The Store

by Bentley Little

  Bill hadn't been himself, either, but then he hadn't really been himself since he'd found the body of that transient. That was understandable, she supposed, although she didn't really understand this phobia he seemed to have in regard to The Store. Yes, the body had probably freaked him, and she understood his anger toward The Store for raping that beautiful piece of land, but she didn't understand this almost pathological grudge he seemed to have against the place. She'd been feeling out of sorts herself lately, and although she put that down to the usual holiday pressures and Bill's one-note Store complaints, there was another, missing element as well, and she couldn't quite figure out what it was.

  Bill returned, picked up his presents from the living room floor, and put them on the kitchen counter. He took her in his arms, kissed her, smiled at her.

  "Thanks for the presents," he said. "It was a wonderful Christmas."

  It wasn't, and she knew it, but she smiled back, kissed him. "I love you,"

  she told him.

  "I love you, too."

  Next year would be better, she thought. She'd make sure it was better.

  SIX

  1

  There was something about The Store building that he didn't like.

  Ted Malory stood up straight, wincing as his back unbent. He'd been up here for three days now, with his usual crew and a group of four pickup workers.

  He'd never landed a job this big before, and he'd been pretty damn excited when he'd gotten the contract. Every roofing company in Gila, Coconino, and Yavapai counties had bid on this one, and when he'd learned that The Store had awarded it to him, he'd been ecstatic. Not only would this mean big bucks, but if they pulled off this baby, he'd be able to parlay it into other, bigger jobs. He saw them roofing NAU buildings and Little America in Flagstaff, the El Tovar at the Grand Canyon.

  Who knew where this might lead?

  But it hadn't worked out the way he'd planned.

  For one thing, he discovered, there wasn't as much money to be made as he'd originally thought. Or as much as the size of the job warranted. The Store had a take-it-or-leave-it standard contract and did not negotiate. They set the terms, and if he didn't like it, there were plenty of others who would jump at the opportunity to do the work.

  So he'd taken it. He didn't like it, but he'd agreed to it.

  Part of the deal was that he was responsible for all costs. The Store was paying a flat fee, and out of that, he had to pay labor expenses and purchase all materials for the job. He had no problem with that. His price quotes usually included supplies, and he got a good deal from his buddy Rod Hawkins in Mesa.

  But the terms of this agreement specified that he had to buy all material from The Store's wholesale supplier, and those prices were much higher than Rod's.

  The Store's representative also seriously undercalculated the time it would take to roof the building, considering the time of year and the total square footage of the project. They'd already lost two days because of snow.

  The way he figured it, after this was all over, he'd barely be breaking even. But that wasn't all.

  That wasn't even half of it.

  Ted looked over the raised edge of the roof toward the mountains. Snow still covered Hunter's Peak, and the other mountains closer in were also swathed in white. He took a deep breath, glancing over at the northwest corner of the roof and the black plastic garbage sack. He quickly looked away. Each morning when they'd arrived, there'd been dead birds on the roof. Crows. They hadn't been shot, they seemed to have no injuries, they'd just . . . died.

  And fallen out of the sky onto the roof of The Store.

  It was unsettling and a little creepy, but Joe Walking Horse thought it was more than that, and the second time it happened, he quit. On the spot. He'd simply turned and stepped back down the ladder the way he'd come up.

  Joe was his best man, his most experienced worker and fastest shingler, but Ted had been so pissed off that he'd told the Indian that if he left now he'd never work for his company again. Joe had not even hesitated as he'd continued down the ladder. He'd simply called out to Ted that it had been a pleasure working with him and had walked across the open ground to his pickup, gotten in and driven off.

  Ted regretted his behavior already, and he planned to apologize to Joe and offer him his old job back once The Store was finished. But Joe's dread seemed to have affected the rest of the men as well, and it had been an unusually somber few days. Hargus hadn't even brought his boom box to work, and Hargus brought his boom box everywhere.

  Even he had felt uneasy, and though he'd tried to make sure they worked fast in order to finish this roof as quickly as possible, he also made sure they did the best job they could.

  He didn't want to have to come back to fix mistakes.

  He hadn't said word one to Charlinda, though. She still thought this job was a godsend, and he let her think so. She was superstitious enough as it was, what with all the astrology and tarot cards and crap, and the last thing he needed to do was tell her that Joe Walking Horse had walked and that they were all spooked by the place. That'd send her off the deep end.

  He yelled out for everyone to take a ten-minute break, and he grabbed a beer out of the cooler and walked over to the edge of the roof, glancing down at the parking lot. It had just been given a layer of sealant the day before, and was scheduled to be painted tomorrow. The lot was massive, stretching all the way out to the edge of the highway, big enough to accommodate every vehicle in town with room to spare. Nine acres of asphalt.

  It was a shame, really, because this had been such a nice meadow. With only minimal effort, it would have been possible to do what had been done with Buy-and-Save or KFC -- construct the lot to fit the contours of the land and keep the biggest and best trees. But not only had the existing trees been cut down and hauled away, no new ones had been planted.

  No shade.

  In Arizona.

  He shook his head. Oh, well. He supposed it would boost The Store's sale of windshield sunscreens come June.

  Actually, he was a little surprised by the lack of landscaping. Even small businesses usually tried to make their places attractive and eye-pleasing. But The Store's exterior was strictly functional: tan cinder-block building, white sidewalk border, flat black parking lot. No plants, no trees, no decoration. It looked more like a prison than a retail outlet.

  Below, a worker carrying a large metal pole was walking out of The Store to his truck, parked directly in front of the entrance.

  Ted looked off into the distance. Hargrove's death hadn't even slowed down construction. The Store had simply brought in one of its own men, and work had continued, alternating shifts working twenty-four hours a day the last two weeks in order to meet the deadline for the bonus.

  He'd heard from Frank Wilson, who'd worked with Hargrove on the project, that the building had a basement as deep as all get out, and that there were a couple of other construction quirks that The Store had insisted upon. No one knew why, but no one had dared ask, and The Store's plans had been followed to the letter.

  Dead birds and secret basements.

  It was all a little . . . spooky.

  No, not a little.

  A lot.

  Shivering, he finished off his beer, dropped the can on the roof, and walked back to where he'd been working.

  2

  "Can I talk to you?"

  Shannon looked up from the dirt to see Mindy Hargrove sitting on the weathered pine bench by the side of the road that served as a school bus stop.

  Mindy hadn't been to school much lately, had been acting, well, weird, since her dad died, but now she looked positively freaked. Her hair was uncombed, her jeans filthy, her once-white blouse half-unbuttoned. There was a wildness to her eyes and the cast of her features that Shannon had never seen before and that made her feel a little bit frightened. She wondered if Mindy was having some sort of nervous breakdown, if she'd gone crazy, and she quickly looked up and down the road, searching for signs of someone
else, but there was no one here except Mindy and herself.

  "Uh, I have to get going," Shannon said. "I'm late already, and my mom's waiting for me."

  Mindy stood, walked toward her. "I know your dad doesn't like The Store.

  That's why I thought I could talk to you."

  Shannon shifted her books from her left hand to her right. Mindy had been bad enough when she'd been a spoiled stuck-up bitch, but this new Mindy, this intense, emotionally disturbed Mindy who for some strange reason wanted to talk to her, even though they'd been bitter enemies since third grade, was even worse. She wanted to get out of here and away from her as quickly as she could, but she forced herself to remain pleasant and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. "It's not that he doesn't like The Store. It's more that he doesn't like where they're building it and the way they're building it."

  Mindy glanced furtively around to make sure they weren't being spied upon.

  "It's built with blood," she said.

  Shannon started backing away, keeping her eyes on the other girl. "Look, I've really gotta go."

  "I'm serious. They put blood in the concrete. It was in the plans they gave my dad. Tell your dad. Maybe he can tell that guy from the newspaper and they can do something about it."

  "Okay," Shannon said, humoring her. "I'll tell him."

  "It's built with blood. That's why my dad was killed."

  Your dad was killed because he was driving drunk, Shannon thought, but she smiled and nodded and continued backing away, finally quickening her pace, breaking into a jog. She looked behind her as she ran, but the road was empty, the bench was empty, and Mindy was gone.

  3

  Bill finished the GIS documentation on the last Saturday of January. He uploaded the completed manual, sent it off to the company, and celebrated the way he did at the end of every project: he opened his middle desk drawer, took out a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, cranked up the radio, leaned back in his chair, and enjoyed.

  He stared out the window as he ate. It had been raining for two days, the rain melting away the last of the snow, and it was still drizzling now, the trees outside little more than black silhouettes in the mist. He finished his Reese's, tossed the wrapper in the wastepaper basket. This was when he was really able to take advantage of the fact that he worked at home. Instead of sitting at his desk, finding papers to shuffle, pretending to look busy for the benefit of any supervisors who happened to pass by, he could watch TV, read a book, take a trip, do whatever he wanted until the next project came along. He was on salary, not an hourly wage, and as long as he did his work and met his deadlines, the company didn't care how he spent his extra hours.

  In other words, his competence and efficiency were rewarded with spare time.

  God bless technology.

  He switched off his computer, stood, stretched, and walked out of his office and down the hall. The kitchen smelled of Campbell's tomato soup, and the insides of the windows were fogged with condensation. It seemed warm, cozy, and comfortable, and with the girls gone, it felt almost the way it had when they were newlyweds, when they were too poor to go anywhere or do anything and their chief form of entertainment had been sex.

  Ginny was at the stove, stirring the soup, and he walked behind her, reached his hand between her legs, grabbed her. She yelled for him to knock it off and practically hit him with the spoon, a spattering of hot soup hitting his cheek. "Jesus!" he said.

  "That'll teach you not to sneak up on me like that."

  He wiped the soup off his cheek. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing," she said. "I'm making lunch. I wasn't expecting to be molested."

  "Who did you think it was? I'm the only one in the house."

  "That's not the point."

  "I used to do that all the time. You used to like it."

  "Well, now I don't." She did not look at him but kept her back to him as she continued stirring the soup. "Wash up," she said. "It's time to eat."

  He sighed. "Look, let's not fight. I'm sorry I --"

  She turned around, surprised. "Who's fighting?"

  "I thought you were angry with me."

  "No."

  He grinned. "Then how about bending over the table so I can do my manly duty?"

  She laughed. "How about washing your hands so we can eat lunch?"

  "After lunch?"

  She smiled. "We'll see."

  They did make love after lunch, a quickie in the bedroom in case Samantha or Shannon came home early, and afterward he decided to get out of the house and take a walk. The rain had stopped sometime in the last hour, and he'd been cooped up inside for far too long and felt like getting outdoors. He asked Ginny to go with him, but she said she wasn't in the mood, and besides, she had some magazines to catch up on.

  He walked into town alone, enjoying the smell of fresh rain on the roads and the sight of the clearing sky, the cracks of blue that were peeking out from between the parting grayness. He walked over to Street's store, said hello to his friend, shot the breeze a little, then stopped by Doane Kearns's music shop across the street, digging through the bins of used records against the far wall to see if he could find anything interesting, picking up a bootleg Jethro Tull and an old Steeleye Span album that he'd had in college but had lost somewhere along the way.

  Before heading home, he walked into the cafй for a quick cup of coffee. As usual, Buck and Vernon were sitting at the counter, arguing. Today's bone of contention was country music.

  "So sue me," Vernon was saying. "I like Garth Brooks."

  "Garth Brooks is a pussy! Waylon Jennings. Now there's a real singer."

  "Language!" Holly called from behind the counter.

  "Sorry," Buck said.

  Vernon grinned. "Is Waylon Jennings still alive?"

  "You'll rot in hell for that one, son."

  Bill sat down at the opposite end of the counter, nodding to the two men, who nodded back.

  Holly stopped by, asked if he wanted a menu, but Bill said that all he was after was coffee, and she turned around, poured him a cup, and set it down in front of him.

  "Bill."

  He swiveled in his seat to see Williamson James, the owner of the cafй, walking out from the kitchen through the door next to the jukebox.

  "How goes it?"

  Bill shrugged. "Can't complain."

  The cafй owner sat down on the stool next to him, motioned for Holly to pour him a cup of coffee as well. "Catch that game on Thursday?"

  Bill shook his head.

  "That's right. You don't go in much for football, do you?"

  "Football, basketball, baseball, soccer, hockey. Don't watch any of 'em."

  "You ever even play sports?"

  "Nope."

  "What about in school?"

  "Well, yeah. PE. I had to. No choice. But not on my own."

  "Why not?"

  "Never liked 'em. Sports are for people who can't handle freedom."

  "What?"

  "They're for people who need to be told what to do with their free time, who can't think of things to do by themselves, who need rules and guidelines to follow. Like people who spend their free time going to Vegas, gambling. Same thing. Rules. You're told what to do. Other people decide for you how your time is to be spent. I guess for some people it takes the pressure off. They don't have to think on their own; everything's been set up for them already."

  The old man thought on this for a moment, digested it. He nodded slowly.

  "I can see your point," he said.

  Bill laughed. "You're the first person who has."

  Williamson cleared his throat, leaned forward. "I'm putting the cafй up for sale," he said.

  "What?"

  "Shhh. Keep it down." The old man made a lowering gesture with his hands.

  "I haven't told anyone yet. Even Holly doesn't know."

  "Why? What's the matter?"

  "Nothing's the matter. It's just that . . ." He trailed off. "The Store's going to be opening p
retty soon. It'll be putting a lot of us out of business."

  Bill shook his head. "That won't affect the cafй."

  "They're going to have their own coffee shop. Not just a snack bar. A coffee shop."

  "Doesn't matter."

  "I'm afraid it does."

  "This cafй's a landmark. People aren't going to abandon this place in order to eat and drink inside a discount store. This place is a part of Juniper."

  Williamson smiled sadly. "The fact is, no one cares about supporting us local businesses. Yeah, the cafй's a landmark, and when it's gone everyone'll miss it, and your friend Ben'll write a heartwarming story about the way things used to be. But the truth is that once The Store's coffee shop starts offering coffee for a nickel cheaper than mine, or fries for a quarter less, these guys'll be out of here so fast it'll make my head spin." He nodded toward Buck and Vernon. "Even those two."

  Bill shook his head. "I don't think so. It's not the prices that bring people here, it's the atmosphere, it's . . . it's everything."

  "You're wrong. You might not think it's price. But it is. Everything's economics. And once The Store starts buying big flashy ads in the paper, trumpeting their great bargains, everyone'll flock over there.

  "I'm barely making it as it is," Williamson continued. "I can't afford to compete. I'd get my ass whupped in a price war. The Store can hold out forever.

  It can lowball me until I'm bankrupt." He sighed. "I can see the writing on the wall. That's why I want to unload this place before the shit hits the fan, while I can still get a decent price for it."

  He was silent for a moment, looking around the cafй. "What I wanted to ask you about is advertising on that Internet thing. I figured if anybody'd know how to go about doing something like that it'd be you. I'm going to put an ad in the trades and all that, maybe even one with Ben, though I don't think any locals can afford to buy the place. But I thought I might send it out by computer, too.