Cradle Robber

by Staron, Chris

  He ran up behind the kid, grabbed him by the back of the jacket, and pushed him with superhuman force against the brick wall. Carter's head hit hard, cracking his neck. Carter swung his arms, trying to land a punch on Wade, but Wade deflected the blows with ease. He hit the kid square on the side of his face once, twice, and then pushed his jaw with his palm, forcing the young man's head against the wall.

  Carter's eyes filled with horror. Wade liked it. Power rose like a fire inside his chest. The kid squirmed in his hands. He could end it right there on the sidewalk. Ten years of rage, loneliness, anger, all put to rest. Carter didn't know what hit him. Swinging again and again, Carter struggled, but every time he did, Wade deflected his punches and shoved him with even greater force.

  Wade leaned close to the boy, inches away. “Don't scream. Don't scream. You don't know anything. You're a stupid kid. You be careful. You be careful what you say. I'm going to give you one more chance to apologize. Weigh your decision because you can't imagine the repercussions of this moment.”

  Carter was trapped, bested by an older man in a sudden attack. He spit in Wade's face, gritting his teeth.

  “There's your answer.”

  Wade released Carter with a shove. The young man brushed himself off, wiping saliva from his lips.

  “It's on your head,” said Wade backing away. “Goodbye, Carter. Goodbye.”

  That was the last time anybody saw Carter alive.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wade burst through his front door, mind reeling. Everything was automatic, rehearsed. Nothing could go wrong. He ran to the garage and pulled the cover off the machine. He checked the drawer where he stowed a box full of photographs, documents, and legal pads from weeks of stalking and watching. Everything in place. He pulled open another drawer, this one lined with blueprints, research, and provisions for an extended trip. Check. Ready for the slightest contingency.

  A strange relief calmed his mind—Carter gave him permission to pull the lever and go ahead with his plan. How comforting to give in. No need to fight the temptation to fire up the machine. A moral imperative dictated that he must.

  Actions have consequences. Carter spit in his face. God wouldn't exact revenge on Carter. The burden of justice fell on him.

  The rhetoric he packed into his soul burst forth like a cancer, eating away at his inhibitions, allowing him to justify whatever came about. Images of unborn children loomed in front of him. He'd seen hundreds of photographs of babies born by induced labor, abandoned in closets, stacked in piles, left to die. Children crying as their strung-out parents ignored them in their drug-induced stupor. Young professionals shirking their responsibilities and walking away from their problems, ignoring the consequences of their actions.

  How he'd fought. How many days he'd spent protesting in front of the clinics. The hours he'd wasted mentoring teenagers, only to have them march back into the group after aborting a child as if nothing happened. Well, something did happen. Someone died as a result of their careless actions.

  He rolled open the garage door. Endless stars loomed above. Wade ducked behind the machine and disengaged the brakes. He pushed, leaning in with his shoulder. The old tires groaned after ten years of sitting stationary on the hard cement floor. It grew easier to make progress as the machine gained momentum.

  Anger urged him forward into the blackness of the night. The garage fell away, a beacon of light silhouetting him as he progressed from his cement driveway to an old dirt path that jutted into the backyard. A barn once stood at the rear of his vast property a half-century earlier. A vague outline of a dirt drive remained the only visible sign of the old farm.

  A quick glance in all directions. Alone. Secluded. Nobody watching. The perfect spot.

  The machine came to rest on a slight rise in the middle of his backyard. Wade kicked the brake and tested his work. Solid. It didn’t budge. He ran around the side of the machine, checking gauges and wires.

  He laid out each element to operate at optimum ability. Every wire tie lined up according to plan. The machine resembled a large box with a series of exposed cords and tubes tucked together. He did little for aesthetics, and avoided coverings and hoods other than those necessary for his safety. One lone chair poked out of the midsection of the beast, accompanied by a seat belt, computer console, and the several built-in filing cabinets.

  His quick survey complete, Wade lifted himself into the driver’s chair and grabbed the wheel. Switches flipped, toggles moved. With a turn of the key, the diesel engine grunted, rose to life, and settled back. Noise shattered the stillness of the evening. Wade pulled on a set of ear protection headphones. The trees swayed, the yard transformed into a contained storm center. Leaves rustled, grass jerked and curled. A small digital display near his knees kicked to life, lighting the rest of the control panel. Wade punched in a series of numbers on the keypad and engaged a toggle. The machine lurched forward. Electrical charges licked the ground in front of him. They danced like brilliant snakes, curling and lashing at the machine.

  Wade took a deep breath and ran through his mental checklist. Everything was secured. No turning back.

  The apple, the one Wu sent across the room, popped into his mind. The stem ended up in the wrong place. His transporter crippled that poor mouse. Was he ready for a human subject? Of course he was. Still, he prepared for the possibility that his life might end. The time for experiments had passed. This was real.

  Wade's body shook as he grasped the steering mechanism. A tear rolled down his cheek. He wasn't ready to die. This could be his execution if everything didn't go as planned. His cold, clammy hand hovered over the final toggle.

  Do it. Pull the lever. What's it going to take? Be a man, pull the lever.

  Tremors passed through his muscles, resisting the action that could mean death in an electric flash.

  “God,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

  He threw his arm forward, jamming the lever into position. A shot of white-hot sparks blew out, setting the grass on fire. Pain jolted up his spine, sending his nervous system into shock. His body fell limp, head colliding with the steering wheel. The machine roared and bucked. Dirt and rocks blew in every direction and the valley filled with a blinding white light. Shock waves tore the ground, splitting the shale into loose shards beneath the machine. Tree limbs splintered and broke.

  Wade's head throbbed. Mad beams of light burned his retinas, searing wild images into his eyes. Waves of electricity ripped through his skin, convulsed the muscles, and burned his bones from the inside. The world transformed into a Technicolor nightmare of evil lights and bitter sounds.

  Everything went silent.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Traci's heavy boots stopped dead at the end of the cracked cement walkway. A lump of dirty clothes blocked the screen door on the porch. Something was wrong. She sensed it. Traci’s arms wrapped around her tall, skinny frame. How much misery could one twenty-year-old take? An early morning, a bad day at work. Now this. She brushed her dark, lifeless hair from her face. One glance at the doorway was all she needed.

  The green, two-story home looked like trash compared to the other houses in the development with their new paint jobs, flower boxes, and vegetable gardens. Holes dotted her screen porch and the roof sagged. Now Denny left a big pile of their laundry for the whole neighborhood to see.

  That man....

  She stomped up the front walk, threw open the door, and waited for her eyes to adjust. The pale white walls echoed her steps. Outlines on the carpet marked where furniture once stood. Denny’s stuff was missing while hers lay strewn across the floor.

  She wasn’t robbed but abandoned.

  Clothing lay scattered across the ground. She kicked the bedroom door open and peered inside, half expecting to see Denny in the suffocating heat.

  “Denny?” she shouted into the silence. Her call rang down the hallway and echoed through the empty house. Her heart fell. No, not now. He couldn’t do this
now.

  No sign of him in the bathroom or the living room. Nothing in the kitchen.

  “Den?”

  Quickening her pace, she scooped up her treasures as she marched through the house. She ran to the hallway, slapping the walls with the palm of her hand. Several of her framed photographs lay on the ground, glass shattered.

  They once stood in this hallway talking about the future, friends, and struggles with work. It was the same hallway she knew her mother would disapprove of because it was so narrow. But it belonged to her and she didn't care how little natural light it got. She decorated it with bright paint and handsome framed posters she found at garage sales. She styled each of the bedrooms differently, including a wood paneled room that she hoped would, one day, belong to her first child.

  “Denny, you come out here now.” Her hands beat shallow dents in the drywall. “You coward. You didn't leave me, you coward.”

  Traci knocked a pile of trash off the kitchen counter. His girlie magazines spilled out across the floor, revealing naked women in various poses.

  That jerk and his lust for other women. She yearned to tear them apart, light them on fire, and watch those perfect bodies burn. Denny ogled them long before he entered her life, but it still hurt. How could she compete with those anorexic women? How dare he leave them behind to mock her.

  “Denny.”

  Items were missing from all over the house. The television, kitchen appliances, even chairs and end tables that Denny brought with him flew the coop. He left no note. He didn’t need to. She knew why he'd gone.

  This was supposed to be their home, a shelter from misery. They talked about refurbishing the basement for use as a game room. She planned parties in the backyard. They purchased lawn furniture and games. A used barbeque sat on the cement patio waiting for guests to arrive and hotdogs to cook. She imagined herself standing on the front porch, hugging people and accepting their gifts of baked goods and fruit salad for the cookout.

  But that died when he left.

  She threw open the screen door, ran out onto the front porch, and collapsed on a wide swing that hung from the roof by heavy chains. They used to hold hands there, talking about the future and how they would grow into a respectable family. Now all of those dreams were dashed. He probably ran home to Evansville where he’d mooch off his sisters for a few months and drown his sorrows in cheap beer. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Traci lit a cigarette and took a long draw. Her body trembled as hopelessness set in.

  How could she pay the mortgage on a waitress’ tips? Long hours on her feet barely paid for food and heat, while Denny’s wage at the truck plant covered the rest. The sharp smell of grease leeched from her shirt burning her nose. Spots of gravy and oatmeal dotted her boots. Her feet hurt from walking miles in uncomfortable shoes on tile floors. Hot tears streaked her face. She wept for the years she wasted chasing after that loser, only to be left with nothing but a mortgage and bills to pay. No savings, no relatives to fall back on. This was it.

  How could she be so stupid? Why did she take a chance on Dennis in the first place? A nobody. She could have gone to college, gotten a career. Instead she put on a Cinderella act, but her Prince Charming turned into a toad. Should have seen it coming. Let the man have his way and he leaves as soon as the next best thing comes along.

  Denny wasn’t much of a catch anyhow. He grew up in a poor family, the son of a trucker who loved the open road more than his own kids. A tall, scrawny boy, Denny injured his back working construction, which some said broke his will. Like many men in Kitrich, he took to the bottle, only crawling out at night to find more liquor or some lady to charm.

  That’s where they met. She spotted a scruffy kid on a bar stool and thought she’d go talk to him. Cheer him up. One thing led to another and, before she knew it, he asked to move in. He heard rumors of work at the factory assembling chassis on the line. Said he knew a guy who could get him bumped to full-time with benefits.

  Benefits. No more worrying about breaking a leg in the diner parking lot when the manager forgot to throw down ice melt. She could go to the dentist, get her eyes checked.

  The first few months were everything she dreamed. She bought the house at auction. It was old, complete with missing shingles and a flooding basement. It needed new paint and windows, but it was hers and, with help from Denny, she didn't miss a payment. He bought the porch swing and installed it himself with some chain bartered from a friend. They spent long nights gazing at rows of sleepy houses. They listened to children playing, couples walking up and down the sidewalks holding hands, and baying dogs.

  Denny did slight repairs on the house during the weekends and even started sanding the siding so she could paint it. They drew plans for an addition on the back of the house with a sun deck and a place for her flowers. Every day filled with love and hope for a bright new future.

  They were almost happy.

  But he took all of that with him when he left. She couldn't afford the place without him.

  Fear sank deep in her belly.

  She'd have to live on the streets in a few months, homeless. She knew girls who worked at diners during the day and spent nights in alleys or on rooftops. They got up in the morning and somehow found the strength to serve bacon and eggs to rude customers who, if they knew, might fling open their wallets and show more mercy. Instead, they left the remains of a half-eaten lunch and a few pennies for the trouble. She cried for the future that loomed over her and the dark shadows that waited.

  A few weeks earlier she was foolish enough to request information from the local community college, thinking she could enroll in a nursing program. It made her feel smart to think she could get a job helping people. But Denny laughed at her, so she kept the brochures hidden in a junk drawer. She might apply anyhow and, if accepted, would wait to tell him until he sobered up and ate a good meal.

  But now that day was an impossible dream.

  Eeeerrrr….

  The gate at the far end of her front yard swung open with a conspicuous grinding of rusty hinges. Traci, embarrassed by her tears, pulled her knees to her chest. She wiped her eyes with a wrist and leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the man approaching her home. The gentleman wore a nice summer shirt and a pair of khaki pants.

  Probably a traveling evangelist or Jehovah’s Witness. His dark hair displayed flecks of gray, highlighted by puffy cheeks. The stranger cleared his throat and removed his hat.

  “I hope I didn’t frighten you.” His voice suggested intelligence and emotional warmth. He looked nice, like an ice cream man or a beardless Santa Claus. “I heard you crying and couldn’t help but think I could offer some assistance.”

  Speechless, she pulled her knees even closer. Moments before, grief consumed her thoughts as she curled up on the porch swing. Now, this phantom approached as if from another planet. He opened the screen door to the porch but stopped short of stepping in.

  “May I?” He waited for an answer. When none came, he opened the door anyway and approached the swing. He sat close to her and placed his hat on the arm of the swing like a visitor in an old movie about the genteel South. Everything about his wardrobe conveyed trust and at least a little bit of money. He smelled of cinnamon and looked at her with kind eyes.

  Her breath came in gasps as her stomach fought the transition away from tears. Traci wiped her face and smoothed her hair. Even if she was in a terrible fix, she must look presentable. Mother didn’t raise a slovenly daughter.

  She scooted away from him. “Do I know you?”

  “No, we don't know each other. I happened to walk by and saw a lovely woman crying. I thought maybe I could help. I have a way of fixing things.”

  Fixing things. Sounded like one of Denny’s cockamamie schemes. Like you could make it all better in a jiffy as if patching a bicycle tire. Men have no idea what it’s like to have emotions. They think candy or a flower bouquet from the supermarket makes everything better. All Denny ever did was bungle through life an
d try to find the easy way out. Whatever was quick and cheap, he’d do it, even if it broke down as soon as he turned away.

  She snarled at him. “Did Denny send you here? Because if he did, you tell him we need to talk.”

  “No, Denny did not send me. Are you okay?”

  He offered a handkerchief, which she took. She’d never held a man’s handkerchief before. Did people really rub their runny makeup and snot into such a nice piece of cloth? She felt like she was in the presence of her grandfather. He certainly looked like one.

  “No, I am not okay.” She held her stomach, a touch nauseous. “I'm in a bad way and there ain’t much hope for me now.”

  The man cleared his throat and removed a butterscotch candy from his jacket pocket. He offered her one and, when she refused it, popped it into his mouth. “There is always something. I'm not a wealthy man but perhaps I can help you.”