by Nolon King
He flipped to the back of the journal. Rotated the whole thing over so the last page was now the first. Started a row of new notes. Crooked columns with scribbled headings. Name, Occupation, Location, and Times. Once he got the recordings back, he would use any names he might hear in an internet search. Match an online image with his memory, and maybe have a list of suspects.
Then he could catch them. Then he could kill them. Go through as many of them as he needed to get to Owens. His plan was for them to regret every bad decision each one had ever made. A message sent to Owens and those that supported him. Anyone protecting him. Or hiding him.
Frank would make it known that he was willing to make everyone pay. Promise them that he would release every bit of evidence gathered. Unless they were willing to cut Owens loose.
Once on his own, Owens would come right to him. Remove the thorn from the lion’s paw, and the lion would welcome him back, but Frank wouldn’t let that happen.
He closed the journal with a snap. Gathered his belongings. Paused to wipe up the sweat that had dripped on the seat. Probably wouldn’t have mattered, but it was humid, and the sun wasn’t out.
Better to clean the messes you caused than have somebody stumble upon them later.
Advice he could have used months ago.
He didn’t think Stan blamed him for what happened in Playa Dolor. Though they had argued about it at the time, he hadn’t had the opportunity to ask after the fact. He believed Stan was still alive — Mo would at least tell him if that happened. He wanted to talk to his cousin. Go into the kitchen to make a pile of sandwiches and look back to find him watching, ready to complain about how Frank could put more effort into them.
“You gotta learn to make that sandwich righteous,” he would say.
Stan wasn’t just a quantity guy, he also saved room for quality. A narrow selection of foods that needed to be just right. Fast food didn’t matter. Just serve it in a bucket. Most desserts were the same way.
They had gone to a Burger King once, and Stan had ordered a large chocolate shake. When it was served, Stan had looked back at him with wounded incredulity. The cup was the size of a medium soft drink. Not the large. He had questioned the walking pimple behind the cash register, only to be informed that he had received a large milkshake. Sizing was different for different beverages.
Stan had clearly thought that was all the bullshit, but he held it together. “I tell you what,” Stan said. “I’ll order two larges, and you can just pour ‘em both into the other large cup. How about it?”
The pimple looked like he was having trouble with that concept. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s the size it is.”
Stan nodded. “Fine. I want to order another large chocolate shake, but I also want a large Dr. Pepper.”
At first, Frank had been confused too, but then he realized the soda machine was a self-serve job by the napkins and ketchup pump. When the pimple brought the second shake and the big empty cup for Stan to fill, Stan pulled the lids from both milkshakes. Dumped them in until the large soda cup was filled to the top. Drove the straw in like he was trying to stab the counter through the bottom. Looked up with a triumphant grin. Left the two smaller cups with an inch or so of milkshake in them. Waved with his three bags of food as he walked out.
Frank and the pimple had stared at each other for a moment, then the pimple shrugged. “Welcome to Burger King. Can I take your order?”
The cups were still sitting there when Frank left.
He didn’t know what it was about Stan’s past that made him pick and choose his gluttony like that. And even with the foods he took care and pride in the preparation of — he still stuffed himself. But the steaks that were distending his belly were expensive, and cooked perfectly. Seasoned just so. Plated to rest. Savored.
Frank wanted to sit across from him again. Argue about food and words. Cry into his shoulder. Feel him pound out that calming rhythm on his back.
He wanted to hear someone stirring in the house when he woke up. He wanted to turn the corner going into his living room and see someone on the couch doing a crossword. Or watching TV. To see them look up and smile. Smell bacon cooking as he woke up. Hear someone curse in the night when they caught their toe on the footstool going to the bathroom in the dark. He wanted to smile at the expectation when he heard someone else’s car pull in. Get a teasing message on his phone. Find a note on the fridge.
He wanted to be able to smell chicken marsala without bursting into tears.
He wanted a life that wasn’t so damn gray and ugly.
He wanted a little color.
Or nothing at all.
Chapter Eight
Instead of reporting straight to GG, Frank went back to the barn so he could start work on the van. But even as he got involved in the details, he couldn’t help looking out the wide barn doors.
It was GG’s weekly visit to the doctor. Mo and Gen hadn’t come out yet. Frank looked at his watch each time, then laughed at himself. He didn’t know when the appointment was, so checking the time didn’t tell him whether or not they were late.
But he couldn’t stop looking.
Knowing GG was still home made him feel watched. Like judgement was coming.
He opened the two side doors on the Dodge. Then the rear doors so the breeze would blow through the interior. He wrestled with the middle seats. Got them released from the pedestals so he could climb in and remove the rear one.
New carpet and front seat covers were a painful contrast to the old fabric remaining on the rest of the seats. Not in bad shape, just old and faded. For some reason, every time Frank looked back through the rearview mirror, they seemed to get even shabbier.
They needed an update to match.
He had the seat up on the bench and stripped when GG finally came outside in his wheelchair, with Gen at the handles behind him. His face was a glowing moon under the thin beanie covering his scalp. Pink T-shirt. Fuzzy blanket covering his legs.
Mo’s skin was like shiny coal in the bright sunshine.
Frank heard the sound of closing car doors. The engine firing up. He couldn’t see them drive away, but he stood there until the sound faded into dull noise from the distant highway.
He turned back to his project with a sigh. Without the silent stare he always felt coming from the house, he could finally relax. Add a tequila on the rocks and he was threatening himself with a nice afternoon.
For the hundredth time, Frank wondered why it was so important. This need to finish a van that was only his because it had been abandoned by the rightful owner. One he would have to make fake papers for come Stan’s birthday in March.
He just wanted everything to feel new. After these seats, he would be down to the curtains. But then there was always the dash and the door panels. Maybe they would just need a deep cleaning.
Frank finished recovering the first seat. Leaned against the bench with ice tinkling in the bottom of his empty glass. Looked at the light sparkling off of the van windows.
Maybe it was because that van was kind of like him. Maybe too old for what it had been designed for. Faded, but still capable. A few dings and dents. Pitted chrome. Speckles of rust on the rocker panels.
He poured another three fingers before turning to the second seat.
There was no hope left for him. No way to revitalize his existence. Tack a new panel here. Scrape the corrosion away there.
He was at the age where an injury — even a fairly mild one — had life-altering repercussions. A broken hip could heal, but it compromised the rest of the body. Entropy was the real killer of man.
A twenty-year-old falls out of a plane. Shatters most of his body. Heals and comes back stronger than ever. Some aches and pains when the weather turns.
A sixty-year-old sustains the same injuries? He’s a goner.
A person gets old enough, just pulling a muscle leads to the end.
A thirty-year-old dies in her sleep, and the family leaves no stone unturned in their quest to find
out why.
A seventy-year-old dies in her sleep, and everybody shrugs. Must have been her time.
“I’m sorry, but Grammy died of a bad case of natural causes.”
The old Dodge Van was something that could be on the road decades after he was gone. With enough money and effort, it could be a century if well maintained in a garage. Driven on Sundays until the insurance grew too expensive.
Even a worthless van like this could become priceless with the passage of enough time.
But he would get pneumonia. Break a collarbone. Skin cancer. He couldn’t just replace his parts whenever he needed a new one. Until the only original thing left was his brain.
Frank finished the second seat. Set it aside with the other one. Looked down at his glass to discover somebody had finished while he wasn’t paying attention.
Even as he chided himself for drinking too much too early, he chuckled while pouring another.
He looked up at the sound of a vehicle approaching. No idea if it had been long enough for Mo and Gen to be home.
The engine slowed. Came to a stop. Then revved up again.
A white block of a mail carrier’s vehicle came into view. The tiny truck accelerated to the next mailbox a couple hundred yards down the road.
Frank took the interruption as an opportunity to break. Set his drink aside. Maybe eat a little something before hitting the booze again.
Then he thought of what they would have to say about GG’s appointment when they got back.
He picked his drink back up. Sipped as he walked all the way to the mailbox under shade from oak trees lining the road. It seemed like the birds called out in encouragement.
A flyer for Lester’s Pizza. A couple of credit card offers. A Provisions catalog. The same garbage as usual, until he got to the package on the bottom. The size of a thick notebook. Plain cardboard. Ridged, but with a soft give. Addressed to Frank Wendall.
A shiver passed through him. Made a few drops of tequila splatter out to stain Lester’s grinning cartoon face.
He closed the mailbox door. Took the mail to the front porch. Kept the package and tucked the rest under their mat.
He made it to the barn with tequila to spare, but as soon as he dropped the package on the bench, he tipped his glass back. Set the glass aside. Reached for the bottle. Stopped himself with a shake of his head.
His fingers shook as he grabbed the package instead.
Loneliness settled across his shoulders. Frank was his own prisoner out here. Refusing to be part of a family that Gen had practically begged him to join.
He thought of how everybody who had ever been associated with him had eventually suffered. From his murdered daughter all the way to Stan getting chewed on by a gator.
Frank surprised himself by laughing. Not at his cousin’s misfortune, but at the actual circumstances of his injury. How many people would believe him when he told the story of Stan getting attacked by a reptilian monster in a garage next to a marsh full of poisonous algae?
He wiped tears from his eyes before reaching into the padded envelope.
It was easier to be alone. And how easy would his life have been if he had been alone the whole time?
A shiny black plastic bag was inside. One of those anti-static bags where Stan liked to store his electronics. Frank had joked about making a hat made from the same material. How it might help keep the government from tracking him.
Stan had seemed serious about the implications, and Frank never made that joke again.
Inside the plastic bag was a new smartphone. Snapped into a thick impact-resistant case, with two separate bags. One almost the size of the phone, the other about an inch square.
He turned the phone over to find a piece of blue painter’s tape stuck to the screen. Charge me.
He dutifully took the phone to his charger. A contactless job Mo had given him after he had lost a fourth cable. He laid the phone on it, but got nothing. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of phone that could charge like that.
Frank unplugged the charging cable from the contactless base. Relief eased his tension when he discovered it fit into the phone’s port, but still nothing. He plugged the charging base back in. Went back to the bench.
This time he poured another drink. Felt the buzzing unsteadiness all the alcohol was causing. Pleasant.
The second bag had a battery in it. Another piece of tape. Install me.
He sighed in frustration. Spent most of his drink figuring out how to get the phone out of its case. Then he had to put on his reading glasses to get the model number from the back of the phone so he could do an internet search on how to install the battery.
Frank felt like it was getting late, but the sun was still blazing, so he bent back over his task. Returned the phone to its case before moving to the smallest bag.
Inside was an unmarked SIM card. A little flag of tape hanging from it. Insert me.
The urge to throw the whole pile out the door was nearly overwhelming. But Frank patiently repeated the previous steps of removing the case, then did another search on how to insert the SIM card.
He put it all back together, but before setting it on the base, Frank poured what he knew would be his final drink of the day, despite the abundance of daylight.
The screen remained black. He hissed a silent curse, then it lit up with a swirling animation. Followed by a buzz and an electronic chime.
A white lightning bolt filled the screen, and the charger base pulsed with blue light like a digital heartbeat.
Frank looked back at the bench. There was still something in the envelope.
He swayed. Wiped sweat from his forehead. Took an unsteady step toward it before flapping his hand in dismissal. Veered toward the van to stretch out on the new carpet. Curled his fingers into the fibers. Drew a deep breath of the new smell. Hoped he only imagined the tang of blood underneath.
Chapter Nine
Frank’s nap was ruined by a frenzy of images. Not quite dreams. Just a broken succession of memories and feelings.
Somebody standing over him. The impression of disapproval.
Panic and fear.
Faces emerging from the darkness. Many familiar. Some of them strangers. All worried and twisted in pain.
Frank woke to the music of crickets. Tree frogs calling for mates in the failing light.
He sat up with a groan. Smacked his lips to work enough moisture into his mouth for a healthy swallow. The sun sent glowing scarlet streaks across the ground.
He made it up to his loft before peeing his pants. Emptied his bladder. Got a bottle of cold water from the fridge to fill his belly. The aspirin GG said would lower his blood pressure.
He wasn’t ready to think about GG. Any more than he was ready to go in and see how his appointment had gone. He throttled those thoughts as he descended the steps back into the barn.
He snapped the lights on with a wince. Shielded his eyes as he crossed to the bench.
He avoided the phone and the envelope, lowering his head and focusing on the project he started hours ago instead.
The rear seat still needed to be stripped and recovered. His stomach growled, but the thought of food made him grimace. Just the water for now.
A buzzing distracted him. Like a distant vibration. He looked around. Rubbed his right eye to clear it. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see. There was nothing there.
By the time Frank finished with the rear seat, the buzzing had come another three times. He grew increasingly annoyed. Unable to find its source, Frank kept looking over his shoulder as he carried the seats back to the van. First the rear seat. He tested the folding mechanism. Almost climbed in to try out the feel of the new fabric when he heard the buzzing again.
He jumped out with a growl. Stomped to the bench. Flipped the open package over. Swiped his pile of tools aside.
Then Frank saw the fading light form the corner of his eye, and realization dawned to make him feel like a frustrated idiot.
It was the new p
hone. Freshly charged and seeking attention.
He rushed over and snatched it up, only to sign a hiss through his teeth when he couldn’t focus on the screen. Back to the bench for his reading glasses.
He saw the same repeated message. Text HI to this number.
Was it part of the phone’s activation?
Frank rolled his eyes. Followed the prompt. The text was away and he dropped his phone beside the package. Decided it was a good time for another break.
An irrational anger brewed as he climbed the stairs. Slapping light switches. Banging around to heat up a bowl of chicken, rice, and scrambled eggs. Floating it all in his belly with a half gallon of cold water.
He wouldn’t sleep well with all that food in his system, but the water would make him have to get up and pee three or four times, so big deal.
He thought about emptying a row of Oreos, but settled for a single cookie instead. Left the lights on in the loft. Stomped back down the stairs. His knees burned with every step.
Straight to the envelope to empty the contents on the bench. Another thick envelope. Plain white paper. A stack of documents inside. Birth certificate. Driver’s license. The van’s registration in his new name.
The picture on the license was current. An image of how he looked now. Thin hair combed over his sunburned scalp. Short goatee. Tropical shirt. It was like he had posed for the photo, but Frank couldn’t remember doing so.
Had he been drunk?
He shook his head. He couldn’t have been that drunk.
Then Frank remembered he had just passed out in the back of the van.
It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that he had taken the picture himself, or had it taken by someone else … but who made the fake papers for him?
He looked at the name on the license. Just like the outside of the package. Frank Wendall.
The age listed him as ten years older than he actually was. He smiled at how many people were hopefully going to comment on how good he looked for his age.