Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

  Just be cautious everywhere you go. You drove up to that liquor store without a care in the world. There could have been a gunman in the cars next to you when you pulled in, waiting to kill you. You’ve got to do better.

  Every future move would be carefully planned. He needed a gun for protection, and would keep it on him whenever he left to fuck with the past. The past seemed to leave people alone so long as they stuck to a routine. Calvin must have been closing in on something, or else those men would have never showed up.

  You can still stop Columbine, just take it slow and be ready for anything. The lives you save will thank you later. And so will Izzy.

  * * *

  Sonya had two more weeks of summer school. Once she was home for the summer, he’d have to leave the house every day and kill time while she thought he was at work.

  For now, he sat in his car, fighting off nerves, remaining confident in his mission. He pulled out of his driveway, not knowing what could happen as he started his trip across town to Littleton. His plan was simple: park a half mile down the long road, out of sight from the Klebold house, and walk to the property in search of a workable path to the woods behind the home. Then wait.

  It could be a day wasted, possibly a few days, but he had to stakeout and see if Dylan ever wandered into the woods, or at least step outside. If Dylan stayed inside all day, Martin would be left to peer through the windows from a distance.

  During the drive he listened to the sports radio station where the two hosts discussed the upcoming summer Olympics, eagerly awaiting to see how the Dream Team would follow up their prior gold medal in basketball. Martin smirked, knowing the team would win again without any issues. The talk shifted to the Colorado Rockies down season a year after making the playoffs when Martin pulled into the discreet neighborhood. He twisted down Cougar Road and pulled off, driving no more than ten miles per hour to quietly approach the familiar red barn.

  He squeezed the car into the tight space of dirt between the pavement and a ditch, and killed the engine, surprised he wasn’t shitting his pants, considering how close he was to touching the past.

  The day was already warming up and would be scorching by noon. Martin hadn’t planned how long he would hide out in the woods, but with one water bottle, knew he wouldn’t last too long.

  Don’t be such a pussy. You drove all this way. A little warm weather will not send you home.

  With his reassurance, he stepped out of the car and took crunching steps toward the long driveway, roughly a quarter mile away.

  A man in a Porsche drove by, but didn’t look in Martin’s direction. “Coast is clear,” he said, not seeing another car in sight, and broke into a slight jog, slowing as he approached the driveway.

  Everything appeared the same as his last visit, only this time he knew the future mass murderer had to be inside. High school kids rarely woke up before nine on summer break.

  Martin hid in the trees, darting from spot to spot like a fox as he made his way closer to the house. When he reached the top of the driveway he worked his way around the left side of the house, seeing the swimming pool as he passed.

  If Martin could know for certain he was alone with Dylan, he would approach him carefully. Surely the boy wouldn’t do anything to him, but this wasn’t exactly a neighborhood where a random stranger could get lost and need to ask for directions.

  Martin worked toward the back of the house, which revealed nothing of significance: a couple of frosted windows suggested bathrooms, and another window was blinded shut. It could be his bedroom. Back of the house, why not?

  The trees grew thicker behind the house, so much that Martin had to peer between multiple stumps for a clear view. He checked his watch to find the time as 8:15, and sat on the ground, sticks crunching beneath his heavy body. He thought back to when he was in high school and tried to remember what he did during summer break.

  He’d wake up around nine, lie in bed for another half hour, then eventually make his way to the kitchen for breakfast. After that he’d lie on the couch and watch TV until lunchtime, which at that point he’d finally get dressed for the day. With a sandwich made, he’d go back to the couch where a crater formed from his ass, and sat there until the news came on, meaning his parents would be home shortly, prompting him to finally make his bed and pick up his room.

  The good old days.

  Hopefully Dylan was a bit more active and would go for an afternoon swim or hike. Martin heard gravel crunching from the other side of the house and his heart started to rattle his rib cage.

  What the fuck?

  Someone was pulling up to the house and Martin sprinted through the trees to get a view of the front door and garage. Adrenaline flushed his system when he saw a cop car parked in the roundabout, and he positioned himself behind a thick tree stump that hid his whole body.

  A police officer stepped out of the squad car, taking a quick look around, before strutting up to the front door. He pounded on it with a hard fist, surely waking up anyone who might have still been asleep. The officer stood with his arms crossed as he waited.

  The door swung inward and Martin saw the face that sent chills down his spine.

  He’d only ever seen Dylan on the news, but knew him right away from his tall and lanky frame, long sandy hair, pale skin, and big nose. A face that would be etched forever in the history books. Martin hadn’t expected anyone else to answer, but seeing the boy for the first time threw his mind into a whirlwind. Dylan wore a striped bathrobe, and his hair was frazzled wildly in every direction.

  Rise and shine, he thought, now trying to focus his hearing on the conversation between Dylan and the officer. Martin was too far to hear anything, but could see the officer pointing toward the main road, where Dylan looked and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

  Did that asshole in the Porsche call the cops on me?

  He could imagine the conversation: the officer telling young Dylan to stay on the lookout for a suspicious man in the neighborhood, to not answer the door for anyone he didn’t know, and to call the police if he saw anything out of the ordinary. Only in an uppity neighborhood like this would the police arrive ten minutes after a “poor” man was seen walking around.

  Maybe I just wanted to go on a hike today. Is that illegal now?

  The officer handed Dylan what looked like a business card before returning to his squad car. The shiny Ford Crown Victoria circled the roundabout and disappeared down the driveway, crunching gravel on its way out.

  Martin remained frozen in the trees and watched Dylan close the door. “You’re home alone,” he whispered, knowing a parent would have answered the door under normal circumstances. His mind raced with possibilities and anticipation, yet his inner voice kept him in line.

  Leave. The kid is probably on high alert. What else would the police have come to the house to discuss? The past is already pushing back, don’t take any more chances.

  Martin could feel the house pulling him, daring him to ring the doorbell and see what would happen. His cover had already been somewhat blown for the day, however, but a trip back tomorrow would have to suffice. He now had the knowledge that Dylan was indeed still asleep as of 8:30 by the looks of his dazed and groggy face when he opened the door. He could plan to come back closer to nine to start his stakeout in the woods, and hopefully go unnoticed by any passing vehicles.

  As much as the decision pained him, Martin dashed through the trees back to the driveway. Once out of sight from the house, he stepped onto the gravel and walked at a brisk pace downhill. Panting for air by the time he reached the bottom, he looked around carefully in both directions to make sure there were no other cars, especially a police car.

  Damn this day, he thought. I had him right where I wanted: home alone. But now the whole town is on high alert because some rich asshole saw me walking on the road on his way to work.

  The past could go fuck itself, as far as Martin was concerned, and he continued to let his mind rage as he started on the quarte
r mile hike back to his car. Hopefully they didn’t tow me already.

  The sun beat down on him unforgivably, creating sweat beads around his neck that dripped down his back. He kept his head down as he walked, watching his shadow move with each step as gracefully as a dance partner. Birds sung tunes from high in the surrounding trees, and Martin caught a whiff of manure mixed in the freshness of the outdoors.

  Only Colorado has city life and farm life within a mile of each other, he thought in an attempt to take his mind off the botched morning. When he rounded the corner of Cougar Road he felt instant relief at seeing his car parked exactly where he had left it, and started whistling now that he could relax, knowing he could get home without a visit to the car impound.

  See, the past doesn’t have to ruin everything. It just wasn’t the right timing. Come back tomorrow, it’ll happen when it’s meant to be.

  He strolled to his beaten up car, wondering if he should have purchased a luxury vehicle to fit in better in Littleton. But, that was all in hindsight now, and he’d have to make do with what he had.

  He slapped the hood of the car, creating a hard thud that echoed and vibrated throughout the rest of the steel frame. “Ol’ reliable,” he cackled before pulling open the door, feeling an immediate heat wave escape like he had opened an over door instead. The temperature had to have risen at least fifteen more degrees during his quick ninety minutes away from the car. Maybe it was best he had to call off his plans for the day. The last thing he needed was to be passed out on the side of the road from dehydration. Ten Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs would pass him before someone decided to help, then he’d have to explain to the Littleton police why he was stranded in the middle of an upper class neighborhood in his junk car.

  Sorry, officer, I was looking for Arvada and took a wrong turn. And that’s why I’m half an hour away from the nearest middle class town.

  Surely that excuse would hold up – it was the 90’s, after all, and no one had handheld gadgets yet that could direct them from point A to point B as efficiently as possible.

  How did we ever survive? he wondered as he stared at the printed out directions on the passenger seat.

  After a minute of letting the heat escape the car, he sat down behind the wheel and fired up the engine. He waited, the gentle vibrations of the engine relaxing his body as he sipped the final remnants from his water bottle.

  I should find a pool. A pool and a frozen drink would go perfect right about now.

  The clock on the dashboard read 9:53, leaving him plenty of time to get drunk and still sober up before arriving home after five. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the thought of a piña colada. He’d have to find a library first to see where might even offer booze in the middle of a weekday.

  Maybe we can plan a trip to Vegas. I could get my drinks by the pool, and bet big money at the sportsbook without worrying about a bookie wanting to cut my dick off.

  Martin’s mind drifted into the fantasy that was Las Vegas as he put the car into gear. “Viva Las Vegas!” he shouted with a mad laugh.

  Last time he left the Klebold residence the route took him another ten minutes away from the highway, so today he turned onto the road to make a U-turn to save time.

  Martin didn’t see the speeding semi-truck until it was too late. The truck boomed its intimidating horn as the tires screeched, smoke filling the air like a wildfire. Martin looked out the passenger side window to the sight of dormant headlights and a chrome grill with Freightliner inscribed across the top. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he died in the past, then the truck slammed into his car, sending him tumbling like a boulder down the road as the windows shattered and the metal caved in.

  After an eternity of rolling in the car, it came to a halt. Martin looked out his window and saw the asphalt from the road. The car was on its side. Drops of blood had splattered everywhere in the car, and he could feel the liquid oozing from his forehead. He tried to move his hands, move his legs, but nothing would respond.

  Oh dear God, please no. Don’t let this be happening.

  His consciousness faded in and out, and all he could see in his mind was a laughing Chris. “I told you to be careful. You wanted to tango with the past, and this is what you get.”

  That old, evil smirk stayed in the front of his thoughts until blackness draped over, leaving Martin in a free falling sensation as the rest of the world turned dark.

  30

  Chapter 30

  Sonya arrived home at 5:30 like most evenings, kicking off her shoes and changing into sweatpants to lounge around the house. Martin would be home in a few minutes, and she thought she just might have a drink with him. She had a rough day at school where two of her students broke into a fight in the middle of a lecture. Apparently, young Christopher stole a Gameboy from little Tyler, and Tyler didn’t take it too well. Ah, summer school, where half the students genuinely need help and the other half are there to be kept off the streets. Sonya had caught a flying fist to her breast as she tried to break up the fight, and while it didn’t hurt, it still put a funk on the rest of her day.

  Once in her loungewear, she plopped down on the couch and cracked open a new romance book called The Notebook. Her and some of the other teachers at school participated in a book club where they read one new release each month, usually a steamy romance to escape the daily grind of the booger-flicking and hormonal preteens.

  She dove into the book, getting lost in the other world for a good half hour before realizing Martin still hadn’t arrived. Where could he be? she wondered as she put in her bookmark and tossed the novel on the coffee table.

  She crossed the room to the window overlooking the front yard and pulled back the shades to see if he was in the driveway or maybe coming down the street. He had always been prompt in coming home, but it was now 6:04, and he had never been home past six without giving her notice.

  The post office would have been closed already, too, so she couldn’t call to make sure he was okay. He had talked about buying a pager, but hadn’t got around to picking one up yet; that would have been handy in a moment like this and she’d be sure to remind him of that.

  Maybe he stopped at the bar for a drink. We could have both had a rough day, we’re usually in sync that way.

  She gave up on looking through the window and went to the kitchen to start dinner. She didn’t have much energy and boiled water for spaghetti, her go-to meal when she didn’t really want to cook. While the noodles cooked, she returned to her evening read, standing over the stove to stir the pasta every couple minutes. Surely Martin wouldn’t be any later than seven, when they typically sat down for dinner.

  The meal was ready by 6:26, and still no Martin, so she put some garlic bread in the oven to kill more time. Her lazy meal was turning into multiple courses now, and she grew more worried with each passing minute he didn’t arrive.

  What are you doing, Martin? This isn’t funny.

  “He’s just at a bar having a few drinks I’m sure. Maybe he went out with some friends after work.”

  But he had never mentioned any friends from work, let alone any coworkers in general. As far as she knew, he went in to work every day without speaking a word to anyone. His daily recap of the work day typically consisted of “Same shit, different day, how was yours?” He never complained about his boss or coworkers, or even the job itself. Sonya scratched her head, debating what to do.

  She could drive around to some of the local bars he liked to frequent, but if he had gone out downtown that would be a waste of time. The only friend he had ever mentioned was his old landlord. Maybe she would drive around just to see if his car was parked at any of the bars.

  Just give him until seven before you do anything. Do you really want to appear so clingy and paranoid?

  No, she certainly didn’t want to do that and would wait at the kitchen table until seven before making any decisions. There could have been a long line at the gas station, or maybe he got a flat tire. Maybe he stopped to buy he
r flowers and dessert for later. There were hundreds of possibilities and not all of them had to involve him being at a bar.

  What if he was in a car accident? She had kept this thought in the back of her mind as long as she could, but could no longer contain it. Martin had shown he was chaotic behind the wheel, but getting in an accident during rush hour would be difficult as the traffic coming north on I-25 was a sitting parking lot for the entirety of the drive.

  The oven dinged and she jolted out of her chair. She forgot about the bread and pulled it out immediately. The clock on the oven read 6:39 and she tried to keep her mind distracted. She could no longer wait and poured a glass of vodka, mixing in soda, and taking an aggressive sip.

  Just as she had done this, headlights poured through the living room window and brought instant relief. “Thank God,” she whispered, and pulled out two plates from the cupboard. See, you were just overreacting. Everything’s fine and now he’s home to have dinner and hear about your shitty day.

  She started to set the table when a booming knock came from the front door. Did he lose his house key? She crossed the room and froze when she saw a bulky policeman standing on the other side of the door. Even though a curtain hung over the door’s window, she could tell by the man’s build and hat, and the crackling of a radio.

  Oh, my God. No.

  She pulled open the door, it creaking and groaning, dreading what waited on the other side.

  The officer stood wide, broad shouldered, with his arms crossed. His name badge read Rawlings¸ and she could see the bad news swimming behind his brown eyes and stone face.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat. His voice came out hoarse and he had to clear his throat. “Are you Sonya Griffiths?”

  She wanted to tell him no, close the door, and crawl into her bed to pretend none of this was happening. He can’t be dead. He just can’t. A bulge formed in her throat that she had to force down before responding.