Bonus: The Getaway

“When we bought this cottage, 35 years ago, I never expected to spend time gardening. All that digging and mucking about was Hildy’s job. Always getting her hands dirty, making a mess. See that ole stump down there, near the path. Yeah, that was Hildy’s first experiment, some skinny maple that she’d recovered from those woods. She said it needed room to grow. Heh, well it sure did grow. Grew so big that when we had that storm in’75, the whole shebang came crashing down onto the back porch. She was a pistol.

“Man that girl always had ideas. Look at that boat launch, if you can call it that. She had me build that in the summer of ’83. Some fool idea of hers that we would have a canoe or a raft or if there were grandchildren about, they could go diving off it. Spent the whole summer up to my ass in muddy water, for what? Nothing. Damn Hildy went and decided that the lake was fine to look at but too dangerous to be in. Some fool up Filmore way went and drown himself. They never found the body either. So, all that work went to waste. Damn that girl.

“When I finally said goodbye to the steel plant, or rather they said “don’t let the door hit you in the ass,” we settled up here, in our little getaway, and I’ll be honest with ya, the first two years were sweet. It was like we were newlyweds. Hildy gave up her crafty concoctions and settled on just being a person for a change, instead of a master chef (heh) or a gardener (double heh) and I was finally starting to think that this was the best idea she’d ever had. Even those first two winters, as harsh as they were, didn’t dampen our spirits.

“In ’86 she turned on me. I don’t know if was the ‘change of life’ or the town women she was hanging out with, but she reared on me like an angry bear. She started accusing me of suffocating her, keeping her away from her friends and her children. She was a crazy woman. I got the doc to get some of those hormones for her, thinking she’d be back to her sweet self, but she just got worse. I ain’t ashamed to say it, but I got damned depressed, sitting up here alone with that witch. And that witch ruled me for five years.

“That night I’d been drinking. I’d been drinking a lot. I’m telling you now, since my time is almost up. But she came home after an evening with “the girls” and she started in on me. Calling me worthless and using words that I didn’t even know my Hildy knew. Like I said, I was drunk and depressed and well, I just snapped. I grabbed the nearest thing, the fireplace poker and I brained that witch until she shut her foul mouth. I immediately knew what I’d done, I knew I’d killed her. But in my heart, I swear to this day, I feel like I released my sweet Hildy from the witch she’d become. I buried my wife out back, told family, police and those crazy women friends of hers that she’d drown.

“And what did those old bitties do but bring me a damn apple tree. What the hell did I want another damn tree for, the forest is full of them. But they were all sympathetic (and scheming after the new widower, I’d bet) and they said that they thought the tree would be a nice memorial to Hildy, for how much she loved gardening. Well, I thanked the old bats and you know what I did with that tree, I planted that thing right out back, right over the spot where I buried that witch and I’ll tell you them apples are the sweetest apples in the entire county.

“Hey, Hildy, looks like you finally grew something right!”

***

She laid a hand gently on her father’s arm as he rocked on the porch swing. She looked where he looked, out past the old boat launch into the gentle ripples of the lake. “You want me to get the afghan for him?” her husband asked, climbing the porch steps. She smiled, “yeah, it’s getting chilly.”

“You think he’s happy up here?”

“Definitely, he’s been chattering for about an hour now. I haven’t seen him this animated since long before the stroke. I can’t really understand him, though,” she whispered, looking up at him.

He reached for the screen door. “Oh, I picked a bunch of apples from that tree out back, thought you could make one of your famous pies.”

“That would be perfect.” She smiled and turned back to the lake.

An unseen piano player in some other part of the restaurant was tinkling away a familiar tune. ‘What song is that?’ Sarah wondered. It sounded like it might be a Beatles song, maybe one written by George Harrison. He was always her favorite Beatle…

Sarah silently scolded herself for her moment of distraction. Gus was leaning across the table towards her, one arm outstretched as if waiting for her to place her hand in his. He was obviously saying something important. She could tell because he kept breaking eye contact to stare at the tablecloth. Sarah tried to pull her attention back to Gus when it hit her.

Here, There, Everywhere! She knew it was a Beatles song! Sarah tried to recall if she had ever heard this particular song played by a piano soloist before. She shoveled another forkful of chocolate silk pie into her mouth and concluded that no, she had never heard the song played quite like this before. This pianist was pretty good.

“…so as I was saying, these past six months with you have been wonderful. That’s why I brought you here tonight.” Gus was looking at her with eyes the size of dinner plates. Sarah realized he was waiting for her to say something.

“Oh, Gus. Yeah, things have been great. You’re a lot of fun to hang out with. Still, I can’t believe you took me to Farro’s. It’s way to pricey.”

Gus’s eyes went back to the tablecloth. Apparently her response wasn’t quite the one he was looking for. “You’re worth it, you know,” he muttered between spoonfuls of champagne sorbet. “It’s our six-month anniversary. I wanted it to be special.”

His arm lingered on the table, flat and still like an unused salad fork. She reached out and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Everything is great, Gus, just great.”

They finished their desserts in silence. The music had stopped. Sarah decided the pianist must have gone on a break or something. As the silence between she and Gus grew longer and more awkward, she began to pick up fragments of conversation from the nearby tables.

The couple in the corner were engaged in a debate over sending their child to public or private school. At another table, an Asian family loudly chattered in a rapid language that Sarah thought might be Mandarin, but she couldn’t say for sure. Laughter from a number of tables fluttered around the restaurant and seemed to hover all around her. As a busboy hurried past with a basket of bread, Sarah distinctly heard the swish-swish of his pants as they brushed against his apron.

Gus was focused on his sorbet. His head was lowered so closely to the dessert dish, Sarah thought he could lose the spoon and just shove his whole face in there. She swore she could even hear him slurping away at the sorbet. She couldn’t bear to look at him again until he was finished with it.

Silverware clattered to the floor as the busboy dropped a tray. The laughter in the room changed from the kind shared privately between couples to a slightly more mocking kind. All the sounds seemed to rise in volume. Swish-Cackle-Slurp. A knife scraped across a plate like nails on a blackboard. Swish-Cackle-Slurp.

Sarah could stand it no longer. Where in the world was the piano player? She started to get up from her chair. She was going to find the manager and…and…

Suddenly all was quiet. Sarah turned to Gus and found him next to the table, kneeling in the aisle on one knee. He held a hinged velvet box out to her as he looked up with watery eyes.

The conversations at all the other tables stopped. All the eyes in the room were on the two of them, on her! Sarah fell back into her seat and raised a hand to her face to conceal the shock that she was experiencing.

“Sarah, I have something I want to ask you.”

This can’t be happening! Not here! Not now! Not…Gus! Sarah closed her eyes tight in the hopes that when she opened them, Gus would be just sitting there, slurping up his sorbet.

But Gus was still on one knee, still reaching out to her, still wanting to ask her a question. Sarah could feel the expectant eyes of those around her. This was too much to take.

“I’m sorry, Gus.”

The words came out of her mouth before Sarah even knew she had said them. She leapt from her chair and started running. Everything was moving in slow motion.

Just then, the unseen pianist began to play. Finding her way to the door, Sarah paused, thinking, ‘What song is that? It sounds so familiar.’

She opened the door and never looked back.

I hate Paris.

It had started out so easy. I should’ve known it then – jobs like this never turn out easy. On the contrary. They tend to be tough as nails, the variety carpenters use in high-pressure nail guns to attach wood panels to uncooperating surfaces. Little, small black nails, that always tend to drop to the floor, get stuck in the crack between your shoes and socks and then generally irritate the heck out of you when you try to clean them away.

I don’t normally tend to morbid thoughts, but when you’re driving through the traffic-congested streets of Paris with a suicidical maniac called Jacques (if that really is his name), even a well-adjusted personality tends to get a little pissed off.

The little art gallery in the Rue Etienne Marcel tried to lull you with that mix of avant garde artist place and hush-hush collector’s exchange. This also made their security set-up a bit of a nightmare for them. After three days of posing like an interested connoisseur and checking the place out, I decided that a hit and run would be the best option. Looking back now, I got at least fifty percent right.

On the fourth day I had augmented the usual paraphernalia of a collector of fine arts with a riot-control size can of teargas and a carpet knife. After four slashes with the knife and a couple of splashes with the gas, a vintage Manet painting parted with it’s former owner and was on it’s way to the next. No, that’s Manet, you cretin, not Monet! Just like money, which I seemed ever further away from collecting.

The big mistake came in trusting my employer’s choice in accomplices.
“Thees ees Jacques,” he said, “you trust him, he knows theese streets vell.”

Right.

So here I was, my fingers digging into the black plastic dashboard of a cheap Fiat. To my left, Jacques, idiot extraordinaire, who not only hit a bloody poodle during our frantic escape, but also managed to sideswipe a Gendarmerie squad car directly afterwards. I had briefly nurtured the dim hope that the ensuing chaos would let us slip away, but to no avail.

My sprint to the curb outside the art gallery ended in a disbelieving, head-shaking full stop when I saw that Jacques had neatly parked our get-away car in a parking slot which left about half a foot in front and back. I ripped open the door and slammed myself into the passenger’s seat. Jacques was panting excitedly and now (now!) started the engine which turned over once, twice, then finally caught. Revving the motor up into the supersonic, he smiled at me.

“Eh, nice little parking space, non? Is impossible to get good parking like this, non?”

I was too busy rolling up the canvas and stuffing it into a cardboard tube to give him the smack on the head he so rightly deserved. From the corner of my eye I saw that the commotion I had caused in the gallery was spilling into the street.

“Go!”, I screamed at Jacques, who was still grinning like the pope on dope.
“Go, go, go!”

Gears moved slowly, both in Jacques head and in the badly serviced manual shift engine. Slamming first into the front, then the rear car, he pulled out into traffic, which tried to avoid him by turning with screeching tires onto the opposite lane. Milliseconds later, the first crash of many ensured that our subtle little get-away was going to be anything but.

After the poodle incident in the Rue Saint-Lazare, we had the Gendarmerie on our tails with a vengeance.
Now, in France, you got yourself the ordinary traffic-cop variety which they call “la police”. Easy, huh? But they also have a paramilitary-like cadre of high-testosterone, no-nonsense, Boot Stompers. The Gendarmerie.
I got slammed into the door as Jacques took a hard left turn into the Rue Beaubourg, and one look at the white-eyed frenzy in his face told me that even Jacques had noticed who was following us.
“Turn left!”, I screamed, looking through the rear window. “Right!”
It was no use, they were still following.
“Right, left, go, go!”

Suddenly I saw my chance. Like a sign from the Almighty, there was the Metro station of the Arts et Metiers District.
Reaching for the cardboard tube, I slammed into the side of the door, wrenching it open. I hit the ground, rolled and came up running. Leaping down the stairs, I quickly jumped the turnstile, and was about to turn toward the arriving subway train when an attendant grabbed me by my right arm.

“Sir, your ticket?” His eyes glinted with a predatory smile.
“You do have a ticket, don’t you?” My exasperation told him otherwise.

God, I hate Paris.

I’m sitting in my driveway on a Tuesday. It’s pitch dark. The motor is running. It’s 5:45 AM. I live in a nice neighborhood, nothing fancy, just a mid-starter type of subdivision. We’re all young here. The men are young lions looking to climb the ladders of life. The women are young and attractive.

I have a wife and two small children. Somehow, I’m actually growing up. I’m gaining a sense of responsibility in life. I look at the clock in my car. It’s 5:46 AM and my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel in my brain. I feel guilty to the bone and sick to my stomach.

I’m the average guy. Average height, weight, eye color, and average life. People mistake me for an employee in Wal-Mart. They ask me for directions when I shop there. I don’t smoke. I drink very little, yet I have an addiction that has grabbed hold of me like a hot pulsating hand on my heart. Right now it’s squeezing me. I can feel it pulling me to this secret place. It’s 5:47 AM. What am I going to do? God, what am I going to do this morning?

As I told you, I’m trying to grow up. I’m not in college any more. Stupid things I did back then, really seem stupid now as I look on them. Somehow, and I’m not sure how, I actually think things through to their conclusion now. I think about the end result and how it affects not only me, but now my wife and my two boys.

At night, I sit down and read the newspaper. My boys sit next to me and look at their books. They do everything that I do. I have come to realize that they watch me and copy everything that I do. God, I feel so guilty. It’s 5:49 AM. I am addicted. My addiction is throbbing throughout me. This wicked addiction guides my thoughts and my feet. I find myself going to a place where I know I should not be going.

Perspiration is on my forehead. My armpits are wet. I see Pastor, in my mind, preaching his sermon. We started going to church three months ago. It’s the right thing to do. We’ve made friends there. They have a different perspective. I look at the clock. 5:51 AM.

One of the deacons asked me to meet him on Tuesday mornings for prayer. That was three weeks ago. I haven’t made it yet. I’ve tried, but this addiction has a hold of my heart, my very soul.

Three weeks ago, I left my house to meet him. I live on a street that is a loop. I can go either left or right. Either way takes me to the same road that takes me out of my neighborhood. I always turn left. It’s shorter. That Tuesday morning, in the dark, I left to meet him.

As I turned left, I followed the street to the Stop sign. It’s dark and no one is around. As I look to the left, there is a light on in her house. It wasn’t planned, but there she is in her shower. The window is tall and there is no curtain or shade. She is naked. She is beautiful. She is washing herself with intimate innocence. Her hair is dark. She is no more than 26 years old and her breasts are young. I find myself absorbed. It’s as though there is an invisible thread pulling her nipples heavenward. I watch her wash herself. She has a habit of pulling her dark nipples when she washes them. They become hard as the end of my little finger. I missed prayer meeting that morning.

I’ve watched her eleven days in the early morning from my car. God, I feel guilty. I watched her yesterday morning. They way she touches herself. It’s innocent, but unbelievable. 5:53 AM.

Last Sunday, Pastor preached from the book of 2 Samuel. That’s where King David watched Bathsheba bathe. ”From the roof he saw a woman bathing.” I don’t know how Pastor did it. It felt as though he had been watching me all that week when he preached.

I feel sick to my stomach but I want to go there again. Heroin is nothing compared to this. This addicts the soul. 5:55 AM. She bathes at 6:00 AM.

I pull out of the driveway and stop in the middle of the street. I look both ways. I am being seduced to go and turn left with a compulsion that I can not explain. I lower my head.

“God, help me.”

I turn, and go to the right. For the first time, I made it.

That was twenty years ago. I never turned left again.

“Look left, look right, look left, look right.” He chanted, fingers slipping on the steering wheel.

Left… a young family turned the corner onto Milton Place. Right… three kids were grinding their boards on the benches in the park on Vine.

Jimmy’s eyes darted to the clock on the dash. Only three minutes since they’d gone in. His heart beat louder, in time with his glances. ‘Look left’ – thud, ‘look right’ – thump. With each second the action on the streets in front of him lost focus. His mind swam in the flood of stimuli. He saw only the blinking of the digital clock, heard only the quickened pace of his shallow breathing and felt only the sharp angles of the pistol concealed under his right thigh. His head started bobbing with each second.

“Everything’s cool. No problems,” he mumbled under his breath. He looked back and forth, struggling to focus. An old woman entered the corner market after tying her little dog to the lamp post. A mailman stopped at the box on Milton. “Just sitting here,” Jimmy hummed quietly. “Just sitting here, waiting for some friends.”

Four minutes. Still on schedule, Ray’s “master plan” as he’d called it. In and out, nice clean exit, everyone is happy, everyone is calm. “Eight minutes, tops,” he’d told them. “I’ve timed it, gone over it. Eight minutes and that’s if we’re all leisurely about it.” He’d brought Jimmy in first thing. “Opportunity is the key here, Jimmy. And we’ve got it by the truckload. You’re my wheel man, if you’re in.” That speech had come with several rounds of drinks and the unusual attention of Ray’s sister, Sharon. You could say what you want about a girl like that, but she sealed the deal.

Five minutes. Jimmy smiled, lost in the memory of her smell. She’d done things to him that he’d only read about. Where one second you think “where the hell did you learn that?” and the next second you didn’t care. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Oh man, oh man,” he whispered, shuddering when he thought of the moment she…

WHOOP! WHOOP!

The siren knocked Jimmy out of his daydream. His eyes widened and he straightened in the seat, the barrel of the pistol feeling harder than ever. A police cruiser stopped near the park entrance. Jimmy checked the time, six minutes. The cop in the passenger seat rolled down his window and yelled at the skaters. They milled about near the entrance. The cop raised his voice and opened the door. ‘Come on, come on, just clear out, dammit,’ Jimmy thought, rocking back and forth. The tallest boy pleaded his case. The first cop shouted, “you hear what I’m telling you, son?” while his partner exited the vehicle.

Jimmy glanced at the bank entrance. The alcove was clear. He shook his head. “Don’t come out now,” he mumbled. “Stay in there Ray, dammit, don’t come out now.” He turned back to the park in time to watch the trio skate off. Jimmy held his breath as the officers slowly walked back to the car. They stood, doors ajar, talking to each other over the roof. “Come on, mooove! Come on!” Seven minutes, now, and the black and white finally roared to life and the cops drove on, down Milton. He exhaled, but only after he could no longer hear that cop-engine whine.

“Alright, Ray, let’s get this the hell over with.”

Eight minutes. His ducked instinctively when he heard the first gunshot. He sat back up, staring at the entrance, half expecting to see Ray, and his cousin running out. There was nothing. Had anyone else heard that? It was recognizable enough to Jimmy, all keyed up and aware of the hidden proceedings inside the bank, but to anyone else… The few passers-by seemed oblivious, even the old lady’s dog hadn’t moved.

Who the hell was shooting anyway? “The guns are for intimidation purposes only,” Ray had reassured him that morning. “I probably won’t even load mine. It’s just to help the proceedings along.” The original plan was to just imply there were guns. But in this day and age, you needed to show the metal or they didn’t take you seriously. “I know this is hard for ya, Jimmy-boy. But all I’m asking for is ten minutes of your time. Ten minutes, to sit outside on a nice day. Can you give me that, just ten?” Jimmy agreed.

When the second gunshot came, clear and loud, Jimmy decided that nine was as good as ten, any day. He pulled slowly away from the curb, turning left onto Milton. He glanced back in time to see a bloody hand push open the glass door.

‘Opportunity is the key here,’ he thought and drove on.

Her husband grabbed the hood of her jacket as she ran for the back door.

Not quick enough, she thought as she pulled back her shoulders, and the coat slipped from her arms.

Flinging open the door, she ran down the porch stairs and up the driveway to the front of the house. As she turned the corner, she found her husband coming up from the other side of the house.

He jumped the fence!

Quickly she darted up the porch toward the front door. Please be unlocked, she prayed as she threw herself against it. It was. She slammed the door shut and slid the deadbolt. She was already running to lock the backdoor when she heard her husband banging on the door. Quickly she locked the back one.

Molly!

Sprinting up the stairs two at a time, she burst into her daughter Molly's room.

"Cheryl thinks Brad likes her, but Josh told--"

"Molly, get off the phone."

"In a minute, Mom."

Time...

"Get off the phone NOW!"

Molly looked as if she'd just been slapped.

"I have to go," she said and hung up the receiver.

Grabbing Molly's jacket in one hand and Molly in the other, she pulled her daughter from her room and down the stairs.

She could hear jars breaking in the basement.

He's coming in through the basement window!

Time...

"Mom, what's going--"

"Go to Amy's. Do not come home until I call you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but--"

"GO! Don't come home until I call!" She shouted as she slammed the front door and locked it. She watched as Molly ran from the porch crying. When she turned around he was upon her.

"Think you're smart, don't ya?" He screamed in her face, enunciating every word with a poke to her chest. She backed away and he shoved her. She fell in between the coffee table and sofa. He straddled her and began choking her. She clawed at his face. She could feel his skin and blood under her nails, but he did not stop. She reached out toward the coffee table and grabbed the heavy clay tray Molly had made in art class. She struck at her husband's head. He stopped choking her.

Gasping, she pulled herself from underneath him. She crawled to the phone and punched in 911.

"911. What is your emergency?"

"My husband just tried to kill me," she rasped. Then she saw a movement and felt a sharp blow to the side of her head. Pretty colors, she thought as she fell over stunned.

She could hear her husband moving through the house. Stay with it, girl! She told herself. He'll be back.

She summoned her strength and looked for the phone. He had ripped it from the wall. Slowly she rose and found she could stand. The pain was immense. She began her way to the front door.

"Oh no you don't!" Her husband came running up to her, his face dripping blood. In his arms was a shotgun.

Time...

Suddenly there was no time. The future became the present. And the present was a vacuum. She could see the molecules in the air. She could hear Sparky barking in the backyard. She knew the cops were surrounding the house. She knew what her husband was planning. She knew dead calm.

As he moved toward her, she headed deeper into the living room.

He came up to her with the gun held across his body. He shoved her with it. She grabbed it, but instead of pulling back to take it from him, she went with it when he pulled back. Surprised, he lost his balance and fell back over the footstool, losing his grip on the gun. There was a sharp crack as his head hit the corner of the heavy glass and wrought iron coffee table. He stared up at her with unseeing eyes.

Time…Time to go.

Slowly she slid back the deadbolt and opened the door.

“I’m here!” She called out.

“I’m here.”

Cold rain travels down little gray rivers on the bookstore window. Inside the old bookstore it is neither warm, nor cozy, although it is certainly supposed to be that kind of place. I can hear the muffled sniffles and coughs of patrons with their winter colds that started in the early fall and last sometimes until the sun decides to stroll into June. Occasionally, a sniffler will ask me where such and such book is. I carefully and pointedly pull a directory from the stack of directories clearly displayed on the counter. Softly pointing to the section, I show the hapless customer where the book can be found.

The radio softly plays 90’s grunge music which still sounds new to me, even though I know those songs are almost 20 years old now. My thoughts float over the floorboards and in between customers and around the shelves, overstuffed with attractive books from “acclaimed new writers”. I feel a cold, damp wind on my shoulders as the front door opens. I glance up as the second floorboard creaks and wet shoes squeak. A harried woman ushers in two children, both of whom are begging loudly to jump in the puddles.

“Shhhhh, “ she murmurs. “Remember to use your inside voice.” She looks up apologetically at me as the two of them run with loud feet to the children’s section and start to rough up the books on the shelves. I shoot her back an “I understand” kind of look. True enough, I do understand.

I’d had two babies too. Robust, healthy children. Smart and beautiful. Everyone envied me them, and for good reason. They were everything a mother could want.

If a mother wanted children.

I push my hair back and turn my thoughts away to ring up the next customer. A marketing book and two Penthouse Letters. Must be here on business. I barely acknowledge his presence during the transaction. That was one of the promises to myself that I kept. I promised that I would never again have to be nice if I didn’t want to be nice. When I worked in a bookstore in Seattle, I could be as rude as I felt like. When I worked at a bookstore in Seattle, I could do anything I wanted. I promised myself this over and over, in doctors’ office waiting rooms, and in the desperate and depressing search for day cares, and in the middle of the fights and the screaming.

I’ve kept all my new promises, the ones I made to myself. I walked everywhere in this town, walked and walked and walked until my feet were as numb as my heart. The pounds dropped off, and now I draw the men, even when I’m not trying. I’ve had them too. Their place, mostly. The walls of my sublet are too thin, and it’s not exactly the sexiest place, with my clothes on a rack and a bed on a metal frame and my computer precariously perched on some crates. The tricky bit though, is that now that I can have them all, I don’t want any of them. And who would want me if they knew?

I have no ambitions. I work in my bookstore, just like I planned. I make enough to pay my rent and support my DSL window to the world. I read. I take leisurely baths. I spend afternoons at public museums and paint in the park. I live in the silence I craved.

Back where I didn’t keep my promises, my children are still noisy.

Today is the last day I will be working for the Company. Not that they know – God forbid!

In retrospective, everything seemed so unreal, almost surrealistic. The recruitment approach was like a highly traditional, formalized dance. Cautious feelers were extended, testing the waters. How about working for a different company, hm? Higher pay, a better position and a nice bonus if it’s not only you that is transferred…

Standard procedures were to report such occurrences at once to upper management. Right. Like I was going to miss this chance to get out from under their thumb.

Now, three days later, I didn’t feel so confident anymore. Standing in the laboratory for the last time, something didn’t feel right. There was a cold, wet feeling under my armpits, and the last coffee I had (how many was it? - three, four?) seemed to slowly burn through my stomach lining. I felt like biting my nails, a habit I had kicked pretty quickly when I took up the lab work in the biohazard tract. When you work with mutagens and retroviral vector systems, you tend to keep your hands away from your mouth.

I looked around.

The lab was deserted at the moment, everyone else having left for their cosy little homes, going to their well-adjusted families. I moved over to the containment unit, since that was the only place not covered by the closed-circuit surveillance cameras.

There was no chance of getting at the locked cell cultures kept in the Bio-Safety Level 3 (BSL3) laboratory. But someone has to sterilize the germ-swamped sewer effluents and change the pathogen-saturated air filters on those containment units.

Yeah, that’s me. As the good little lab technician, I get to go through these bio-bug infested labs, fixing equipment, cleaning up, and generally making sure that their royal highnesses have optimal working conditions. Not a job that has people standing in line for it, but nevertheless an immensely lucrative opportunity for someone with upwardly mobile tendencies (well… in a different company, that is).

I got out the clear adhesive tape that I had deposited in my lab coat and started to wrap a thin strip around every finger, with the non-sticky side facing the skin. Going about my normal clean-up routine, I systematically used a different finger to unobtrusively wipe over the work surfaces, picking up stray micro-organisms which literally got stuck on me.

Any decent lab would be able to isolate the bugs from the adhesive and culture them… thus bringing my new employer up to the cutting edge of biotech research, at a fraction of the investment costs. Not years of research for two or three lucky success stories. No, instant hits at the price of paying off just on disgruntled employee. Bugs for bucks, as I would call it.

Flipping one of the air filters, I finished off by pressing the back of my last finger to the filter. I left it reversed. Maybe their royal highnesses would catch a nice flu, or maybe even diarrhoea. One can still hope.

I wrapped up my standard clean-up routine, neglecting however the ritual washing of the hands. Hanging up my lab coat in my locker, I changed to street clothes and headed for the security gate at ground level.
Twice I had to force myself to slow down. Panic, just barely subdued, was fighting it’s way to the surface of my mind. In the darkened entrance hall, the desk of the night watchman was sitting in a pool of light.

I squinted at his name badge, which was dangling from the left breast pocket of a very tight-fitting uniform.

”Good evening, Bob.”

My voice sounded a bit too raspy, and I felt like I was grinning like an idiot. Damn, he’s going to get suspicious. The guard looked up.

“Everything quiet today?”

Now why did I say that?

In the war, they used to shoot spies. I wonder if the rules of industrial espionage had similar policies – probably unwritten ones. I fought down the urge to lick my lips, which suddenly seemed to be parched.

The fat security guard gave me a cursory glimpse. He pressed a button, and a buzzer indicated that the main door was unlocked. I pushed against it, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, and stepped into the street; the fortunes of one company resting in the palms of my hands and travelling to the next at the tips of my fingers.

“Have a nice evening.”

Ray brought a hand up across his mouth and winced as it came back bloody. His lip was split. The hot, dry air had pulled the moisture out of him, forced his eyes to water and his scalp to peel away. He itched at his head absentmindedly, and glanced across the room at Philip. Poor Philip. “We’re in it together, you and me,” he’d said before they went in. “No man left behind.” His companion’s eyes were glazed now, soulless, staring, unresponsive. Ray felt his own consciousness ebbing, fading away, away…

SHA-TCHAK!

Ray snapped back to attention. The presenter, in an attempt to be cute, had inserted the sound of an old-style projector advancing slides every time he moved between frames of his presentation. Ray couldn’t remember what the meeting was about, but he sensed from the body language of his captor that it was somehow vitally important, and beginning to near its peak. He had to get out of here. He rolled his chair back a couple inches, using one of his portlier co-workers for cover, and began sliding down slowly in his chair. Lower, and lower. Wait for it, for the right moment. The jailkeeper at the front of the room gestured frantically, trying to drive home some obtuse point. Everyone nodded simultaneously, heads bobbing asynchronously like a Big Apple cabby’s collection of Rastafarian kewpie dolls. Then it happened. One of the suits at the front of the room scrunched up her brow in confusion. The presenter sighed, then turned around and began tapping out the slide’s content a third time. Ray took a deep breath and submerged himself. By the time the exec turned back around, the only indication that Ray was even there would be a neatly tucked in chair; just another absentee at another meeting. He could read the minutes later.

Ray found himself in a nearly invisible forest of black and blue. At the end of it, a sliver of fluorescent light peeked through the cracked boardroom doors, offering him a glimpse of freedom that waited. But reaching it still meant “running the gauntlet,” the tangles of shoes, laces, and slacks that lined the edge of the table. Brushing up against any of them, even lightly, would almost certainly result in dire consequences. Ray began cautiously picking his way towards the rear of the table. Inch by inch, he crept, moving slowly. These meetings were often hours long, if it took him a few more minutes to escape, that was acceptable. After all, soon he’d be home with Lindsay, and that held much more promise than just another day at the office. Maybe a nice matinee movie, to surprise her. And early dinner out. Who knows where that might lead? That sounds like a…

Ray froze as he absently planted his palm firmly into the toes of a shoe. He lifted his hand slowly, cursing under his breath. It was over. He would have to stay the whole meeting, and by the end of it he’d be another mindless zombie, just like the rest of them. He glanced down at the sneaker. Sneaker? Of course, the factory floor manager, whose feet were covered in a lifetime’s worth of calluses. He probably hadn’t even felt it. What luck! A brief pause to listen for disturbances confirmed it – nobody had noticed anything wrong. Ray shimmied a little further, then slowly covered the open distance between the end of the table and the door, slipping out.

Bright light enveloped him. He took a deep breath, and looked around. He was on his hands and knees in front of the boardroom doors. Behind him, the presentation continued unabated. All he had to do now was get out the front doors. An intern carrying a large stack of papers rounded the corner, and stopped in the hall, staring down at him. “Wha…” Ray jumped up quickly and clapped a hand over her mouth, to silence the complaint. He fiercely stared her down into silence, then slowly removed his hand.

“Help me,” he whispered to her.

“How?”

“Cover me.” He nodded down the hall. The intern shifted, uncomfortably. “Please?”

The intern pursed her lips, then continued down the hall, stopping in front of the receptionist at the front desk. Shouldering the stack of papers up onto the desk, the intern slipped a hand behind her back and signaled.

Ray moved quickly to the doors, staying below the level of the counter as the two of them chatted, and slipped out. No time to wait for the elevator, I’ll take the stairs. Lindsay, baby, here I come. As he burst out the door at the bottom of the stairs, and jogged through the crisp October air to his car, his mind dwelled on how much he resented working where he did.

My harpsichord repair business is in the tank. Harpsichords were a hot item while Domenico Scarlatti was playing, and everybody thought it was the instrument of the future. But when he died in 1757, the whole plucked instrument business started to slide. People just seemed to lose interest. I might have waited too long to get into the plectra field, I guess. Who ever would have thought that pianos were going to do nearly as well as they did? And who could have predicted a Mozart, or a George Gershwin, or even a Liberace for that matter? Meantime, the Koreans have just come out with a disposable string pairs cartridge that’s guaranteed for two hundred sonatas. First they sell you a jack retainer for $19.95 You slide it in to anchor the jacks, pull out the old strings, slide in this pre-packaged, pre-tuned string pair cartridge, take out the retainer and boom … you’re playing again. They also offer discounts for replacing string pairs that aren’t even worn out yet. Home harpsichord repairs. How do I compete with that? And get this ... the Koreans are using Delrin / Celcon amalgam quilling! Excuse me, but amalgam? Doesn’t anybody care about quality any more? I tell you, Korea is going to kill the harpsichord business, once and for all.

It doesn’t help that my spinet and lute referrals have dropped right off. They were just a sideline, but it’s almost as though nobody plays them any more. Anyway, the writing’s on the wall, so that’s it. I can take a hint. I’ve already moved all my strings, my pedals, my ivory naturals, my rosewood jacks, all the quilling, felt buffers, plectra, parts and tools into the spare bedroom at home, and this is my last trip. I’ve got room for a couple more oil lamps in the back seat of my Toyota, and maybe that big cuspidor in my office, but once that’s done, I’m finished. Josiah can keep whatever I don’t take. I need to be out of here before daylight. I hate to sneak out like a thief in the night, but a guy has to look out for himself in this world. I feel kind of bad for Josiah, because things haven’t exactly been brisk in the horseshoeing business, and he’ll be on the hook for the whole month’s rent for the shop and warehouse. Still, he has to take some of the responsibility for that, though. I mean, what was he thinking? Four years of Blacksmith school, two more years apprenticing, another year or two to open up his own business, and now nobody rides horses any more. He should have seen it coming. Haven’t you ever heard of a horseless carriage, Josiah? Wake up and smell the mead.

Right now, though, I’ve got to consider my next move. I'm working on a plan for all my parts stock, especially the ivory pieces and the rosewood jacks. Those two items in particular are really rare. I bought them years ago at an auction, and they must be worth a small fortune by now, so if I can find a market for them, I should be able to raise enough cash for my next venture. I’m thinking that Singapore is the way to go right now. Harpsichords are on the upswing there, and I won’t say this out loud, but their Cho harpsichords are every bit as good as Sorli or Herz. Maybe better.

Man, how am I so unlucky to be stuck in North America with not a customer in sight, when everybody and his dog in Asia owns a harpsichord? I’ve got to get busy and find a buyer in Singapore, before I get scooped by the Koreans. It shouldn’t take too long to track down a parts dealer, then I’m thinking four, five months to sell off the lot. I should be able to clear close to six figures, and then, finally, I can look to the future. I’ll be back in business. A friend of mine can get me an absolute goldmine of platens and carriage return bells. Ribbons are cheap enough, and once I track down a key and spring supplier, it shouldn’t be more than six or eight weeks before the grand opening of …

TypeSoft! Ta-daa! Typewriter repairs for home and business. Free bell tuning with every repair, and auto double-spacing upgrades available for most manual portables. Speed upgrades for all pre-war electrics, one hour ribbon rewinding, same-day service for all Smith Corona and Underwood models, manual or electric, and one-day turnaround on Olivettis and most other European models. On-the-spot tab resetting for first-time customers. And typewriters are way smaller than harpsichords, so I don’t even need a warehouse.

The future looks bright. Finally.

The flute was signing; the guitars ringing.

Jethro Tull. What kind of getaway music is this?

“Hey Benz, change the station will ya? Geez…” yelled Sullivan.

“Forget it. It’s ‘Aqualung.’ This is a classic.” Benz peered out the truck window at their pursuers.

“I don’t care! The flute clashes with the screaming sirens!” Sullivan exclaimed as he jerked the wheel right and gunned the engine.

Benz wrenched his body toward Sullivan and squinted. “Whose truck is this anyway? Oh yeah. It’s mine! You’re coughing up for the windshield by the way.”

“Alright, relax, don’t get your panties in a bunch. What is it with you? Geez, you on some medication I don’t know about?”

“You’re driving my Chevy! And we got the entire Kansas City police force trailing us! How did you shmooze me into this? Half the payload flew out of the bed already! And you don’t seem to care at all! Do you? Do you care?”

“Benz, listen to yourself. You’re getting all repetitious on me,” chuckled Sullivan. “I got things on my mind. Big things.”

“Oh sure. What’s next, Sullivan? Knock over a bake sale? Mug some children? My niece got her allowance yesterday—”

“Take the wheel for a sec, I can’t see a thing,” Sullivan interrupted. Benz cursed under his breath and grabbed it. Sullivan flipped down the visor. A pair of sunglasses dropped into his lap.

“Mind if I try these?” Sullivan smiled.

“Why not. You’ve bilked me out of everything else,” Benz mumbled.

******

Benz had always seemed naïve to Sullivan. They were childhood chums growing up in Missouri. They never really enjoyed hanging out together, but it was mutually agreed to be better than nothing. In the 3rd grade, Sullivan called Tony “Benz” when he accidentally fouled a baseball through a Mercedes windshield. It was Sullivan’s idea to bolt.

In the 6th grade, it was also Sullivan’s idea to bicycle to Kentucky to plunder Fort Knox. Borrowing the craftiness so prevalent in classic heist films, he had it all planned out. He’d walk in with a TV remote, drop his backpack on the floor, and demand that the gold bullion safe be opened or he'd blast the place. He figured with his pal Benz to load the loot into bags, they’d be in and out in a couple of minutes with a fair amount of swag. And it might have worked, too. Instead, they left from Sullivan’s house and erroneously rode their bikes west, got picked up by the police for not having rear reflectors, and were returned ½ mile to their homes and their disappointed folks. Sullivan was grounded for a week; Benz got three.

Sullivan had a number of other plans fall through. One landed them in the bucket overnight until Benz’ parents came and posted bail.

Sullivan, now 24, and Benz, 23, were jobless roommates in a dump apartment. Benz itched to get out of there but never had enough cash for his own place. At least Sullivan kept life interesting. And Sullivan’s latest couldn’t fail.

They pulled up to the house in Benz’s red Chevy pickup. “OK, we go in, we grab stuff, we leave. In and out, alright? And look natural. Don’t look like we’re robbing the place, Benz. Just be easy-going,” said Sullivan.

And they did. They were quick and precise, taking jewelry, a VCR, a china set, a TV, and a stereo. Benz was smooth and calm. He almost seemed to know where every valuable was.

The truck was almost full. Benz hopped in and shut the door. Sullivan ran to the shed, grabbed a hose, and hurled it into the truck bed. The hose swung over the top and dinged the windshield. It was almost sundown. “Geez, Sully…”

They pulled out of the driveway and ripped down the road. Almost instantly they were followed by red-and-blue.

“What? What is it? Your tabs? Is that it? Expired tabs?” Sullivan bellowed.

“I think, yeah, it’s a taillight. The taillight’s out, Sully. Pull it over.”

“We’re not stopping,” Sullivan shook his head. “Turn on the radio.”

The police cars multiplied. The TV tumbled out the back with resounding crash. The stereo followed. “Did you close the tailgate?” Benz asked. Sullivan shot a quizzical look at Benz.

******

Sullivan put on the sunglasses--almost in time to see the spike strip ahead. Two explosions jarred the truck, one after the other, before it rolled to a stop. They tumbled out with their hands on their heads. From behind the patrolmen with their pieces drawn came two familiar faces.

“Where the heck are you going with all our stuff!” asked Benz’s father.

Turkey Trot

Jarred loved to hunt. He loved hunting better than anything, with the exception of eating and sleeping. Being a young man prone to not doing much of anything, those activities made up the bulk of his time, unless he took the afternoon off to fish.

One fine fall morning, Jarred was sitting in his daddy’s truck, staring out into the north pasture, thinking that he surely would like to get a nice buck this year. He shot lots of doves this past August, but doves were easy. If it flies it dies, was the motto of the local hunters. Jarred didn’t argue with that, and shot two dozen a day for the entire season. But he had never taken a deer.

Now, Jarred was not the most ambitious of hunters. When he and his daddy and brother hunted doves, they hid behind hay rolls with a Thermos of coffee, and every so often would pop up and pull off a shot. It didn’t require getting up early, or walking any further than across the road. The hardest part was not stepping in the deposits left by the cows.

Deer were another matter. For a successful hunt, one must stake out a stand and sit quietly and wait. The best time to get out is before dawn, climb a tree to the stand, load your gun and be as still as a Buddha. Unless a man is friends with himself, it can be dead boring, as the wait can be hours, and is mostly unproductive. Every so often though, a deer will wander within sight of your stand. When that happens, you’d best hope your round is chambered, because at the first sound of a bolt shooting home, Bambi’s long gone.

Well, there Jarred sat, contemplating the inequities of hunting; how a man had to dedicate a whole day just to securing the demise of one damned deer, when a couple of hundred trucks in the state hit one out on Highway 31 of a morning. Just as he was thinking about heading back to the house for a glass of cornbread and buttermilk, he saw a movement in the brush at the far end of the north pasture.

Never a man to let an opportunity pass by, Jarred grabbed up his .30-06 and drew a bead on what was moving the blackberry canes. As he looked through the scope, he saw not a whitetail, but a feathery one. Jarred had drawn down on his first tom turkey.

He leaned his left elbow on the door of the truck, studied through the scope for another few seconds, then pulled off a shot. A great flutter of feathers and a mighty gobble went up that could be heard over the running engine of the old Ford.

Jarred set the rifle down on the floor of the truck, threw open the door and hauled ass out to the treeline. Now, Jarred was not a small man. He wasn’t quite twenty, and at six feet tall he weighed in at a svelte 275 pounds, none of it muscle. He hitched up his britches when his feet hit the ground and started running across the field.

It was a good long run across the pasture, and Jarred charged through the brushline until he came flush up against the barb-wire fence. He heard a rustle behind him, and began walking along the fence row, looking for his wounded turkey.

There was a small gap in the brush where Jarred went in. While he was turkey trolling in the weeds, old Mr. Gobbler came strolling out through the same gap. He looked over his shoulder in all directions, then began a broken field run that would have done credit to Iron Horse Allen Ameche.

Mr. Gobbler reached the back bumper of the Ford just as Jarred came out of the brush. His shirt was snagged with stick-tights and foxtails, and his face and hands were scratched from the blackberry thorns. Most of all, he was empty handed.

He walked back to the truck much slower than he left. He climbed into the cab of the truck, which was still running, and replaced the gun in the rack behind the seat. He’d had enough hunting for one day. He wanted a hot shower and some cold buttermilk, and maybe if he felt like it, he go drown a few worms in the afternoon. If he was lucky, he might go home with a crappy or three.

Jarred put the truck in gear, and pulled down the road. A gobble sounded over the muffler. He looked in the rear view mirror in time to see a twenty-five pound tom turkey stand up, shake out his tail feathers and strut off towards the pond for a well earned drink.

She crouched low, green eyes scanning the darkened hallway. Would she make it? It was a good question.

He’d approached her a week ago, a suave well-dressed man with a dashing smile, not at all the sort of individual that she would have wasted any time with… except that he knew her name.

He knew almost everything about her, right down to the tiny mole on the underside of her left breast, and she flinched when he mentioned that. Physical attributes of that exacting detail wasn’t what she wanted the world to know.

However, she had stood on the sidewalk and listened to his pitch.

Get in, grab it, get out.

Her attention snapped back to the present. A guard was crossing her way. She reached up and flipped off the night-vision goggles. She swore silently. She’d managed to get in and grab the item with no sign of them. Why did she always have trouble getting out of places that she had no trouble getting into?

She held her breath; he was walking directly in front of her now, and she didn’t dare risk sneezing.

But he kept walking, oblivious to the woman in black standing in the shadow.

She turned on her goggles again, slipped across the hallway, a fleeting impression of darkness against shadow, and then out of the first room.

The man had met her on another night, a map and plan in his hands. She’d taken the map, but told him to keep his plan. It was her job; she’d make the plans. If he didn’t want her to do it, then he could take it to someone else. Besides, she’d added, it wasn’t like he was paying her anything close to her normal fee.

She paused in front of the window, looking out across the lawn. She checked her watch, and then looked out again. A black car rolled up to the ornamental hedges. Perfect. Right on time.

Ducking under a silk palm tree, she avoided the video camera as it panned away from her, and moved quickly for the stairs. The first floor was going to be the problem. That’s where the dogs were. She took a deep breath, controlling her breathing to keep her focus. Go down the flight of stairs, and turn left into the room below. She could do this.

The man had countered that what she stole would be hers, and that had piqued her interest. She’d asked him why he had chosen her. He’d replied that she was the only one worthy.

She’d liked that answer.

She looked at her watch. Time to go. She took the stairs smoothly, being careful not to go too quickly, lest she stumble and fall with enough noise to bring the dogs and guards. At the foot, she stepped over the last step, recalling the warning that it creaked. She turned the corner and entered the room directly under where she had stolen the item.

This was the easy part now, crossing the room and crouching low to circumvent the alarm. It was a contact alarm, simple to bypass from inside. She reached into her pocket for her tools, and quickly bypassed the switch for the sensor. All she had to do now was get across the yard.

The night before, the man had attended a dinner at the very residence the theft was to take place. She’d been there, too. It was too good an opportunity to pass by. She’d managed, under the guise of smoking a cigarette (she didn’t smoke,) to look at the lawn and plan her escape. The room that she was in now was a den, and the door that she had just freed up opened onto a porch. She could slip out onto the porch and work her way towards the hedge. Once there, she’d climb over it and run for the car.

She timed the guard, and when he was farthest away, she opened the door and moved onto the porch. She closed the door silently behind her and crouched behind the fountain as the guard approached. He turned, walking away again, and she crossed the porch, climbed over the hedge, and ran for the car.

He was waiting in the driver’s seat when she slid into the seat beside him and pulled off the goggles and hood she’d worn. Long blonde hair tumbled out, and green eyes glittered with exhilaration.

“Did you get it?” he asked, as if he knew the answer.

“Got it,” she replied.

As they drove away, she admired her new engagement ring, and wondered if any other woman in the world had to steal her own ring from her own house in order to get it. She sat back in the seat and laughed softly to herself. Mrs. Bond. Imagine.

Rainy Night

The pounding of her heart was in rhythm with the pounding in her head.
She was so afraid.
She thought she would die.
If she didn’t leave now... she would,
horribly.

Again,
He smacked her viciously across the cheek... hard.
She felt the burn
on her cheek and of her new found rage.
She tried to run
But he grabbed her blouse.

With all of her might she hammered his foot with her heel.
He screamed, mirroring how she felt inside.

She wanted to laugh at him, but she could only cry.

She ran to the door, the intense pain didn’t stop him.
He lunged for her. “You b***h!”

In a rage she picked up an ashtray and threw it with all her might.
She missed… but distracted him long enough again to try for the door.

He grabbed her by the hair.
It didn’t matter now that it was long, shiny and pretty.
It was her tether, restraining her like an animal.
She became one.

“ARGHHHHHhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! Nails becoming talons, she clawed for her life.
She could feel the submission of his flesh and the stickiness beneath the lacerations.
She ripped and scraped till she could smell his blood.
He no longer pulled her hair.
He no longer restrained her.

Moaning he held his face.

She didn’t wait around to see if he was surprised.

She ran through the door, ran into the night, ran into the rain,
Cold and wet.
It felt good upon her throbbing hot cheeks.

She didn’t look back.

She threw off her shoes
and ran faster than she ever thought she could
Down the street, through the lane, through a yard, then another and another and another.

How long she ran before she stopped, she couldn’t tell.
Finally, she collapsed to the ground.
Crying and sobbing she allowed the rain
To wash her.
But nothing could wash away her pain.

My name is Back. Harry Back. I’m a private detective, at least that’s what it says on the door of my tiny one-room office. It was a hot day, and business was slacking even worse than usual. It was so close to slacking that non-existent might better sum-up the situation.
I cranked the squeaking fan up another notch and watched the water condense on the outside of the whiskey tumbler on the desk before me.
A loud crashing sound made me look up. A disheveled-looking man in a cheap business suit was standing in front of me, framed by the doorway. He was sweating profusely and seemed somewhat agitated.
“Harry, you low-down, no-good...”
“Whoa, easy!”, I snarled. “Careful what you say!”
He looked flustered, but recovered nicely.

“What is the meaning of this?”, he said.
I gave him my best ‘I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re yapping about, schmuck’-look.
“This!”, he shouted, throwing down a manila envelope onto my desk.

By chance or dramatic effect, a black and white photograph slid out of the open envelope, skittering across the desk, being stopped only by my whiskey tumbler. Not wanting to waste the dramatic effect or a good scotch, I took another sip.

“Yeah... so what. A picture.”
“It’s disgusting!”

I held up the pic.
“Nah, I think it’s a Canon EOS Elan 7/7E with a 28-135 USM II Ultrasonic EF lens using Eastman Kodak Company Advantix film for low light, extended range action shots”.
Not entirely unlike the one resting in the second left-hand drawer of my desk. Well, on second thought, entirely like the camera in my second left-hand drawer.

“Actually quite a good shot, considering the difficult circumstances. Now, the subject, that is quite another matter entirely. I grant you, that is disgusting.”

I was quite pleased. Not so Mr. Fish, being depicted in one of this city’s more seedy establishments in a rather compromising situation. For credulity’s sake, I threw another glance at the photograph.

“Why, I believe this is you?” I feigned shock.
“Disgraceful for a man of your standing, such a well-known family-man and newspaper-magnate”.

He fumed.

For me, all those rotten divorce cases with their never-ending stake-outs and literal “photo-finishes” had been good for something after all. I was finally looking at a return of investment.

“I want the negatives! Now!”
“Well, well, Mr. Fish, what I want is a little article in your newspaper; properly commending the virtues and integrity of the Harry Back Detective Agency. Let’s say about a thousand words, that should be easy for a man of your talents”.
“Never!”, he cried, “that’s blackmail! Besides... for all our articles an eight hundred word limit is most definitely strictly enforced.”

I waited and smiled.
“Hm, well, maybe I could go to another newspaper...”
He sweated, then resigned.
“Okay, okay. I’ll do it. But you won’t get away with this!”
I sniggered.
“Ah, well, Mr. Fish, we will wait and see. But don’t worry about losing out on this deal.”
I pushed the photograph back to him.

“You can be sure that this picture is worth 1000 words.”

The kid sat on the bed, knees pulled tight to his chest. For all the world, he was just a boy sitting alone in a silent room on the second story of a less-than-amicable Jersey home. So quiet and so cold, almost dead. But the boy, he was very much alive. In his head raced thoughts, each firing synapse a violent array of bitter “what-ifs?” And for all the hurt and hatred poured into those thoughts, they remained as such, mere imaginations. The foil of which was his stepfather. ‘No’, he was pushing back tears, ‘not a father! Some foul thing let into his life in a moment of pity and erring love, then taking root and sucking the life and love out of his home, like some sick glutinous plant.’
“I hate him.” He whimpered softly to himself. The words were reassuring; the fact of which was simultaneously horrifying and usual.
Lifting his head, he turned his damp eyes to the window. A silver moon hung behind the silhouette of the house next door, in its simplicity it seemed to remind him of days past. Humans live in memory; everything is bigger and brighter to us in our recollection. ‘They don’t make things like they used to.’ It was the resigned maxim of the aged, overused, but with a sliver of truth. Fact is they don’t, at least according to us. In memorandum we thrive, in the present we toil.
The blue moonlight took the accompanying shadows and made hills and dales out of the twisting bed sheets as the boy slipped off and onto the floor. He pulled his headphones off and set them on a dresser choking on CD’s. A collection inherited from an elder brother long since moved out. A photograph, crooked in its worn frame, was noticed for a moment by the boy. Happy people looked emptily up at him. He shook his head, pulled on a hoodie and slid open the window frame.
Winter had gripped the state early that year, temperature wise, and the sharp air seemed to have a very real strength as it pushed back on him. But without any snow, the cold was incomplete, empty, in a way. It was times like these that the boy, fueled by Poe, Dumas and other literati, empathized with things like wind. Strangely, the elements seemed to empathize with him.
Nimbly, he lowered himself to the frosty ground, thanks in part to a dying oak adjacent to the house. He paused a moment outside another window, this one opening into the living room. The kid didn’t have to look to know the scene within. He shuddered, pushing the inferences of alcohol-fused tumult deep away. He stepped away slowly and moved on, crossing the yard bathed in the rosy light of streetlamps and winter night sky. Across the street, his solace sat, waiting. A friend of three years, stoic in his resolve, yet compassionate.
The young men sat close, for both comfort and warmth. They spoke in disjointed sentences.
“You came.” The boy.
“I always do.” His friend.
“Did it take long to - ?”
“What is it tonight?”
“Vodka, beer, who cares.”
“Annie?”
“Yeah, my mom’s all right, a few black eyes teach a girl to handle herself.” Uneasy laughter punctuated by a long sob. The friend pulled the kid into a warm hug.
“I hate him.” He wept into his comforter’s shoulder.
“I know...”
“I just wish...”
“Yeah...”
Suddenly the sound of breaking glass and a woman's scream, of shock, not pain. The veins in the boy’s body suddenly turned to fire. Every muscle tensed and his eyes grew wild. He pulled away from the embrace, looked at his friend but once, with sad eyes. His mouth opened to say something, but instead he turned and ran back to the house and into the storm.
His friend, standing across the road, felt his blood run as the air outside when the gun went off. His legs froze and he stood there, staring as blindly as the people in the photograph.

The first snowflakes had begun to fall by the time the ambulances arrived. The bluecoats had already dissected the events, turning a death into shorthand on a small pad of paper. The friend stood where he had stopped, too terrified to move. He recalled the .38 the boy had bought two months ago. More for the feeling of safety than anything else. But now, what would happen to the kid?
The sight of a slick black bag being pulled down the porch steps on a stretcher caught his eye. He overheard the paramedics.
“How bad is it?”
“Too much bleeding, hit the aorta, one inch woulda meant a chance.”
“But there’s always hope.”
“The kid doesn’t have a prayer.”

He ran as fast as he could. His heart was beating so fast, he felt like he was about to explode. He knew that he was chasing him. If only he knew who he was.

Turning around suddenly, he yelled into the black night, “What do you want from me?!” Silence was his only answer. He waited for a few seconds. Perhaps his pursuer was no longer after him. If only that were true, but he knew better. He was always there, stalking him. Always in the shadows, silently chasing him to his death. He was sure that he wanted him dead. He hadn’t done anything wrong in his life, yet a faceless stalker was after him. Though he had never met him, or even seen him, some clairvoyance told him that he was out to destroy him. Now that he thought about it, destroy does not mean kill. Could he want something else of him? Perhaps he simply wanted to tax his mental sanity.

A flash went across his vision, a shadow crossing the street, falling into the shadows on the other side before he noticed. How could he have let his guard down right when he almost saw his pursuer? “Get away from me!” he screamed, almost hysteric. Turning back again, he ran. Without sound, his eternal shade came. He knew that he was there, coming after him. He didn’t know how he knew that he was still after him, but it didn’t really matter. You can think about the intricacies of your predicament after you’re out of danger, he told himself.

He ran for what seemed like hours, until he hit a dead end. A row of houses faced him, looking out on him like angry skulls, blocking his path. He turned around looking for some sign of anyone approaching. Backing slowly, he bumped against the back row with a start. Looking over his shoulder to affirm the fact that it was indeed a wall, a shadow crossed his vision again. “What are you after me for?!” he yelled. “Why…" he trailed off, breaking into a fit of sobbing.

A voice emanating from all over quietly whispered, “You don’t know, do you?” He had never spoken like this. He turned around and around, looking frantically from shadow to shadow.

“Show yourself!” He commanded, still with tears in his eyes.

The voice came again, filling every corner of his mind, filling all the air with only a whisper, “Such insolence.”

His mind was spinning wildly. “Why are you after me? What have I done wrong?!”

“You are my captor…” the voice seemed to push away all the noise ever. The night was still as death, and he started to believe that it had always been like this. There had never been any other sound than he and his pursuer.

“What…” he stammered, “what are you t-t-talking about?” A shadow sketched its image upon the house opposite him, a standing form slowly growing off the shadows on the wall. The flat shadows surged out, growing into a three-dimensional mass standing not twenty feet from him. Dumbfounded, he could only stand there and watch his pursuer turn from shadow into pure being before his eyes. Human features began to appear in the shadow.

A voice, like nothing the earth should ever have heard, came from the half-formed mouth; “Do you not recognize me? You have seen me all your life.” He pondered at the shape’s words. Some resemblance began to creep into his mind. He had seen this person all his life, but it was impossible! The shadow had stopped forming, his features complete. Stepping nearer, the darkness followed him, enshrouding him despite how he had entered the light. He had seen this person before… nearly everyday in the mirror. The two looked across at each other, peering into identical features.

“How…?” he spoke lightly. Speaking was difficult. The words seemed trapped in his throat.

“You could not keep running. You’re mind is with you every step of the way.” He sat there confused. In front of him, he melted back into a shadowy form. “You are mine!” it rasped in its unearthly voice. The shadow sprang towards him.

He turned to run, but it was too late. The shadow leapt into his mind. He stopped running, slowed down to a walk, then stopped. He held his hands before his face, revolving them before his eyes.

“Finally,” he muttered.

“You can’t do this to me!” a voice in his mind cried out.

“You’re mind is always with you. I was always with you. But now, you are mine…”

As Abigail walked into her Aunt May's lavish ranch style home, her stomach began to twist and turn with the thought of yet another family get together. Her first realization as she walked into the living room was that her two younger cousins, the twins, were no where to be found. Alas! Her salvation, she was told, would not be attending the festivities. The twins had always been there to laugh, talk and play with as long as she would remember. Who would she tell her fabulous stories too now?
Heartbroken and alone, Abigail began with the usual greetings. She said hello to all of her seriously demented, cheek pinching, bear hugging aunts and uncles. She then sauntered over to her grandparents who ALWAYS smelled of cabbage and stale cigars, to wish them a Happy Fourth of July. Her grandmother got ahold of her first and plopped her directly onto her boney, less than comfortable lap, and poured over her oh so cute matching jumper set. Then she knew what was coming, a time honored tradition in her family, the noogie. Her Grandfather lept forward before she could get away and trapped her under his arm while he scraped his boney knuckles along her fragile skull. Abigail had had enough. Where could a girl twelve years of age find someone to talk too amongst the babies, middle aged men and women, and the elderly?
Abigail endured the conversation in the living room with her mother and older cousins about new babies, changing tables, and the latest in home decor for about fifteen minutes. She left the living room and headed for the kitchen where her Grandmother and all the aunts sat and chatted about problems with fiber, and other medical conditions that she had never heard of. Abigail knew immediately this was no place for a young girl. Determined, she walked by the den to see what the men were up too. Of course her Grandfather was at it again, telling old war stories, comparing battle wounds with her other uncles, cousins, and father. Now what was she to do?
Abigail wandered back into the living room and took her place beside her mother. As she listened to the latest baby fad from one of her cousins, the disheartened look on her face made her mother take notice. Abigail's mom asked if there was anything she could do, and of course she said that everything was fine. Trapped in the house on a beautiful July day! That was no way for a twelve year old to live. Inspiration struck as Abigail noticed a small bird perched on the fence outside. That's where she really wanted to be. Outside enjoying the day, playing with nature. Would anyone follow her outside to disrupt her peace?
Quickly, Abigail snuck away, undetected by any of the adults engaged in deep conversation by this point. As soon as she reached the sliding glass doors in her Grandmother's bedroom she let out a sigh of relief, she threw open the door and marched right outside. Shutting the door carefully behind her, Abigail meandered across the stone bridge out into the beautiful rose garden her Aunt May keeps, until she found a circular clearing. This was the first time she had wandered this far into the gardens. Abigail sat down on a stone bench in the center of the circle amongst the butterflies and thorns and looked up at the sky. This was it, her serenity. She had finally made her getaway.

He sat at the table across from a woman who's face looked like the battle grounds of Normandy. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat looking for a quick exit. She had told him earlier in the one sided conversation that on every blind date she went on that she had been ditched and she couldn't understand why. He thought to himself, "Well it's not your breath!" He pretended to be listening to her talk, but in his mind he was planning his freedom. "The bathroom, it's risky but it may work."
The bathroom was 20 feet away with her back to it, however she was facing the door. He hoped beyond hope that the bathroom had a window large enough for him to squeeze through. If it didn't he would have to make a break for the door. He'd have to stick her with the bill. Their order hadn't come yet and he was hungry, he'd grab a burger once he was in the clear. "Now or never," he thought.
"Amy."
"It's Anna!" She growled.
"I'm sorry, I am terrible with names."
"It's ok, it's our first date. By next week you will know my name well enough." She said with a sultry smile that made the dimple on her cheeks look like grenade craters.
"Um, yeah I guess so! Look I really have to hit the John. Something I ate earlier isn't setting right. I'll be right back." He said quickly as he held his stomach for an added effect.
He darted between the tables quickly and ran to the mens room. Not only did the bathroom have a window but the back door was next to the restrooms. This resturant had blind dates in mind when they built it. "I'm gonna have to come here more often," he commented, "just not with her." He stepped into the bathroom, because in reality he did have to take a leak. He finished his business and walked out the door and looked towards the table. She wasn't there. He had a feeling of dread and relief. He made for the back door and she grabbed his wrist coming out the womens room door. His nuts shrank instantly.
"Busted! She shrieked.
"No! I wasn't leaving I was going to the car to get your surprise! When a blind date is going so well I give that special lady a gift. I was going to go get it but I didn't want you to see me leave! I really wanted to surprise you," he was really pulling this one out of his ear.
"Aww that is so sweet! But lets go eat then you can go get it ok?" She was covering her bases. She wanted to eat her cake too evidently.
"Ok, oh and good our food's here! You lead the way, my dear."
She made for the table and he made for the door. Keys in hand, running for the mecca that was his car. He could hear her shouting behind him. Fumbling with the keys he unlocked his door. He got in and the doors locked just in time. The Rabid dog of his blind date was foaming at the mouth and wanting to take a chunk of flesh as a payment for being stuck with the bill. He started the car and floored it.
"Hope you like washing dishes, Babe!" He thought to himself as he turned the corner.

Dead. The impact had killed them both. You'd think they would have seen the brick wall obstructing their plan of escape. Nope. Their plan seemed so simple, rob the place, steal someone’s keys, find the right car, and drive 700 miles back to the hide out. And it would have worked out perfectly. Had they only asked directions before they killed the waiter. Sergi was his name. He had only been working at The Borski Diner for three weeks, which was two weeks longer than most who had gone before him. His job wasn't risky. In fact, everyone who held the job before him died, so there was no question that he would follow suit. But the way he died was unusual. That’s the life of the average Estonian secret agent I guess - Always on the lookout, always on the run, always getting killed in restaurant robberies. His killers hardly looked the part. Frank and Bernie, two bald men in their their forties, one with a mesh tanktop and the other with a t-shirt sporting the phrase "I'm with stupid," and the arrow pointing northward. They shot the man, and shot him dead. Why? Because that's what lowlife scum does. Especially scum that works for the Secret Service…of Trinidad. These men had been determined to become rich, and at any cost. So they set out with a makeshift plan, a plan to make it big. They had overlooked one thing…the getaway...and the JMB, the Jamaican Mafia Bricklayers.

The door trembled under the weight of its oppressor. It's fragile constitution seemed unable to withstand even the pitiful force that was exerted against it. Five sets of eyes gazed at the door, unsure what action to take. No outsider ever came home at this late hour, not even the one who had brought them be in this unforgiving world. The vision that belonged to the eldest of them, was clouded with uncertainty and dread. Dread of the unknown, that to be feared. Finally, under the firm grip of a constitution brave and matured beyond its years the door was opened to welcome it's oppressor.

A silhouette for a slight moment, and the next a heavy weight that crashed down onto the floor. The dim moonlight gave no clues to the poor girl asto the identity of the fallen. "Light the candle and bring it here immediately." No longer had the words crossed her lips than her younger brother stood beside her with the precious light source lit up. A collective gasp, and a heart wrenching fear grasped the singular room in the dwelling, as the children recognised their father. As she bent down and cradled her father's head in her lap, she noticed the tiny rivulets of blood that flowed down through various openings in the once robust constitution. Stiffening her emotions she immediately cried out - "Angelina, boil some water quick, and Simon get some clean rags here immediately." The two did not move, transfixed as were the others at the sight of their once immortal father lying down so helpless. "Go!!" said the voice that galvanized them to action with its hitherto unknown sternness. Shortly the daughter lay tending to the wounds of her father. She removed a peice of unforgiving steel that lay embedded in his mortal frame. As she wiped the seemingly infinite slashes, she noticed something that turned her heart cold. Something she hadn't dare ever imagine. The father she tended to dutifully lay cold on her lap. she lay her finger across his nostrils, but was not rewarded with the warm gust of life she craved to feel. The daughter lay her father's head to her bosum, and let forth a cry, as the others tried to understand the unbeleivable.

No tears were able to pass that broken spirit. Forced to grow far beyond her years by life's countless cruelties, she felt she had been hardened by then to accept the prospect of any calamity. This, though, was beyond anything her spirit could endure. She was jarred from her stupour by the sound of the youngster's cries, as one by one they realised what had transpired. As she looked upon her siblings through her tearless eyes, she wondered how she could cope. He had been everything to them, his smile and his infectious laughter had always succedded in easing all their sufferings away. It seemed as if God had turned his back on them once again. Were they a cursed lot. Were they part of a fate where suffering was their part to play. When there was no hope of succour from anyone, and if suffering was all that was to be expected what was the point of life?

The glint of light hit her eyes, as her spirit started to crumble. The cold metal, marred by the precious blood it had wasted so nonchallantly, now took hold of the daughters soul. The instrument of her fathers unannounced departure from their lives, now enveloped her vision, forcing everything else out of her conciousness. "Getaway", it said, "getaway from this morbid existance. Getaway from the pain that shall await you now. Getaway!"
Yes, it seemed sound advice. It seemed so right, it seemed so obvious. "Getaway! Getaway!" droned the white metal, " getaway from it all, end the suffering you feel. Getaway!"

A tiny hand jarred her vision, and touched her arm. she looked up into the eyes of her baby brother, and then into those of the others. Four souls looked at her with expectance, with hope. She looked into the eyes that questioned her own soul, and then into the cold metal that lay grasped in her hand. She knew then that the path to be traversed was not to be the easy one. With a sigh she placed the coldness away as she welcomed onto her bosom the warmth of her family, and the tears that lay tethered so long at last flowed forth.