Cradle Robber

by Staron, Chris

Her legs remained bolted to the ground. A hollow pang sank her gut. She froze for an entire minute, staring at her son, his brow, the dimple on his right cheek.

  Wade did not turn back.

  How could he walk away? She waved her arms, shouting. Traci forced her heavy feet to creep forward, stumbling over chuckholes in the road that she did not see.

  “Did you ever tell me, Wade? If your faith really was the most important thing in your life, if you thought that you could save the world, why didn’t you share it with me? Instead you cursed me. You walked into my house, dumped off my child, and wrote me off as another hopeless drunk with no shot at redemption. Judging me without a chance to turn from my sin.”

  A lump rose in her throat. She coughed, fighting against the emotion. “Did you give up on me, too? You're so willing to stand out on the street corner and rail against the evils of abortion, tax reform, evolution—but did you ever stop for one moment and share the truth with me? Or did you throw me to the dogs?”

  Wade ignored her and plunged headlong into the dark void of the backyard, lit only by the remnants of the garage light. It was impossible to walk without falling. A sharp pain shot across her leg as she rolled her ankle.

  Traci sank to one knee. Tingles flickered up her calf.

  He must not get away.

  She ran toward him despite the pain, gritted her teeth, and struck Wade between his shoulders. Agony eclipsed her adrenaline and she collapsed on the ground, but Wade kept pushing his machine.

  She despised him, the representation of every man she ever fell for. Most of all, she hated her foolishness for loving him, pitying this old, wretched man.

  Nothing deterred him. Wade pushed through another set of blows, making steady progress down the dirt trail. She rose and fell, like a drowning victim gulping air only to sink below the surface, desperate to knock him down. Fists pelted his back and his arms. Fingernails scratched his face. Each strike fed the next. An unholy anger welled inside her as she grabbed at his arms and pulled them off of the machine.

  In one quick motion Wade spun on his heels, pulled out a pistol, clicked off the safety, and loaded a round into the chamber. Traci stepped back, tripping over her own feet. She fell to the ground exposed. A gun. He pulled a gun. Helpless, she struggled to find her legs, but no strength remained. Terror rolled down her body in waves. She screamed, but the sound got lost in the cacophony of the emerging storm.

  He stared over the barrel of the pistol. Every muscle in his face contracted tight. Nervous ticks jerked his arms and shoulders, making him resemble a marionette operated by a lunatic.

  “If I shoot you now, chances are you’ll still be alive when I come back. I’ve got nothing to lose. All I have to do is take out Dublin and this is set straight. He’s off my trail and you, in some distant time, will still love me. He will not have corrupted you. I’ll see to that. You’ll still love me.”

  “Answer my question.” She pushed against the ground, kicking to get away from him. “Did you ever tell me about Jesus? Or did you leave me for dead?”

  He waved the gun in the air. “What difference does it make?”

  “It makes all the difference. Either you shared with me or you abandoned me.”

  “Hush.” Wade backed into the machine. “Stay there.”

  She crawled toward him. Sharp gravel cut her skin, but she kept moving, her twisted ankle howling for her to stop.

  “You want to act all high and mighty, saying that abortion is a crime against God, but you’re doing it yourself. You are doing the very thing that you condemn others for. Look at you. A hardened, bitter old man who waves a gun and threatens women. A high and mighty judge who fears people ‘out there’ so much you’re willing to condemn them before they ever hear about the only thing that can free them from their sins. Easier to leave them for dead. Better to abort the abortionists than to tell them the truth. Cleaner to drive a bomb into their building than to love them. How dare you lecture me about killing my son when you don’t even have the nerve to see that you’re as bad as him.”

  Wade’s face changed. He paled, mumbling, shaking. Stooping to a crouch, she pulled herself from the ground. If he wanted to take the shot, he’d have to kill her standing up.

  “Don’t say that,” he blurted. “Stay where you are or I'll shoot.”

  Her hands burned from the abrasions of the rocks. But righteousness swelled inside of her. She inched closer, five feet apart, three. Dirt clung to her sneakers. “Hate the world and watch it burn, then curse it for engulfing your house. Is that it, Wade? Is that really what you want?”

  “I tried everything I could….” Back against the machine, Wade's eyes drooped, posture hunched. His arms shot up in a pose of surrender, gun aimed at the sky. “I tried everything I could.”

  “Everything?” She got in his face like he’d gotten in hers. “You loved me once and now you're ready to kill me for an idea. For your grand schemes. What happiness has it brought you? What peace? You're like a man who blows up an abortion clinic—as willing to kill as any person who aborts their child.”

  “No.” Wade averted his eyes, leaned against the machine, and kicked at the ground below.

  Distant thunder rang out. Traci pointed her finger at him, stabbing the air. “You want to talk about being let down, of disappointment? You run around ignoring the people that love you. Tom and Linda sit at home each night praying you're still alive. They call, organize parties, they make every conceivable excuse to hang out with you and you treat them like they mean nothing. They love you and you throw it back in their faces every chance you get. Don't shout at me in your self-righteous attitude. Teenagers make mistakes. Fine. But don't forget that you have taken the love of honest, decent people and trampled it under your feet. You're killing yourself with your work. Your bitterness has whittled away at you all of these years, leaving a coward who kills to justify his own existence. A scared little boy who wants to prove to the world that he is worthy of attention. But you're nothing but a cold-blooded murderer.”

  Wade doubled over. “Stop.”

  “Whether you like it or not, you’re as bad as the people you killed. You’re a murderer.”

  # # #

  Wade stumbled and almost fell. Her beautiful mouth, the one that he had for so long, endeavored to kiss, cursed him. Traci saw through his dark heart and turned away. She called him a coward.

  She was right.

  The gun weighed heavy in his extended arm. A glint of light shone off of the dark barrel. How did the gun get in his hands? How did it come to this?

  His legs shook and his mouth quivered. His actions led to the murder of innocent children. Yes, they grew up to become monsters, but he took them prematurely. He became what he hated the most in the world. He was an evil man.

  Wade stared at the hand before him, wrinkled, calloused, aged from his labors. Signs of a life thrown away, immersed in violence and revenge, self-inflicted wounds.

  Pushing away love, he opted for indignation. Some part of him believed that love is for the weak, those who can’t handle the reality of the world.

  What a fool. He wasted the one life he had, squandered it on the assertion that his bitterness would set the world straight. It led him to threaten the only woman willing to fight for him. He abandoned the God he once claimed to champion.

  A great, primal howl burst through his lips. No warmth in his heart, no compassion. A withered skeleton remained, a bag of bones, the remnant of a man grown old and frail. Everything hurt.

  Wade Rollins was a sham, a ghost, a mist that would soon blow away without so much as a word of tenderness said in his passing.

  Wade clambered to the top of the machine, standing with one leg on the chair. “Get back.” He waved the pistol at her.

  “What are you doing?” Traci cowered, slinking away.

  “I’m going to make everything right.” Wade flicked switches and the machine whined, emitting a horrible grinding hum.

  Traci clapped her hands over her ears
. “Wade, don’t.”

  Traci ran toward him, but he couldn’t let her approach. She must never step near him again.

  BAM.

  Wade fired a warning shot in the air. Traci screamed and dropped to the ground. The shot momentarily lit the darkness of the open field; the acrid burst of sulfur stung his nose. A set of headlights turned on in the distance. An engine roared to life on the road.

  Dublin. They were there the whole time. Fine, let them come.

  Aaron’s car burst into the open and plowed down the driveway, turning quickly to the dirt path where they stood. A bright red light rotated on the roof of the car.

  Finally, retribution. He deserved this.

  “He’s here,” shouted Wade. “They’ve come for me.”

  Wade aimed the gun at the oncoming vehicle.

  “Don’t.” Traci rushed the machine. “Don’t do this.”

  “Get back.” He fired the gun over the roof of the car. “Get back or I’ll shoot.”

  # # #

  Traci turned and ran in the direction of the car, hobbling on her twisted ankle. Wade waved the gun between her and the windshield. Signaling to Aaron with her arms over her head, she dashed toward the grill of the automobile. The car jerked to her left grinding to a stop perpendicular to the dirt path, twenty yards from the machine.

  “Go. Leave me.” Wade bellowed behind her. “Leave me alone.”

  Traci reached the driver’s side window as the car slid to a stop. “He’s going to kill you. Go, he’s going to kill you.” She beat at the glass with her fists, begging them to alter their course and head back to the road. “He has a gun, get out of here.”

  Adrianna pushed open her passenger door and rolled out onto the dust, shotgun in hand.

  “Get down! Get down!” she barked, taking aim. Traci turned, her back against the rear window of the sedan. White light pooled around Wade as he straddled the machine, throwing levers. A blue, unnatural light emanated from the belly of the beast as the roaring increased. Trees bent and twisted as the air filled with the tyrannic noise of a dragon come to life.

  Air fled her lungs. The Dublins didn’t see it. Wade’s machine could explode any second.

  Traci darted around the front of the vehicle. She must stop Adrianna from shooting. “Hold your fire.”

  Aaron appeared out of nowhere and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Get in the car.”

  “Hold your fire.”

  Aaron tore open the back door and shoved Traci in. The door slammed shut. She crawled to the window, eyes glued on Wade.

  “No, Wade. Stop, don’t shoot.”

  The thunderous sound shot streaks of pain through her skull. She clasped her hands over her ears and shouted words she couldn't hear. Traci ducked into the foot wells of the back seat. The explosion was about to come.

  Adrianna rolled on the ground, motioning to her husband. “Get down.”

  An eruption of sound and light broke the night in two, followed by a split second of utter silence and then a sonic boom. The ground beneath them rumbled in concentric circles emanating from the epicenter of the machine. The car bounced like a toy placed on a trampoline. Its wheels lost contact with the ground and landed inches from Adrianna’s head. She tried to run, but the shock waves knocked her down. Traci pressed her face against the carpet of the car.

  An explosion shattered the glass windows, stabbing them with a thousand microscopic pains as it burned through the air.

  Horrible light seared Traci’s retinas. This would be the end of her life. The past flew before her: the regrets, the hopes, the triumphs, and the failures. All of those years working with teenagers, all that she invested in them. Whatever came of those lonely nights clutching her pillows for solace? Too late. She would never know what it was like to walk down the aisle of a church with all eyes on her. She would not get to say “I do” or cut a wedding cake. It was over.

  The night air trembled, flooded with alien electricity. And, in a horrible burst, the machine disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Wade was alive. Barely. Cold air stung his red skin. A sign of life. Burning was a good thing. It meant his circulation still worked. He was not, indeed, as numb on the outside as on the inside.

  No rest, day after day. Evil men didn't deserve sleep. He kept walking.

  Southern Indiana passed at a snail's pace. Large trees broke up the distant sun. Cars whizzed by without a single person stopping to offer a ride. He would have turned it down anyhow.

  He didn't stop, didn't poke his head into shop doors. He lapped water from a ditch. The pain at the bottom of his feet nagged and his knees burned, but he would not pause. He pressed on, punishing himself along the penitent walk.

  Cities vanished. Towns came and went. He trudged forward, leaning into the wind.

  The highway shifted from four lanes to two. Hours later it became a dirt track, too deeply rutted for anything short of a pickup truck or four-by-four. Grass grew tall between the two ruts, tickling his fingers as he walked. He passed the last town somewhere around three o'clock, trading it for a thick pine forest. Not a single house, no farms, the path the only sign of humanity.

  Did he really hold a gun to Traci? Yes he did. He strayed so far. When the pulse started pounding, when he saw red, nothing else mattered. It felt good to destroy. The more the better. Then he retreated back into himself, miserable with the outcome.

  Those terrible mood swings.

  Traci simply got in the way. His whole life followed a pattern of building and tearing down, like a tide that came in and bled out. He couldn’t control it any more than he could control the moon as it steered the oceans. The best thing to do was get out of its way and pick up the pieces when it receded.

  Traci's face, illuminated by the flash of the machine, seared into his memory. He extended his arm now, replaying the movement of the gun in his hand. How silly, an engineer holding a gun. He'd never shot at anything before. Everything he knew about firearms he learned from watching police dramas on television.

  Forget it, Wade, it's over now.

  The car. Dublin's car drove onto his lawn. It was the same old import whose tire he punctured in the teahouse parking lot. They must have waited for him to try something. It was a setup, a spy mission.

  Aaron was out of the car with his wife who had a gun. The Dublins would be waiting for him when he got back to the present.

  But Wade wasn’t going back.

  As evening set in, the first semblance of society peeked over a rise. A large sheet of corrugated metal lay rusting in the grass, half-submerged in thick Indiana mud. Beyond it stood a shack, a wood and aluminum structure that leaned against a dead maple for support. Another hundred feet and the woods opened into a clearing dotted with more shanties, each the size of his living room. Children with dirty faces and torn clothes pushed toy trucks, building their empires in twigs and sand. Clotheslines hung like spider webs from poles driven into the clay.

  Rain had soaked the brown jacket he'd wrestled from a trash heap days before. It clung to his skin, heavy with mist and sweat. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Yes, he should probably get warm.

  At last he came to the entrance of a two-room structure. It was both solid and shabby, like someone took a tiny house, removed any item of value, and replaced it with a homemade approximation. The exterior walls were whitewashed and wiped clean and the door stood open a little, unable to close properly due to the way the home had shifted on its foundation. Wade knocked. The sound of a pot boiling gurgled from inside. Mother approached the door.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, hands on her hips, showing her pregnancy.

  Mother looked like people said she would. Her long hair hung down to her lower back, tied with an old ribbon, and she had a strong chin, visible cheekbones. Too poor to get adequate food in the woods, she wasted away, especially now that she was eating for two. Muscles protruded from her legs, the consequence of many walks back and forth to town where she cleaned houses for the middle class
six days a week. Calluses covered her hands, wrinkled from years of scrubbing.

  Her eyes watered from the soot of the old woodstove. It was her––the first woman whose heart he’d broken.

  How to find the words? This was the first time he’d ever seen his mother. Radiant, even in the cold of the morning, she exuded love. Mother’s face glowed with the joys of an expectant woman. Wade kept his head down out of respect.

  “Beg your pardon, Ma’am. I heard that a wanderer might find a moment of rest here.”

  She opened the door and held it for him. The most marvelous smile crossed her face as she watched him enter. “Come in. The Lord told me to expect a visitor today. Thankfully, He provided an onion and potato. Soup ain’t much, but goodness, if it don’t smell nice.”