by Glenn Trust
1. The Predator
The gray eyes blinked and moved in a head that remained motionless. Sweeping the area, scanning rhythmically, they were alert, intense, and searching. They were the eyes of a predator.
The only other movements were the slight turns and adjustments of the steering wheel as he guided the car through the parking lot to a space at the far edge. There was just the smallest of squeaks as the brakes brought the vehicle to a complete stop.
Not far away, an older, Japanese make car moved briskly between the rows and whipped into a space under a light pole. The eyes saw everything. People, vehicles, movement. They saw that the security camera mounted at the top of the pole would not be able to angle down enough to see her car, and that was good.
A pretty and petite brunette exited the car and began walking to the mall. She would not be picked up on the camera until she was at least five cars down the parking lot row. Anyone approaching her in that bit of space would be invisible to the watchers or the recording devices.
He watched, evaluating and assessing. She was right. Her hips swayed in a way that made his breath quicken. The familiar urge began to grow into a burning need. There was a momentary impulse to spring now, and for one instant, there was a small flicker in his fingers as his arm tensed, much like the twitch of the lion’s tail when the prey is close but not quite close enough, and then the lion settles back into its stalking, crouching stillness.
A predator was in their midst and they were oblivious. It is always that way. The herd never wants to know the danger that surrounds it. It only wants to avoid it.
The car was nondescript and could have been one of any number of makes and models manufactured in the early nineties. They were all alike. Ford or Mercury. Chevrolet or Pontiac. This one was, in fact, a Chevrolet.
The vehicle was perfect for his purposes. Fading red paint on the hood and roof might have made it somewhat more distinguishable if not for the fact that virtually every other car made in the United States during the period had the same fading paint job. Manufacturers had been required to remove lead from paint formulas causing the exterior paint to fade away to the primer. It was a common sight on cars from that era. It still is on the ones that survive.
Sitting quietly in a space at the edge of a large parking lot, in a medium sized town on the outskirts of a very large city in northern Florida, the car was half a continent away from home.
The dark silhouette of the driver was barely visible behind the wheel. Completely still, he blended into the dark interior of the car. Had anyone noticed the car across the parking lot, they would have thought that the silhouette was just the high-backed headrest of the seat. Stillness was his camouflage.
But he was there and, like the car, he was nondescript and unremarkable in appearance. Of medium build, somewhat thin in the face, light brown hair neatly trimmed, no facial hair, there was nothing notable about him. Some might have found him attractive. Most would simply have found him - not ugly. Average. If he had attracted the gaze of others, they might have become aware of his uncanny stillness. But he attracted no one’s gaze.
Human beings are always moving, even when they think they are not. They cough, fidget, turn their heads, eyes move to follow something of interest, yawn, scratch, take a deep breath, sigh, burp, fart, stretch. People do a thousand things when they think they are doing nothing, when they think they are quiet. It was instinctive, his stillness in the midst of constant movement. He was invisible.
Those others, the herd, would have been unnerved if they had been aware of his presence. They were not.
2. The Girl
The house was old, a small two bedroom frame house that had not seen paint in decades. Its weathered gray boards and panes of cracked glass gave it the air of a house much older. But a couple of windows with no glass at all, just a piece of plywood nailed over the openings to try and keep the cold and wet out, showed that its appearance was more from neglect than the number of years it had squatted beside the dirt road.
The girl’s bedroom had a small window in it, with glass. The wood frame around the glass was old and dry-rotted, and the glazing was falling out from around the glass panes. As the wind blew, the glass rattled in the weathered wood frames. It was an empty, hollow sound echoing in the room and then out into the bleak night.
Headlights from her father’s pickup cast a moving patch of light across the wall of her dark room. The lights went out, and she heard the door of the old truck squeak and slam. Like everything else around the place, it was worn out. The truck was tired. The land was tired. The old house was tired. She was tired.
The dog her father kept, it had no name, barked as her father walked towards the house. It yelped suddenly, and she knew that he had taken a kick in the side for the bark. He was a stupid dog. He always barked and Daddy always kicked him. You would think he would learn. Maybe he was just tired too, hoping in his old dog way that tonight might be different from every other night.
Stupid dog. Tonight would be like every other night.
There was silence and the girl, Lyn, knew that her father had stopped to take a piss on her mother’s withered, scrawny rosebush beside the front porch. In her mind, she could see her father lean back, taking a long pull from a beer can, with his privates hanging out spattering pee on the poor rosebush and the porch.
There in her dark room, a look of weary disgust crossed her face. It wasn’t the peeing outside that bothered her. This was rural farm country, and like as not, everyone did that. She had been known to squat behind a bush herself on occasion.
No, it wasn’t his peeing outside that bothered her; it was the meanness of the act, the way her father did it, peeing on a rose that her Mama had dug the hole for and watered everyday throughout the summer, rinsing the spattered piss off every morning. It was his challenge to the universe and his mastery over them. He might be a nothing dirt farmer and day laborer, but when he was here, by God, he was the king—the boss—and they better not forget it.
Fuck the rosebush and what it represented; the wishful hope of something better, something pretty and soft, something different from the hardscrabble, mean life that he gave his wife and children. “Roses my ass,” he would mutter as he shook off the last drops of piss. “I got your roses right here.”
3. The Only Difference
He waited patiently, a lion in the grass at the edge of the herd. The herd grazed and moved around him and copulated and birthed and played and fought, and was completely unaware of his presence.
When the moment came, he would spring…relentless…merciless…brutal. He would be filled. For his prey, it would be terrible.
After a long time, his eyes moved again. She emerged from the bowels of the mall through the bank of double glass doors she had entered an hour earlier. Others passed her going in and coming out. They took no notice of the girl, nor she of them. He noticed them all.
Moving from one circle of light thrown off by the streetlights to the next, she was careful to stay out of the shadows, as a young girl alone should be. It would not help her.
Coming to the pole beneath which her car was parked, she opened the car door, threw the small bag she now carried into the back seat, and slid behind the steering wheel. A moment later, the car started and the headlights came on. It backed slowly from the space. He could see her twisting in the seat to peer around a truck parked beside her. Careful and attentive to her driving, she was oblivious to his presence.
Unknown and unseen by everyone but him, she was just one small part, an insignificant member, of the herd that was in constant motion. Her insignificance made her vulnerable.
They would not be there when she cried out. Eventually, they would become aware of her absence. There would be a search. The herd would ripple with fear, and at the same time, sigh deeply with relief that they had not been the ones taken.
Soon, the predator and the prey would be forgotten, and the herd would return to its random, frenetic movement, grateful that they had not
been seen by the invisible predator.
But, they were seen. They had not been selected. That was the only difference.
4. The Hunter
George Mackey rolled his window down in the cool night air and shot a quick stream of tobacco juice between his teeth and out into the dark. The wind from the county sheriff’s pickup rushing through the night air caused the mix of spittle and tobacco juice to spray back against the door of the truck. In the light of day, it showed as a brownish, dried stain covering the vehicle’s side, and was a matter of some discussion and disgust by other deputies. They refused to retrieve any item from Mackey’s truck by going through the driver’s door.
The interior of the pickup’s cab was a different matter. It was neat and organized. Deputy Mackey kept a small briefcase with reports, pens, flashlight, notepads, extra handcuffs, extra ammunition for his Beretta Model 92F military version nine millimeter pistol, and other essential items seat-belted in on the passenger side. These were his tools, and like any good tradesman, he kept his tools clean and in order.
Although some of his personal habits may have been the butt of jokes from his colleagues, Deputy Mackey’s law enforcement instincts and abilities were not. By most, he was considered to be one of Pickham County’s finest deputies.
In fact, his only real detractor was the person ultimately responsible for his continued presence with the sheriff’s department. Pickham County Sheriff, Richard Klineman, himself, had taken a disliking to George Mackey.
Retired from a big-city police department, he had resettled in rural Georgia, feeling it his civic duty to run for sheriff so that he might bring enlightened law enforcement to his rustic and clearly unsophisticated neighbors.
Klineman had convinced a wealthy and politically connected county commission chairman to support him as a progressive who would usher the county sheriff’s office into the twenty-first century. Old-timers and old money had bought into the idea, mostly because the sitting sheriff had been a non-political straight-arrow unwilling to grant favors to the good ole boys. Klineman, an outsider, but willing to play the game with them, won in a close election.
Not too much had changed under Sheriff Klineman. As it turned out, Mackey and the other Pickham County deputies were pretty good at their jobs and as dedicated as their seasoned, big-city detective cousins; maybe more so, since most of them had lived in Pickham County all of their lives. It was their county.
Sheriffs were elected. They came and they went. The deputies would bide their time until the political tides swept Klineman out of their lives and brought in the next candidate.
Frustrated at the slow progress, Sheriff Klineman’s cleanup of the county was mostly aimed at George Mackey. The reason wasn’t entirely clear to George. He worked hard, solved cases and helped out around the county. No one really complained about him…except Klineman.
And, in fact, that was the problem. He was like the rest of the community…cut from the same coarse cloth. Country. Redneck. Simple. In Sheriff Klineman’s eyes, he was a hick…a tobacco-spitting, good ole boy in scuffed boots. Mackey could never be a true law enforcement professional.
But, he was a professional, recognized by his peers as one of the best in south Georgia. He also was not intimidated by the sheriff. Klineman was determined to change that.
On this clear autumn night, however, the world seemed right to George Mackey and worries about his sheriff were far from his mind as he whipped the county pickup into the gravel lot of a country store–gas station. The building was an old frame structure with faded white paint on the wood siding. It had been standing since the 1920’s and had been operated by a succession of owners. Some had made a go of it, some had not.
It sat empty for a number of years before the current owners bought it as a family retirement business. They were making a go of it, sort of. The continued occupation of the old building by Elmore and Rosalee Cutchins was a doubtful thing on any given day of any given month.
The Cutchins place was one of a number of small isolated establishments scattered around the county. George usually tried to stop by and check on the secluded businesses around closing time.
From his pickup, he could see short, white-haired Mrs. Cutchins standing behind the counter counting out a stack of bills. Two local boys, sixteen or seventeen years old, were standing outside beside a beat up old farm truck watching through the window. One nudged the other as they muttered back and forth.
George stepped out onto the gravel, closing the door loudly. The boys’ heads snapped around in unison while their arms dropped to their sides in an effort to conceal the cans they were holding behind their legs.
“How you boys doin’ tonight?” George’s tone was firm, the look on his face a mixture of stern admonishment and curious amusement.
“P-pretty good Deputy,” one stammered.
The other just nodded.
“Well, looks like they’re closing up. You boys head out.”
“Yes, sir. Guess so. See you later Deputy,” The one who was the talker lead the way as they both climbed into the pickup, still trying to hide the cans.
“Boys,” George said, “Pour out the beers before you crank up the truck.”
“Oh…uh yes, sir.” Talking boy looked over at the passenger side. “Better pour it out, Bobby.”
Beer poured foaming into the gravel from the windows of the truck.
“All right now,” George continued. “Head on out. I catch you drinking again tonight, and I’ll be hauling you down to the county jail before I call your daddy. Right?”
Talking boy nodded solemnly, indicating his complete appreciation of the situation. “Yes, sir. We didn’t mean any harm…I mean we’d appreciate you not calling our folks.”
“That’s up to you. Now ya’ll head out.” They both nodded. Talking boy cranked the old truck and pulled out onto the country road. He was careful not to spin his tires in the gravel, and accelerated on the road like a grandmother going to Wednesday night prayer meeting, causing a small smile to break across Deputy Mackey’s stern face.
5. He Hated Them
It wasn’t the beer either that bothered Lyn. Even in the backwoods Bible belt, everybody drank. It was a natural enough way to sooth the pain of poverty and ignorance. A beer, or even many beers, was one way to make the emptiness tolerable.
Her friends’ fathers drank. They might hate their lives…the poverty…their failures…so they drank. Too simple and plain to put into words what they felt, they could be tender with their families in their own way. They were still good fathers and husbands. If hate was in their hearts, it was for themselves…not for their families.
Not Daddy though. It was not the poverty or the backbreaking labor. It was them. He hated them. She knew it.
He wanted nothing more than to torment his family. He was mean and ignorant and took pleasure in his own ignorance.
“I ain’t never been more than fifty miles from Judges Creek in Pickham County, Georgia,” he would say with pride.
“This here was good enough for my goddamned daddy, and I guess it’ll be good enough for you,” he would go on, the words spit out like a threat, warning her not to consider even the possibility of ever having more or wanting more out of life.
Her brother, Sam, had not been able to take it any longer than he had to. When he turned eighteen, he went to Savannah and joined the Army. He never said goodbye to his father, but he had taken Lyn aside one day and told her of his plan to leave. They cried and hugged each other, Lyn clinging to her brother for a long while. She had known he would leave one day, had dreaded that day, but knew that he had to. Staying, he would have killed Daddy, or been killed by him.
They sat for a long while that day, laughing a little about the plan they had when they were younger to run away to Canada, to get away from the meanness of their father and their lives. It was a child’s dream, dreamt by children whose childhood bore the scars of abuse. Sam promised to come back and get her when he could. They would go to Cana
da. It had become her dream of dreams. Cool, green Canada.
That was two years ago. Sam was buried now, behind the old Pentecostal church in Judges Creek. He came home a year ago, after a bomb alongside a dirt road in Afghanistan blew up the Humvee he was riding in. Lyn had no idea what a Humvee was, but she knew that the driver of the vehicle lost his legs. Sam lost his life.
The few letters he had written to his sister were hidden in a box under her bed. She kept them hidden from her father for fear that they would disappear during one of his drunken rages. She didn’t blame Sam for leaving, but she missed him badly.
Mama missed him too. Lyn knew that she cried at night over the loss of her only boy. She also knew that Daddy thought it was because of his meanness that Mama cried, and took pleasure in that idea.
And there it was. Daddy was just hateful. He didn’t want better for them, he just wanted to punish them. She didn’t know why…had given up trying to understand.
To Lyn, he was just a mean, spiteful man who lived in the same house with them. Hating his own family and doing whatever he could to degrade them, he would condemn them to the misery that was his life. Right now that meant peeing on Mama’s rosebush.
After a few minutes, she heard him thump up the three steps to the old porch. The warped floorboards creaked under his weight. The screen door screeched open and then clattered shut.
“Where you at?” he shouted.
Lyn heard the floor creak in the next bedroom.
“Right here, no need to shout.” Mama’s voice was tired.
“Get your ass out here. Where’s my supper?”
“Didn’t know when you’d be home. I’ll make you some eggs,” Mama replied softly.
Lyn winced at what she knew was coming. It was a nightly ritual. She could have repeated the dialogue before they said it in the next room.
“Eggs?” her father roared. “I want some goddamned food!”