by Ken Douglas
“ Which way?” she asked.
“ This way. Be careful.” He led her to where he thought he remembered the front porch being. She was still walking without lifting her feet. “It’s okay, nothing’s gonna happen. I’ve been in fog millions of times. I like it.”
“ Ouch!” She stumbled over something and tripped. She fell onto the wet grass, pulling Arty along with her, and once again he found himself lying down with his arms around her. He decided he liked it.
“ I kicked something,” she said, scrambling out from under Arty. She crawled on her hands and knees, passing his fumbling feet as he was trying to get up. “Got it,” she said.
“ Got what?” Arty asked, shaking the grass off of himself, the way a cowboy dusts off after he’s been thrown from a horse.
“ This.”
“ Jeez Marie, is it loaded?” Even though she looked like a ghost in the fog, Arty had no trouble seeing what was in her hand.
“ It’s an officer’s model, short barreled, colt forty-five automatic, and yes, I’m sure it’s loaded, because we only heard three shots and this holds eight. My father would never go anywhere with an empty gun.”
“ Your father?”
“ How do you think I know what kind of gun this is? I don’t know anything about guns except only one kind of gun, this kind of gun, because my father showed me. He made me learn how to hold it and load it, and shoot it, so many times I can’t count them all. It was the only thing about him that I didn’t like. Sometimes I thought he loved this gun more than me,” she said.
“ Let’s get inside.” Arty took her hand and led her to the porch, then to the front door, then to the sofa in the living room.
Carolina laid the gun on an end table, shivered for a second, then laid down the backpack on a cushion next to her and opened it. Sheila scurried into her lap. “Undo me,” she said, turning her back to Arty.
“ What?”
“ The locket, undo the catch on the chain.”
“ Oh.” Arty undid it and Carolina pulled off the locket and unhooked it from the chain. She turned around, looking like she was going to cry.
“ Look up, Sheila.” She raised the ferret’s head.
“ What are you doing?”
“ I’m going to put the locket under Sheila’s name tag.” A single tear fell from her eye and she reached up and wiped it off.
“ Why?”
“ Because that’s my dad’s gun. I don’t know why he wants to go shooting into my bedroom. I can’t believe he’d do a thing like that, but until I find out why, I don’t want to wear this locket. I won’t put it on again until I know why he did it, but I don’t want to lose it either, just in case it was some kind of mistake. Sheila is always with me, so the locket will always be close by.”
“ Does your dad ever come see you?”
She was quiet for a second, her eyebrows knitted together in thought. “No, he’s never been here.”
“ If your dad’s never been by, maybe he doesn’t know where you live. Then it couldn’t be his gun. It’s just one like it.”
“ It’s his.”
“ You sure?”
“ Yeah.”
“ Then maybe your dad’s a burglar and he didn’t know this was your house.” She hoped he was wrong. But maybe he wasn’t. She knew what her father was. She’d heard her parents arguing about it before they got divorced.
“ Or maybe your dad was shooting at whoever was trying to break in, the person with the red eyes maybe?”
“ If he was trying to stop someone he wouldn’t have left the gun.”
“ Maybe they chased him away.”
“ Then how come they’re not still out there?”
“ Maybe they are.”
Chapter Six
He glanced at the dead tire lying in the puddle. It had saved his life. It didn’t seem right to leave it for the trash collector, but he was too tired to waste energy picking it up and putting it in the trunk. Besides, the car was trash anyway. He heard sirens in the background. The fog started to move in. It was time to go.
He closed his eyes for an instant and imagined that fantasy blond on that far away island, clean in the warm sun, the pounding surf in the background. All he ever wanted in life, but he’d chosen the wrong path. He sighed again and climbed in the car.
A low overcast sky hid the moon and stars and he had a difficult time seeing across the alley, through the blanket of thickening fog.
He had already managed the impossible. Three encounters with the old horror and he was still alive. It would be tempting fate to invite a fourth, but he didn’t have any choice. She was the host at this party and his invitation was in the mail, so he had to prepare.
He started the car and drove out of the alley. The sirens were behind him, and judging from the sound of them, he figured they were going to the scene of his second battle. True, he had driven across four or five lawns and ripped them to shreds, but didn’t anybody care about gunfire in the night anymore?
He stopped at the alley’s end. The fog, a double-edged sword, was getting thicker. It would give him cover and allow him to slip out of town unobserved, but it would also slow his progress, and he wanted to be as far away from Carolina as possible when she came for him again. He turned left and then right on Fremont Avenue. After a few slow blocks, he took another right on Across the Way Road.
He had to go through Tampico before he could pick up the road to the highway, which could be a blessing, because he had no other weapons save his knife, and of course, the pepper, but she’d be ready for that. There were a lot of specialty stores on both Ocean Drive and Beach Walk. Maybe he could break into one and find something before he headed toward the highway.
He kept his left hand on the wheel as he reached toward the glove compartment. He grimaced with pain. She’d hurt him. It seemed like his left side, from his waist to his shoulder, was bruised, maybe he even had some broken ribs.
Grunting, he punched the glove lock with his index finger and the glove compartment popped open. He reached in and pulled out a leather knife holder. It wasn’t a gun, but it would have to do, he thought, as he pulled to the side of the road, halfway between the two towns, and parked.
He kept the lights on, the engine running, and the car in gear with his foot on the brake, as he loosened his belt and pulled it from his Levi’s. Once free from the pants, he ran the old leather belt through his fingers. It was World War II standard Army issue. It had been his father’s. He wore it to hold up his faded Levi’s every day of his life, till the farm and the drink killed him.
He had been seventeen when his father died on that tractor. He turned eighteen a month later and joined the Army the old man had loved so much. He wanted to be a hero, like him. But heroes are hard to be, especially between wars, he mused, as he slid the belt through the loop in the scabbard.
He arched his back and eased the belt through the belt loops behind him. The night was alive. An evening breeze rustled through the trees. A cricket chirped in the background. He heard an owl hoot and a car backfire from a few blocks away. He heard the river, off in the distance, as it wound through town, taking melted snow from the mountains down to the sea. He buckled the belt and sniffed the air, like a rabbit checking for the fox. He hated being the rabbit.
He slid the scabbard around so that it rested over his right side. Then he slapped it with his right hand, unbuckling the strap that held the knife in place with his little finger. The Bowie knife was in his hand and before his eyes in a flash.
Satisfied, he put the knife back in the scabbard and buckled the strap. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. He listened to the night and willed himself to become part of it. Then, lizard-quick, he slapped the knife holster with his left hand, unbuckling the strap with his thumb and, as quick as before, he was holding the gleaming blade before his eyes. He hadn’t lost his touch, he was as fast with his left as he was with his right. He reholstered the knife and snapped the buckle. He was still the rabbit, but
he was a rabbit with fangs.
Ready, he squinted into the fog, took his foot off the brake and eased down on the accelerator. The car started to move away from the side of the road, coughed and died. Instinctively he put it in neutral, turned the ignition and listened to the starter motor grind. It refused to catch. He turned the key off and waited a few seconds. He tried again and received no joy. He pumped the gas a couple of times, being careful not to flood it, tried again and still it didn’t start.
He was about to try again, when he heard a car coming from the other direction, from Tampico. He formed an instant plan and acted on it. He got out of the car, leaving the door open. He lay down on the opposite side of the road, facing away from the oncoming car. He was afraid if he was able to see it bearing down on him, he’d be tempted to jump out of the way.
With his ear on the road he could feel the car approach as well as hear it. It was crawling toward him, picking its way through the fog. Would the driver see him in time to stop or was the fog too thick? Had he inked his own death certificate when he thought of this plan and had he signed it by foolishly playing possum in the street?
The car came closer. He imagined he could see it and silently cursed himself for facing away from it. He wanted to see the face of it. He imagined the massive mouth of an iron grill, grinning and open, covered by giant headlight eyes, bright and menacing, glaring, angry and hungry, an aging, nearsighted driver behind the wheel, unable to see on the best of nights, blind as the dead on a night like this. Would the blind driver even realize something was awfully wrong when the front wheels rolled over his head and pelvis, turning his brains to mush and condemning him to an eternity of damnation?
He said a fast Hail Mary and prayed for the forgiveness he knew could never be his. He mentally crossed himself. He grit his teeth as the soft sound of the purring engine roared through him.
He heard a scream. Someone had seen him, but would the driver react in time? How fast was he going? Slow enough to stop before or after the thumping the tires would make as they rolled over his body? What a stupid plan, he thought, as he waited for the sound of rubber screeching on the road.
He wanted to roll out of the way, to get up and run, to leave and never come back. But he was committed. There was no place for him to hide.
The rumbling engine penetrated both the ear pointed skyward and the ear on the ground, ricocheting in deafening stereo through his skull, in sharp contrast to the quiet night. But it wasn’t coming any closer. There were no screeching brakes. There would be no thumping of tires rolling over his head.
His world was dark. His eyes had been squeezed shut, like a child’s when he’s trying to fool his mother into thinking he’s asleep. He opened them and realized that his body was bathed in the car’s headlights. He closed them again and relied on his hearing.
He listened, willing himself to remain still as a dead man. The engine continued running. No other sound. He started to count in his head, when he got up to sixty he started over. A minute is a long time, two is longer, three, longer still. He stopped counting.
Why wouldn’t they get out of the car? Why wouldn’t the driver shut off the blasted engine? Whoever was in the car was still thinking, being cagey, making sure. Maybe the driver thought he was dead and so he didn’t need to act in haste. Could be, he thought, so he decided to give him something to think about.
He moved his arm. Not much. He didn’t want to over do it. Then he lay still and fought back a smile as he heard a door open.
“ Come on, Miles,” a woman’s voice said. “He’s alive.”
“ Sarah, we shouldn’t get involved,” A man’s voice. A coward. Smart, but a coward.
“ Look at his car. He’s been in an accident. Probably a hit and run,” the woman said.
“ We should call somebody more qualified,” the man said.
“ I am qualified. I was a nurse before I was a teacher, remember? So are you going to help me or what?”
He felt the woman bend over him, felt the warmth off her fingers as they sought his carotid artery, searching for a pulse, but from the short conversation he’d heard, he knew that if he grabbed her, the man would cut and run. It was in his voice, the way he talked. It was a coward’s voice. He couldn’t risk grabbing her. He needed the car. He needed the man to come and help and the man needed some encouragement.
So he moaned. Not a long moan. Short, but enough of a moan to convey his despair, but she took it for pain.
“ Miles, you get out here right now or I’ll never speak to you again. And shut off the engine.”
Miles did as he was told and the night went quiet save for the sound of the surf hitting the shore not too far away.
“ I don’t know about this, Sarah,” the man said.
He heard the man’s footsteps as he approached and he caught the image of a grassfeeder on the African plain. A gazelle perhaps, with her head in the air, sniffing the breeze, but the breeze lied because the lion was on the wrong side of the wind and just as she puts her head to the grass, the lion pounces, and he pounced, just as the man bent over him, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to the pavement, with the knife blade at his throat.
“ Don’t run, ma’am. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I will if you make me.” His words came out like they were filtered through gravel and they sounded like they hurt.
“ I won’t run,” Sarah Sadler said, and she wondered why she’d said it.
“ Good girl.”
He pushed himself off of Miles and pulled him with him as he stood, keeping the knife at his throat. Miles offered no resistance.
“ You can have whatever you want,” Miles said, “just let us go.”
“ What if I want the woman?”
Miles was silent.
“ But you don’t, do you?” She looked at him straight on. He was a troubled man, but he wasn’t a rapist.
“ No, ma’am, I don’t. Now let’s get in the car. You drive, Sarah.”
“ You know my name.”
“ I heard Miles.”
“ Of course.”
“ Wait till we’re in the car,” he said.
“ I won’t move.” She stood away from the driver’s door. The man was obviously agitated and she didn’t want to do or say anything to upset him more than he already was.
“ Miles, you ride shotgun. Remember, I’ll be right behind you.” He led Miles to the passenger side of the station wagon and helped him in, the way a policeman puts a prisoner into a car, then he got in the back. “Okay, Sarah, you can get in now.”
“ All right.” She slid behind the wheel. This was the first time she’d been behind the wheel of Miles’ station wagon. It was a Volvo. It was new, and nobody drove it but Miles.
“ Where am I going?” Sarah asked. She studied him in the rearview mirror. The cuts on his face and the burns on his hands were in sharp contrast to the steel in his voice. He didn’t look like he tolerated disobedience well, but she was a good judge of people. She’d worked her way through nursing school as a social worker and she’d earned her teaching credential working as a nurse. She was confident he wouldn’t harm them, but she knew she would have to keep him talking and that she had to gain his confidence.
“ The highway. If you can get me there, I’ll get a car at the motel and be out of your lives forever.”
“ If?” she asked as they came into Tampico. She saw a police car up ahead, waiting at the light and for a second she thought that if she could just pull up along side, she could yell for help.
“ Pull over, there.” He indicated the curbside by the park, across from the dunes. He’d seen the car, too. The windows were down and the sound of the surf was louder than before.
“ Don’t shut off the engine,” he said and she obeyed, wondering what he was going to do next. She sighed as the light changed and the police car drove off into the night.
“ What are you going to do with us?” Miles asked.
“ I have a little girl, Carolina,” he sai
d, ignoring Miles and addressing her.
“ Carolina Coffee?” Sarah asked. She turned and looked at him in the dim light. She did see a resemblance.
“ Yeah.”
“ She’s in my class.” She felt better. Surely this man wouldn’t tell them who he was if he intended to harm them.
“ You’re her teacher?”
“ Yes.”
“ Then I hope you get out of this night alive.”
“ What are you talking about?” Miles’ voice was caught between a whine and a whisper.
“ Quiet, Miles,” Sarah said. “I want to hear.” She tried to see into his eyes, but the darkness hid too much. He sounded sincere, though and the more he talked, the safer they would be.
“ I’m a thief,” he said, continuing to ignore Miles. “I stole something and now the owner wants it back.”
“ Then give it back.”
“ I don’t have it, but it wouldn’t make any difference, she’d kill me anyway.”
“ And Carolina?” She wondered if the man was paranoid. He was sounding that way.
“ I’m afraid the old girl thinks Carolina has it.”
“ Does she?” Sarah decided it would be best to humor the man.
“ Yes.”
“ Why don’t you call the police and turn yourself in? They’d protect your daughter.”
“ She’d kill them.”
“ You’re crazy,” Miles said. Sarah clenched her teeth. How come he couldn’t shut up? If they wanted to get out of this, they were going to have to play along with the man. Couldn’t Miles see that?
“ Why don’t you let us go and take the car? We won’t say anything.” Sarah hoped the soothing sound of her voice would calm him.
“ Miles would.”
She didn’t answer, because she knew he was right. The last thing she wanted was for this man to think she was lying to him. She was afraid their survival depended on her gaining his trust.