It’s Monday, so I have roughly forty-eight hours until someone from the firehouse tries to call him. It’ll go to voice mail. The firehouse guy may not be alarmed at first, or they may call his brother or nephew. The firefighters and police officers work together, so I’m sure any of the firemen would feel comfortable calling and asking.
This would probably result in Dale driving by and checking on Harold at his trailer. He’ll walk in the trailer. The door’s unlocked. He’ll call Harold’s phone, and it’ll ring in the house. Harold’s truck’s still there. There’s no sign of a struggle, no broken windows or doors. Dale might think that someone Harold knew took him and did something to him elsewhere.
I can’t imagine he doesn’t have any other enemies besides me. The Stricklands will investigate the scene as a missing person’s case. They’ll find nothing, so they’ll come to me. They’ll force me to talk. They might hurt Brittany again. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let her down again. I have two days to turn the tables. If I can’t, I better have a getaway plan for her and me.
What if I need more time? James nodded. I know how to get another week and an early warning device if it doesn’t work.
James parked in the visitor lot of the hospital and hustled inside. He knocked on the partially open door and entered the hospital room. Brittany sat on the chair, fully dressed in her sweats, watching television. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She had bruising on her neck. She scowled at the screen. He moved next to her.
“You ready to go?” he asked.
“Where were you?” she replied.
“I’m sorry. I overslept.”
She glared, her eyes wet. “I didn’t think you were gonna come back.”
He bent over and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry I was late.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. Her tiny body trembled.
They filled her prescriptions at the pharmacy and walked outside.
James glanced at the concrete benches. “I can bring the truck around if you want to wait here. The truck is pretty far away.”
“No,” she whispered.
They trudged in silence, James looking over every few seconds, Brittany staring at her feet as if concentrating on moving each foot forward.
Inside the cab, James said, “We should probably tell Diane what happened before your next session. She might want to be prepared. I’m sure she would give you more time. I can call her if you want me to.”
Brittany nodded, her head down.
They drove along a two-lane country road with farms in various stages of disrepair. Brittany gazed out the window. James glanced over often. He pulled into his driveway and cut the engine.
“There’s something we need to talk about,” James said.
She still stared out the window. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Would you like to move?”
She turned her head to James. “Where?”
“Northern Virginia, where I used to live. It would be a fresh start. They have a good community college there, lots of jobs. You could stay with my friend Yolanda. She’s really—”
“You’re not comin’?” she said with a scowl.
James looked out the front windshield. “I can’t.”
Brittany crossed her arms. “Why not?”
James turned to her. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“You’re not gonna just dump me with some lady I don’t even know.” Her face was red. “If you don’t want me here anymore, just say so!”
“Brittany, it’s not like that.”
She opened the door and stepped out of the truck. “I’ll be gone in ten minutes.” She slammed the door and marched toward the cabin.
James exited the truck and caught up to Brittany, grabbing her arm. She whirled around and slapped him across the face. James let go. “It’s not what you think,” he said.
She glared at James and marched toward the cabin.
“I killed Harold,” James said, condensation hanging in the air with his confession.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
James stepped toward her. “I promised you that I wouldn’t let them hurt you.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “I’m sorry, Brittany.”
She turned around. Her face was tear-streaked. “No,” she said, shaking her head.
“I just want you to be safe. I can’t keep you safe here. I thought I could. I was so fucking stupid.” He wiped his eyes with the side of his index finger.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, sobbing. They stood in front of the crime scene, holding each other, sharing the guilt, the shame, and the pain.
After a few minutes, she stepped back and wiped her face with her sweatshirt sleeve. “What are you gonna do?” she asked.
“I have a plan.”
“What is it?”
“It’s better you don’t know,” he said.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“If it doesn’t work, I get the hell out of here.”
“Then would you come and get me?”
James took a deep breath. “If it doesn’t work, you’d probably never see me again. But Yolanda’s a good friend and a good person—”
“No.”
James furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. I mean I won’t do it.”
“I think we can agree that it’s not safe here.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“I know.”
“I can make my own decision on stayin’.”
“You have to trust me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Trust goes both ways. Tell me ’bout your plan, and I’ll decide for myself.”
They went inside, hung their jackets, and sat at the kitchen table. He explained in explicit detail, emphasizing the risks involved. He stated that, if she gets involved, she can’t tell Diane, because she has an obligation to report felonies, which supersedes the doctor patient confidentiality. Brittany asked a few pointed questions.
“I’m stayin’. I wanna help,” she said finally.
* * *
James and Brittany drove out of town to a shopping center forty-five minutes away. They used the cash James had hidden in the cellar for their purchases. At Lowe’s, they bought rubber gloves, a disposable Tyvek chemical suit, Gorilla tape, several pairs of size eleven booties, and a tarp to replace the one he had used on Harold.
At Best Buy, he picked up a handheld MP3 recorder and a digital camera with a long-range zoom. They picked up a couple burner phones from a convenience store. At Staples they purchased five thousand white self-sealing envelopes, a folding machine, the first four hundred stamps, and a lint roller. They went to a half-dozen grocery stores and a Walmart to get the rest of the stamps they needed and the latest issue of Autotrader.
They sat at Chick-fil-A, perusing the Autotrader over chicken sandwiches and fries. Brittany wore a scarf to cover her bruising, yet no makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes.
“How much can we spend?” she asked.
“We’re looking for something in the $3,000 range. It has to be a private owner, no dealerships. We want the car to be reliable, no flashy colors, something nondescript. So I would say an older compact car—a Honda Civic or a Toyota Corolla or something like that.”
She sighed. “All the Hondas and Toyotas are too expensive.” She pointed to the magazine, tilting it so James could see. “Even this one with 130,000 miles.”
They eventually decided on a white Hyundai Elantra with 75,000 miles that was close by. James called the number listed on the ad, from his new phone. He asked the man on the other end if the car was still for sale. When the man affirmed, James asked him if he could come and look at it, that it was a birthday present for his daughter. The man gave James his exact street address.
James and Brittany walked up to the one-story brick rambler, their cover stories already rehearsed. The grass was dormant, the trees leafless. A hefty bald
man with pale skin answered the door. James wondered how he ever fit in the tiny car. The man let Brittany drive the car around the block by herself. When she returned, James checked the engine, even though he had no idea what he was looking at.
“How ’bout $2,600?” James asked.
The fat man winced. “I really didn’t wanna go under three.”
James frowned and spoke to Brittany. “We should prob’ly wait. I mean, I ain’t sure I can even deal with the plates for a couple weeks.” James turned to the man. “I’m a long-distance trucker. I’m leavin’ t’morrow for two weeks.”
“Come on, Dad. I really like this one.” Brittany put her hands together as if she were praying. “Please, please, please,” she said in rapid succession.
“It is nice,” James said.
The man looked at Brittany, then back to James.
“Maybe it’ll still be for sale in a couple weeks,” James said.
“It prob’ly won’t.” Brittany pressed out her bottom lip and crossed her arms.
“We have had quite a lot of interest,” the man said.
“Nothin’ ever works out,” Brittany said and stomped to the truck.
James sighed. “It’s been tough since …” He shook his head. “You have kids?”
“Two boys. They’re grown. The wife and I are hoping for some grandkids.”
“Always wanted boys. Wasn’t in the cards.”
“Think you can do $2,800?” the fat man asked.
“Think you can give me a couple weeks with them plates?” James asked.
“Depends on how you’re paying.”
“Cash.”
* * *
James sneaked into Harold’s trailer dressed in his Tyvek chemical suit and booties. He found Harold’s cell phone and charger in the living room. He left the trailer.
Back in his cabin, James scrolled through Harold’s text messages. Nothing since he was submerged in human sewage. James placed the phone in a Ziploc bag. Brittany emerged from the bathroom in her work clothes—black jeans, a white polo, and a scarf. She wore a long-sleeved shirt underneath.
“I got the phone and the charger,” James said. “This goes without saying, but under no circumstances can we answer the phone. It’ll be an early warning device. As soon as there’s a text from the Stricklands that they’re looking for him, we’re out of here. So we have to keep this charged and monitored.” He shoved the Ziploc-bag-covered phone into his pocket.
“Got it,” she said.
“We need to get moving if you’re going to make your appointment with Diane.”
She bit her lower lip. “We should cancel it. She’s gonna know somethin’s wrong.”
“We need to keep up appearances. Besides, you should talk to her about how you’re feeling. Just attribute it to past events.”
“Are you gonna take me to work? Or should I take the new car?”
“I’ll drive you. We actually need to stow the Hyundai someplace. I don’t want it seen more than it has to be.” James took a deep breath. “I’m worried about you planting the MP3 recorder. I mean, I can do it if you want me to. I could cancel class and call the diner and tell them you have the flu.”
She shook her head. “I thought we’re supposed to be keepin’ up appearances? How’s it gonna look if you don’t show up for class?”
He shook his head. “I’m just worried about you being there with him. I think it’s too much, too soon.”
“I’m scared. I’m not gonna lie, but I’m tired of bein’ the victim.”
“You do understand that it’s illegal?”
She tightened her jaw. “The truly courageous are scared, but they go anyway.”
James nodded and grabbed the tape recorder and the Gorilla tape. He handed her the recorder. “All you have to do is press the Power button and hit Record.” He pointed to the buttons. “This is for Power. This is Record. It’ll record for six hours, so you can set it up way before they get there.”
She nodded. “Got it.”
He pulled some tape from the roll and ripped it with his fingers. “This tape is really easy to rip. You don’t need scissors. Here you try.” He handed her the roll of thick black tape.
She pulled a bit of tape and ripped it with her tiny fingers.
“Good,” he said. “I would suggest getting the tape on the recorder first and then sticking it under the table near the back wall. Act like you’re cleaning under there.” James took a deep breath. “Are you sure about this?”
“Like you said, I can set it up way before they get there. It’s not my section, so I think I can stay away from them.”
“Jessica knows the exact time and the exact booth, so you’ll have to ask her. I think they show up around eight or nine.”
After her therapy session, James dropped Brittany off at work and went to teach his night class.
* * *
He parked in the lot at Dot’s Diner. Brittany wore a poker face as she approached the truck.
“How did it go?” James asked, his heart pounding.
“I got it,” she replied with a restrained grin.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I took a long break when they came in. Rod didn’t care. It was dead. They didn’t even see me.”
“Good.”
After the jaunt home, they sat at the kitchen table. James pressed Play on the MP3 recorder. He forwarded through the first few hours of nothing except diner background noise and a couple of old biddies gossiping. The good part started with a groan as the chief sat in the booth opposite his son. Jessica took their order. The officers flirted with her.
“You sure are growin’ up,” Officer Dale Strickland said.
“They didn’t make ’em like that in my day,” the chief added.
Jessica ignored the comments. “What would you two like to drink?”
Once Jessica left with their orders, they continued, “Pretty girl,” the chief said.
“What I wouldn’t give to be young again,” Dale said.
“Young? You are young. Have a little respect for the old man in front of you.”
“Sorry, Pops.”
The chief chuckled. “Doesn’t matter how old you are. When you’re sixty, you still want the eighteen-year-old just like when you were eighteen.”
“Don’t tell Mom that.”
“I won’t.”
“So I heard Emory locked up that teacher who lives next to Harold.”
“Prick needed to be taken off his high horse.”
“How’d he do in lockup?” Dale asked.
“He was cryin’ all night for a doctor,” the chief said.
“These liberal faggots got no backbone.”
The chief cackled. “What was the take from last week?”
“Kurt was light last Wednesday,” Dale said. “I think he might be skimmin’.”
“He knows better than that.”
Dale grunted. “When has he ever known better?”
“He wouldn’t dare,” the chief said finally.
Jessica brought their coffee. The men asked about her family and how school was going. Jessica’s responses were polite but short. “Your food will be out soon,” Jessica said.
“How’s Margie and the girls?” the chief asked his son. “They must be itchin’ for spring.”
“I’ll tell you what, Pops. Margie’s not like Mom. It’s never enough. The more money I make, the more she spends. The girls are little carbon copies.”
“That’s why you gotta marry an ugly woman.”
Dale laughed. “Don’t tell Mom that either.”
Jessica brought their food. They thanked her and began eating. The conversation slowed to benign chitchat. Grunts and probably body language became acceptable forms of communication.
“You see what happened in South Perry the other day?” Dale asked.
The chief grunted.
“These cameras are lethal. Reputations ruined by the Internet. Should be a crime to film police.”
&nb
sp; The chief grunted once more.
Dale continued, “Nigger had it comin’ if you ask me.”
The chief swallowed and said, “People want the trash taken out, but they don’t wanna see it bein’ taken out.”
“His family’s hollerin’ about excessive force and racial profilin’. It’s liberal bullshit if you ask me, but they got some public support.”
“Stats don’t lie. Black males commit crimes at a much higher rate than any other group. We’d be stupid not to target ’em. You just can’t say that.”
After listening to ten minutes of mundane gossip, followed by silence, James stopped the recording.
“I’m not sure I understand what they’re doing,” Brittany said. “Can we get them in trouble?”
“Not exactly,” James replied. “Recording someone without their knowledge is illegal, remember? It’s inadmissible and would get us arrested.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?”
“Information is power.”
Chapter 14
Preparation
James parked his truck in the small lot in front of the self-storage center. The morning sun was blocked by the trees. Frost clung to the edges of his windshield, where he’d neglected to scrape. The faded metal sign read Gil’s Storage. Across the street was the entrance to the trail they had used to hunt mushrooms and pawpaws. James exited his truck and stepped toward the business.
The glass door to the office had the Open sign posted. James entered the cramped space. It was almost as cold inside as it was out. A white-haired man sat behind a metal desk in a parka, knit hat, and gloves.
“How are you doing?” James said.
“What can I do for you?” the man asked.
“I’d like to park my car here for about a month.”
“Six months is the shortest lease we’ll do.”
“How much would that be?”
“What kinda car you got?”
“It’s a compact car. It’s small.”
“Compact car will run you about forty a month, provided you got good credit. We do credit checks.”
“What if I paid for the term up-front … in cash?”
He grinned. “Well then, I know you’re good for it.”
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