by J. Conrad
“Trent,” she said. “I know a lot has happened and... I know this is a bad time and everything. And I’m not saying we have to talk about it now. But maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe because this happened –” She shuddered with another suppressed sob. “Maybe when things calm down a little we could start over.”
I hadn’t been prepared. Not for this. As soon as the words came out of her mouth, the previous relief that had sated me began to deflate. I was walking back into the prison cell. What was I going to say? I was supposed to reject her, here in this hospital room, while she was traumatized from giving birth to a still born baby?
Mary looked up at me, her blue eyes begging for succor. I remembered her parents outside in the waiting room.
“I would like that,” I said. “Let’s just take it slow, okay?”
Mary’s face broke into a broad smile, a single tear dripping from her eyelashes as she squeezed my hand. “Okay,” she said. “We can do that.”
CHAPTER NINE
January 19th
I was going to do something my man wouldn’t expect. With a small bag packed, including my tablet, a few bottles of water, snacks and my .22 pistol, just in case, I started walking to the gas station where I worked. From there I called a cab to take me to the nearest 24-hour retail store. It was ten miles away and walking was out of the question.
I had the taxi driver wait for me while I shopped. I bought a new battery, ten packs of beef jerky and a 12-pack of bottled water. The cab pulled into the gravel drive leading to my house as the first rays of golden rose sunlight touched the horizon. Maybe I would be lucky and get a sunny day for once.
“Can you wait a few minutes before you go?” I asked the driver. “Been having trouble with trespassers lately. I’ll be right back to pay.”
He sighed, raising an eyebrow before he turned to stare straight ahead at the dashboard again.
Still running on only a few hours sleep, I set my bags down outside the door and drew out my revolver, but kept it in front of me so the driver couldn’t see it. I had left the doors unlocked since my keys were gone. I turned on all the lights and scoured the house again for an intruder. Finding no one, I paid the taxi driver and set about the next part of my plan.
I put my duffle bag, the ten packages of beef jerky and the case of bottled water in the truck, along with a few other odds and ends I might need. I installed the new battery and my Silverado started right up. “Moron,” I said out loud.
With my tablet against the steering wheel, I checked the phone locating app again while my pickup idled. It showed that my cell was still turned on, at the same location. Setting the tablet on the passenger seat, I put my truck in gear and rolled down the gravel driveway, pulling onto the narrow country road. I had a new surge of adrenaline, a second wind. Within five minutes, I turned onto County Road 118.
The sunny day I wished for had materialized. As I drew closer to my destination, I passed a herd of Texas Longhorn cattle grazing in their bright pasture between islands of brittle prickly pear. I felt better already. My nerve was holding out.
Tim’s weathered old house came into view and I put my sunglasses and ball cap on. I drove past the property and regarded it from the corner of my eye. I could see the yellow police tape which had been placed close to the barbed wire by the roadside. Nothing else looked different, and I didn’t see a vehicle.
As I continued on, I took stock of the properties after the crime scene house. I noted their terrain, which ones had trees near the road and which ones didn’t. I drove a good half mile past the property, then I turned around. I headed toward the abandoned house, passed it, and near the adjoining ranch, I took my truck off the road, into the grass. There was a grove of red cedar trees and a few pines to the right, which would work fine for cover. He may or may not have seen me drive by, but he couldn’t see my truck well here. I, however, could see the house well enough. Who’s trapping who now?
I had enough provisions in the truck that I could hold my position for a long time. Beef jerky and water wasn’t my idea of a buffet, but it would sustain me until I decided to quit. Probably the biggest concern was that someone might call the sheriff if my Silverado sat here for days, with me in it. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to days.
Hours passed and it was going on dinner time. Nothing had moved at the weathered gray house. No one came in or out. I wondered if the guy had planted my cell phone and left. Maybe he had rigged the house to detonate upon entry. I ate my beef jerky and chips while I thought about what kind of time limit I should set. The adrenaline rush, which earlier had fueled me like a soldier on the warpath, had since abated, and its place was only weariness.
The winter sun faded below the horizon a little before 6:00. I could see the silhouettes of the cattle in the field across from me against the fiery red sky. Soon all the color would be gone and I’d be left in the near pitch black of rural Georgetown. Alone by the murder house. I focused on it as I tried to stretch my arms and back. I rubbed my aching eyes. I needed to feel alert, so I opened one of the colas I brought. I needed the caffeine – anything to stay awake.
Three more hours passed. There wasn’t anything to do besides watch the house and think. I started to wonder what I was doing here. If I dropped this idea and went home, I could email my mobile phone carrier and tell them I lost my phone. I could change my locks and get a home alarm system. But it wouldn’t solve the problem of my cell being at the crime scene. Still, I was beginning to rethink every single aspect of what I was doing. Nothing made sense right now. I cracked my knuckles and stared out the windshield. I kept my eyes moving back and forth across my line of sight.
At nearly 10:00 p.m., I got the break I was looking for. I saw a tiny twinkle of light from inside one of the windows. It lasted less than a second. This could mean several things. It could be a lighter, an electronic device, or something else – something that a person inside was forced to use from time to time in that hellish darkness. Or it could mean that my cell phone had been left within view of a window, and I’d received a text message. I quickly scratched that idea though, because the screen would have stayed lit longer. There had to be someone inside. If this were true, the absence of vehicles meant the only way he or they could leave was on foot.
My heart pounded and a ripple of electricity surged through my limbs, a burst of adrenaline from a backup supply I didn’t know I had. I started the engine and took a deep breath, filling my lungs completely before letting it out. Without turning on my headlights, I quickly pulled out onto County Road 118, drove about fifty feet and slowed down, where I turned onto the grass and stopped. I leaned over and partially lay down in the front seat so I could see through the side window. My rifle was positioned on my right side for easy access. It wouldn’t do me a bit of good if I had to fumble for it.
Here I am. Come get me.
I stayed in position, watching and waiting, and considering I may not live through this. I expected shots to be fired, window-glass shattering in my face, at which point my reflexes would take over and I’d return fire. Then God-knows-what would happen and the world’s population might drop by one. Or two. But that isn’t what happened at all. What did happen was that I noticed headlights – high and bright – coming toward me on the road.
It wasn’t necessary to sit up all the way. I could see what was coming. It was a semi truck, and since the road was so narrow it was a good thing I was parked off to the side. Unfortunately the light would illuminate my truck very nicely for the creep inside the house. He’d be able to see the Silverado and would know it was me. I was about to take my eyes off the approaching diesel, to continue my watch on the abandoned house, when I realized the lights were too bright – the truck was going to hit me.
Reality slapped me in the face, shocking me into survival mode. My desire to live took over and commanded my actions. I unlocked the door, grabbed the rifle next to me and dived to the ground. I rolled painfully over the rocky shoulder. Groaning and gritting my teeth, I t
ried to get my footing and run, but I was so stiff my joints wouldn’t cooperate. When I pulled myself upright, I knew I had a matter of seconds before I’d be crushed. In the glaring headlights I could see the battered down barbed-wire fence and I raced toward it, sailing over and landing on my feet. I surged into a run and gave it everything I had. I was maybe five feet away as the semi truck collided with my Silverado. A deafening crash and screeching air brakes told me it was being smashed to pieces. I continued running, straight toward the house.
The driver had probably fallen asleep at the wheel. I was sure he’d be fine. There was nothing to hit around here except my parked truck, which his diesel found with no problem. I would have been happy to go back and help him, except I was now fifty feet away from the murder house and someone was shooting at me.
It’s very hard to hit a moving target. This target – me – wasn’t far away, but was I was running like the devil was after me. Sometimes I leaped over a toe-splitting rock or groin-piercing cactus trunk, beating a fast trail toward the worst place I could possibly go.
I counted two shots, and both seemed to come from the right, so I veered left. I tucked myself against the wall around the corner of the house and took a quick glance back at the scene with the semi. The driver had got out of the rig and was looking around. He waved his arms at me and shouted, but I just waved back and gave him the thumbs up that I was okay. He must have thought I was crazy.
I heard scuffling inside the house, on the same end where I was hiding. I switched positions to the other side of the corner and cocked my rifle. The nearest window had glass missing, so I slid the barrel inside and fired a shot. It was deafening this late at night out in the country. I had 5 shots left; the rest of my ammo was in my pulverized truck, but at least now this guy would know I meant business.
Soon the authorities would be here for the truck accident. Getting out of this would be a nightmare – a double nightmare. But the murderer was here too. What would he do? Where would he go when the cops showed up?
In answer to my question, I heard the back door creak open and a pair of feet pounding the dry grass. I swung out of my hiding place and darted after him.
At the roadside, the truck driver was yelling at me at the top of his lungs. “Hey!”
I stuck a hand up in his direction but didn’t answer. I sprinted after the retreating man. I was still able to see him, just barely, from the lights of the Peterbilt, but I wouldn’t be able to for long. I skidded to a halt and aimed toward his legs.
Pow! I fired. I missed.
I stood there, thinking he was too far away now and it was too dark. I shouldn’t have stopped – I should have kept chasing him. I knew I wasn’t practiced enough to hit a moving target in the dark with a rifle. Now I couldn’t see him at all. I cursed under my breath and turned around.
I trudged through the brittlegrass back to the house. I needed to see if my phone was in there. The back door yawned open with a cold blackness, and I could still, very faintly, detect that horrible scent of death. That’s where I needed to go, into the place where only a few weeks ago a young woman drenched in blood was hanging from the wall. The place where a withered corpse lay on the floor amidst defecation and filth. But I didn’t have my light. It was in the truck along with everything else that was ruined now.
The driver waved at me again. I put my hand up and started heading his direction. Whether I wanted to or not, I’d have to be ready to answer questions about what he had just seen. I locked my eyes on the mangled pile of wreckage that used to be my Silverado. I had almost been part of it.
CHAPTER TEN
Twelve Years Earlier
For almost two weeks I squeezed myself into my self-created mould. Mary and I were on our “start over,” and she didn’t know how far into my corner I had trapped myself.
I joined Mary and her parents at a mandatory dinner after her stay at the hospital. They were holding it in their formal dining room, complete with a cowhide rug and large, lacquered cedar mirrors on both sides of the wall. Despite her periodic bouts of depression due to our stillborn baby, Mary was doing well and recovering quickly. Getting back together seemed to ignite some sense of hope and fulfillment for her. No one said so, but I guess the dinner was Mary’s way of celebrating that the situation wasn’t a total loss.
Mr. and Mrs. Durham sat on one side of the long mahogany table, and Mary and I were seated across from them. Their daughter smiled at me from time to time and I did my best to smile back.
“So Trent,” Mrs. Durham said. She was cutting her meat with a black-handled knife and trying to sound cheerful. “Do you think you might go back to school now?”
It took me a minute to answer, because my immediate reaction was anger.
“I don’t know,” I said. “After I dropped out, I signed a 2-year lease at my apartment. If I quit my job, I would have to break my lease. That will make it nearly impossible to get an apartment in the future, not to mention that it will damage my credit. But if I don’t quit my job, since I’m working full-time during the day I won’t be available for classes.” I tried not to sound bothered by it, but I know I didn’t manage it one hundred percent.
Mrs. Durham kind of nodded and made a guttural noise. She pretended to be giving the matter some thought while she chewed her steak. It was a decent steak, after all.
“Maybe you could take classes at night,” Mr. Durham said. His eyes told me that my misfortune was a small price to pay for what I put his daughter through.
“Maybe so,” I said. My parents might not go for the idea of paying for tuition again, especially since they were barely able to cover it last time. I would have to cough up every penny in addition to the expenses I already had. Since I made scarcely more than minimum wage, this didn’t seem too likely.
“Mary’s going to be starting at UT next fall,” he said.
“Dad,” Mary chided. Then to me she said, “I’m still thinking about it, honestly.”
“Well, there’s nothing to think about,” Mr. Durham. “We have the money and we don’t want you to miss this opportunity.”
“Thanks Dad,” Mary said. A little embarrassed, she tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I admit, I would like to get a degree in nursing.”
“What would you like to be, Trent?” Mrs. Durham asked. “I mean, what was it that you were going to school for, again?”
“I wanted to be a mechanic,” I said. “I think it would be nice to do it freelance. I was also thinking of expanding on it down the road. Maybe get a Bachelor’s in mechanics and work for one of the big auto companies.”
“Oh right, mechanics,” Mr. Durham said. “You know, I have a nephew who’s a mechanic. He’s thinking about going back to school too.” He tacked on a sardonic grin, just to be sure I got it.
I stopped chewing and looked at him. So he was trying to say that his nephew wasn’t making enough money in my chosen field, so he needed to further his education to get ahead? What a sad way to insult me.
“Good for him,” I said.
“You know, you could always get a student loan. And there’s the Pell grant,” he continued.
“I’m sure Trent will figure out the right thing to do,” Mary said. She twirled her fork in her corn. Her smile from earlier had faded.
“I’m sure he will,” Mr. Durham said. “Well, now that you and Mary have decided to get back together, what other plans do you have for your life?” His wife looked up from her plate and frowned, giving her husband a sidelong glance.
“Too much has happened recently,” I said. “Once things settle down I can start planning again.”
Mary’s father huffed, his fork clattering onto his plate when he released it too soon. “Things have settled down now, son. She lost the baby. What else is there to settle down?”
“Patrick!” Mrs. Durham said.
“No,” he said. He addressed his wife, but focused can on me. “I’m tired of dancing around this subject for fear of hurting this young man’s
feelings. It’s time for him to answer up. Now I want to know, what are your intentions for my daughter? Are you planning on getting engaged – are you planning on getting married one day? Or are you just biding your time, stringing her along until you can make your escape?”
A ball dropped into my stomach. He knew. I don’t know how he knew, but he did. Not only was I not in it a hundred percent with his daughter, I was barely in it at all.
Mary gasped and clutched her balled up cloth napkin. “Dad!”
“Let’s talk about this some other time,” Mrs. Durham said. “Let’s just enjoy our dinner together.”
“No. Not some other time. Now,” her husband said.
“Patrick!” Mrs. Durham repeated.
“Answer the question,” he said. “What are your intentions for my daughter?”
I held his gaze, knowing that I had better answer honestly. Calmly, I said, “I have never had any bad intentions toward your daughter. We were together for two years. I told her that I loved her and I did.”
“Oh, you did?” Mr. Durham snapped.
“We always used protection. We were never irresponsible about it,” I said.
“But this was more than you bargained for, wasn’t it? What’s your excuse now? The baby didn’t make it.”
Mrs. Durham sighed and put her hands over her face, while Mary sat beside me, unable to speak. I couldn’t stand it another minute.
“If you think I’m not good enough, then why do you want me to marry your daughter? That doesn’t make any sense. You hate me, you think I’m irresponsible, but you want me to propose to her? I quit school! I got a job, I gave Mary nearly half my income for the baby. And now I’m a loser because I’m not back in school? But you still want me to marry your daughter?” My hands rested on the dark tabletop as I still gripped the utensils with white knuckles.