Gone in a Flash

by Susan Rogers Cooper

  But by the time we were more or less through with the Smithsonian (and we hadn’t even seen all the buildings), it was time for dinner back at the hotel. I decided to go up to the room and get room service because, and I hate to admit this, I was tired. A couple of the other people my age also left for their rooms. Three hours later, Rachael still wasn’t back in the room. And all I could say to that was, ‘Told you so.’ I turned off the light and went to sleep, hoping, sorta, that she didn’t stumble getting to her bed in the dark.

  ‘I think we should call Mr Brown,’ Mr Jones said, looking behind them as Mr Smith sped out of Black Cat Ridge. He could see the cop car trailing behind them, lights flashing. This was not a good sign.

  ‘Shut up!’ Mr Smith said, trying to lose their tail by weaving his way speedily through the streets of the subdivision.

  ‘I think he’ll be interested in hearing how you’ve botched this whole thing,’ Mr Jones said.

  ‘You know I’m going to kill you, don’t you?’ Mr Smith said.

  ‘I’m calling Mr Brown right now!’ Mr Jones said, pulling out his cell phone.

  Mr Smith took one hand off the wheel, reached into his shoulder holster and brought out his Beretta. He shot Mr Jones in the foot before he dialed the first digit.

  Willis and Chief Donaldson met up with Morris, the driver of the chief’s car, about seven blocks from the Pugh home. He was standing outside the cruiser looking around.

  Willis pulled up next to him and the chief got out of the car.

  ‘Whatja doing, Morris?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, sir, I was chasing that white car, but then I lost it, but I think it was OK because it wasn’t the same license number as the one reported.’

  ‘Did you get the license number of this white car?’ the chief asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, I called it in.’

  At that moment, the dash computer let out a ping. Morris looked at the chief and the chief said, ‘Go on, see what it says.’

  Morris crawled in the front seat of the squad car. ‘Those tags belong to a white 2010 Ford Focus—’

  ‘So it wasn’t even a Taurus you were chasing?’

  ‘Sir, it says those tags were reported stolen earlier today at the Wal-Mart on highway twelve.’

  ‘So it was them?’ Willis ventured from his vantage point, still in the cab of his truck, but with the window down.

  ‘Yeah, coulda been,’ the chief said. ‘Shit.’

  ‘You shot me in the goddam foot!’ Mr Jones screamed.

  ‘So don’t threaten me, asshole!’ Mr Smith screamed back. ‘You’re not calling Mr Brown, you got that?’ He brandished his weapon at Mr Jones. ‘You got that?’

  ‘Yes!’ Mr Jones screamed. ‘I got that! I really, really got that!’

  ‘OK, then,’ Mr Smith said, settling back in his seat, a calm mist descending over him. He looked over at Mr Jones, who was trying to get his foot up in the seat, but was having trouble because of his long legs. ‘Guess we should deal with your foot,’ he said.

  ‘Ya think?’ Mr Jones asked, the sarcasm abundantly clear. ‘Take me to a hospital!’

  ‘Can’t do it,’ Mr Smith said. ‘They have to report all gunshot wounds to the police.’

  ‘Well, you should have thought about that before you shot me!’ Mr Jones said.

  Mr Smith found his way out of Black Cat Ridge without being followed and pulled onto a side road that went down to the river. He pulled under the bridge that connected BCR to Codderville, shut off the engine and turned on the interior light.

  ‘Get your foot up here,’ he said to Mr Jones.

  ‘I can’t!’ Mr Jones said. ‘My leg doesn’t bend that way!’

  Mr Smith sighed. ‘Get out of the car and lift your foot onto the seat.’

  Grumbling, Mr Jones got out of the car, limping and, holding on to the door, stuck his injured foot onto the passenger seat.

  Mr Smith studied the foot. The motorcycle boot Mr Jones was wearing had a hole in it in the baby toe vicinity. ‘OK,’ he said to Mr Jones, ‘I’m gonna take off the boot. So hold on to the door.’

  Mr Jones held on and screamed like a little girl when Mr Smith yanked off the boot.

  ‘Big baby,’ Mr Smith said. There was a lot of blood on Mr Jones’ white sock. Mr Smith pulled that off, eliciting yet another child-like scream of pain. Taking the already ruined sock, Mr Smith cleared the area of blood. There was a small divot cut out of Mr Jones’ foot, right below the smallest toe. It was less a wound and more a severe scrape. But in his position, Mr Smith noted a large hole in the floor of the car.

  He threw the bloody sock at Mr Jones. ‘Jesus, Jones,’ he said, ‘the car got it worse than you did. Get in.’

  Mr Jones looked down at his foot. ‘It’s still bleeding,’ he said.

  ‘Then keep the sock on it. Jeez, get in the car and let’s go.’

  Mr Jones got in the car, leaning down to wrap the bloody sock around his wound before shutting the door. ‘Where are we going now?’ he asked Mr Smith.

  ‘Now we gotta get another car.’ Mr Smith sighed. ‘This is getting old.’

  WEDNESDAY

  The next morning was hectic. Nobody got much sleep the night before, knowing those two men were still out there, but it was the first day of school, the first day of being juniors for all three girls. It wasn’t as cool as being seniors, of course, but they were now upper-class women, and that was something. They got dressed, Bess and Alicia just as they’d described the night before, and, after much throwing of tops hither and yon, Megan managed to find a three-quarter sleeve, handkerchief-hemmed gauzy Indian print top, low-cut enough to show boobage, but not so low cut as to instigate a riot – either with the boys at school, the school authorities, or, she hoped, her mother.

  Megan lucked out. Her mother was too busy making breakfasts and fixing lunches to care.

  ‘I’d rather eat in the cafeteria,’ Megan said, turning her nose up at the brown bag her mother had prepared.

  ‘Eat it and shut up,’ E.J. said. ‘Email notice last night. The kitchen will be closed for at least one week pending the completion of the remodeling.’

  ‘That’s what you get when you go with the lowest bidder,’ her father said from his stool at the counter.

  ‘Where are we going to eat?’ Megan demanded.

  ‘The cafeteria will be open. The kitchen is cordoned off,’ her mother said.

  ‘Just great,’ Megan mumbled.

  ‘You’ll live,’ Alicia said from her stool where she was finishing up her cereal.

  ‘I’m driving this morning!’ Megan called.

  ‘Nope.’ E.J. pointed to a whiteboard on the refrigerator. ‘It’s Alicia’s turn.’

  Alicia stuck her tongue out at Megan. ‘Very mature, Alicia!’ Megan said, sticking her tongue out back at her.

  ‘Gawd,’ Bess said. ‘Mother, may I please take the bus?’

  Megan pushed Bess, who pushed back.

  ‘Finish eating, please,’ their mother called out. ‘And don’t anyone touch anyone else. At all. Do you hear me?’

  They ignored her but bent down to their cereal bowls.

  Ten minutes later they were out the door and piling into the minivan, both Bess and Megan shouting ‘shotgun!’ at the same time.

  VERA’S STORY

  WEDNESDAY

  In a way, I hate to admit it, but I was right. I woke up Wednesday morning and the bed next to mine was empty – never slept in. I would have thought that Rachael and Brother Joe would be a little bit more discreet, but things aren’t like they used to be. People living in sin and having babies out of wedlock like it’s no big deal. Homosexuals having babies willy-nilly, and people talking out loud in mixed company about sex. But you’d think they would at least keep this stuff at home and not flaunt it in front of the entire choir like this.

  I went down to breakfast and ran into my friend Ethel, another soprano. I said, ‘Guess who never came back to the room last night.’

  She made an ‘O’ with her mouth
and her eyes got big. ‘Not at all?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not seen hide nor hair of her since we got back to the hotel last night.’

  Then she elbowed me in the ribs. ‘Look! There’s Brother Joe.’

  I looked. Sure enough Brother Joe was in line at the breakfast buffet, loading his plate like he thought calories didn’t matter. I couldn’t help noticing he was alone, though.

  ‘Do you think we should let them drive to school alone?’ Willis asked me as they pulled out of the driveway.

  ‘Ha! A little late to be asking that!’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. I didn’t think about it until I saw them pulling away,’ he said, the look on his face so tragic I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss his worried brow. I restrained myself.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, although I could tell he didn’t mean it.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, picking up my new iPhone, ‘I’ll call them and have them call you as soon as they get to school, OK?’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That would be good.’

  I got Megan on the first ring. ‘Call your dad as soon as you get to school,’ I told her. ‘He’s a little worried.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ she said.

  ‘Megan,’ I said, putting my voice on stern, ‘did you hear and understand my instructions?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said, her voice on attitude.

  ‘Just do it, OK?’

  ‘OK, jeez!’ she said and hung up.

  I smiled at my husband. ‘All taken care of.’

  ‘So when I don’t get a call, should I panic or just assume she forgot?’

  ‘The latter,’ I said, and kissed him goodbye at the door; a habit we’d gotten out of over the years, but one I’d brought back after the events of last summer. It felt good, somehow.

  In a flash he was gone, the girls were gone, and I was left with dirty dishes and an entire day on my own. But my mind has a mind of its own, so to speak, and I couldn’t help wondering about the entire situation we found ourselves in. Was it just a coincidence that these men showed up shortly after the incident of the man at the Driscoll garage, or was there a connection? I had no idea what the connection could be, but something felt off to me; I just didn’t know what. I was still in my reverie twenty minutes later when the phone rang. ‘Hey,’ Willis said. ‘Megan actually called me.’

  ‘Yay!’ I said. ‘They’re OK, I assume?’

  ‘Safe and sound,’ he said. ‘You want to meet me for lunch today?’

  I thought about my full day of leisure versus lunch with my husband. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What time?’

  ‘OMG,’ D’Wanda said.

  ‘Did you just die?’ Azalea said.

  ‘I tried to keep the other girls calm,’ Megan said. ‘They were getting hysterical.’

  ‘And you actually saw a gun?’ Azalea asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘It sure looked like one,’ Megan said. ‘I thought it was best to err on the side of caution, of course,’ she told her friends, ‘so I took the girls home and had our father contact his friend, the chief of police.’

  ‘Boy, you sure do get in a lot of adventures!’ D’Wanda said, her voice, her eyes, and her smirk all showing a bit of skepticism.

  ‘It’s just something in our genes,’ Megan said. ‘My mom has it and she passed it down to me. I’m her only real child, you know.’

  ‘What about Graham?’ Azalea asked. Having had a crush on Graham since middle school, Azalea tended to bring up his name a lot.

  ‘Why would I count him?’ Megan asked seriously.

  ‘Your mother gave birth to him too, for gawd’s sake!’ D’Wanda said.

  ‘True.’ Megan shrugged. ‘I’ve just never considered him to be a real person.’

  The twins looked at each other then back at Megan. ‘Why the hell not?’ asked D’Wanda, the more outspoken of the two.

  ‘Well, for one, he’s not a girl, and for two, he’s like, you know, my brother.’ Megan shuddered and made a face.

  ‘You know, girl, you crazy,’ D’Wanda said, and turned her head around to see if there was someone in the cafeteria more sane she could sit with. Not finding anyone that fit that criteria, she said, ‘Well, if this all is really happening, whatja gonna do about it?’

  ‘What do you mean “really” happening?’ Megan demanded. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  D’Wanda shrugged. ‘You have a tendency toward hyperbole, girlfriend.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Azalea said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Megan said. ‘And what am I going to do about it?’ she said, looking fiercely at D’Wanda, ‘I’m gonna cut them suckers!’ she said, and all three broke into hand-over-the-mouth snickers.

  VERA’S STORY

  WEDNESDAY

  We had a nine a.m. choir practice with two other choirs we were going to sing with – one from Atlanta, and one from a little town outside of Baton Rouge. With our numbers at twenty-two, the Atlanta choir at thirty-four, and the Hixton choir (the one near Baton Rouge) at fourteen, we had a bunch, but the risers we were to stand on could have accommodated more like a hundred, so we were OK. We’d known for a while what songs we were going to sing, so it was just a matter of getting the three choirs to work together. But with three choirs there had to be three directors, and therein lies the rub. You know, egos.

  Once we were up on the risers, I leaned forward a bit to check out the alto section, but Rachael wasn’t there.

  Mr Smith’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. ‘It’s Mr Brown,’ he said to Mr Jones.

  ‘Yeah? Well, tell him you shot me in the foot!’ Mr Jones said.

  ‘Shut up!’ Mr Smith cleared his throat, rotated his shoulders, and clicked the button to speak. ‘Hey, Mr Brown,’ he said, putting a smile on his face in hopes it would put a smile in his voice.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Mr Brown demanded.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where the hell are you and where is that goddam satchel?’ Mr Brown demanded.

  ‘Things have gotten a little complicated, sir,’ Mr Smith said.

  ‘You know, I hired you two because of your reputation as go-getters, guys who really got the job done. It should have taken you no more than a day to get that goddamn satchel! I don’t see no job getting done around here, Mr Smith. Do you see a job getting done around here?’

  ‘We’re working on it, sir, swear to God.’

  ‘Swear to your fucking shoes for all I care, asshole, just get me that goddam satchel, or it won’t just be your reputation in shreds, it’s gonna be that plus your liver, your spleen, and your intestines. Get my drift?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Mr Smith said, but the phone had gone dead in his ear.

  They were sitting on either side of a king-sized bed they’d shared the night before. The only room left in the motel. It had been uncomfortable for Mr Smith, but more uncomfortable for Mr Jones because of his foot, or so he claimed.

  Mr Smith stood up from the bed, still clad only in his Rule Britannia boxers, and looked out the window at the sad result of their car theft of the night before. It was a twenty-year-old white panel van, perfect for a child molester, but not so great for two guys trying to remain inconspicuous. It seemed to Mr Smith that everything that could go wrong had gone wrong on this job. And it was a big job, too: fifty thousand split two ways. But, Lord, was it a fucking mess or what?

  Mr Smith knew in his heart that it was all Mr Jones’s fault. Everything that had gone wrong could be laid squarely at his size thirteens. Mr Smith had plans for this money, big plans. He was gonna ask Sheila to marry him. After all these years together, she might even say yes. Then a nice honeymoon in Hawaii; the perfect way to start their lives together. She’d always wanted him to go legit, so maybe he could use some of the money to buy into her brother’s western-wear shop. In Houston there was always a reason to dress up like a cowboy – the rodeo, the fat stock show, Thursdays. Texans loved to dress up.

  But this job �
� this crazy job! From the get-go it was weird. Following that guy, the one with the satchel all the way from Houston, finally tracking him to an Internet café downtown, then he runs up the ramp at that parking garage. That crazy bastard, jumping off the roof like that. He, Mr Smith, had barely touched him. Really. The man just flew off the roof like he thought he was Superman or something. Then Mr Jones coming up onto the garage roof, asking him if he threw the man over the side. What kind of question was that? Why would he throw the man off the building? Was he bat-shit crazy? No, he mighta shoved him a little, but the guy just flew off the roof – again, like he was Superman or something. Mr Smith had nothing to do with it. That’s what he told Mr Jones, and that’s what he told Mr Brown. That man just flew off the roof. Like Superman. And to top it off, Mr Jones didn’t have the satchel. The truck’s owners had come before he could get it.

  Now all Mr Smith had to do was get that satchel from the brown-haired girl and they were off, back to Houston. They’d get their fifty grand, and he and Sheila could get married. That’s all he had to do.

  VERA’S STORY

  WEDNESDAY

  We finished up with the practice by eleven-thirty, and everyone headed to their rooms to get ready for the opening luncheon that started at noon. I, however, waylaid Brother Joe instead.

  Grabbing him by the arm, I twirled him around and said, ‘OK, where is she?’

  He looked at me, blank-eyed. ‘I’m sorry, Miz Vera, where’s who?’

  ‘Rachael! I know she didn’t come back to my room last night and she wasn’t here this morning. So what did you do with her?’

  Brother Joe looked around. ‘You’re right, she wasn’t here this morning, was she?’

  I didn’t say ‘duh’ like my grandkids woulda said, but I sure thought it. ‘No, she wasn’t. And I don’t see her now, do you?’