by Greg Jolley
The actual day’s date meant nothing to Jame, but it did register the approaching holiday season and his worries about his mom and dad, both ill. The terminal blinked green words on the black screen and a few orders began to print, the dot matrix underneath the terminal sucking in box paper and clicking ink across it.
He took a sip of cocoa and watched that night’s workload, such as it was, begin to spit out.
There were no new orders. Not surprising; the town of Dent was not exactly booming or growing. He had four disconnect orders and four change orders consisting of about an hour’s worth of work. It looked to be another shift of doing equipment and frame maintenance, which wasn’t needed, but filled the nights. He and Eric kept the place up and followed most every spec and step as prescribed by Ma Bell out of a sense of responsibility and, well, because they sure as hell had the time.
Jame pulled the row of orders off the printer and reluctantly got up to go say hello to Eric.
There was tired eighties’ rock and roll coming from the opposite side of the mainframe and cold air.
“Fucking Eric,” Jame said as he rounded the end of the mainframe, the side that looked like miles of cable and pair blocks. There was the ever-present smell of melting solder from the iron set on the rolling ladder as he passed, heading toward the music and the open back door. He knew what Eric was doing—smoking cigarettes. A hundred yards up the aisle, he noticed frame wire had been used to keep the side door open to the tiny porch. Propping doors open was another no-no. You could get written up for it, but like working in his socks instead of insulated shoes, he and Eric took some leeway. Jame didn’t like the smell of cigarettes but that was not the first thing on his mind; it was Eric letting weather into a building hot with electronics. He liked Eric, but the guy was annoying. He and Eric would not have another talk; they’d had that, and nothing had changed. Eric was the boss—the temporary boss. Jame was not really upset, but just feeling cranky. It was another night under fluorescents with stale circulating air and bad music.
“Jame?” Eric greeted him as though it was a question.
“Hey,” Jame watched Eric take a puff and blow smoke outward, right into the wind. This gave Jame his first smile of the night. He started to bob his head slightly to the rhythm of the music from the radio. Terrible song, but he did like the drums. Eric was nodding too, as he puffed and exhaled. A brushing of snow swept in onto the hard concrete floor, and Jame used the side of his foot to push it back outside the door. He received his second smile as he pulled his damp sock back.
“I’ll sweep,” Eric said, “Let me finish.”
“You have a good night. Watch the roads.”
“Do my time card for me?” Eric asked. Same question, every night.
“Sure, and I’ll pad it well.”
“Thanks. Have a good—”
The crack of a rifle shot was clear, even with the wind. Eric stopped talking.
They both stepped back into the building, watching the night outside. There was another shot. This one also sounded nearby.
Jame was about to tell Eric to close the door when Eric tossed the cigarette and jogged away. “C’mon,” he said. “That sounded close. Let’s go look out front.”
The two young men walked along the mainframe.
“What season is it?” Eric asked.
“I don’t remember,” Jame said, realizing Eric meant hunting.
They entered the office where Eric pulled on his coat and gloves. He opened the front door a couple of inches, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, listening. It was quiet except the wind. Eric opened the door as far is it could go with the blocking mound of snow and stood before the night. The single lamp above the door illuminated falling snow. They stood there for a minute, Jame staying behind Eric.
“See you tomorrow?” Eric asked, as if there is more than one answer.
Jame didn’t reply. Eric stepped out and trudged to his Jeep. Jame watched him back up and steer away, raising his hand when the headlights washed over him. The Jeep paused at the security gate, and the snow glowed in the red taillights. Jame watched the vehicle turn and drive away into the storm.
He began to close the front door when its heavy metal shuddered, followed by a rifle crack. Jame launched himself backwards. He saw the bullet hole that had pierced the door and he kicked it closed. He sat there on the cold concrete, staring at the bullet hole that had missed his head by a few inches.
Inside the office, Jame dialed the sheriff while scanning the room. He pulled on his boots and laced them as the phone continued to ring. He unhooked his tool belt and let it fall to the floor. The phone was still ringing when he pulled on his coat. Hanging up the phone, he decided to leave, and go find Sheriff Doyle. If a drunk was out there shooting at lights and buildings, someone might get hurt. Jame knew it might be foolish to leave the thick walled, bunker-like building. He could hunker down and be safe. He left the office and went to the maintenance bay, to the stacked sections of gray bar. Selecting a thin piece that was four feet long, he jogged to the front door and opened it just wide enough to slide the metal bar out into the night.
Pumping the bar up and down, ignoring the wind and cold, he focused on adjusting his aim an inch or so with each upward strike. The glass light cover shattered and the front porch went black.
Leaning against the interior concrete wall, he listened for nearly a minute. All he heard was wind singing off the metal edges of the building’s trim and gutters. He took out his truck keys and got the ignition key ready in his hand. Before he started out, he killed the interior lights.
Out the door, Jame stomped through the thigh-high snow. He moved hunched over, trying to stay as small as possible until he was inside the truck. He leaned low on the seat as he started the engine, backed out, and steered for the gate. With his headlights off, he clipped the security code post. He quickly rolled down his window, typed, and leaned low again as he steered through. The truck had been locked in four-wheel drive for nearly a week so he had no trouble making it out onto Main Street. He had no idea who was shooting or why; had to be one of Dent’s hard drinkers or was he the target? Jame crunched low in his seat. I don’t have any enemies. Certainly no issues with anyone that would bring on gunfire. Jame hunched low and drove slowly.
The shop fronts were closed and shadowed. The single traffic light that hung across the center of town was swaying a constant yellow in the white wind. He felt the tires churning and struggling as he crept up the street. In the distance, the lights of the Quickee gas station illuminated the far end of town. He headed for them. Then he got a better idea. A brave idea.
He stopped the truck, set the brake and shifted the transmission into neutral. Leaning over the seat, he dug through two neat stacks of folded clothing and pushed his roadside toolkit aside before he found the leather rifle case. He struggled with its awkward weight as he pulled it over into the front seat.
Jame unzipped the case and pulled out his road-kill rifle, which he had not used in years. He remembered the last time he’d fired the rifle—a deer laying against the guardrail on the expressway, all four legs pedaling until he stopped its agony. The rifle was not dusty, but it felt old and distantly familiar.
Sitting in his truck, which was up to its fenders in fresh snow, he looked to his right to the trees, the cottages, and the lake. Wind was nudging the truck, and he turned to the lights of the Quickee market at the far side of town. He unscrewed the scope from the top of the rifle.
Holding it to his left eye, his fingertips brushed the focus dials. There was a pause in the wind as the Quickee came into view. Three bundled people were crossing from the direction of the gas pumps to the market. He noted that there were no cars or trucks parked at the island.
Even with the absence of wind, there was no report from the third rifle shot. Instead, he saw one of the three people knocked off his feet and crumble to the concrete. The other two turned and lowered, looking to the one who went down. They were waving their arms and moving
in panic. Jame recoiled back, dropping the scope into his lap. His eyes were wide, and disbelief was chewing through his thoughts.
Without a sound, the front window of the market exploded. The two people left the fallen one behind, scurried to the market door, and clambered inside, looking clumsy and uncoordinated. The lights inside the Quickee went dark.
Jame had the scope on the spot where the person fell. It was too dark to see any movement, but he watched, hoping.
The wind returned, and the view was blocked. He was breathing fast. He figured out the source of the gunfire, triangulating the first shots at the C.O. and then the Quickee. He scanned the rooftops to his left. None of those angles made sense. He turned toward the lake. The church to his right blocked his view. He was confused—someone shooting from the frozen lake would be too low.
The church steps were ten yards away from his truck. He didn’t have to look up to realize where the shooter was; he knew the shape of the building from years of driving by it. The church was the tallest building on Main. Above the roof, there was a bell tower with no bell. It never had one—the town of Dent had paid for the addition of the tower despite a good amount of grumbling and a consensus that no one wanted to hear bells ringing at any time on any given day.
Jame studied the steps that led up to the closed front doors. He wasn’t sure—there was no light—but he thought he saw footprints rising up the right side of the steps. The interior of the truck was suddenly stifling warm. The steeple window and the shooter were forty feet directly above him.
Jame screwed the scope to the top of the rifle.
He was out of the truck and lowered beside the hood within seconds, scanning and listening. He raised the rifle barrel upward as a gust formed a spiraling cloud of snow around the truck and the small churchyard. It took a minute before the circling snow moved away. He raised his head and looked through the scope.
Within the circular view, all he saw was clapboard. He scanned up and down and left to right. It took a few seconds before he had the steeple in sight. The window facing into town was exposed—someone had removed the boards—and there was movement, a shifting in the shadows. Jame made no decision, but his hands and fingers went to work; it was like watching a movie, removed from the actions, as the safety clicked back and his finger tightened on the trigger.
The crack and kick of the rifle was harsh and the barrel jerked. It took a couple of seconds to get the scope back on the steeple window. There was nothing to see. No movement. Jame slid his finger over the trigger and watched, and waited.
“I just shot at a person,” he spoke into the cold air with disbelief.
It was all so movie-like. He kept the window centered in the round view. He reconsidered his shot; he had fired fast.
“I forgot my calm,” he spoke into the white wind.
Leaning over the hood of the truck, he stood still, the rifle aimed at the window.
Mayor Tom Sheaan heard the rifle shots, six in all, from inside the mud porch of his cottage on Main Street. He was immediately crouched low below the window with his phone in his hand. All he could hear was wind and the endlessly ringing, unanswered call. He was feeling new emotions: fear and confusion. And anger, which was more familiar and had his blood going. The call was not rolling over to voicemail; instead, there were the pulsing tones that matched the pace of his beating heart. Someone was shooting up his town, and here he was hiding low, and when that impotent image came into his mind, his hand went up the doorframe to the key hook. His fingers crept upward past two sets of house keys before taking down the one for his car. He was up on his feet and out the front door, instantly cold and not caring that he was not dressed for the weather; that he had no weapon. His plan: find Sheriff Doyle.
The mayor got to the side of the car, knee-deep in snow, dressed in casual slacks and indoor shoes, no coat. He unlocked the door and opened it with a hefty pull. The interior light cast his shadow, and he didn’t hear anything happen and everything ended.
The side of his head spattered outward toward the house and over the hood of the car. He was propelled toward the front of the car and sank into the snow. Beyond his prone body, his warm blood melted tunnels in the snow.
✳ ✳ ✳
Jame watched the inside lights of a few cottages come on along the right side of Main Street, looking like an uneven string of amber Christmas lights. Porch lights did not come on. Jame knew most of the people’s names and their faces. The white light of a car door opening appeared. He watched the interior light glow on the snow. There was a rifle crack, and Jame dropped for cover. He waited and listened, feeling the cold in his hands and on his cheeks.
I missed, he thought. His rifle was always loaded with three rounds for ending the misery of road-kill. Now he was leaning back against the side of his truck and thinking of his box of ammo.
Jame looked up the road to the cottage and the car. Nothing had changed—the car door was still open. He thought it was the mayor’s car and cottage. There was no movement.
He looked up along the church, without the scope, to the steeple section. There was too much white wind to make out anything so he lowered and opened the truck door. He leaned back out of the light coming from the cab, waiting and listening. The wind was singing. He climbed in the cab, put the truck in gear, and ran slowly up Main, his head and shoulders low. He expected a shot at the truck as it plowed up the street. It was quiet all the way past the cottages and the mayor’s car. Gazing just over the dashboard, Jame steered for the Quickee.
He parked with his truck blocking the town view of the person laying in the snow. Jame climbed out, and saw that it was not a person, not anymore, but a body white dusted and still. No breath clouds. He considered dragging the body inside but didn’t, not yet—he could do that after there was some sense to all of this. Leaning forward, he stepped around the body and entered the market.
The store was dark but near the rear, there was a closed door with its shape illuminated from within. He passed the familiar island of the Two for $2 candy and doughnut display. Music was playing from the ceiling but the store was otherwise silent. He reached for the door handle and decided it might be best to knock first, so he did, calling out, “It’s Jame.”
He heard faint voices, rustling and moving about.
“Jame? Are you by yourself?”
“Yes.”
Another voice asked, “Are you armed?” The voice sounded high-strung, almost manic.
“No. Well, my rifle’s in my truck.”
The door did not open. Jame heard the sounds but not the words of a discussion. He stepped back and waited. The light around the storeroom door went dark. The door opened. He stepped inside and the lights came on, brilliant white light right in his face, blinding him as intended.
Jame raised his hand, protecting his eyes. All was silent for a moment. Then he heard Tory, the night shift clerk, say, “He’s alone. No gun.”
The door slammed closed behind him.
There was Tory in his red logo Quickee shirt. There was Mrs. Sheaan, the mayor’s wife, well outfitted for cold and storms, and there was an unfamiliar girl. His eyes started low rising from her work boots and bare legs, to her white and gold dress draped by a black coat. Lovely thin lips. White lipstick. A narrow, pert nose. A pair of dark glasses aimed at him. The sunglasses were framed by the girl’s very blonde, straight hair. Her skin was pale, bone white.
Jame turned from her to the others.
Tory spoke first. “What in the hell is going on. Someone’s shooting up the whole town—”
Mrs. Sheaan interrupted. “We also got a really bad problem up on the off-ramp. There’s been a wreck. And this girl—”
“Did you see anything? What have you seen? What’s going on?” Tory asked.
Jame had turned his head three times, following the conversation. He didn’t say a word. Truth be known, he didn’t know what to say, and he was distracted by the strange, beautiful girl standing silent and watchful.
; There was a pause in the questions and speculation. Jame turned from the girl and asked Tory, “Who’s that out front?”
“Denny Moore,” Mrs. Sheaan said.
He knew Denny. Everyone did. He was important in town; he drove the town’s only big snowplow and owned the one truck-towing service.
“Anyone seen Chris Doyle?” Jame asked, referring to the town’s solo sheriff.
“That’s part of the really bad problem up on the off-ramp,” Mrs. Sheaan said. Nodding at the girl in a dress, she added, “He got hit by her, and he’s dead.”
Jame turned. He saw that her dark glasses were a little crooked on her pale, lovely face.
“I’m calling it an accident,” the girl said.
Jame felt a glow in his heart when he heard her soft, slightly husky voice. He noticed the seductive bounce of her chest inside her dress when she turned to him. Jame knew he should introduce himself, but he was speechless as he watched her.
“I’m Wiki,” she said to Jame before nodding to the other two. “There was ice,” she added.
“Why in the hell were you out driving in that?” Mrs. Sheaan asked. “Worst storm in six years, and you’re out in your party dress.”
Tory wasn’t saying anything. Jame could see how he was looking at Wiki. Seemed both he and Tory were swept.
“Just trying to get home,” Wiki answered.
“And where’s that?” Mrs. Sheaan questioned. Her gaze on Wiki was neutral, but her voice was rough.