Authors: Sharon Sala
"King,"
she cautioned, trying to pull herself together enough to think. "You
can't do this." Her tone was that of a mother to a child, and oddly
enough, King paused to listen. "You can't take the guard out behind
Tilley's Bar and Grill. We're not back home in
"No,"
he muttered, "but I can damn sure hurt his feelings. And when I find him,
I will."
Jesse sighed and
leaned her head under his chin. She'd give him the right to that much. She
wondered where the damn guard was, too.
Suddenly she was
overwhelmed with the need to be through with all this. She was so ready to
leave the hospital,
and the whole terrible nightmare behind. She wanted to go home.
Sundown came, and
with nightfall also came relief from the sweltering heat. Up went the shades
and windows, and whatever breeze was strong enough to penetrate the dense
shrubbery around the shabby duplex was welcomed. Lynch sat in the darkness by
an open window and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood, as one by one,
voices quieted and lights went out in the surrounding houses. Finally, all that
disturbed the night was the occasional frenzied barking of a dog that was
quickly silenced by its owner's angry shout.
It was time.
Lynch wasn't waiting any longer. He needed out and he needed a drink. He had
searched the unkempt closets all afternoon for something to wear that would
cover his wounds and still not look out of place in the extreme heat. He'd come
up with some old jean shorts and a T-shirt with a high neck and three-quarter
length sleeves. It was the best he could do. His rummaging had solved another
problem. He didn't have any money, but he'd found a partially used pad of blank
checks from his lucrative days as a working man.
He felt a burning
anger inside at the unexpected turn his life had taken. He wouldn't be in this
miserable shape if it weren't for that woman. She'd messed up everything. He
would have been fixed for life if she'd just cooperated. Instead, here he was,
broke and injured, and it was all her fault. Then his anger turned toward the
man who'd drawn him into this ill-fated scheme. Some big wheel he'd turned out
to be. He hadn't even paid him for his trouble, and he hadn't come back like
he'd promised.
Lynch patted his
pocket, assuring himself that the checks were in place. He had no remorse about
writing a check on a closed account. He planned to be long gone before the
check had a chance to bounce.
Damn, but it
feels good to be outside,
Lynch thought as he pulled the front door
shut behind him. He stood in the shadows, glancing furtively around to make certain
he was unseen. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he started down the narrow
drive with an almost jaunty air.
He stood
underneath the eaves behind the convenience store and waited for the lone
customer to pay for his gas and leave. The fewer people who saw him, the better
off he would be. Finally the customer left. Lynch hesitated no longer.
"How ya' doin'?"
he asked the clerk, as he sauntered in and pulled a scrap of paper from his
pocket. "Just need a few things," he volunteered unnecessarily, and
started searching the aisles.
Carefully noting
the customer was alone and on foot, the clerk nodded and continued to refill a
cigarette rack over the cash register. It didn't pay to be careless in a job
like his and he didn't like working this shift anyway.
"This'll do
it," Lynch said, as he carried the last of the items—two six-packs of
beer—to the counter.
The clerk nodded
and began ringing up the items. He rang up the total, told Lynch the amount
owed, and began to sack the small pile of foodstuffs.
Lynch casually
wrote out the check for the amount of purchase only, just as the sign at the
cash register requested. Then he slid the check and his I.D. to the clerk.
The clerk was
tired, distracted by the fact that he was having to work this graveyard shift,
and anxious to get the lone man from his store. He took the check without even
asking for a second identification and stuffed it into the cash drawer.
His "thank
you, come again," was muttered as an afterthought.
Lynch was
jubilant. He'd done it. He grabbed the sacks, one in each hand, and used his
chest and stomach as props for the cumbersome load. But he couldn't mask his
pain as one of the heavier sacks pressed sharply against his healing cuts.
"Hey,
buddy," the clerk asked, as he saw the grimace on the man's face.
"You all right? Need any help?"
"Naw,"
Lynch mumbled, biting his lip to keep from swearing as beads of sweat popped
out on his forehead. "No problem. I'm just a little sore. Had an accident
a while back and I ain't quite healed."
The clerk nodded,
continuing to watch as Lynch juggled the sacks to a better, less painful
position. Finally, satisfied that he could manage the load, he backed away from
the counter and started out the door.
"Hey,
mister," the clerk yelled sharply, "you're bleeding."
Lynch cursed
under his breath and continued walking out the door. The heavy sacks had
re-injured a slow-healing cut. Hurrying more with each step he took, he refused
to acknowledge the clerk's observation. He didn't look back.
The clerk watched
the man disappear into the darkness. Then something made him go to the door,
just to see which way the man went. But he'd hesitated a bit too long. No
matter how hard he looked, he saw nothing beyond the ring of light shining
down on the store parking lot. He had started back inside when a police notice
taped at eye level by the door caught his attention.
It was a sketch
of a man wanted in connection with the attack on a woman in
something about it on the news, but he'd heard no more and had forgotten all
about it until he began to read the notice. He chuckled to himself, remembering
as he read that the woman had turned the tables quite nicely on this creep. He
looked at the picture again. Something . . . something about the shape of the
nose and mouth looked familiar. He remembered reading that the man would have
suffered multiple stab wounds on his upper body. His heart jumped, and then
raced.
What
if
...
1 He
cursed, absorbing
what he'd just read and then looked back out into the night.
"Hell,"
he muttered, "let it go. Who wants to get involved with the cops?"
But he couldn't get the woman out of his mind.
He went back to
stocking the shelves along the narrow aisles, trying to put the incident and
growing suspicions out of his mind. But his conscience wouldn't allow it, and
with a snort of disgust, he went to the phone and dialed the number printed on
the police sketch. It probably wouldn't amount to anything, but he'd never be
satisfied until he made the call.
The call from the
convenience store clerk was the first solid lead the
Shockey took the follow-up interview himself.
He listened
intently to the clerk's recitation of events leading up to the blood appearing
on the man's shirt, took note of the type of clothing he'd worn and the odd,
almost furtive manner in which he'd left the store.
"Was he in
here long?" Shockey asked.
"No, he
didn't have over half a dozen items. If it hadn't been for the six-packs of
beer, it'd all have fit into one sack, easy."
"Do you
happen to remember what he bought?" Shockey asked, and turned the end of
his Eversharp, adjusting the new lead to just the right length.
"Oh, I
dunno," the clerk muttered. "You know, the usual junk food. This
stuff ain't exactly supermarket quality. Uh . . . let me see. There was bread,
a stick of that summer sausage, some cans of
Vienna
sausage, the beer
of course . . . and, oh yeah!" he added. "A package of Oreo cookies.
I think that's about all." Then he remembered. "No, wait! I forgot
about the other stuff. But it wasn't nothin' to eat. He got a bottle of
peroxide and some of them big patch adhesive bandages." He looked pleased
with himself as he recalled the events. This was just like on TV.
Shockey made note
of the last two items and suppressed a surge of elation. It was too soon to assume
this was his man. But, so far, so good. Shockey was not one to jump to
conclusions.
"So,"
Shockey repeated. "He paid you, took his stuff and left. Is that about it?
He didn't happen to mention where he lived, or worked . . . anything like
that?"
"Naw. It was
just like I said. I took his check. He took his food and walked out the
door."
Shockey absorbed
what the clerk had said.
"He paid by
check?" He couldn't disguise the surprise and elation in his voice. This
guy couldn't be the one. Surely he wasn't that stupid. "Did he have
identification?''
"Yeah, a
driver's license," the clerk mumbled. "I didn't ask for more. Here's
the check, though. Thought you might want to take a look at it. I almost forgot
to tell you."
Shockey took the
check, made note of the information he needed, and handed a copy
of
the info to one
of his detectives. "Here, check this out right away. I want to know
if
this guy's on the
up and up, and if this is a current address. And," he added, "I don't
have to tell you to hurry, do I?"
"No,
sir," came the answer, as the detective immediately disappeared.
Shockey turned
his attention back to the clerk, who was obviously growing weary of the
repetitive questions.
"You sure
this is all you remember?"
"Yeah,"
the clerk sighed. "That's just about it. Like I said, I almost didn't
call. He didn't look exactly like the sketch, but I didn't think I needed to
remember what he looked like. He was just another customer."
But Shockey knew
there was one vital piece of evidence still left to recover. "I'll need
to confiscate your surveillance tapes," he said.
The clerk looked
blank and then understanding dawned as he looked up at the cameras above the
cash register.
"The
tapes!" the clerk cried, excited that there was still more he could
contribute. "He'll be on the tapes."
This couldn't be
the man,
Shockey
thought to himself, as he carried the tapes to his car. Surely no one was so
stupid that they would commit a crime like attempted murder, then pay for
something by check and get videoed all at the same time. Shockey almost laughed
aloud. He couldn't be this lucky.
FOUR
King muttered an
odd litany of gentle oaths as he heard the pilot's announcement that they would
be landing at
"Thank
God!" Jesse heard him say, and couldn't resist a smile. She knew how King
hated to fly and how valiantly he'd tried to mask his fear just to be strong
for her. He was always in control of every situation; so dependable and
reliable. This one weakness he tried to ignore was really quite endearing.
King's solution
to things over which he had no control was to ignore them. Unfortunately, it
was very hard to ignore the fact that he was thousands of feet above the
ground.
Jesse's stomach
did a flip-flop of its own as the plane touched down on
and hesitation, she was very glad she'd decided to come with King. She knew
that if she was ever to get over the intense terror she felt when she was
alone, and the paranoia she had experienced in the hospital therapy room, it
would be here, with those who loved her best.
King's fingers
cupped her hand as the plane touched down, and she heard him sigh loudly in
relief. Suddenly she was as anxious as King to get off the plane. She couldn't
wait to set foot on McCandless territory. She hustled King from the plane, and
aided in locating their luggage. It was only after they'd loaded the bags into
the black Lincoln King retrieved from the parking garage that she felt she was
finally on her way home.
"Thank
you," Jesse whispered to King, then leaned over and softly pressed the
firm cut of his cheek with her lips.