by J. Conrad
For the first week after I was attacked, I was ready to shoot at anything that moved. After my two-day reprieve at the Holiday Inn, I bought groceries and readied myself to hole-up in the house except days when I job-hunted or was scheduled to work at the gas station. I figured if I was going to get attacked again it was going to be here, on my terms. So far, nothing had happened. Maybe the guy who was arrested today really was our man.
Since reading the latest news article, I decided I’d give Tim a call at the end of the weekend. Today was Saturday and if things were still good tomorrow, there should be no problem returning to work on Monday. With the shooter in custody and no incident in two weeks, there was longer a need for concern. My life would go back to normal now – my normal, pointless, but safe life.
That night I fell asleep hard with no dreams. At about 1:30 a.m., I woke with a start and sat up in bed. The house was quiet. I listened for anything outside, but there was nothing, not even a breeze. My mind handed me a lovely picture of the girl’s hanging, blood-streaked body, and that horrible stench seemed real again, though it was only a memory. I could see the matted hair over her grime-covered, sallow face when the EMTs carried her out on the stretcher. And all the blood, the darkness of it, so red and thick. My psyche had been unprepared for the stark reality of discovering the broken woman – stabbed, despoiled, and strung up like a voodoo doll. This is it, my mind was saying to me. This is what you’re supposed to remember.
I cursed and shoved the blankets off in a heap, pushing myself out of bed. I turned on the lights, checking to make sure my 9mm was still next to the pillow, which it was. I turned the light back off and let my eyes adjust to the dark again, then I looked outside, checking all the windows. Nothing. I peered out at my truck which appeared undisturbed. The porch light was still on and my Silverado was just as I had left it. Everything was fine, I had just woken up from all the stress. Even after two weeks my body was still on high-alert.
I flipped the lights back on, went into the kitchen and turned those lights on too. I would just catch some late-night TV until I felt sleepy again. I was wide awake, too mentally active to lie down, and now I realized I was starving. I retrieved a soft drink from the fridge but there were no snacks in the pantry. Well, it was no wonder since I hadn’t been shopping in two weeks.
Tucking my 9mm in its hiding place beneath my coat, I drove to the gas station by the 130 toll road and bought a few bags of chips. When I returned home, I turned off the truck’s engine and sat listening. Still quiet. I locked the pickup, set the alarm and went inside, and after I locked the door again I made another sweep of my surroundings. Everything checked out so I stretched out on the couch and found a sit-com to focus on.
Somewhere around 3:30 a.m. my eyes got heavy and I dragged myself back into bed. I left the 9mm in its holster, but carried it into the bedroom and set it on the dresser. I collapsed back into a heavy sleep. It felt good to sleep again.
Some kind of noise shook me awake. I couldn’t tell what it was. A door closing? A window rattling? I didn’t know, but I was fully conscious in about three seconds. When I turned on the lights, I immediately saw that my 9mm and its holster were gone from the dresser. I bolted out of bed in a heart-pounding panic.
Someone was in the house. Someone was in here.
My Remington was in the truck. The revolver should still be under the bed. Didn’t know how much good it would do me, but it was better than nothing. I started to reach down, changed my mind and backed up, looking under the bed first. I lifted the duffle bag that hid the gun and found it. The revolver was still there. I whisked it out and turned off the safety. This little gun, one I used to shoot cans on the weekend, against a 9mm. What a sad day this was.
I checked the closet in the bedroom first. Empty. Then I checked the living room, behind the couch, and the hall closet. I surveyed the kitchen, a place where there was nowhere to hide anyway. I crept up to the bathroom, the door resting half open. I kicked it with my foot and it banged hard against the wall, rebounding back at me as I threw my body into the space and aimed the gun at the bathtub. It was also empty. There was nowhere else inside the house where someone could hide.
The front and back doors were both still locked from the inside. I’d need to inspect all the windows. Still carrying the gun, I went back into the bedroom and got my gloves off the dresser. If there were any fingerprints I didn’t want my hands smearing them. In less than a minute I checked all the windows, but every one of them was locked. I wiped my face with my hand and could hear the blood pumping in my ears. I went back into the bedroom and checked the dresser again. I had sworn I left the 9mm there. I know it was there. What if I had been so tired that I actually left it in the truck? On the couch? Maybe I had taken it off there instead.
The gun and holster weren’t in either place. However the bastard had done it, my house had been broken into. I needed to call the sheriff’s office. My mind snapped to the next logical object: my cell phone. I had taken it into the bedroom also and left it charging, same as I did every night. My stomach plummeted as I searched my room, but like the 9mm, it was gone. I brought my fist down on the dresser, making a haphazard pile of change scatter. As the pennies and nickels tumbled to the floor, I cursed the son of a bitch who had done this. I scoured the whole house, but didn’t find the phone.
Thinking quickly, I got my tablet out from the dresser drawer. I didn’t use it that often, but my devices were synced, and I had an app that could locate my phone. As I turned it on and waited for it to boot up, I thought about how I could call the authorities and what I would say when I did. I doubted the early model tablet I had could make any type of phone call, even to 911.
With shaking hands I pulled off my gloves and entered my passcode to unlock the tablet. I opened the app to find my phone and it started searching, the compass icon swinging back and forth. Maybe I had left it in my truck during my late-night snack run. Maybe.
The compass disappeared and the screen showed a map. In the center of the map was a symbol for my cell, putting out a radiant signal to show it was still turned on. The map wasn’t accurate to the point of giving addresses, but it showed the street names clearly. I could see where the cell phone was. My breath caught in my throat and I coughed.
County Road 118.
Whoever did this had gone through an awful lot of trouble. Not only had this guy broken into my house while I slept and taken my belongings, which weren’t a foot away from my face, he had now set this ridiculous trap which I was supposed to be stupid enough to fall right into. Why was I worth that much hassle? While I was sleeping, he could have taken all 6 rounds from my pistol and decorated the walls with my brain. Or he could have done something far worse – something not so quick. The thought sent an icy, bone-deep chill through my body. No, he wanted to play games instead.
I searched for my truck keys, but those were gone too. At this point I almost expected it. I had left them on the dresser next to my missing 9mm. That key chain also held my house keys and a couple keys for outbuildings on Tim’s ranch. At least the truck keys going missing would explain why the doors were locked. He must have locked them after he left, to dick with me, I assume.
Now, crammed in with the fear and confusion that pinned me down, it was starting to sink in. It was a trap, but not necessarily one designed merely to get me killed. It might be to get me framed, or for some other purpose I hadn’t conceived of.
I had to sit down on the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, eyes aimed at the floor, and figure out what to do. I needed to think.
There was a spare key in a magnetic box on the undercarriage of my Silverado, a precaution for if I ever locked myself out. I put it there when I lived in Austin, so unless the guy searched under there with a flashlight – and was thorough – it should still be there. If that were true, the truck would still be locked and my rifle was still inside. Transportation and a decent weapon.
I could drive to the gas station and call the sheriff’s office f
rom there. I would have to explain that while I was sleeping: someone broke into my tiny house without me hearing anything and took my 9mm and my truck keys. To cap it, he stole my cell phone from its place next to my pillow and stashed it in the house on County Road 118. Give me a break.
If I didn’t call law enforcement, I could drive to the crime scene, walk right into his trap, and the cops would be called anyway, probably now making me a suspect in the case – this of course was assuming I’d live to be a suspect after visiting a murderer. I wondered if the guy taken into custody yesterday had been released. I wondered how likely it was that the guy who was messing with me tonight was the same person. There was no way to know if Woodard had been discharged unless I asked.
Deputy Reyes was the best person to call. If I told him exactly what happened, he’d believe me, maybe. He came to help me the day of the shooting. But, he didn’t actually observe the attack. What he did observe was my busted up truck window and me as a restless ball of nerves.
To hell with it, I had to call someone. I was calling Reyes.
I had his number in quick contacts on my smart phone, which didn’t help now, but he had also given me the card. My stomach did another short dive as I thought of my wallet – I’d bet a two-dollar bill it was missing as well. I darted to the coffee table where I’d left it and was alarmed to see it still resting there. Why? I picked it up and rifled through it. The money remained in the billfold and my credit card, Visa debit, driver’s license, and apparently everything else that should be there, was. Just not the one thing I needed at that moment, Reyes’ card.
I threw the wallet hard, watching it smack against the wall before it fell. “You son of a bitch! You goddamn son of a bitch!” I slammed my fist down on the coffee table.
I didn’t know who this guy was, but he couldn’t do this. Not to me.
I dressed for the weather and put on my steel-toed, brown work boots. I took my revolver and its case of ammo, along with my tablet so I could continue to track my phone – that is, as long as the thief allowed me to. I opened the front door and did a visual sweep of my surroundings within my field of vision. I did the same thing around back. Giving the space underneath the truck a quick inspection, I looked for the small magnetic key case that should still be stuck to the chassis. It was there.
With a sigh of relief, I unlocked the door of the Silverado. I put my things inside, noting that the Remington and all my ammo were where I had left them. There were other things too, things that were just good to have: extra socks for work, another jacket, a couple old shirts that I could get extra dirty or use as rags. The undisturbed pickup interior calmed me slightly. I should settle down. Maybe I could go back to the hotel and give Kyle a ring in the morning. I knew his number by heart and he might have some level-headed advice. Well, I could guarantee that he would.
With my unsteady hand, I put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine made no sound, not even a click. The lights wouldn’t come on. I gripped the steering wheel with bulging white knuckles and felt like I was going to explode. He had really gone all out. I must really be special. Special, special me.
I took a small silver flashlight from the glove compartment and pulled the hood release. It sounded odd to me, like it wasn’t releasing the latch, or like maybe the hood was already open. Upon inspection outside, I found the hood had been forced open with something and the metal was badly damaged. When I lifted it to have a look at the engine, the empty space which used to contain the battery stared up me. “Moron,” the empty space seemed to say.
Using the bright beam of the flashlight in the surrounding darkness, I checked out the rest of the engine the best I could. It didn’t appear that anything else had been tampered with, nothing I could see. He must have been banking on me not having a spare battery lying around. He banked right.
The hood wouldn’t close properly now, but since the truck wasn’t drivable I’d deal with it later. I locked the doors and went into the house for more provisions. This was the moment when I knew something was really wrong with me, deep down. Scared out of my wits while raging pissed at the same time, I was crazy enough to do what I did next. And the rush felt good. Really good.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twelve Years Earlier
At Seton Medical Center on West 38th Street, the weak light of dawn had just started putting a lavender and gold backdrop behind the office buildings of downtown Austin. The glass doors and windows of the hospital began revealing the outside world. Pedestrians, cyclists, college students and steady streams of traffic all appeared with the new sunrise of another day. I couldn’t see any of that, because I was in the waiting room of the maternity ward, where there were only colorless hallways, fluorescent lights and a relentless parade of anxiety.
I had been right that Mary and I would continue to see each other, even though we weren’t together now. My several mistakes, and the regret I felt over each one, pushed me to try harder. I couldn’t make myself feel the way she wanted me to feel, but I could still take responsibility to the best of my ability.
Five months after I quit ACC, I was still working full-time and I had my own apartment, albeit one I could afford in a not-so-great part of town. I was locked into a two-year lease, but at least I was being an adult now. I hadn’t gone to any parties or done anything stupid since my big screw up at the barbecue last fall. My steady paychecks from Arbor Day ensured that Mary could buy what she needed for the baby – a daughter, we found out.
Mr. Durham, Mary’s father, was beside me in the waiting room. He was silent and pasty white. He did not look at me. Mary’s mother was in the delivery room with her daughter. Mary hadn’t wanted me there and I was fine with that. My own parents had asked if I would have liked them to be here, but I said no, I’d rather they weren’t. The fewer accusing eyes I had to deal with, however subtle they might be, the better.
Trent Lemend, at the age of 18, was going to be a father. I rolled it around it my head, trying to grasp its full magnitude, but I couldn’t. I thumbed through magazines and set them down. I played a game on my rudimentary, early model cell phone. I tried to sleep sitting upright in the chair, but only succeeded in closing my eyes and listening to my mind race. Soon, Mary would have the baby. It would be the “this is it” moment. We would have a child to raise, and I would learn all about parenthood and assume my new role and have a completely different life, whatever that meant.
The maternity doctor, whose name I never bothered to remember, came through the double swinging doors with a half-masked look of dread on his face. He motioned for Mr. Durham and me to go over there, away from the waiting area. Mr. Durham’s face lost even more color than before, which I didn’t know was possible.
“Mary’s doing fine,” Doctor said in answer to Mr. Durham’s unasked question. “The delivery went well. Your daughter did great.” He pushed the corners of his mouth into a smile.
Mr. Durham didn’t answer, but he stopped holding his breath.
“I’m sorry, but I do have some bad news. The baby was still born. We tried everything we could, but her heart wasn’t beating and she wasn’t getting any oxygen in the womb.”
Doctor waited to see how Mr. Durham would respond. Blood surged back into the man’s drawn face.
“How is she – how is my daughter taking it?” he asked.
“She’s having a hard time right now. But her mom is there with her; she’s being a great support. It’s usually pretty difficult for a mother to lose a child, even if the pregnancy was unplanned. It’s just part of a woman’s natural instinct. But Mary seems like a strong young woman. She’ll pull through just fine.”
“All right. Thank you, Doctor,” Mr. Durham said. He looked like he just found he wasn’t being called back into active duty after all. “Will you let me know when I can see her?”
“We sure will. You can also have the nurse at the desk check from time to time.”
Mr. Durham nodded and he and Doc shook hands. None of the conversation had b
een addressed to me. My involvement here was inconsequential it seemed, and that should have bothered me.
But as I went back to the waiting area and sat down, some of the stiffness came out of my back and arms. I stretched my limbs and started to relax. The heavy, burdensome weight upon my shoulders started to lift, and the waves of relief kept coming and coming. I had found solace in my gray-walled prison. I was glad – glad the child was still born. I was a terrible person. I was happy that I didn’t have to be a father now.
Several hours later, I was surprised when Mary asked to see me. Mr. Durham glared in my direction as I stood up and followed the nurse into the private room where Mary was resting.
Mary’s blonde hair was tangled and sweaty and she had dark circles under her puffy red eyes. A bag of intravenous fluid hung on a rolling stand next to the bed. The tubing led down to her arm. She mumbled something to her mother and the older woman got up to leave the room. A soft light in Mrs. Durham’s eyes portrayed an understanding of the situation, as well as her daughter’s pain.
“Hi,” Mary said. “Thanks for coming in.”
“You’re welcome. How are you doing?” I offered a weak smile.
She took a shaky breath, shuddering as though she were about to cry. “I’m okay. I just –” With a wet sniff, tears spilled down her cheeks in a stream. “I didn’t expect any of this. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”
I had no idea what to say. “I know.” I fumbled around for the right words. I had to be understanding. “It’s such a shock. It’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Mary wiped her face with a tissue from the box. “Thanks. You can sit with me.” She motioned to the chair where her mother had been seated.
I nodded and sat down next to her. We made small talk for a little while to lighten the mood, after which she told me the particulars of her labor and what the doctor said about our still born baby. Then with no explanation, Mary reached out and laced her fingers between mine.