by Chris Pike
Although it was dark, it was apparent to Ryan the man was staring hard at him.
“Can I help you?” Ryan asked.
The man said nothing, and when Ryan stepped toward the direction of the man, he scurried back behind his truck and disappeared.
“That was odd,” Cassie said.
“Yeah, really strange.”
Coming to the front porch of the dark house, Ryan rapped his knuckles on the wood frame, jiggling the outer screen door.
He waited.
Cassie stood to the side letting her eyes roam over the neighboring houses, checking to make sure the odd man didn’t reappear with a weapon.
It wasn’t the best of neighborhoods. Yards hadn’t been kept up and cars were parked on the front lawns. A stray dog with a tucked tail slunk around in the neighbor’s yard and suspiciously eyed Buster, who returned a low growl. A rooster crowed once from the chicken coop of the neighboring house, clucking at the sight of the stray dog. Chickens made a series of throaty clicks to warn others of the possible danger.
The Reynolds’ house had been better maintained than the rest of the cookie cutter houses that had been rapidly built post WWII. The porch had been recently swept and the floorboards freshly painted, although Cassie was unable to discern the exact color in the darkness. Perhaps beige. The red geraniums were in full bloom in a pot that had dark new soil sprinkled around the base of the plant. The bright yellow cushions in the rocking chair were clean.
Ryan rapped the door again, harder. He put his ear close to the door, listening for movement.
A shaky male voice from inside the house called out, “Who’s there?”
“Hello,” Ryan said. “My name is Ryan Manning.”
“Shhh, not so loud,” Cassie hissed. “Your voice travels. You’ll wake the neighbors.”
Ryan acknowledged Cassie’s warning. He leaned into the door and spoke in a softer voice. “My name is Ryan Manning. Is this the house where Ed and Helen Reynolds live?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Ryan—”
The front door squeaked open, letting out a sliver of light from a candle, and an old man peered through the crack. “I am Ed Reynolds and my wife is Helen.”
“My name is Ryan Manning.”
“I know, I heard that,” Ed said. “Helen, come here. It’s okay.”
“Who’s there, Hun?” a grandmotherly voice asked.
“It’s Ryan Manning.”
The white-haired woman curiously peeked from around the door, studying Ryan as if she was looking for a familiar landmark on his face.
“Ryan?” the woman said, as if she knew him. “That you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am Ryan Manning. Do you know me?”
The woman clutched her bathrobe right around her bosom and hesitantly glanced at her husband.
“Ma’am,” Ryan said, “my parents said that if I ever needed help I should come see you and your husband. They never told me why.” Ryan held a hand toward Cassie. “This is my friend Cassie and her dog Bu—”
The screen door swung open and Ryan jumped back. Ed scanned the street in both directions. “Hurry, come in before anyone sees you.”
Chapter 24
“Did anybody see you?” Ed asked quickly and with urgency.
“Your neighbor across the street did,” Ryan replied. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Probably not,” Ed said, unconvincingly. “We’re on edge, that’s all. Come in, come in. Your dog can come in also.”
Ryan and Cassie stepped into the cozy living room, furnished with a sofa, two chairs, a throw rug, framed pictures of family, and various knickknacks.
Buster padded in and eyed the place, his nose in the air sniffing the myriad smells that formed a picture in his mind. A cat was hiding nearby, eggs had been recently cooked, while a tingly smell of lemon-scented furniture polish reminded him of his old home. He noticed the smell of lavender in the dried flowers on the end table, and the unmistakable burst of sweat that beaded on the male homeowner’s forehead. Buster went to the corner of the room, sat on his haunches, and kept a wary eye open.
Ed shut the front door and locked the interior doorknob, then flipped the deadbolt until it properly engaged with the strike plate. The sound echoed in the room. Methodically, he checked each window lock and pulled the shades together, clipping each one with a clothes pin.
“I’m sorry,” Ed said as he made eye contact with Ryan. “You can’t stay here.”
“Hun,” Helen protested, “they just got here. We made a promise to the Mannings and I intend to keep it. We can’t turn them away.”
“I suppose not,” Ed grumbled. “You can only stay here the night then you need to get going.”
“Edward Reynolds!” Helen exclaimed. “That’s no way to treat these good folks.” She took Ryan by the arm and coaxed him to come with her. “I’m going to make you and your friend a sandwich.” Helen turned to Cassie. “Dear, what was your name?”
“Cassie.”
“Cassie, will peanut butter and jelly be okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d love a pb&j about now.”
“Would you like sweet tea?”
Cassie nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Helen directed them to the kitchen table, inviting them to take a seat. Ed stood in the corner, scowling, his arms crossed. His eyes kept bouncing from the kitchen window to the back door. Ryan noticed his apprehension, and the third trip he made to the door, double checking it was locked. “Is your dog hungry?” Helen asked. She washed her hands using water from a plastic jug.
“He’s always hungry,” Cassie said.
“Well, let me get him cat food. I don’t have any dog food. He’ll eat cat food won’t he?”
“Sure. He’ll eat anything.”
Helen quickly prepared two sandwiches, sliced an apple, and poured two glasses of sweet tea. Buster crunched noisily, finishing the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in days. After Ryan inhaled his sandwich, Helen asked if he’d like another one.
“If you could spare another one, yes please,” Ryan said. “I’d be most appreciative.”
Cassie nibbled at her sandwich, washing each bite down with a hard swallow of tea. Her stomach protested each bite and she had to concentrate on eating, unused to eating at the late hour.
“You need to eat your sandwich,” Ryan said. “There’s no telling when we will eat again.”
Cassie nodded, then when everyone was distracted, she slipped the rest of the sandwich to Buster.
“Helen,” Ed said, “do we have any coffee left over from breakfast?”
“Yes, but it’s cold by now. The thermos will only keep it warm for a several hours. I’ll pour you a cup if you want any.”
“Seeing how we don’t have any electricity anymore, coffee it is.”
Ed took a seat at the table and scooted his chair in. He glanced at Ryan and Cassie, watching them in silence as they ate. He took a big swallow of coffee, set the mug back down, and crossed his arms.
“Why are you here?” Ed asked.
“We need help, Mr. Reynolds,” Ryan said. He finished the last of his sandwich and handed the empty plate to Helen, thanked her, and sat back in his chair. “My parents said if I ever needed help I was to find you. Why is that? Did you know them?”
“Yes, we knew them. They used to live next door to us. They were our best friends.”
An expression of comprehension appeared on Ryan’s face. “That explains why I’ve been having this feeling I’ve been here before.”
“Son, you lived here until you were three, then your parents left town to go live in West Texas.”
“Why?”
Ed pursed his lips and shook his head. He glanced down at his lap, unable to make eye contact with Ryan. “It was a long time ago.”
Helen went to the kitchen sink, fiddling with dishes in the dish rack. She nervously stacked the plates on the counter.
“Tell me what brought you here,” Ed said.
&n
bsp; Ryan took a deep breath. “Cassie and I survived a plane that went down in the southern part of Louisiana.” When Ryan mentioned the number of people who perished, Helen gasped. “We waited for rescuers, but when no one came for us, we decided to walk out of there. We’ve walked most of the way, been shot at a couple of times, harassed—especially Cassie—and had nowhere else to go. Our food and water have run out and I promised Cassie I would get her home to Houston to her dad. I didn’t think we could get very far without help.”
Ed sat in silence.
“We’ll be out of here first thing in the morning. Or, if you want,” Ryan said, casting a glance at Helen, “we could leave now.”
“No,” Helen said. “You are welcome to stay here.”
Ed furrowed his brow and cast an alarming glance at his wife.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.
Ed and Helen said nothing.
“What is it? You need to tell me.” Ryan’s confusion was building. His parents had always told him he could count on the Reynolds, so their reluctance was perplexing.
Ed took a swallow of cold coffee. He set the mug on the table and ran his fingers over the rim. “Have you ever heard of Cole Cassel?”
“I have,” Cassie said.
“How?”
“My dad was the prosecutor on the murder case Cole was being tried for.”
“Your last name is Stockdale, right?” Ed asked.
“Yes,” Cassie confirmed.
Helen put a hand to her mouth.
“How do you know my last name?” Cassie asked.
Ed could only shake his head. “You two really can’t stay here.”
“What is going on?” Cassie asked. “And what does Cole Cassel have to do with any of this? Last I knew he was in Houston where the trial was.”
“Kids,” Ed said, “this is worse than I suspected. Let me explain what has been going on. Cole is from here and we’ve all been following the trial. I guess he must have escaped during all the chaos and uncertainty after the EMP struck—or that’s what everyone is speculating. Anyway, Cole has come back and has taken over the town. From what I’ve heard he killed the sheriff and has commandeered the sheriff’s office, and now has several deputies working for him, along with a lot of other town folk. You’re either with him or against him. And those who are against him, well…” Ed glanced at Helen, “they disappear.”
“How can one man take over a whole town?” Cassie asked.
“I don’t know,” Ed said shaking his head. “Cole is a real persuasive man, especially when two of his goons come knocking on your door and hold a gun to your head. He’s now collecting what he calls ‘town rent,’ meaning if you live here, you pay him or else.”
Rising from the chair, Ed went over to the kitchen counter, dug around in some papers, then returned to the table. He slapped a piece of paper on the table.
Ryan leaned in but couldn’t read it in the low light. “Mrs. Reynolds, can you bring the lantern over here?” Holding the piece of paper to the light of the lantern, he read it out loud. “Wanted, Dillon Stockdale and Holly Hudson. Reward. Dead or Alive.”
“What?” Cassie gasped. “Let me see that.” She snatched the paper out of Ryan’s hand to read for herself. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“For some reason, Cole wants both your father and Holly, and apparently they don’t care if they are alive or dead. That’s why you can’t stay here.” Ed paused. “There’s more. We’ve already had people nosing around here asking about you, Ryan.”
“Me?” Ryan was incredulous. “What does this Cole character want with me? And does this mean Cassie’s dad is here?”
“I don’t know,” Ed said. “It’s late, and we all need to get some sleep. You and Cassie can share the extra bedroom we have. I’d put you on the sofa, Ryan, but you’ll need all the sleep you can get. Besides, the sofa isn’t long enough for you. Helen, can you get them an extra blanket?”
“There’s an extra one in the cedar closet. Come along, you two,” Helen said. She motioned for Cassie and Ryan to follow her. “Time for bed.”
Ed followed them to the extra room. “You’ll need to leave before dawn, before anybody sees you. I’ll get you up before then and pack you some food so you’ll have something for your trip.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later and exhausted from the trip, Cassie slipped into bed next to Ryan. Buster had found a spot in the corner of the room and was already snoring.
Ryan was on his back, his arms close to his sides, trying to take up as little room as he could on the double bed. It was next to impossible with his 200 pound 6’1” frame, although he was sure he had dropped at least twenty pounds since the plane crash. His eyes were closed because he wanted to give Cassie some semblance of privacy in case she had disrobed. He hoped she hadn’t. He wasn’t sure he could control himself. When Cassie slipped into bed, Ryan immediately felt a pants leg brush against him.
He let out a sigh, torn because he was relieved she was still clothed, yet disappointed at the same time.
The room was painfully quiet, sans Buster’s snoring, and Ryan tried to be as still as possible. Unable to sleep, he said, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t sleep either. Want to talk?”
“About what?”
“About what’s going on,” Ryan said. He rolled onto his side to face Cassie. “A lot of this doesn’t make sense, especially how weird Helen and Ed acted when they realized it was me. I was expecting a warm welcome, not this you can’t stay here business.”
“I can’t figure it out either,” Cassie said. “That wanted poster of my dad and Holly is straight out of the Old West. Do you think my dad is here?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Ed in the morning. Let’s try to get some sleep. We’re gonna need it.”
* * *
In the next room, Ed and Helen spoke in hushed tones.
“Hun,” Helen said, “don’t you think you should have told Ryan the truth?”
“No, and I don’t plan to.”
Chapter 25
Elmer, the man who lived across the street from Ed and Helen Reynolds, had stormed out of his house, cursing at his old lady for preparing him yet another cold dinner of spam and rubbery green beans from a can.
“Good for nuthin’ wench,” he mumbled. He slammed the door hard, rattling it. The damn dog from next door, which barked incessantly at all hours of the day, started barking, which caused the chickens to wake and cluck. Then the rooster joined in, crowing. “Shut up!” Elmer screamed. “Shut up!”
It didn’t have the desired effect because the chickens continued flapping and clucking.
Elmer stomped down the rickety steps from the back porch, kicked a toy one of his worthless kids had left, launching it across the yard and into the neighbor’s yard, clipping the dog who was barking. The dog let out a yelp, tucked its tail, and slunk off to a safer place.
“Serves you right!” the man yelled.
In the darkness the dog cowered around the side of the house.
All Elmer wanted to do was to sit in his truck by himself, listen to some honkytonk music and smoke in peace, but no. The truck wouldn’t start, so the best Elmer could do was to sit in silence which was what he planned to do except there were a couple of people loitering on the sidewalk at the Reynolds’ house, suspiciously eyeing him over.
Standing next to his truck, Elmer patted his shirt pocket feeling for a pack of cigarettes and a light. Finding what he needed, he struck a match, lit his smoke, and took a long and satisfying drag. He immediately felt better as the nicotine took the edge off of things.
That godforsaken old couple across the street seemed to live forever, and old man Reynolds was always puttering around in his garage, straightening things, repairing broken tools, not to mention the yard work he did.
If there was a blade of grass out of place, old man Reynolds was right on it, clipping it.
Jesus Christ Almighty.
/> The old woman sat in her rocking chair for hours at a time crocheting and keeping an eye on the street. For a couple that didn’t do anything but stay home, Elmer couldn’t wrap his head around why Cole Cassel wanted him to keep an eye on them, which was when a lightbulb went off in Elmer’s dim-witted brain.
Cole had paid him a visit several days prior, slipped him a hundred dollar bill, and told him more would be coming his way if he notified Cole of any unusual visitors.
“Like who?” Elmer had asked him.
“A young guy, maybe around twenty-five or so. Tall. Possibly athletic.”
“Why?” Elmer had asked innocently enough.
“None of your business,” Cole replied.
It wasn’t so much what Cole said, it was how he said it, and Elmer had swallowed hard.
Elmer had known Cole in high school, and had heard what the guy had already done to the town since he had come back. Gossip spread fast in small-town America, since the biggest thing that ever happened was when the local funeral director had been convicted of killing his mother and stashing her body in a freezer.
That had been two decades ago.
Elmer kept an eye on the young man and woman standing on the sidewalk. When the young man asked Can I help you? Elmer at first wanted to ask his name and what they were doing out at this late hour. Then he thought better of it. He casually flicked his half-smoked cigarette on the driveway and stamped it out with the sole of his shoe. He slowly eased back into the shadows and when he was sure he was out of sight, he hightailed it around the side of his house, mounted the stairs on the back porch in one leap and swung open the door.
He steamrolled into the house, barreled down the hallway, and woke up his wife to tell her what was going on.
“We’re gonna be rich!” Elmer said, shaking his wife on the shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Huh? I told you not to drink no more.” She shooed him away and put her head back on the pillow. “Go back to sleep. You’re drunk.”