by Nolon King
“I see.” Frank didn’t really, but he figured there would be time for questions later.
“That’s why you need this.” She held up a little crook of metal wire.
“A paperclip?”
“That’s right.” She nodded. “There’s a reset button behind a little hole on the top. You jam this in and depress the button. After it resets, you keep the paperclip pushed in, and start the purge cycle.”
Frank looked at the pictures. Saw the hole. He took the brochure from her hand. “I understand.”
She pointed the paperclip at his face. “You have to be there the whole time. Do you understand that? Until it’s over. You have to be there … watching.”
Frank took the paperclip. “I understand.”
“Good,” she said.
“How did you figure this out?”
“You weren’t the only one he asked.”
She stomped off and Mo followed her.
Frank let himself out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frank spent Sunday on the road. Driving back to Rosa Alta.
He listened to the entire Ty Kirby recording, and it was business as usual. The only mention of anything out of the ordinary was Kirby’s report about a listener “swatting” him.
A disgruntled ex-fan called in a report to the police that ended up with the SWAT team pounding at his door. “Maybe you know this, but I have friends in high places. To anybody else who might try this, it won’t go unnoticed or unpunished.”
Frank couldn’t help feeling like Kirby’s statement was directed at him.
He cruised by his usual parking spot. Along the storefronts to where the studio was.
Everything seemed perfectly normal. He even choked on laughter at the sight of duct tape still flapping on the camera lens next to the side door.
He could probably go up the metal stairs to the rear door and find it unlocked.
Had it happened the way he remembered?
Of course it had.
Then Frank thought about what GG had asked. If he really believed those two girls were really safe. His fingers tightened on the wheel. Yes, he had to believe it.
A slow loop around the block, and he parked by the dumpsters. Spent the day at the beach. Pushed through the tourists for a burger and a beer at a bar called Whendango! A guy with a guitar and a stomp box belted out old bluesy folk, and Frank enjoyed himself in spite of trying his best to manage the opposite.
He only deserved pain.
He rolled his eyes at his own dramatic self-hatred. He was growing tired of manufacturing new ways to loathe himself.
Back in the van under the far tree in the Walmart parking lot — he even saw tiny glittering bits of his smashed cell phone on the ground — Frank scrolled through a website about building a kegerator out of an old freezer. Finally kicked on his little fan and lay back. The last thing he remembered was telling himself there was no way he was going to fall asleep.
He went to Sammy’s diner in the hopes of seeing her again, but instead his server was a bored young man named Chad. Black glasses, tight black jeans, and derisive smile.
Chad only got ten percent.
Frank consulted his watch. Then his digital map. Enola was right next to Rosa Alta. They had a small brewery open early for lunch. He could take his time getting there, enjoy a sandwich and a cold brew, and be at the Home Depot just in time.
The sky was a beautiful clear blue. The sun bright and clear, but not balefully hot. A nice mid-autumn breeze blowing his hair back. He sat on the patio with his lunch. Ate everything, even the pickle. Had two of their house stouts before rolling out.
The ache in his side was a dull spread of pain that he could ignore, but as soon as he focused on it, another fifteen minutes would go by before he could start to forget it again.
He pulled in to the Home Depot parking lot with fifteen minutes to spare. He had no idea what kind of car he was looking for, but he would recognize Wilson when he got there, so he left the van and went in to look up at the signs hanging from the ceiling. Like a shopper trying to find the right aisle.
The restroom sign caught his eyes. An arrow pointing him to the back of the store. The multi-tool in his cargo pocket bounced with his steps.
He walked into the men’s room as a kid in an orange apron came out of the nearest stall. Buckled his belt and smoothed his apron before washing his hands.
He caught Frank’s eye in the mirror. “How you doing, chief?”
Frank gave the kid a salute before turning into the second stall. “I’m doing well, and you?”
“Can’t complain,” the kid said over the sound of the water in the sink.
Frank waited for him to finish washing his hands. Gritted his teeth when it went on for far too long. The kid had a stain or he was just very thorough.
The jet engine inside the hand dryer blasted off, and the kid went through two cycles before finally walking out.
Frank left his stall to stand in front of the sink. His pulse pounded in his neck. Sweat beaded on his forehead. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow enter the restroom. He bent over to turn on the water as somebody came in. Frank glanced up. Kept his gaze at chest level. Right across Wilson’s gray tie.
Frank looked back at his hands. Kept them out of the water while pretending to wash them. Wilson passed in a wave of overpowering aftershave. Whistling through his teeth. Sport coat draped over his arm.
Of course he would go to the handicap stall.
Frank shut the water off as the stall door closed. Then he stepped up to the dryer.
The sound of Wilson’s belt buckle. A jingle of keys as he lowered his pants. Frank hit the button on the dryer.
He rushed to the stall next to Wilson as a heated bray filled the restroom. Pulled the multi-tool out. Opened it to a serrated blade.
He eased the door closed behind him. Stepped up on the toilet rim and dropped into a half squat. Looked up at the top of the stall. It seemed so far away.
The ringing music of a mobile game killed the silence as the dryer died. A gassy fart. The splash of some business taking place.
Frank pushed with both feet as he hooked his free hand over the metal wall. Halfway through, his right knee hit the edge, and instead of carrying over in a spinning jump that would see him landing on his feet in a superhero crouch, he rolled over the top like a flopping bag of oatmeal.
Fortunately, there was a shocked officer to break his fall.
He landed curled up in Wilson’s lap. The phone flew out of the stall to slide out of sight. The toilet flushed under them as Wilson threw himself back in alarm, then a bellow of pain as all of Frank’s weight pushed his back into the chrome plumbing.
“What the fu—”
Frank’s knife was at his throat.
He balanced on Wilson’s knees with one toe stretched out to keep from falling. His other foot planted flat against the sidewall. He grabbed a handful of gray tie for added leverage.
The ripping pain in his side felt like a burning splash of acid.
He forced himself into a new position. Working through his own winces of pain. Through Wilson’s twitching discomfort. He finally found a position next to the toilet and held onto the metal rail bolted to the wall.
“Okay.” Frank offered his victim a nod.
“What do you want?” Wilson demanded, too loud.
Frank flinched back from the volume. “Keep it down, Wilson. You wanna bring the whole store in here?”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know me?”
“I missed you last Friday. I had a lot of fun in Rosa Alta.”
Wilson stared, his right hand resting on his belly. A millimeter closer to the holster under his opposite arm. “If that was you, then you are fucked, my friend.”
“Like the friends you abandoned?”
Wilson shook his head. Bared his teeth when the movement made the knife bite into his skin. “What do you think happened there? What were you trying to do, save those girls?”
Frank shrugged.
Wilson smiled. “What’s your name? Frank Grimm, right? Trying to save those girls like you saved your daughter?”
Frank refused to take the bait. Pressed the knife in a little harder. “Just keep still. You think I can’t see you turtling your hand across your fat gut? In fact—”
Frank darted his hand forward. Popped the snap and pulled the pistol. Put it up under Wilson’s chin.
Wilson lifted both hands out to his side.
Frank smiled in triumph. “So, I want Owens.”
“I don’t care.”
“What?”
Wilson smiled. “I don’t give a shit what you want. The people I’m involved with are bigger than both of us. Now that I’m in this, I can never get out. I know too much. Just like Owens.”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t understand. “
“I know. And it’s fucking sad.”
“Fine. Then what happened to Jennifer and Becka?”
“Who?”
Frank pressed in against him. Pushed the barrel up into the flesh under Wilson’s jaw. “The girls I rescued.”
“The girls you rescued? You didn’t rescue shit. I got here first, dumbass. Handled the scene before anybody else showed up.”
Frank’s mind was a dying animal. Broken and torn. His thoughts were the flies swarming around the wounds.
He drove Wilson back. Put one foot on the locked door behind him for something to push against. His elbows dug into Wilson’s soft chest.
Wilson’s strangled cry became a shocked gasp. He thrashed, but Frank held him down. Heard the crunch of breaking bone. Felt warmth on his hand. Held his breath and pushed until his vision blackened with effort.
He stood panting in front of Wilson’s knees as his vision resolved back into bright color. His right hand was covered in a slick of blood, but it was empty. His left hand still held the gun.
He looked at Wilson to see the multi-tool handle protruding from a gory tear in his swelling neck. A faint drip of blood falling in a pool spreading back into the corner where the floor sloped into a drain.
Frank looked up at the top of the stall. It seemed even farther than he remembered.
He dropped down to roll under the gap between the stall and the floor. Back into his own stall where he stood in confusion. Like he couldn’t remember how he got there.
He dropped the pistol in his cargo pocket where its weight tried to pull his shorts down.
Out to the row of sinks where he washed his hands longer than the Home Depot kid had earlier. He looked up at himself in the mirror. His hands were clean, but there was blood all over his shirt.
He spun away with his palms out. Flung water on the metal doors behind him. He rushed to Wilson’s stall. Rose on his tiptoes and reached over the top. Felt around until his fingers found the sport coat hanging on a hook by the door.
He whipped it over and shrugged into it. Passed by the dryer as he buttoned it up. Stepped into the treated lumber aisle. Walked with his hands in his pockets all the way back to his van.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Frank drove without paying attention to where he was headed. Barely aware of other vehicles. His hands and feet going through the motions.
When he became aware again, he looked up to see Ty Kirby’s studio slide by.
He got the impression it wasn’t the first time he’d passed the place.
He took one more circuit. Unable to make a decision about his next move.
He finally pulled into his spot beside the dumpster. Killed the engine without lowering the windows, then struggled over his armrest to climb past the center console. Back into the dim interior where he flung Wilson’s jacket off. Tore the buttons off his shirt to pull it loose. Fought to shake it free, sitting in the floor between the middle seats, scrubbing at the blood drying in the wrinkles around his wrists.
Like cuffs encircling his hands. Holding him to his deeds.
He cried until his throat ached. His side burning in wave after wave of spasms. His heart beat so hard, it made him rock on his knees. He could almost hear its echo.
He dug into his cooler. Washed his hands and arms with ice. Dragged the rough melt across his face and chest. Until his skin was red and raw. He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. Bounced with his pulse. Wondered if he had ruined the new carpet with all the water.
He climbed back in the driver’s seat. Watched the people on the beach. The ones on the sidewalk behind him across the street. Living and loving and having fun right next to a building where terrible things had happened. Things that would probably happen again.
How many tourists walked through Oklahoma City without sparing a thought for the children gone?
Frank suddenly hated them. Every person he saw. Especially anyone that smiled. He thought about driving into the sand. Striking every one of them that didn’t get out of the way in time. Up on the sidewalk and into the front windows of the shops beneath the upper floor.
He started the van. Rolled the front windows down. Leaned into the open as he backed out. Joined the lazy traffic and steered toward home.
Every few minutes, a child’s face would go through his head. Jenny. Rory Day. Freya. Jennifer and Becka.
He had saved one. At the expense of his own soul, and it had been worth it. The terrible guilt that gnawed at him. The ugly person he had become. Treating himself as bad as he could manage. Nowhere near the suffering of any of those girls.
He picked up his phone. Thought for a moment about calling Freya. Just to hear her voice again. To prove that he actually had done one good thing in his life.
He dropped the phone back into the tray on the center console with a growl. It would have been better if he’d died trying to save her. If he and Dahl had killed each other.
But then he never would have killed Briar.
But then he never would have failed Jennifer and Becka.
Frank slammed his hands on the wheel. He didn’t know that they hadn’t been found by paramedics after the 911 call.
Wilson said he had gotten there first.
But he could have been lying.
Until Frank drove by and saw for himself.
He shook his head. What had he actually seen? Just because there weren’t any police there now didn’t mean there hadn’t been any a week ago.
But there wasn’t any yellow tape. And Kirby was still podcasting.
Nothing said he was recording in that building still.
Frank felt his belly gurgle. Hunger twisted a knot in his guts. Burned up into his throat. He looked up and saw a Sloppy’s. Veered onto the exit without his usual rationalization.
He wanted garbage, and a lot of it.
The drive-thru menu board advertised a SCARY GOOD DEAL of buy one meal, get the second half-off. Frank picked two numbers at random. It felt like each bag weighed five pounds.
He ate while driving. Juggling sauce and fries and Dr. Pepper. Going through napkins like a man missing his bib at a lobster-eating contest.
When the phone buzzed, he looked out both windows in confusion before realizing what it had been.
He divided his attention between the road and the screen. Keeping the van as straight as he possibly could. Intent on occupying his mind with more than doubt and anger.
You’re being followed.
He dropped the phone back. Kept himself from wheeling around to get a look. The rearview mirror was practically useless. He always drove with the curtains down to obscure the interior. He may as well have been driving a windowless panel van.
The side mirrors were food for navigation, but difficult to spot details. He needed to get off the interstate so he could pay more attention.
He made sure to signal with plenty of time. Checked both sides for followers. He exited again and three cars followed. His fingers fed fries into his mouth without benefit of thought. Just grab and chew until they were gone.
A brown sedan. A green pickup. A blue hatchback.
Frank pulled into a Sunoco station next to a Taco Bell. He paused when he looked down to realize he had no shirt. Then he shrugged. This was Florida.
Sure enough, nobody looked at him twice as he perused the wire rack full of snacky-cakes. Kept his eye out the front window for any of his three pursuers.
The brown sedan won as it pulled into one of the far pumps. Frank grabbed a bag of coconut-covered donuts and noticed nobody got out to pump any gas.
He tore it open before getting back to the van. Had two of the little doughnuts in his mouth before starting back up.
He didn’t pay much attention to the brown car the rest of the way home. Just a glance up here and there to make sure they were still behind him.
Sometimes directly. Other times with a car or two between them, but always there.
As he got closer to home — to the fields and back roads, Frank noticed the car staying farther back. Sometimes losing sight of it altogether. But he didn’t want that — he needed them to know where he lived.
Turning onto his own road, Frank caught the flash of the sun reflecting off the front bumper. Took it nice and slow to the gravel drive leading him to the rear of the barn.
He turned in, and was pulling into the lane that wrapped around to the wide doors just as the car passed by. He knew they wouldn’t just tear down the driveway, guns blazing.
They would find the route to the front of the property. Get a lay of the land. So they could plan.
Frank parked inside. Jumped out and made his way into the yard. Keeping a casual eye on the road.
Mo was next to the RV. Tools scattered. The wide access panel leaning against the nearby shed. He stood with sweat dripping down his chest like an ad for cologne.
“You done already?” Frank shouted.
Mo looked down at his watch. Then back up with a confused smile. “Already? It’s been all day.”
Frank nodded. Looked over Mo’s shoulder. “Yeah, but are you done?”
Mo nodded. “Except for the cleaning up, I think so.”
Frank leaned against the side of the RV. Crossed his arms. “So was that the last thing?”