for as long as her body would let her. Keep your marijuana and your booze, baby. This freedom shit was the greatest high in the world.

  “Nicolette Janssen?” The voice came from behind her, and sounded nothing like she’d remembered.

  She whirled on her bench, and there he was, a fully grown, slightly bulkier version of the boy she remembered. He sported a beard now, albeit it a little scraggly, a darker brown than his yellow hair would have implied, and there was a certain pallor about him that led her to believe that he’d lost his passion for sunbathing. There was no mistaking that smile, though—a flash of brilliant white. When he pulled the sunglasses off, she knew for sure.

  “I hate that name,” she said, wishing there was a way to control the heat that spread through her cheeks.

  Brad tossed off a shrug. “I know. But I think it’s pretty. I hear ‘Nicolette’ and I think ‘class.’” He moved his shoulders to adjust the straps on his backpack.

  Nicki smiled in spite of herself and blushed even brighter. “When I hear it, all I think of is some fat French barmaid.”

  Brad laughed and came around to her side of the bench, where he held out his hand. “Come on, now, stand up. Let me see you.”

  This was the moment of truth—the moment when he’d see what he’d gotten himself into. Stand and let me see you. Let me see how fat you really are. She stood hesitantly, sheepishly, her face so hot that it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  “You look terrific,” he said. “Even better than I’d imagined.”

  They stood there, looking at each other, neither knowing exactly what the next step should be. Brad made the move. He spread his arms wide, inviting a hug, and Nicki stepped closer. She moved haltingly, as if to keep from scaring him off, but when she was finally within reach, he enfolded her in a bear hug. Her face pressed against the muscles of his chest, still defined beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. He smelled . . . rugged. It wasn’t the aftershave smell that she’d come to associate with men she’d met through her father. This was the smell of a man who knew what real work was. Not flowery, but certainly not unpleasant. When he didn’t let go, she finally allowed herself to hug him back.

  He eased her back out to arm’s length, his hands still firmly on her shoulders. “God, it’s great to see you again. Was your trip okay?”

  “As good as it could be, I suppose.”

  He laughed. “Too important to ride the bus, eh?”

  Nicki’s instinct was to be defensive, but something told her to hold off—that he wasn’t being critical.

  “Are you ready for your adventure?” he asked.

  Nicki made a face that said he was crazy. “You mean about who I want to pretend to be?”

  “There’s no pretending to it. Who do you want to be?”

  Nicki waved him off. Surely, he hadn’t been serious about that. Real was real. What was the point of this?

  “Come on, now, tell me. Who do you want to be?”

  “This is silly.”

  Brad shrugged. “Okay, it’s silly. Now, tell me.”

  “I want to be me.” Nicki wasn’t sure why this conversation made her feel uncomfortable.

  “Bullshit”

  Nicki looked offended. “And what’s wrong with being me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with being you. I’m the one who’s been telling you that for the last four months. But it’s not about what I want; it’s about what you want. Now come on, humor me. Who do you want to be? It can be anybody at all, real or imagined, present or past.”

  “I’m not good at these kinds of games.” Nicki heard the whininess in her voice and it embarrassed her.

  Brad planted his fists on his hips and cocked his head to the side. It was a gesture of good-humored frustration. He gestured to the bench and they sat down again. He tried to look at her, but Nicki couldn’t tolerate the heat of his eyes. “Hey,” he said. His voice was much softer now. Gentle, even. “Work with me here. This is supposed to be your escape.”

  Inexplicably, Nicki found herself close to tears. “I’m here,” she said.

  Brad laughed again. “Your body is here. Now, let your mind escape, too. Dream a little. Who do you want to be?”

  The whole concept was just so foreign to her. The urge to cry grew stronger. She didn’t know how to play this kind of game.

  “Come on, Nicki,” Brad urged. “Just this one time, loosen up. Give me a name.”

  Nicki sighed. He wasn’t going to cut her a break. Brad Ward in person was exactly the same as Brad Ward on the computer: kind, always unde
rstanding, but never giving an inch. Not on the important stuff, not on the stuff that he wanted for her. “Okay,” she said, finally surrendering to the ridiculous notion. “I want to go to a prom.”

  Brad beamed. “Perfect,” he said.

  “Perfect for what?”

  “Perfect for both of us.”

  Nicki was confused.

  “I get to be prom king.”

  Nicki loved the way his mind could just jump around like that, asking questions one second and then making proclamations the next. “What makes you think you wouldn’t be runner-up?” she asked.

  Brad didn’t drop a beat: “Because of the arm candy I’ll have with me.” He stood and held out his hand. “Time to go.”

  “Where?”

  He beckoned with his fingers and she took his hand.

  “Are you going to tell me?” she pressed.

  “To your fantasy,” he said, and they started toward the door.

  March 2

  Okay, I’m not pissed anymore. Derek’s mother made him a pound cake. The guards let him keep most of it, and what was left, he shared with me. Gave me half. Exactly half. And he said that his mother was going to pray for me. Next visiting day, she’s going to ask to see me, too, so I can have someone to talk to.

  It’s hard to be pissed at someone who does something good for you.

  Chapter Six

  Deputy Sheriff Darla Sweet thumbed the button on the microphone. “Unit six-oh-four is ten-eight, leaving the Lion.” She’d finished her dinner at the Shore Road Deli, and was back in service, leaving the Food Lion parking lot.

  The dispatcher, George Sugrue, sounded bored as he responded, “Ten-four, six-oh-four, nineteen twenty-one hours.”

  Darla allowed herself to relax after the channel clicked dead, relieved that George hadn’t pulled one of his adolescent radio pranks. He delighted in referring to Deputy Sweet as Darling or Sweet-cheeks on the radio. Darla had protested a dozen times to Sheriff Hines about it, but she’d never gotten through. In the Essex, North Carolina, Sheriff’s Department, you were either part of the in-group, or you were not. She was not. The fact that she had a four-year degree in criminal justice, or that she could out-shoot, out-run, and out-think every other deputy in the department couldn’t make up for the one qualification she neither had nor wanted: a penis. Not that they hadn’t all offered to let her play with theirs from time to time.

  Darla was living up to the commitment she’d made to herself to stick it out through two years. With that much experience under her Sam Browne belt, she’d be able to go anywhere in the country and get a job on a department where her skills would be appreciated. The good news was, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, Darla knew without doubt that no matter what lay ahead, she would be able to say that she’d already had the worst job in law enforcement.

  Relief was on the horizon, though. In two weeks it would be Memorial Day and after that, Sheriff Hines would be free to hire in the supplemental force of summer deputies to help with the influx of tourists. For at least a few months, then, Darla would no longer be the only outsider to be shunned by the inner circle.

  But two weeks was two weeks, and for the time being, it was Darla versus the department, with no reinforcements. Actually, she’d reached a certain peace with it. Let George Sugrue get his jollies calling her names, and let the rest of the department think that he was getting the best of her. Fact was, ten years from now, Darla Sweet would be a detective in a major police force somewhere, on her way to a command position, while those goobers were still yukking it up in Essex. Success was always the best revenge.

  Darla piloted her cruiser through the parking lot, looking for trouble. Not to cause it, but to break it up when she saw it brewing. She learned last year that these middle two weeks in May were the toughest time for law enforcement here. The spring break hellions were gone, and the real-money tourists wouldn’t start arriving till June, leaving great beachfront rental bargains to be scarfed up by college kids who then jammed thirty people into houses built to sleep ten, drinking themselves into oblivion. They’d get into fights and hurt themselves, or merely fall off the dune decks and hurt themselves, and every father in town would complain that their darling daughters had been asked by these pigs to do something unspeakable.

  Not that far removed from the end-of-the-school-year party crowd herself, Darla understood how it all worked, and the partying, per se, wasn’t what bugged her. What knotted her panties was the blatant way in which they flaunted their disobedience of the law, and Sheriff Hines’s ready willingness to let them get away with it.

  Right now, for example, in front of the Food Lion, three-quarters of the parking spaces were taken, and it was a pretty safe bet that the kiddies weren’t shopping for vegetables. In fact, at this very moment, three boys who couldn’t be older than sixteen hadn’t even bothered to wrap their twelve-pack of Coors in a bag as they carried it to their car. They knew—as every tourist figured out after a season or two of visiting their fair town—that down here in Vacationland, you didn’t need IDs or permission slips. Sheriff Hines knew as well as they did that the fastest way to get yourself unelected was to do anything to inhibit the flow of money into the pockets of the citizen-merchants. Essex businessmen tolerated five tons of bullshit from tourists every single day, thank you very much, and their only satisfaction was the cash left behind in their wake. So long as it didn’t involve illegal drugs or violence against fellow tourists, Essex was an anything-goes oasis in the summertime. Kids could drink themselves into a stupor and fornicate themselves raw on the beaches. There was even an early-morning beach patrol to clean up the rubbers and other trash before the sun worshipers could hit the sand.

  It was the job of the Essex County Sheriff’s Department to walk a legal and political tightrope, making sure that the permanent residents of the community—the voters—remained unharrassed by the visitors, while at the same time making sure that the visitors enjoyed the sense of freedom that kept them coming back for more.

  Darla had drawn duty on the north end of the county tonight—the sector with the most year-round residents. As she pulled into traffic, she checked her watch and sighed. It wasn’t yet seven-thirty, and her tour went till midnight. This one had a long-and-boring feel to it.

  Ahead and on the right, the sign for Surf’s Up Amusements stood sentry over a field of weeds, marking the entrance to the dilapidated park. It looked like one of those rickety fairs that they used to set up in supermarket parking lots when she was a kid—the ones with the cheesy freak shows, and rides whose only real thrill came from the fear that the ancient Tilt-A-Whirl might disintegrate under the strain. Last season, she’d put even money on whether the Ferris wheel would finally spin itself off its axle.

  Darla made a point of swinging through the closed park a couple of times every tour, recognizing it as an excellent place for criminals of every stripe to conduct business beyond the view of the public. Call her paranoid, but if there was one place in the world where she herself would be inclined to hide a body, the Surf’s Up was it.

  Darla stopped at the main gate long enough to pull the padlock off the chain that kept it closed, then climbed back into her cruiser. Weeds grew from cracks in the sidewalk, and the finish on the Go-Go-Go Carts sign was even dimmer and more chalky than last year. Flaking rust displayed the rot on every one of the metal rides, despite the owners’ valiant effort to conceal it with a thick coating of red paint.

  Darla drove slowly, weaving between the rides and behind the various buildings, doing everything she could to make as little noise as possible. What was the sense of going through this exercise, after all, if you were going to telegraph your every move to the bad guys?

  Movement to her left drew Darla’s eyes around to the Fun House. It was a flash of something, visible only for a fraction of an instant, but it registered as someone ducking quickly behind the corner. She coasted to a stop, then gently opened her door and walked in that direction, her hand instinctively resting
on the grip of her Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. Essex hadn’t yet made the switch to automatics as standard issue for their officers, and at $22K a year, she wasn’t in a position to buy one of her own. Not if she was still going to pay for rent and groceries.

  Merely being in the presence of the Fun House gave Darla the heebie-jeebies. She’d visited it once, shortly after she’d moved here, and what she saw still haunted her dreams: a two-headed fetus, floating in its amniotic formaldehyde. That, and a lamp shade supposedly made of human flesh from a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, featuring the anchor-and-globe insignia from the United States Marine Corps.

  Darla could smell the marijuana in the air even before she turned the corner, and the giggling gave the perpetrators away as a couple of kids.

  They were trying to make themselves invisible behind some scrub pine, up against the eight-foot chain-link fence that eliminated any hope of bolting and getting away. Truth be told, if they had tried to run, she probably wouldn’t have worked all that hard to stop them. What the hell else did teenagers have to do in a town like this but get high from time to time?

  “All right, boys, this is the sheriff’s department,” she said, thumbing the strap off of her weapon, just to be on the safe side. “Show me your hands first, and then show me the rest of you. Step on out and let’s not have any problems, okay?”

  There was more giggling as one set of hands showed themselves, followed a second later by another pair. “You’re gonna be sorry,” someone laughed. “This is not going to look good on your record.”

  The other voice said, “Shut up, Peter.”

  “Sounds like good advice to me, Peter,” Darla said. “Both of you show yourselves.”

  The two boys couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, and judging from the droopy, weepy look to their eyes, they’d been toking for quite some time. One of them—the taller of the two—had spiked, jet-black hair, while the other looked as if he just came off the golf course. Mr. Conservative’s buttoned T-shirt bore the logo of the Essex High School Panthers’ baseball team. Snorting through stifled giggles, they could barely put one foot in front of the other as they staggered out from behind the bush to present themselves to Deputy Sweet.