Cradle Robber

by Staron, Chris

  Aaron nodded. “If you need anything, call or yell. We’ll have the police here as fast as we can.”

  Aaron’s hands gripped the steering wheel. If only they knew more. Maybe they imagined all the danger. Perhaps Wade’s project was restoring an old car or sanding down a boat. Wouldn’t they look ridiculous then?

  Or maybe they underestimated Wade and were foolish to send her inside. Only time would tell.

  “Do your best to get him to talk to you,” he said. “Get it on tape. We can’t do anything if we don’t get it on tape. And if you see something suspicious, take a couple of pictures and get out of there. That’s it. Don’t fight him, don’t get in an argument. Go in, get the information, and get out.”

  Traci rocked on the balls of her feet. “I understand.”

  “Do you know how to use the tape recorder? Push the red button and get him to talk. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “We're ready if you need anything,” said Adrianna. She leaned forward in her seat as her hand grazed the shotgun they packed in case things got out of control. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

  “Okay.” Traci tapped a beat on the roof of the car with her fingers. “It's time to go.”

  Traci turned and headed back to her vehicle before the objections rose in Aaron’s throat. If only he took classes in self-defense or something. He sat at a desk all day—what did he know about protecting himself, let alone the lives of two others? He prayed. All he could do was pray.

  # # #

  The wind picked up. Traci clapped her hands over her head to contain her hair. Why did Dublin look so scared? Adrianna, too. Nothing about the evening sat well. Dying sunlight lit the road in an eerie haze as mist rose from the hot cement and was whipped in a million directions at once. Puddles spilled across the concrete. The road was slick with damp leaves. The world seemed alien, like she was a lone traveler to a distant planet.

  Traci threw the car into gear and turned on the headlights. The Dublins watched her, their eyes low, as she passed their car. They made her so nervous. Why? The tension in her stomach was silly. If Wade wanted to do something untoward, he would have done it long ago.

  She’d driven the road before, even at this ghostly sunset hour. But now she sat perched on the edge of her seat, moving at idle speed as if approaching Dracula’s castle. This was a familiar place. Why get so frightened?

  She pulled into the driveway and coached herself on how to look normal. Smooth the hair. Remember to smile. Pretend there's not a government employee monitoring the situation.

  The tape recorder pressed against her side, leaving a large indentation in her jacket. She practiced placing her hand in her pocket to even it out. Her face should look normal, pleasant, as if she was being neighborly.

  Her car drew toward the house as if pulled by a large magnet. Park in front of the garage? No. Back into the turn around, ready for a quick getaway. Should she leave the car running? No. Better for him to think of it as a visit.

  She checked herself in the mirror. Red circles highlighted her eyes. Her face screamed panic-stricken, pale and trembling. Nothing she could do about that. She killed the engine.

  “Lord,” she prayed out loud, “please let Wade be okay in there. Help me to talk to him with all the grace and love you can provide. Keep us safe. Don’t let me startle him.”

  Words escaped her as a lump rose in her throat. Nothing more to say. She settled for a nod of her head. God would understand.

  Now or never.

  She slipped out of the car, closed the door with a gentle push, and walked down the drive toward the house. The clomp of her tennis shoes barely crested the noise of the rising storm. Good thing she chose jeans and a sweatshirt instead of a skirt. Otherwise she’d pull a Marilyn Monroe all the way up the driveway.

  On the porch she stared at the dull brass doorknob. Could she really go in?

  Traci knocked hard and fast before she lost her courage. Five seconds passed, ten seconds. No answer from inside. She knocked again, louder this time. Then she tried the doorknob. Locked.

  Of course. How foolish to assume that Wade was home. All of this worry and Wade wasn’t even—

  CLANG!

  From the right came the sound of a heavy metal bar dropping on concrete. It rang out from the garage, followed by the sharp cry of steel dragged across the floor. Shivers rolled up her spine. The noise stung like nails on a chalkboard.

  Wade was home.

  She knocked again. More noise shrieked from the garage. No answer at the door. Traci glanced back toward the road searching for confirmation that the Dublins had not left her. They parked too far away, ten feet from the tree line. The whole thing was Aaron’s idea. They should have remained within sight, but they didn’t.

  She was alone.

  Traci set out around the side of the house, past the condenser and electric meter. Waves of concrete formed what little existed of a once handsome path. It was hard to follow, overgrown and upended by tree roots. One of her shoes caught on a raised slab of concrete and she almost tripped, rescuing herself by placing a hand on an oak tree. As she pulled her hand back, she noticed deep scorch marks up and down the tree.

  How strange. The marks resembled black charcoal snakes, curled along the bark. Someone could have made a fire too close to it. No, the marks would be darker at the bottom than at the top, but these were uniform all the way up the tree. The oak burned by something other than a ground fire. Lightning?

  Traci turned toward the house. The aluminum siding was odd. A thick, dark line ran straight from the foundation to the peak, two feet thick, centered on the house. Pale blobs hugged the rest of the siding, brighter at the center and expanding like a gradient from there. It was as if the tree’s shadow was permanently etched into the siding, caught in some apocalyptic photoflash.

  What could cause a shadow like that?

  This was the northern side of the building, meaning that direct sunlight never struck the house long enough to cause a permanent shadow. Something else did this, possibly the same force that scorched the bark of the tree. Similar things happened with atom bombs.

  Wade’s cinder block foundation showed cracks in several places, sending lightning bolt shapes through the base of the building. The house itself was a little off level, as if uniformly leaning forward to take a bow. Also strange.

  She marched to the back door. Heavy shades blocked her view through the windows. An electric, crackling hum seemed to be the resonant frequency of the house. The whole building vibrated with its sound. Wind picked up again, gusting and settling. Only a matter of minutes until the storm struck. She turned the doorknob. Unlocked.

  “Hello?” she called out. The popping radiated from inside. Sharp flashes of light jumped at her, lighting the room intermittently. “Is anybody home?”

  Darkness lurked inside, disrupted only by a few dim lamps. Every flat surface held papers, envelopes, and files. Intermittent flashes lit the living room down the hall.

  She stood in a small room with wooden cupboards and an ugly green counter. It was a makeshift photography lab, reminiscent of an era when people shot on film. Did Wade ever talk about a darkroom? A digital projector occupied a quarter of the whole space. To her left sat several shallow plastic tubs lit by deep red light. They contained sharp-smelling chemicals that reminded her of her high school chemistry lab. Inside each tub was a set of tongs used to tease the photographs as they developed.

  Then there was a sink. And an oven.

  She was in the kitchen.

  The repurposed cabinets held large bottles of photo processing chemicals, hastily thrown inside. She opened the refrigerator and discovered a few prepackaged meals, leftover slices of pizza, and the remnants of several beers. The refrigerator smelled of mold and rot. She shut the door in disgust.

  The place dripped with creepiness. When did he get into photography? He hadn't taken more than three pictures the entire time they dated each other.

  The crackling sound continued. />
  “Wade?” she called out, but there was no response; only noise.

  She rounded the corner of the kitchen and entered the living room. Thin clothesline stretched everywhere like a man-made spider web. Large 8 x10 black and white photographic prints hung from the cord, motionless in the flashes of blue and white light which emanated from her left, beyond the computer system. Laundry cluttered the couch. She was closer to the sound which grew sharper with every step.

  In the brilliant blue light she caught the flicking of a familiar image on one of the prints. It was so difficult to see with the strange lighting. She stepped closer. It was a photograph of the diner near her hospital taken from across the street. A series of cars blocked the shot, water spraying in all directions from a heavy blast of rain. What did Wade care about the diner?

  Another picture showed the parking lot of the same restaurant. Yet another displayed the intersection that connected the hospital and the diner to Main Street.

  Then she saw it––a black and white, heavily contrasted print hanging haphazardly from the clothesline. There, illuminated in the flashes from the garage, was Aaron Dublin carrying his briefcase in front of the diner.

  She gasped. Another photograph of Aaron hung next to it, and another. A pencil poked through one like an arrow in a target; another lay mangled on the floor. She moved down the line of this horrible photographic installment until she came across one of Aaron inside the diner, only this time she sat across from him.

  Blood drained from her face. A tingle rose from her feet into her heart. There were more pictures, dozens of them, all from the same series of events. Images of her ordering coffee and a bagel, her entering and exiting the building. There were pictures of Aaron’s car and license plate, shots of his house, and even of Adrianna perched over the kitchen sink washing dishes. It was all there. Wade followed them, hunted them, for weeks. She stood in the lion’s den.

  Run.

  Her feet weighed a thousand pounds. She could not have moved if she wanted to. Panicked, she ripped the photographs from the line, clawing at them. How could Wade do this to her?

  The grinding sounds ceased as did the flashes of light. She stood in the near darkness, breathing heavy, trying to move. Her eyes locked on the mutilated images of Aaron. Wade was plotting something. Did he know about the investigation? How long did he follow them? What did he see?

  Someone shuffled around in the darkness nearby, through the door to her left that lead to the garage. She reached into her pocket and turned on the tape recorder, gripping it like a gun.

  “Hello?” came a voice from the next room. Wade.

  Traci crept toward the door where a pool of eerie fluorescent light shown through into the darkness of the house. The loud humming sound died, overtaken by the mad rush of wind against the outside of the house. Every wall, every surface cracked and moaned in the anger of the emerging storm. Traci stepped to the door, emotions raging in two opposing directions. She wanted to run away from the house, to move away from this horrible reality. She needed to feel safe. But the rest of her was tired and angry, burned out and ready for retribution. She wanted a fight. He violated her trust. She played the victim for far too long. With a clammy hand she pushed the door all the way open and entered the garage.

  A loud BAM! shot through the house and the garage door started to rise. Wind whipped through the gaping hole in the building, gaining intensity until it enveloped every item in the space. Stacks of papers on the desks flapped and fluttered, weighed down under the bulk of heavy tools. The garage was a mix of a mechanic’s shop, operating room, and library. Perforated fiberboard lined every wall. Tools and buckets of metal pieces sat haphazardly on the cement. Shelves on rollers stood in the corners, stacked tall with greasy engines, turbines, and circuitry. Long electrical wires snaked across the floor to various power tools that lay abandoned after their last use.

  A large truck-sized bundle of wires and tubes dwarfed the garage. Mounted on wheels, the machine stood at the center of the room like a colossus. Affixed to the top stood a single chair surrounded by computer screens and a hodgepodge of metallic parts. The form of a man in full welding attire rose from the opposite side of the machine. Wade stood from a crouch, encased in heavy gloves and a dirty leather apron. A shaded mask with a long slit of tinted glass covered his face. The helmet came off. A sadistic laugh rose over the rushing wind.

  “So, you finally found me out.” Wade cackled like a mad man. “Welcome home, darling.”

  “What is this?” The cacophony of moving air sucked away the sound of her voice. “What is this?” She held up a photograph of her sitting at the diner.

  “That, my dear, is a sign of my undying love for you.” Wade threw his gloves and helmet aside. “Did you really think you’d get away with it? And here all this time, I thought it was me, that it was my fault, and you’re the one running around with a younger man.”

  “What?” Was he accusing her of infidelity? He was the one spying on them.

  Wade removed the leather bib. “Yes, there he is. Proud, handsome, smart. How long before you were going to turn me over to the police? Are they here now? How rude of me. Should we invite them in for coffee?”

  Wade’s hair was wild, eyes wide open, his face locked in a maddening Cheshire grin. He approached her like a lion stalks its prey, his arms out at his sides.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she shouted. “How could you do this?”

  “It’s like I’ve said before, everybody betrays me. I work and I work, and this is the thanks I get. The woman I love is running around behind my back with the man who could put me behind bars. How dare I? How dare I? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  Traci was enraged at the suggestion. “We aren’t seeing each other. He came to me. He says you’re stealing money from the government.”

  “Stealing? Stealing?” Wade tossed his leather apron aside. “Is that what they label it when they give you a blank check and ask for your soul in return? Fine. Call it stealing. But I’ve done more good with that money than any war, any occupation of foreign soil. I’ve righted wrongs that the world will never know about. I’ve thrown away the last ten years of my life making everything right, something no government, no politician, no leader in the world could ever do in a thousand lifetimes.”

  The cold wind forced her to wrap herself tighter in her sweater. “You’re stealing, Wade.”

  Slinking, scraping his boots, he approached. Closer. Closer.

  “Deliverance doesn’t come cheap,” he shouted. “Are they coming? Are they coming for me? How long do I have?”

  “What?”

  Wade, downright jubilant, boasted over the roar of the wind. “Aaron Dublin and company. Are they here?”

  “Wade—”

  He advanced on her, menacing. She stepped backward, bumping into the wall. Trapped.

  “How does it feel to be a Judas?” he growled.

  “I’m no Judas, don’t say that.”

  “What do you call it? Turning your old boyfriend in to the Feds so that you can make a clean break with the investigator?”

  “We’re not seeing each other.” She threw her arms down. Heat rolled up her face. She would not be bullied, she’d stand her ground. “He’s a married man. He has a wife and a home.”

  “Yes, Adrianna Dublin. Don’t get me started on her fidelity issues. Little Mrs. Dublin has quite the history, let me assure you. So, how does she feel about your little meetings with her husband? Ever find it convenient that she is never around when you and handsome meet?” Wade grabbed a photograph of Aaron from his tool bench and ripped it into small pieces.

  Why didn’t he listen? She lowered her voice, emphasizing each word. “I’m here to check on you because I care, Wade. We all care about you. Me and Tom and Linda—”

  Wade threw the pieces of the photograph to one side. “Care?”

  “Yes.” She stepped toward him. She would not go down this easily. “We care about you, Wade. You th
ink you can run in here and hide. That you can sweep away those who love you and expect them to carry on as if nothing ever happened? You push us away. We invest our time and energy and you have the audacity to assume that we can go on living like this. Giving, giving, giving, lying awake at night terrified that you might die in this house all by yourself. Do you have any idea what it’s like to invest your entire being into someone only to have him thwart your love?”

  Wade's eyes glanced over her shoulder to a black and white print of a young man with thick black hair. It was a telephoto shot of the kid as he played baseball on the county fields.

  Wade's face bunched up, saliva spraying from his mouth.

  “Yes, I know what it means to work day after day for someone, to give of your time and your money and your happiness only to see it all crumble. Life is one big cycle of pain. Those we love let us down. That’s the price we pay for being the fools that we are. We believe we can change people, but all we do is make ourselves hoarse by yelling into the void. At the end of the day, we only have ourselves.”