Miles Longworth had no idea how long he had laid on the floor before being discovered by the Grim Reaper standing in the doorway. He closed his eyes and his life flashed before him. The horses hadn't always been his enemy. Once, they'd been his friends. He remembered his first encounter with a horse.
He was just a young boy.
Eight years old, if his memory served him correctly.
He'd learned about the gentle, if not somewhat mischievous, quality of the majestic animals that day. He'd learned to love them.
And he'd learned about Karma.
He was a quiet child, undemanding and grateful.
His father had asked him if he wanted a ride.
He'd said, "yes, sir. Thank you."
The horses had been tethered in a circle, like a makeshift carousel. A carousel that smelled like cut wood and the outhouse at a KOA campground.
He'd happily climbed aboard, and his father had placed a few coins in the hand of an old man with a weathered face. The man had thanked his father, and patted the horse lovingly. He'd also patted Miles' shoulder. "Don't be afraid, son. She's a good old girl."
Miles hadn't been afraid. The ride had lasted only a few minutes, a mere blink in the life of a child, not long enough for a boy who had just met his first love.
His father had helped him down from his perch in the saddle.
Miles brushed off his trousers and smiled.
Before he could fully digest the enormity of what had just happened, a little girl grabbed his attention.
She demanded another ride.
Her harried mother told her no.
She had screamed, stamped her feet, swatted at her mother with sticky hands.
Miles turned to watch. He looked at the little girl, looked at his father. He looked at the mare from which he had just dismounted.
The horse seemed to wink at him.
She whinnied, shook her head, and then promptly crapped all over the screaming child.
"What happened back there?" he'd asked his father, later that same day.
"Karma, son," his father had whispered.
Karma.
As Miles lay on the pile of crappy ceiling, he supposed it was Karma that was visiting him now.
He opened his eyes. The figure in the doorway still stood in the shadows.
It laughed, then shook its head.
"What in the Sam hell are you doing, Miles?" Slick Mitchell asked.
The relief coursed through Miles so quickly, he nearly wet himself.
He wasn't going to die.
Not tonight, at least.
Miles thought fast. "In the chaos of this afternoon, I'd forgotten my I Phone."
"And you left it in the ceiling?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course not," Miles replied, searching for some logical excuse. "The light went out. I climbed up to take the bulb out so I could go to the janitor's closet for a replacement."
Smartest thing I have said in a year, Miles thought.
"I merely grabbed the grate to steady myself, and then boom," Miles explained.
"Why are you on top of the mess? Shouldn't it be on top of you?" Mitchell asked.
Shit! Think, think, THINK!
"I was under it. I started climbing out of the mess when I heard the shots."
"So it wasn't you doing the shooting?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course not. What was I going to shoot you with, an I Phone?" Miles asked. "What are you doing here?" Miles asked, although he had no right to question the store's senior manager.
"I had work to do," Mitchell said.
"What were you shooting?" Miles asked.
"It wasn't me," Slick Mitchell said, sounding casual.
Miles had the urge to take cover under the pile of ceiling tiles, but didn't.
"So, the shooter is still in the store?" Miles whispered. He felt relatively safe with Mitchell in the doorway. He figured as long as Mitchell didn't fall forward with a hole blown through him, it wasn't too likely that Miles would end up like Swiss cheese.
"The shooter isn't in the store. He's gone."
"How do you know?" Miles asked.
"The gunman whacked me with his gun on his way out. Gave me a shiner."
Miles said nothing. He'd like to thank the guy who clobbered Slick Mitchell, but he had no desire to come face to face with him. Maybe he'd just send a card.
Thanks for punching my boss. We've all thought about it. Have a nice day.
"So, what are you doing here now?" Miles asked.
"I called the cops. They're on their way," Mitchell said.
"You gonna have me arrested for ruining the ceiling?" Miles asked.
"Of course not, you dumb ass. They're just going to search the store," Slick Mitchell explained.
"Right," Miles said.
****************
The adrenaline rush of climbing into the pickup wore off after a mile or so, and Reeve Stockwell was terrified.
What have I done? I am going to die, and no one is ever going to know what happened to me.
Stockwell had no idea who Burger was, or what he wanted, or what he might have done, or would do, but he had to get away. He couldn't throw himself out of the truck, he might be killed.
Die if you stay. Die if you try to get away.
"Great," Stockwell whispered in the dark.
For a thug, Burger had odd taste in music. Celine Dion blared from the inside of the cab, and although he threw threats around casually, clearly Burger was a romantic.
A romantic with a gun.
The worst kind.
A criminal who liked Celine Dion.
Rather a crime in itself.
Stockwell's mind went wild as he bounced around in the back of the truck. He'd covered himself with an old tarp, and the smell of the waders was making him sick.
Suddenly he remembered the phone. He pulled it from his pocket, and held it in his hand. He'd put JJ's card in the pocket of his shirt, and he still wore the shirt under the old slicker.
He'd call JJ. Maybe she could "ping," the phone, find out where he was, come and rescue him.
He pulled the card from his pocket, used the light from the phone to memorize the number, then made the call. JJ answered on the first ring.
"I'm in the back of someone's pickup truck, JJ. I have Mick Daniels' phone. Can you put a trace on it and come find me?"
"What the hell are you doing? I'm in bed," JJ whined.
"Sorry," Stockwell said. "Look it. I went to do some investigating. This guy was in the store, shooting the place up. I climbed into the back of his truck."
"That's pretty courageous," JJ said, sounding more annoyed than impressed.
"Thanks," Stockwell whispered.
"You're scared shitless, aren't you?" JJ asked.
"You have no idea," Stockwell admitted.
"All right. Stay where you are. The number came up on my cell. I'm gonna get your location, send a car, and have them stop you for a bogus infraction."
"What do I do? Just stay in the truck?" Stockwell asked.
"Seriously? If I send a car, they stop this truck you're in, and you don't find a way out of there during the process, I will find you and kill you myself."
Stockwell had no doubt she would.
"Thanks, JJ."
"You're welcome. Send me a full report tomorrow, got it?"
"Got it," Stockwell said.
Reeve Stockwell lay still under the tarp. Suddenly the music began to fade, the truck slowed, then stalled with a bang.
He heard Burger yell a string of profanities that made Reeve blush, as he struggled to restart the pickup. "If you're out of gas, you worthless pile of metal, someone is gonna die," Burger hollered.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered. He was in no position to offer himself up as a sacrifice to help quell Burger's anger.
The truck restarted, and took off like a shot. Stockwell held on to something he was grateful he couldn't see, something slimy he hoped wasn't Burger's last victim. He saw slivers of light through the tarp and thought he might be in a residential area.
The truck sped along even faster, and took a hard left, sending Stockwell flying from the back.
He hit the ground with a thud and the waders basically split in half. He sat upright and found the source of the light.
His worst fears were realized.
He had landed in a Home Depot parking lot.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 56 - Stockwell Goes Fishing For Clues
Reeve Stockwell went pale. Notwithstanding the fact that an armed crazy person lurked about the store, he couldn't let Mitchell call the police. Stockwell had a gun, a weapon issued by the FBI. A weapon he knew nothing about, a weapon that might exactly match the shooter's weapon. How did he know? Were weapons like Garanimals? Match the zebra gun to the zebra ammo? Did he have a zebra gun? Did the shooter have the same one?
Oh, my God!
Stockwell's thoughts spun about the like the final phase of a shiny new washer, appropriate given his proximity to the appliances. He felt the weight of the piece, hidden somewhere in the numerous pockets of the crappy waders.
He couldn't even try to hide it. Mitchell was watching him like a hawk.
If he was discovered with the gun, he might go to jail. He couldn't go to jail. His wife got mad if he put the dishes in the dishwasher the wrong way. What would she do if she found out he got arrested? He could see her now, standing in front of the courthouse, as he was led out in his best suit. He could see her raising a weapon of her own, and shooting him dead on the spot.
Why did I ask for the gun?
JJ Patricks hadn't wanted to give him the weapon. He'd basically begged for it. He had no intention of shooting anyone, but if he'd been recruited to go after a madman with a weapon, it seemed only right that he would be able to defend himself if the situation called for it.
But could he?
It looked so different on television. It looked cool. No one on Criminal Minds showed up at a crime scene in moldy waders.
He wasn't cool.
He was Reeve Stockwell.
Resident shithead.
Perhaps he could redeem himself.
Solve the whole darn thing.
But could he?
Could he take on a madman?
Could he shoot someone?
He gazed around him.
Aaron Faulkner sat at his desk, sweating up a storm. Stockwell figured he probably had the shakes from withdrawal.
Kitty Richardson held the hand of the near octogenarian who'd practically castrated him. Ada winked at him, and he recoiled.
Yeah.
He could definitely shoot her.
Sonny Brooks looked terrified, and picked at his nose.
No one would miss that idiot.
And, Mitchell.
He looked smug.
Stockwell had no doubt.
He could definitely use the gun.
As much as he felt disgust in his gut, these were his people. He couldn't shoot them, but he'd protect them if the need arose.
He glanced at Kitty.
She looked like hell, poor thing. Her makeup had run, and she looked like a failed attempt at replicating The Crow. She smiled weakly at him, and he tried to message her with his mind. Hadn't she laid claim to some kind of sensitivity? Some minimal ability to read minds?
He concentrated, and held her gaze, and - in the single moment of his life when he needed a miracle more than he ever had - it seemed to work.
"Don't call the police," Kitty whispered.
"What? Why not?" Mitchell retorted, clearly angry.
"Let us leave," Kitty replied.
"What? Why would I do that?" Mitchell quipped.
"It's been a hell of a night. My grandmother needs to go home. Poor Aaron nearly suffocated in a freezer, and look at him," Kitty said, pointing at Reeve Stockwell. "We can't let anyone else see him like that."
Mitchell glanced to his left, where Stockwell sat on the desk. He looked like a maniac, and smelled like rotten fish.
"What about the shooter?" Mitchell asked.
"I'm willing to risk it," Kitty said softly.
"I'm damn near dead already," Ada remarked. "I'll go for it."
"I'd already made peace with dying tonight," Aaron Faulkner whispered.
"I very nearly did die," Stockwell offered, glaring at Ada.
"All right," Mitchell said. "I'll lead you out, call the cops, and wait for them here."
"Thanks, sir," Reeve Stockwell said, offering his hand to Mitchell.
Mitchell shook it reluctantly. "You're welcome, but this isn't over, Stockwell. I know you lied. You and I are gonna have a "sit down." You are going to tell me exactly what happened tonight, and I am going to check your story."
"I understand, sir," Stockwell said.
Slick Mitchell leaned in close. He held his breath against the assault to the senses that being this close to Stockwell provided.
"I'm on to you, Burger," Mitchell whispered.
Fear flashed in Stockwell's eyes. He didn't know why Mitchell had called him "Burger," or how Mitchell knew about the FBI thing. Maybe "burger," was some FBI code word. After all, Stockwell's experience with all things FBI was still in its infancy.
Stockwell said nothing, but he shivered inside the old slicker.
Mitchell walked away, stopping a few feet from the appliance desk. "All right, gang. We're going to walk. Slowly. Stay together," Mitchell suggested.
"We should hold hands," Kitty said.
"It's not Kindergarten," Mitchell commented.
Mitchell took the lead, and the veritable chain of freaks made its way through the darkened aisles. The first two minutes went well until Ada let one rip.
"What was that?" Stockwell whispered.
"Sweet Mary," Sonny Brooks whined. "Smells like something died."
"Put a sock in it. I'm nervous. I get the gas when I'm nervous," Ada explained.
"Everyone shut the hell up!" Mitchell said from his position at the lead.
The posse stopped in the middle of rough plumbing, approximately halfway through their journey to freedom. The sharp crack of a gunshot sliced through the silence, and a toilet shattered behind them.
"Shit! Run!" Mitchell screamed.
Everyone did.
Mitchell held tightly to Kitty's hand, and practically dragged her through the plumbing department, in the direction of the lumber aisles. Another gunshot pierced the silence, and something crashed at the front of the store.
"They're tearing the place apart," Mitchell whined.
The group finally reached Receiving, and one by one they exited the store. Faulker had carried Ada the final fifty yards or so, and he was pretty sure he'd be losing his spleen.
Kitty burst into tears, and clung to Sonny Brooks, who stood mumbling like someone in a severe state of shock.
Stockwell kept running. Faulkner took chase. Mitchell reached to stop him.
"Let him go," Slick Mitchell whispered. "Is everyone okay?"
Miraculously, everyone was. For the most part.
Sonny Brooks had been hit with a piece of flying toilet, and blood ran down the side of his face.
Ada MacKenzie was exhausted, but had miraculously held on to her teeth.
Kitty was shaken, and had wet her pants in aisle twelve. Nonetheless, she was thankful to be alive.
Aaron Faulkner mopped his brow, and vowed to quit drinking. Just not tonight.
And, Slick Mitchell?
He was raving mad.
"Go home. Everyone go home. None of you were here tonight, got it? I was here alone. That's what I am going to tell the police," Slick Mitchell said.
He watched the group disperse. They looked like a bunch of apocalypse survivors, bloodied, but alive. He had no idea where Stockwell had gone, and frankly, he didn't care. He'd get to the bottom of the Mickey Burger thing, but first, he had to deal with his store.
**********
Miles Longworth was an idiot. He knew the ceiling tiles were crap when they began disintegrating in his man cave. He knew better than to expect them to support his weight.
The entire ceiling gave out just after a single gunshot killed a perfectly good, water-conserving, high efficiency, commode.
Longworth lay on his office floor, surrounding by debris from his ceiling, and a pile of twenty, fifty, and hundred-dollar bills.
He was surprised he was alive, but he was in serious trouble. He was almost certain he was paralyzed, completely unable to defend himself against whoever was shooting up the place.
Maybe he could buy his way out.
He had plenty of money.
Then again, he supposed he didn't care if he got killed.
After all, he couldn't imagine spending his life as a paraplegic, riding around the racetrack on his Hoverround.
His habit had gotten the best of him.
If he'd been a bad man, a greedy man, he'd have taken the money and spent it.
He'd wanted to. He'd hid it, figuring eventually he'd have the guts to just take it. He'd only had a few thousand in the envelope when he'd set out to bury it with Kitty and Stockwell. The rest he'd kept hidden in the shitty ceiling in his office.
He tried to move his arm, amazed that he could. He scooped up most of the money and shoved it into his pants. Only a few twenties were now visible.
His heart rate returned to normal and his breathing slowed. He'd just begun to feel a sliver of hope when his office door opened. A formidable form, little more than a shadow, stood in the doorway.
Miles closed his eyes.
He didn't deserve this. He wasn't a bad guy. He'd just made a lot of mistakes, mistakes born of stupidity, and foolish wanting.
Now he was going to die.
****************
Stockwell wasn't sure why he kept running. It just felt right. He didn't feel an ounce of cowardice. He felt free, liberated, like a man running toward something.
Moments later, he tripped, and plunged into a hole.
He'd forgotten the damn thing was there.
Kitty's crazy grandmother had dug it earlier in the day.
Daniels had nearly died in it.
The adrenaline he'd felt moments before faded away, and idiocy replaced it.
He sat upright. The rubber waders had little give, and he found himself with the wedgie of a lifetime.
"Good Lord," he whispered, and he tried to wiggle about in the muddy hole. Something poked his hip.
Daniels' cell phone. He held it tightly to his chest. He was certain a mountain of secrets lay within the phone, but it wasn't why he felt victorious. The phone was top of the line, not at all like the crappy Track Phone his kids had gotten him for Christmas the year before. This kind of phone could do anything, and more than anything else, Stockwell needed a technological ally.
He clutched the phone to his chest, and fell silent, but the silence lasted only a moment. It was broken by a voice, a voice he didn't recognize, a voice only a few feet away.
"Burger," the voice quipped harshly. "What's up with all the yelling? Well, keep her quiet. Shoot her if you have to."
Stockwell shivered. He was witnessing one side of a conversation, and from the sounds of it, not a very nice one. Bravely, he raised his head from the safety of the hole. A man stood several yards away. The clouds had shifted just enough to allow a sliver of moon to light the otherwise blackened night. A large black pickup truck, which had almost disappeared into its inky surroundings, was parked not ten feet from the hole where Stockwell hid.
"I'm calling him now, and then I'm headed out. Keep her quiet until I get there."
Reeve Stockwell made a split-second decision, one he prayed he might live to regret. He hoisted himself out of the hole, and crawled to the truck. The clouds shifted, and the moon disappeared. He was bathed in the safety of darkness once again.
Stockwell peered into the back of the pickup. It was cluttered with junk, and little room remained. There was just enough for a man in fishing waders, with an FBI issued weapon, and the world's most advanced smart phone, hidden deep in his pockets.
With all the grace of Baryshnikov, Reeve Stockwell climbed inside.
Oh, my God!
Stockwell's thoughts spun about the like the final phase of a shiny new washer, appropriate given his proximity to the appliances. He felt the weight of the piece, hidden somewhere in the numerous pockets of the crappy waders.
He couldn't even try to hide it. Mitchell was watching him like a hawk.
If he was discovered with the gun, he might go to jail. He couldn't go to jail. His wife got mad if he put the dishes in the dishwasher the wrong way. What would she do if she found out he got arrested? He could see her now, standing in front of the courthouse, as he was led out in his best suit. He could see her raising a weapon of her own, and shooting him dead on the spot.
Why did I ask for the gun?
JJ Patricks hadn't wanted to give him the weapon. He'd basically begged for it. He had no intention of shooting anyone, but if he'd been recruited to go after a madman with a weapon, it seemed only right that he would be able to defend himself if the situation called for it.
But could he?
It looked so different on television. It looked cool. No one on Criminal Minds showed up at a crime scene in moldy waders.
He wasn't cool.
He was Reeve Stockwell.
Resident shithead.
Perhaps he could redeem himself.
Solve the whole darn thing.
But could he?
Could he take on a madman?
Could he shoot someone?
He gazed around him.
Aaron Faulkner sat at his desk, sweating up a storm. Stockwell figured he probably had the shakes from withdrawal.
Kitty Richardson held the hand of the near octogenarian who'd practically castrated him. Ada winked at him, and he recoiled.
Yeah.
He could definitely shoot her.
Sonny Brooks looked terrified, and picked at his nose.
No one would miss that idiot.
And, Mitchell.
He looked smug.
Stockwell had no doubt.
He could definitely use the gun.
As much as he felt disgust in his gut, these were his people. He couldn't shoot them, but he'd protect them if the need arose.
He glanced at Kitty.
She looked like hell, poor thing. Her makeup had run, and she looked like a failed attempt at replicating The Crow. She smiled weakly at him, and he tried to message her with his mind. Hadn't she laid claim to some kind of sensitivity? Some minimal ability to read minds?
He concentrated, and held her gaze, and - in the single moment of his life when he needed a miracle more than he ever had - it seemed to work.
"Don't call the police," Kitty whispered.
"What? Why not?" Mitchell retorted, clearly angry.
"Let us leave," Kitty replied.
"What? Why would I do that?" Mitchell quipped.
"It's been a hell of a night. My grandmother needs to go home. Poor Aaron nearly suffocated in a freezer, and look at him," Kitty said, pointing at Reeve Stockwell. "We can't let anyone else see him like that."
Mitchell glanced to his left, where Stockwell sat on the desk. He looked like a maniac, and smelled like rotten fish.
"What about the shooter?" Mitchell asked.
"I'm willing to risk it," Kitty said softly.
"I'm damn near dead already," Ada remarked. "I'll go for it."
"I'd already made peace with dying tonight," Aaron Faulkner whispered.
"I very nearly did die," Stockwell offered, glaring at Ada.
"All right," Mitchell said. "I'll lead you out, call the cops, and wait for them here."
"Thanks, sir," Reeve Stockwell said, offering his hand to Mitchell.
Mitchell shook it reluctantly. "You're welcome, but this isn't over, Stockwell. I know you lied. You and I are gonna have a "sit down." You are going to tell me exactly what happened tonight, and I am going to check your story."
"I understand, sir," Stockwell said.
Slick Mitchell leaned in close. He held his breath against the assault to the senses that being this close to Stockwell provided.
"I'm on to you, Burger," Mitchell whispered.
Fear flashed in Stockwell's eyes. He didn't know why Mitchell had called him "Burger," or how Mitchell knew about the FBI thing. Maybe "burger," was some FBI code word. After all, Stockwell's experience with all things FBI was still in its infancy.
Stockwell said nothing, but he shivered inside the old slicker.
Mitchell walked away, stopping a few feet from the appliance desk. "All right, gang. We're going to walk. Slowly. Stay together," Mitchell suggested.
"We should hold hands," Kitty said.
"It's not Kindergarten," Mitchell commented.
Mitchell took the lead, and the veritable chain of freaks made its way through the darkened aisles. The first two minutes went well until Ada let one rip.
"What was that?" Stockwell whispered.
"Sweet Mary," Sonny Brooks whined. "Smells like something died."
"Put a sock in it. I'm nervous. I get the gas when I'm nervous," Ada explained.
"Everyone shut the hell up!" Mitchell said from his position at the lead.
The posse stopped in the middle of rough plumbing, approximately halfway through their journey to freedom. The sharp crack of a gunshot sliced through the silence, and a toilet shattered behind them.
"Shit! Run!" Mitchell screamed.
Everyone did.
Mitchell held tightly to Kitty's hand, and practically dragged her through the plumbing department, in the direction of the lumber aisles. Another gunshot pierced the silence, and something crashed at the front of the store.
"They're tearing the place apart," Mitchell whined.
The group finally reached Receiving, and one by one they exited the store. Faulker had carried Ada the final fifty yards or so, and he was pretty sure he'd be losing his spleen.
Kitty burst into tears, and clung to Sonny Brooks, who stood mumbling like someone in a severe state of shock.
Stockwell kept running. Faulkner took chase. Mitchell reached to stop him.
"Let him go," Slick Mitchell whispered. "Is everyone okay?"
Miraculously, everyone was. For the most part.
Sonny Brooks had been hit with a piece of flying toilet, and blood ran down the side of his face.
Ada MacKenzie was exhausted, but had miraculously held on to her teeth.
Kitty was shaken, and had wet her pants in aisle twelve. Nonetheless, she was thankful to be alive.
Aaron Faulkner mopped his brow, and vowed to quit drinking. Just not tonight.
And, Slick Mitchell?
He was raving mad.
"Go home. Everyone go home. None of you were here tonight, got it? I was here alone. That's what I am going to tell the police," Slick Mitchell said.
He watched the group disperse. They looked like a bunch of apocalypse survivors, bloodied, but alive. He had no idea where Stockwell had gone, and frankly, he didn't care. He'd get to the bottom of the Mickey Burger thing, but first, he had to deal with his store.
**********
Miles Longworth was an idiot. He knew the ceiling tiles were crap when they began disintegrating in his man cave. He knew better than to expect them to support his weight.
The entire ceiling gave out just after a single gunshot killed a perfectly good, water-conserving, high efficiency, commode.
Longworth lay on his office floor, surrounding by debris from his ceiling, and a pile of twenty, fifty, and hundred-dollar bills.
He was surprised he was alive, but he was in serious trouble. He was almost certain he was paralyzed, completely unable to defend himself against whoever was shooting up the place.
Maybe he could buy his way out.
He had plenty of money.
Then again, he supposed he didn't care if he got killed.
After all, he couldn't imagine spending his life as a paraplegic, riding around the racetrack on his Hoverround.
His habit had gotten the best of him.
If he'd been a bad man, a greedy man, he'd have taken the money and spent it.
He'd wanted to. He'd hid it, figuring eventually he'd have the guts to just take it. He'd only had a few thousand in the envelope when he'd set out to bury it with Kitty and Stockwell. The rest he'd kept hidden in the shitty ceiling in his office.
He tried to move his arm, amazed that he could. He scooped up most of the money and shoved it into his pants. Only a few twenties were now visible.
His heart rate returned to normal and his breathing slowed. He'd just begun to feel a sliver of hope when his office door opened. A formidable form, little more than a shadow, stood in the doorway.
Miles closed his eyes.
He didn't deserve this. He wasn't a bad guy. He'd just made a lot of mistakes, mistakes born of stupidity, and foolish wanting.
Now he was going to die.
****************
Stockwell wasn't sure why he kept running. It just felt right. He didn't feel an ounce of cowardice. He felt free, liberated, like a man running toward something.
Moments later, he tripped, and plunged into a hole.
He'd forgotten the damn thing was there.
Kitty's crazy grandmother had dug it earlier in the day.
Daniels had nearly died in it.
The adrenaline he'd felt moments before faded away, and idiocy replaced it.
He sat upright. The rubber waders had little give, and he found himself with the wedgie of a lifetime.
"Good Lord," he whispered, and he tried to wiggle about in the muddy hole. Something poked his hip.
Daniels' cell phone. He held it tightly to his chest. He was certain a mountain of secrets lay within the phone, but it wasn't why he felt victorious. The phone was top of the line, not at all like the crappy Track Phone his kids had gotten him for Christmas the year before. This kind of phone could do anything, and more than anything else, Stockwell needed a technological ally.
He clutched the phone to his chest, and fell silent, but the silence lasted only a moment. It was broken by a voice, a voice he didn't recognize, a voice only a few feet away.
"Burger," the voice quipped harshly. "What's up with all the yelling? Well, keep her quiet. Shoot her if you have to."
Stockwell shivered. He was witnessing one side of a conversation, and from the sounds of it, not a very nice one. Bravely, he raised his head from the safety of the hole. A man stood several yards away. The clouds had shifted just enough to allow a sliver of moon to light the otherwise blackened night. A large black pickup truck, which had almost disappeared into its inky surroundings, was parked not ten feet from the hole where Stockwell hid.
"I'm calling him now, and then I'm headed out. Keep her quiet until I get there."
Reeve Stockwell made a split-second decision, one he prayed he might live to regret. He hoisted himself out of the hole, and crawled to the truck. The clouds shifted, and the moon disappeared. He was bathed in the safety of darkness once again.
Stockwell peered into the back of the pickup. It was cluttered with junk, and little room remained. There was just enough for a man in fishing waders, with an FBI issued weapon, and the world's most advanced smart phone, hidden deep in his pockets.
With all the grace of Baryshnikov, Reeve Stockwell climbed inside.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 55 - Tommy's Finest - Speaking in Tongues
Reeve Stockwell hauled ass like a man being chased by ninjas. He sped through the electrical department, past the hoards of light bulbs, and then picked up his pace as he sprinted through the power equipment department, past the dozens of lawn tractors, each of which appeared to be striking a pose like something straight out of John Deere Vogue.
Something slapped against his leg, and he slowed his gait enough to pat his pocket.
My gun!
Somehow in the plethora of pockets in the waders, he'd missed the weapon. He was armed, and an image of tomorrow's sunrise flashed in his head.
I might live!
"I am armed!" he screamed, although his words were barely discernible through his ragged breathing.
He rounded the final corner toward the back of the store, toward the looming shadows of thirty-some display appliances.
A bullet whizzed past him and struck something metal to his right, the sound reaching his ears with a metallic ting.
"Lord help me," he screeched, his words and timbre that of a desperate man.
Someone screamed. More than one person screamed, and he could have sworn one of them was a woman.
Stockwell lost his footing. He flew forward, hit the ground, and slid like the winning-run man in a ninth-inning baseball championship.
He didn't collide with home plate.
He collided with Ada MacKenzie.
He found himself tangled in a chiffon nightgown that smelled like moth balls and old lady. Bony limbs assaulted him.
"Sweet Jesus!" he screamed, as Ada punched him in the throat. He coughed and sputtered, and tried not to lose consciousness.
The woman had a mean right hook for someone with nearly both feet in the grave.
"Take that, you hoodlum!" Ada screeched, kneeing him in his nether region.
Stockwell yacked up half of what he'd eaten at Denny's, where he'd been only hours before, in the safe company of FBI Agent, JJ Patricks.
"Someone stop this crazy woman, she's killing me," Stockwell attempted to screech.
"You puked on my best nightgown," Ada yelled, as Aaron Faulkner helped her to her feet.
"You kicked me in my private parts," Stockwell groaned.
"Private parts?" a male voice asked. "What are you, eight years old?"
"Mitchell?" Stockwell said, lifting his head like an old hound dog who'd baked too long in the August sun.
"What in the Sam hell?" Slick Mitchell asked, offering a hand to a badly wounded Reeve Stockwell. "What the hell are you doing here, and......... what the hell are you wearing?"
In the chaos of almost losing the family jewels, Stockwell forgot about the ridiculous outfit.
"It was all I could find," Stockwell mumbled through a moan.
"Where you been? On a fishing barge?" Aaron Faulkner asked.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," Stockwell remarked.
"Try us," Mitchell, Faulkner, and Ada MacKenzie said in unison.
Stockwell tried to think fast on his feet, but he was basically numb from the waist down, and his head was pounding like a bass drum. He throat constricted like someone who'd just survived a strangling, and he had a fleeting thought that didn't just border on insanity, but crossed into a sociopathic abyss.
I could shoot everyone and just walk away.
It wasn't a bad idea, with the exception of his DNA being all over an old lady's nightgown.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered.
"Start talking, Reeve," Mitchell said, his tone short.
"I gotta sit," Stockwell said softly.
"You can use my desk," Faulkner said.
Stockwell wobbled as he walked toward the desk. Everyone had seemingly forgotten that somewhere inside the store existed a madman (or woman) with a gun. The crowd gathered. Until that moment, Reeve Stockwell hadn't noticed Sonny Brooks, or a pale, seemingly shaken, Kitty Richardson.
"Where did you come from?" Stockwell asked Kitty.
"She came from my daughter, and if you make some smart remark about her, I'll bean you in the throat again, you punk," Ada barked.
Sonny laughed.
Stockwell could have sworn that Mitchell did, too.
Stockwell tried to clear his head. He cleared his throat, which hurt like he'd just had his tonsils removed with a box cutter, and began to weave his tale.
"I got reports due. I was thinking about it when I left the hospital. Daniels is alive, by the way," Stockwell said, attempting to deflect attention away from himself. "He's pretty much amnesic, at this point, and doesn't remember anything."
"And this has something to do with your fishing trip?" Mitchell asked.
"In a roundabout way. I caught a ride with Larry Dale, and decided to grab something to eat before I let myself into the store. I was eating in the park, but my car wouldn't restart. I cut through that residential area over there...," Stockwell said, pointing in the direction of wherever, "and I fell when some old fart banged his garbage can lid. I lost my.... my keys, and I was crawling around in somebody's shrubs trying to find them. I found the keys, but managed to get dog crap all over my good pants. This thing was all I could find," Stockwell said, pointing to the waders.
Mitchell eyed him suspiciously. He knew Stockwell was lying, because he knew where Larry Dale was and where he'd been, and he hadn't given Reeve Stockwell a ride back to his all-weather beater.
"I don't believe you," Mitchell said.
"Why not?" Reeve Stockwell asked. He really didn't care if Mitchell believed him. Of course he was lying, but he couldn't tell anyone the truth. Stockwell began to wonder if he'd live long enough to fulfill his duties to the FBI, and he began to wonder if he'd be better off if he didn't.
"Because I know you're lying," Mitchell said.
"Who would lie about crawling through dog shit?" Ada asked. "I think he's telling the truth."
"By what method have you drawn your conclusion?" Mitchell asked.
"I'm older than dirt, and I've heard some cockamamie stories," Ada said. "Why, I remember this one time I concocted a story about Woodstock. I told my husband my sister was ill, and I, like half of the lost souls this side of the Mississippi, took off for some unknown field, in an unknown town, to commune with a bunch of pot-smoking, naked, and mud-covered hippies. Worked out okay until a few hours became a few days, and my sister showed up at the house with a Rhubarb pie."
"That's my favorite," Aaron Faulkner said.
"Mine, too," Ada said. "Let me tell you, it was a damn good pie. I showed up a few hours later, looking like something that crawled out of a swamp, smelling like something that crawled out of a sewer, and there was your granddad, sitting at the table, with a rifle in one hand, and a fork in the other," Ada said, turning to Kitty.
"Did he shoot you?" Stockwell asked.
"Shut up," Ada said. "I ain't done with my story."
Stockwell shivered and shut his mouth.
"Anyhow, my husband accused me of lying, until he got the Sunday paper, and there was my picture. I was on the cover of the paper, wearing nothing but mud," Ada declared proudly.
"Eww," Stockwell said, before he could stop himself.
"Watch yourself, or I'll castrate you. I didn't look like this back then. I was hot. That was probably the best make-up sex of my entire life."
"Grandma," Kitty cautioned.
"Everyone shut the hell up!" Mitchell yelled.
Something crashed, deep within the store. Everyone froze.
"I AM SLICK MITCHELL, GRANDSON OF TOMMY MITCHELL, AND THIS IS MY STORE. I HAVE A GUN. IF YOU DON'T LEAVE NOW, I WILL FIND YOU AND SHOOT YOU. GET THE HELL OUT!"
"I'LL CASTRATE YOU," Ada yelled.
"SHE WILL!" Reeve Stockwell hollered. Ada leered at him.
I'M CALLING THE POLICE!" Mitchell practically screamed.
"You are?" Stockwell asked.
"Of course, you moron. Someone is shooting in here. I am going to find out who. No one is going anywhere until the cops get here, and once they leave, everyone is going home, and coming back tomorrow, unless I call you and fire you first," Slick Mitchell declared.
"ME LLAMO A LA POLICIA!" Grandma Ada yelled, and everyone fell silent.
"What?" Kitty whispered.
"Spanish," Ada said, with a toothy grin.
"Why did you say it in Spanish?" Stockwell asked.
"Look around. Everything in here is in Spanish and English," Ada explained.
"So?"
"So, the hooligan with the gun might be a Spanish-speaking hooligan," Ada said.
"Jesus, give me strength," Mitchell mumbled.
"Prayer doesn't hurt either," Ada commented.
"Where did you learn Spanish?" Kitty asked.
"Where else? Rosetta Stone. I got it from the Ebay. I drown out that crazy mother of yours, and yell at her in Spanish. She wants to get an exorcist," Ada complained. "Thinks I'm speaking in tongues."
"Sweet Mary Mother of God," Kitty whispered.
"I'M CALLING THE POLICE!" Mitchell yelled in English, once more, just for good measure.
****************
Half a store away, Miles Longworth froze. He had just entered his office, and moved the ceiling tiles to reveal his secret hiding place.
He hadn't heard the shots being fired, but he'd felt confident he wasn't alone in the store. He'd crept through the darkness like a cat burglar, and he'd remained undetected.
Until now.
Now someone was calling the police, someone who sounded a lot like Slick Mitchell.
And someone was going to castrate him, someone who sounded a whole lot like Kitty's crazy-ass grandmother.
And someone was speaking Spanish. Longworth couldn't even venture a guess, who, or why that might be.
And someone was whining like a teenage girl, someone who sounded a lot like Reeve Stockwell.
They were on to him.
He knew it.
He hoisted himself into the ceiling, prepared to test the structural integrity of Tommy-brand ceiling tiles.
Something slapped against his leg, and he slowed his gait enough to pat his pocket.
My gun!
Somehow in the plethora of pockets in the waders, he'd missed the weapon. He was armed, and an image of tomorrow's sunrise flashed in his head.
I might live!
"I am armed!" he screamed, although his words were barely discernible through his ragged breathing.
He rounded the final corner toward the back of the store, toward the looming shadows of thirty-some display appliances.
A bullet whizzed past him and struck something metal to his right, the sound reaching his ears with a metallic ting.
"Lord help me," he screeched, his words and timbre that of a desperate man.
Someone screamed. More than one person screamed, and he could have sworn one of them was a woman.
Stockwell lost his footing. He flew forward, hit the ground, and slid like the winning-run man in a ninth-inning baseball championship.
He didn't collide with home plate.
He collided with Ada MacKenzie.
He found himself tangled in a chiffon nightgown that smelled like moth balls and old lady. Bony limbs assaulted him.
"Sweet Jesus!" he screamed, as Ada punched him in the throat. He coughed and sputtered, and tried not to lose consciousness.
The woman had a mean right hook for someone with nearly both feet in the grave.
"Take that, you hoodlum!" Ada screeched, kneeing him in his nether region.
Stockwell yacked up half of what he'd eaten at Denny's, where he'd been only hours before, in the safe company of FBI Agent, JJ Patricks.
"Someone stop this crazy woman, she's killing me," Stockwell attempted to screech.
"You puked on my best nightgown," Ada yelled, as Aaron Faulkner helped her to her feet.
"You kicked me in my private parts," Stockwell groaned.
"Private parts?" a male voice asked. "What are you, eight years old?"
"Mitchell?" Stockwell said, lifting his head like an old hound dog who'd baked too long in the August sun.
"What in the Sam hell?" Slick Mitchell asked, offering a hand to a badly wounded Reeve Stockwell. "What the hell are you doing here, and......... what the hell are you wearing?"
In the chaos of almost losing the family jewels, Stockwell forgot about the ridiculous outfit.
"It was all I could find," Stockwell mumbled through a moan.
"Where you been? On a fishing barge?" Aaron Faulkner asked.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," Stockwell remarked.
"Try us," Mitchell, Faulkner, and Ada MacKenzie said in unison.
Stockwell tried to think fast on his feet, but he was basically numb from the waist down, and his head was pounding like a bass drum. He throat constricted like someone who'd just survived a strangling, and he had a fleeting thought that didn't just border on insanity, but crossed into a sociopathic abyss.
I could shoot everyone and just walk away.
It wasn't a bad idea, with the exception of his DNA being all over an old lady's nightgown.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered.
"Start talking, Reeve," Mitchell said, his tone short.
"I gotta sit," Stockwell said softly.
"You can use my desk," Faulkner said.
Stockwell wobbled as he walked toward the desk. Everyone had seemingly forgotten that somewhere inside the store existed a madman (or woman) with a gun. The crowd gathered. Until that moment, Reeve Stockwell hadn't noticed Sonny Brooks, or a pale, seemingly shaken, Kitty Richardson.
"Where did you come from?" Stockwell asked Kitty.
"She came from my daughter, and if you make some smart remark about her, I'll bean you in the throat again, you punk," Ada barked.
Sonny laughed.
Stockwell could have sworn that Mitchell did, too.
Stockwell tried to clear his head. He cleared his throat, which hurt like he'd just had his tonsils removed with a box cutter, and began to weave his tale.
"I got reports due. I was thinking about it when I left the hospital. Daniels is alive, by the way," Stockwell said, attempting to deflect attention away from himself. "He's pretty much amnesic, at this point, and doesn't remember anything."
"And this has something to do with your fishing trip?" Mitchell asked.
"In a roundabout way. I caught a ride with Larry Dale, and decided to grab something to eat before I let myself into the store. I was eating in the park, but my car wouldn't restart. I cut through that residential area over there...," Stockwell said, pointing in the direction of wherever, "and I fell when some old fart banged his garbage can lid. I lost my.... my keys, and I was crawling around in somebody's shrubs trying to find them. I found the keys, but managed to get dog crap all over my good pants. This thing was all I could find," Stockwell said, pointing to the waders.
Mitchell eyed him suspiciously. He knew Stockwell was lying, because he knew where Larry Dale was and where he'd been, and he hadn't given Reeve Stockwell a ride back to his all-weather beater.
"I don't believe you," Mitchell said.
"Why not?" Reeve Stockwell asked. He really didn't care if Mitchell believed him. Of course he was lying, but he couldn't tell anyone the truth. Stockwell began to wonder if he'd live long enough to fulfill his duties to the FBI, and he began to wonder if he'd be better off if he didn't.
"Because I know you're lying," Mitchell said.
"Who would lie about crawling through dog shit?" Ada asked. "I think he's telling the truth."
"By what method have you drawn your conclusion?" Mitchell asked.
"I'm older than dirt, and I've heard some cockamamie stories," Ada said. "Why, I remember this one time I concocted a story about Woodstock. I told my husband my sister was ill, and I, like half of the lost souls this side of the Mississippi, took off for some unknown field, in an unknown town, to commune with a bunch of pot-smoking, naked, and mud-covered hippies. Worked out okay until a few hours became a few days, and my sister showed up at the house with a Rhubarb pie."
"That's my favorite," Aaron Faulkner said.
"Mine, too," Ada said. "Let me tell you, it was a damn good pie. I showed up a few hours later, looking like something that crawled out of a swamp, smelling like something that crawled out of a sewer, and there was your granddad, sitting at the table, with a rifle in one hand, and a fork in the other," Ada said, turning to Kitty.
"Did he shoot you?" Stockwell asked.
"Shut up," Ada said. "I ain't done with my story."
Stockwell shivered and shut his mouth.
"Anyhow, my husband accused me of lying, until he got the Sunday paper, and there was my picture. I was on the cover of the paper, wearing nothing but mud," Ada declared proudly.
"Eww," Stockwell said, before he could stop himself.
"Watch yourself, or I'll castrate you. I didn't look like this back then. I was hot. That was probably the best make-up sex of my entire life."
"Grandma," Kitty cautioned.
"Everyone shut the hell up!" Mitchell yelled.
Something crashed, deep within the store. Everyone froze.
"I AM SLICK MITCHELL, GRANDSON OF TOMMY MITCHELL, AND THIS IS MY STORE. I HAVE A GUN. IF YOU DON'T LEAVE NOW, I WILL FIND YOU AND SHOOT YOU. GET THE HELL OUT!"
"I'LL CASTRATE YOU," Ada yelled.
"SHE WILL!" Reeve Stockwell hollered. Ada leered at him.
I'M CALLING THE POLICE!" Mitchell practically screamed.
"You are?" Stockwell asked.
"Of course, you moron. Someone is shooting in here. I am going to find out who. No one is going anywhere until the cops get here, and once they leave, everyone is going home, and coming back tomorrow, unless I call you and fire you first," Slick Mitchell declared.
"ME LLAMO A LA POLICIA!" Grandma Ada yelled, and everyone fell silent.
"What?" Kitty whispered.
"Spanish," Ada said, with a toothy grin.
"Why did you say it in Spanish?" Stockwell asked.
"Look around. Everything in here is in Spanish and English," Ada explained.
"So?"
"So, the hooligan with the gun might be a Spanish-speaking hooligan," Ada said.
"Jesus, give me strength," Mitchell mumbled.
"Prayer doesn't hurt either," Ada commented.
"Where did you learn Spanish?" Kitty asked.
"Where else? Rosetta Stone. I got it from the Ebay. I drown out that crazy mother of yours, and yell at her in Spanish. She wants to get an exorcist," Ada complained. "Thinks I'm speaking in tongues."
"Sweet Mary Mother of God," Kitty whispered.
"I'M CALLING THE POLICE!" Mitchell yelled in English, once more, just for good measure.
****************
Half a store away, Miles Longworth froze. He had just entered his office, and moved the ceiling tiles to reveal his secret hiding place.
He hadn't heard the shots being fired, but he'd felt confident he wasn't alone in the store. He'd crept through the darkness like a cat burglar, and he'd remained undetected.
Until now.
Now someone was calling the police, someone who sounded a lot like Slick Mitchell.
And someone was going to castrate him, someone who sounded a whole lot like Kitty's crazy-ass grandmother.
And someone was speaking Spanish. Longworth couldn't even venture a guess, who, or why that might be.
And someone was whining like a teenage girl, someone who sounded a lot like Reeve Stockwell.
They were on to him.
He knew it.
He hoisted himself into the ceiling, prepared to test the structural integrity of Tommy-brand ceiling tiles.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 54 - By the Process of Elimination
Reeve Stockwell crept through the darkened aisles of Tommy's Tool Town. He was certain he heard voices, and he felt a deeply rooted terror that no agent of the FBI should feel.
He steadied himself against a rack of PVC pipe, which in hindsight was a very bad choice. The pipe shifted and before his mind could process what was happening, thirty pipes crashed around him.
"Sonova.....," Stockwell whispered, hiding himself far behind the seventy-some pipes that miraculously hadn't fallen.
Pounding footsteps approached, and Stockwell held his breath. He wasn't visible, and as long as he wasn't an idiot, he probably wouldn't be discovered. He dropped to his knees, and a plethora of dust bunnies took flight.
He was disgusted.
What did his Tool Towners do when he wasn't around?
They sure as hell didn't clean.
He crouched in the center of a veritable dust bunny snow globe, as the filth spun around him like a funnel cloud.
He felt the tickle.
It was unmistakable.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Do NOT sneeze.
Stockwell held his nose and willed the sneeze to pass.
It wouldn't.
It happened.
The sneeze.
He managed it soundlessly.
His head damn near exploded.
He was momentarily deaf, and he'd nearly passed out from the pressure inside his head. He heard voices, but the sounds were muffled, the speakers unrecognizable.
Reeve Stockwell suddenly recalled his youth.
He remembered warm summer days, nearly forgotten. The clear blue water of his grandmother's pool.
He'd spent hours in the pool, until the day his cousin's tacos had come back to haunt the poor lad, and the pool was ruined forever.
He remembered skimming the bottom, as the adults sat by, talking and laughing.
The muffled voices inside the store took him back to that nostalgic time, to the wonder he'd experienced as the water shielded him from the noise of his family, to the beauty of the cool water, before Cousin Wallace had crapped his swim trucks.
Stockwell wondered if he'd always be deaf, and although the thought horrified him, he'd never ever have to listen to the endless gripings of fifteen estrogen-filled cashiers, the outlandish and presumably fictional stories of that wacko Kitty Richardson, or the piercing screech of Tommy's antiquated paging system.
He could navigate a soundless world.
He taught himself sign language in college.
He remembered little of it, and only enough to navigate the freeway during rush hour traffic.
Stockwell got to his feet and patted himself down. He was rewarded with nothing but contact with the slimy old waders. His gun was missing.
Again.
For the second time in less than an hour, he'd lost his weapon.
He'd been rendered incapable of defending himself.
And he was deaf.
Reeve Stockwell was the worst FBI agent in history.
He waited.
He heard nothing.
He wasn't sure if it was because he was deaf, or if the voices existed only in his imagination, or if whoever had spoken was gone.
He crawled through the mess, careful not to make contact with the pipes surrounding him.
He peeked from inside the plumbing aisle.
Something caught his eye.
Something white.
A ghost.
He reached for the gun, knowing it wasn't there.
Besides, what would he do with it?
Shoot a ghost?
The ghost was already dead.
Wasn't it?
BANG!
Stockwell almost flew out of the waders.
He wasn't deaf, but he was scared shitless.
Someone was shooting.
A man screeched, screamed as if in agony.
Someone had gotten killed.
Reeve Stockwell suddenly became someone else. He became a stronger man, a braver man. A man worthy of the title of....
FBI Agent.
Reeve Stockwell did something he'd never understand.
He ran toward the danger.
He hoped it wouldn't be the last thing he'd ever do.
****************
The intruder stood in silence, in the shadows, visible to no one.
He moved nary a muscle, registering only slight surprise when he saw Stockwell run past him.
Stockwell ran toward the point of impact from the gunshot, instead of fleeing from it.
What was he doing?
And what the hell was he wearing?
Stockwell was a spineless weasel.
The type to flee from danger.
The first guy gutted on Elm Street.
This behavior was unexpected, a kink in an otherwise perfect plan.
This could be a problem, the stranger thought.
Stockwell was like the cowardly lion, after a visit to the Great and Powerful Oz.
When had that happened?
The intruder frowned, his face twisted into an expression of hatred and disgust.
So, Stockwell wanted to be a hero?
This plan had no room for a hero.
The intruder fingered the gun in his pocket, as a new plan formed in his mind.
Reeve Stockwell would have to be dealt with.
Surely.
And swiftly.
Reeve Stockwell faced a new and certain fate.
Elimination.
He steadied himself against a rack of PVC pipe, which in hindsight was a very bad choice. The pipe shifted and before his mind could process what was happening, thirty pipes crashed around him.
"Sonova.....," Stockwell whispered, hiding himself far behind the seventy-some pipes that miraculously hadn't fallen.
Pounding footsteps approached, and Stockwell held his breath. He wasn't visible, and as long as he wasn't an idiot, he probably wouldn't be discovered. He dropped to his knees, and a plethora of dust bunnies took flight.
He was disgusted.
What did his Tool Towners do when he wasn't around?
They sure as hell didn't clean.
He crouched in the center of a veritable dust bunny snow globe, as the filth spun around him like a funnel cloud.
He felt the tickle.
It was unmistakable.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Do NOT sneeze.
Stockwell held his nose and willed the sneeze to pass.
It wouldn't.
It happened.
The sneeze.
He managed it soundlessly.
His head damn near exploded.
He was momentarily deaf, and he'd nearly passed out from the pressure inside his head. He heard voices, but the sounds were muffled, the speakers unrecognizable.
Reeve Stockwell suddenly recalled his youth.
He remembered warm summer days, nearly forgotten. The clear blue water of his grandmother's pool.
He'd spent hours in the pool, until the day his cousin's tacos had come back to haunt the poor lad, and the pool was ruined forever.
He remembered skimming the bottom, as the adults sat by, talking and laughing.
The muffled voices inside the store took him back to that nostalgic time, to the wonder he'd experienced as the water shielded him from the noise of his family, to the beauty of the cool water, before Cousin Wallace had crapped his swim trucks.
Stockwell wondered if he'd always be deaf, and although the thought horrified him, he'd never ever have to listen to the endless gripings of fifteen estrogen-filled cashiers, the outlandish and presumably fictional stories of that wacko Kitty Richardson, or the piercing screech of Tommy's antiquated paging system.
He could navigate a soundless world.
He taught himself sign language in college.
He remembered little of it, and only enough to navigate the freeway during rush hour traffic.
Stockwell got to his feet and patted himself down. He was rewarded with nothing but contact with the slimy old waders. His gun was missing.
Again.
For the second time in less than an hour, he'd lost his weapon.
He'd been rendered incapable of defending himself.
And he was deaf.
Reeve Stockwell was the worst FBI agent in history.
He waited.
He heard nothing.
He wasn't sure if it was because he was deaf, or if the voices existed only in his imagination, or if whoever had spoken was gone.
He crawled through the mess, careful not to make contact with the pipes surrounding him.
He peeked from inside the plumbing aisle.
Something caught his eye.
Something white.
A ghost.
He reached for the gun, knowing it wasn't there.
Besides, what would he do with it?
Shoot a ghost?
The ghost was already dead.
Wasn't it?
BANG!
Stockwell almost flew out of the waders.
He wasn't deaf, but he was scared shitless.
Someone was shooting.
A man screeched, screamed as if in agony.
Someone had gotten killed.
Reeve Stockwell suddenly became someone else. He became a stronger man, a braver man. A man worthy of the title of....
FBI Agent.
Reeve Stockwell did something he'd never understand.
He ran toward the danger.
He hoped it wouldn't be the last thing he'd ever do.
****************
The intruder stood in silence, in the shadows, visible to no one.
He moved nary a muscle, registering only slight surprise when he saw Stockwell run past him.
Stockwell ran toward the point of impact from the gunshot, instead of fleeing from it.
What was he doing?
And what the hell was he wearing?
Stockwell was a spineless weasel.
The type to flee from danger.
The first guy gutted on Elm Street.
This behavior was unexpected, a kink in an otherwise perfect plan.
This could be a problem, the stranger thought.
Stockwell was like the cowardly lion, after a visit to the Great and Powerful Oz.
When had that happened?
The intruder frowned, his face twisted into an expression of hatred and disgust.
So, Stockwell wanted to be a hero?
This plan had no room for a hero.
The intruder fingered the gun in his pocket, as a new plan formed in his mind.
Reeve Stockwell would have to be dealt with.
Surely.
And swiftly.
Reeve Stockwell faced a new and certain fate.
Elimination.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 53 - A Shot in the Dark
Kitty Richardson arrived at the Tommy compound just in time to miss Jeopardy.
"Crap," she whispered, as she checked her watch. The clock in the old Chevy no longer worked. In Chevy land, it had been 6:83 for about two years, a time that existed only in Kitty's world.
She gently shut off the ignition and prayed the truck wouldn't backfire.
Her prayers went unanswered.
BANG!
"Dammit," Kitty whispered, as a dog began barking a block or two away.
Something registered in her peripheral vision and Kitty turned.
Her blood chilled.
A man in a long raincoat and what appeared to be waders, seemed to disappear into the shadows. "What the hell?" Kitty whispered, wrapping her arms around herself in response to the sudden terror.
The Chevy was completely out of sight, buried in an ink black darkness, far behind the Receiving Bay. Only a portion of the parking lot and the residential area beyond was visible. Raincoat Man had disappeared, but the hairs stood up on the back of Kitty's neck, nonetheless.
She was almost willing to let Faulkner suffocate in the freezer, but the humanitarian in her spoke loudly.
Get him out before he dies.
He was a single man in a world full of married and gay men.
Kitty couldn't afford to let a single man die.
She had to get Faulkner out.
"Dear God," Kitty whispered, as she exited the vehicle. She held a tiny LED flashlight in her hand, a flashlight she had purchased at Tommy's after the tornado. Despite her abject terror, the flashlight remained dark.
She clutched a key in her hand, a key she wasn't supposed to have. She'd had it for six months, since attending a conference with Reeve Stockwell. They'd rented a vehicle, and Stockwell had left the key in the console. Kitty had discovered it one day later. It wasn't that Kitty had planned to do underhanded things with the key, it was more that Kitty was forgetful, and was a committed procrastinator. She'd forgotten all about the key until Faulkner called to say he was being murdered by a Frigidaire.
Only when Kitty was a few inches from the door did she turn on the light in her hand. The door was ajar.
Don't go in, her gut screamed.
She went in.
I'm here, she paused to text Faulkner.
She waited a few seconds.
Nothing.
Faulkner was already dead.
"No, no, no," Kitty whispered, as she raced through the darkened store, paying no mind to the shadows around her.
The phone buzzed gently in her pocket.
Hurry! I'm scarred.
So, Faulkner wasn't dead after all. Although he'd spelled the word wrong, and the man was obviously terrified, she figured the text was partially right.
Faulker was scarred.
Then again....
Everyone was.
Scars were nothing to be ashamed of. They were proof that someone survived something very bad. They were more like medals.
Faulkner probably had more than a few medals. He had a drinking problem, and he occasionally set things on fire, but no one was perfect.
And no one deserved to die in a freezer.
Besides, Kitty talked to a pen, and her closest companion was her ninety-nine-year-old grandmother, who was crazier than a shithouse rat, and who dressed like a valley girl. All her relationships had ended in tears and debt, except for one. She didn't talk about that one. No. Kitty wasn't perfect.
"Perfection is overrated," Kitty whispered, as she approached the appliance department. Something moved two aisles over, something that sounded large enough to be human. Kitty hid behind Faulkner's desk.
She began to shake.
Where the hell are you In what freezer You're right Someone's in the store
Kitty failed to punctuate, but she figured the Gods of good English would forgive her.
One over from Susan.
Who? Kitty responded.
The big stainless, the one we just marked down to $1399.00.
You name them? Kitty asked.
Can we talk about that later? I think I'm almost dead.
Sure.
Kitty waited a few seconds, certain that Faulkner would survive just a bit longer. She heard nothing and crawled out from the safety of her hiding place.
Faulkner was exactly where he said he'd be. He was covered with sweat, his eyes were wild, and he was panting like a dog.
"Thank you," he whispered, as Kitty helped him from the huge freezer.
"You owe me. Big time," Kitty replied.
"What do you want?" Aaron Faulkner asked. He didn't have much. He had a Barcalounger, an Xbox, some old golf clubs, and a really nice bowling ball.
He was grateful, but he really hoped Kitty didn't like bowling.
"Dinner," Kitty said. Faulkner smiled.
"You want me to take you out to dinner?" he asked softly.
"What I'd really like is for you to take Helen and Ada, and then I'd have the house to myself for a night, but I think you'd rather go back into the freezer."
Faulkner chuckled, then froze.
Voices.
Human.
Male.
More than one.
"Shit," Faulkner whispered. "Hide."
"Where?" Kitty whispered.
"I don't know. No one should be here. I don't want to die," Faulkner said through a whine.
"The Lord is my Shepherd," Kitty whispered. "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down-"
"By a liquor store," Faulkner whispered.
"Seriously?" Kitty said, a little too loudly.
"What?"
"Is that all you think about?" Kitty asked.
"No, but if I'm gonna die tonight, I'd like a drink first."
"No one's going to die. We just have to find a place to hide."
It was too late. Two men walked into the aisle, directly in front of Kitty and Faulkner.
"What the hell?" the taller man said.
Slick Mitchell?
"Who's there? I demand you show yourselves." the voice said sternly.
Kitty and Faulkner stood upright.
"What the hell are you two dingbats doing here?" Slick Mitchell asked.
Think!
"My roommate threw me out, so I planned to sleep in my Jeep in the parking lot. I got thirsty," Faulkner lied.
"And you have booze hidden in your locker?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course not. I snuck in to buy a soda." Faulkner continued the story.
"And what about you?" Mitchell said, turning to look at Kitty. "You thirsty, too?"
"No. I came to rescue Aaron," Kitty whispered.
"From what? A killer vending machine?" Mitchell asked. Sonny Brooks, who stood beside Mitchell, and had until now remained silent, chuckled.
"I heard something. I assume now it was you two. I hid in one of the freezers. The latch caught and I was trapped. I texted Kitty and asked her to come rescue me." Aaron Faulkner, now being truthful, was amazingly convincing.
The look on Mitchell's face, which had begun as anger, took on the appearance of pity.
"You couldn't make this shit up," Mitchell remarked. "How'd you get in?"
"The door was open," Kitty said, which wasn't a lie.
Faulkner said nothing.
He didn't have to.
Something crashed halfway across the store.
Mitchell took off like a shot.
Sonny Brooks looked scared, and froze on the spot.
Faulkner looked at Kitty.
"I've already played hero tonight," she whispered. "I'm staying put."
"Oh, my God," Sonny Brooks whispered. "I knew it. I knew it all along. Look!"
Faulkner and Kitty followed Brooks' pointed finger. A figure in white passed through the glow of one of the security lights.
Kitty screamed and threw herself at Faulkner. He held her. She was shaking. He was shaking, too. Sonny Brooks looked like he might faint.
The ghost turned.
"Holy crap, it sees us," Sonny mouthed silently.
The ghost waved.
"What the hell?" Sonny Brooks said out loud.
"Mother of God," Kitty said.
"You recognize it?" Sonny asked.
"It's my grandmother," Kitty groaned.
"Man alive, you gotta get that shit under control," Sonny said, without thinking.
Slick Mitchell arrived about the same time as Ada. "What the hell's this?" Mitchell asked, pointing to the ghost.
"Ada MacKenzie," Ada said, holding out her hand.
"Who?" Mitchell asked.
"My grandmother," Kitty said. Ada smiled. Obviously, she'd found her teeth.
"That's enough!" Mitchell said, his voice rising. "Get the hell out of here!"
Two shots rang out. Everyone ducked. One additional shot followed, hitting an appliance, altogether too close to where they all stood.
Faulkner got to his feet and cried out.
"Susan!"
"Crap," she whispered, as she checked her watch. The clock in the old Chevy no longer worked. In Chevy land, it had been 6:83 for about two years, a time that existed only in Kitty's world.
She gently shut off the ignition and prayed the truck wouldn't backfire.
Her prayers went unanswered.
BANG!
"Dammit," Kitty whispered, as a dog began barking a block or two away.
Something registered in her peripheral vision and Kitty turned.
Her blood chilled.
A man in a long raincoat and what appeared to be waders, seemed to disappear into the shadows. "What the hell?" Kitty whispered, wrapping her arms around herself in response to the sudden terror.
The Chevy was completely out of sight, buried in an ink black darkness, far behind the Receiving Bay. Only a portion of the parking lot and the residential area beyond was visible. Raincoat Man had disappeared, but the hairs stood up on the back of Kitty's neck, nonetheless.
She was almost willing to let Faulkner suffocate in the freezer, but the humanitarian in her spoke loudly.
Get him out before he dies.
He was a single man in a world full of married and gay men.
Kitty couldn't afford to let a single man die.
She had to get Faulkner out.
"Dear God," Kitty whispered, as she exited the vehicle. She held a tiny LED flashlight in her hand, a flashlight she had purchased at Tommy's after the tornado. Despite her abject terror, the flashlight remained dark.
She clutched a key in her hand, a key she wasn't supposed to have. She'd had it for six months, since attending a conference with Reeve Stockwell. They'd rented a vehicle, and Stockwell had left the key in the console. Kitty had discovered it one day later. It wasn't that Kitty had planned to do underhanded things with the key, it was more that Kitty was forgetful, and was a committed procrastinator. She'd forgotten all about the key until Faulkner called to say he was being murdered by a Frigidaire.
Only when Kitty was a few inches from the door did she turn on the light in her hand. The door was ajar.
Don't go in, her gut screamed.
She went in.
I'm here, she paused to text Faulkner.
She waited a few seconds.
Nothing.
Faulkner was already dead.
"No, no, no," Kitty whispered, as she raced through the darkened store, paying no mind to the shadows around her.
The phone buzzed gently in her pocket.
Hurry! I'm scarred.
So, Faulkner wasn't dead after all. Although he'd spelled the word wrong, and the man was obviously terrified, she figured the text was partially right.
Faulker was scarred.
Then again....
Everyone was.
Scars were nothing to be ashamed of. They were proof that someone survived something very bad. They were more like medals.
Faulkner probably had more than a few medals. He had a drinking problem, and he occasionally set things on fire, but no one was perfect.
And no one deserved to die in a freezer.
Besides, Kitty talked to a pen, and her closest companion was her ninety-nine-year-old grandmother, who was crazier than a shithouse rat, and who dressed like a valley girl. All her relationships had ended in tears and debt, except for one. She didn't talk about that one. No. Kitty wasn't perfect.
"Perfection is overrated," Kitty whispered, as she approached the appliance department. Something moved two aisles over, something that sounded large enough to be human. Kitty hid behind Faulkner's desk.
She began to shake.
Where the hell are you In what freezer You're right Someone's in the store
Kitty failed to punctuate, but she figured the Gods of good English would forgive her.
One over from Susan.
Who? Kitty responded.
The big stainless, the one we just marked down to $1399.00.
You name them? Kitty asked.
Can we talk about that later? I think I'm almost dead.
Sure.
Kitty waited a few seconds, certain that Faulkner would survive just a bit longer. She heard nothing and crawled out from the safety of her hiding place.
Faulkner was exactly where he said he'd be. He was covered with sweat, his eyes were wild, and he was panting like a dog.
"Thank you," he whispered, as Kitty helped him from the huge freezer.
"You owe me. Big time," Kitty replied.
"What do you want?" Aaron Faulkner asked. He didn't have much. He had a Barcalounger, an Xbox, some old golf clubs, and a really nice bowling ball.
He was grateful, but he really hoped Kitty didn't like bowling.
"Dinner," Kitty said. Faulkner smiled.
"You want me to take you out to dinner?" he asked softly.
"What I'd really like is for you to take Helen and Ada, and then I'd have the house to myself for a night, but I think you'd rather go back into the freezer."
Faulkner chuckled, then froze.
Voices.
Human.
Male.
More than one.
"Shit," Faulkner whispered. "Hide."
"Where?" Kitty whispered.
"I don't know. No one should be here. I don't want to die," Faulkner said through a whine.
"The Lord is my Shepherd," Kitty whispered. "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down-"
"By a liquor store," Faulkner whispered.
"Seriously?" Kitty said, a little too loudly.
"What?"
"Is that all you think about?" Kitty asked.
"No, but if I'm gonna die tonight, I'd like a drink first."
"No one's going to die. We just have to find a place to hide."
It was too late. Two men walked into the aisle, directly in front of Kitty and Faulkner.
"What the hell?" the taller man said.
Slick Mitchell?
"Who's there? I demand you show yourselves." the voice said sternly.
Kitty and Faulkner stood upright.
"What the hell are you two dingbats doing here?" Slick Mitchell asked.
Think!
"My roommate threw me out, so I planned to sleep in my Jeep in the parking lot. I got thirsty," Faulkner lied.
"And you have booze hidden in your locker?" Mitchell asked.
"Of course not. I snuck in to buy a soda." Faulkner continued the story.
"And what about you?" Mitchell said, turning to look at Kitty. "You thirsty, too?"
"No. I came to rescue Aaron," Kitty whispered.
"From what? A killer vending machine?" Mitchell asked. Sonny Brooks, who stood beside Mitchell, and had until now remained silent, chuckled.
"I heard something. I assume now it was you two. I hid in one of the freezers. The latch caught and I was trapped. I texted Kitty and asked her to come rescue me." Aaron Faulkner, now being truthful, was amazingly convincing.
The look on Mitchell's face, which had begun as anger, took on the appearance of pity.
"You couldn't make this shit up," Mitchell remarked. "How'd you get in?"
"The door was open," Kitty said, which wasn't a lie.
Faulkner said nothing.
He didn't have to.
Something crashed halfway across the store.
Mitchell took off like a shot.
Sonny Brooks looked scared, and froze on the spot.
Faulkner looked at Kitty.
"I've already played hero tonight," she whispered. "I'm staying put."
"Oh, my God," Sonny Brooks whispered. "I knew it. I knew it all along. Look!"
Faulkner and Kitty followed Brooks' pointed finger. A figure in white passed through the glow of one of the security lights.
Kitty screamed and threw herself at Faulkner. He held her. She was shaking. He was shaking, too. Sonny Brooks looked like he might faint.
The ghost turned.
"Holy crap, it sees us," Sonny mouthed silently.
The ghost waved.
"What the hell?" Sonny Brooks said out loud.
"Mother of God," Kitty said.
"You recognize it?" Sonny asked.
"It's my grandmother," Kitty groaned.
"Man alive, you gotta get that shit under control," Sonny said, without thinking.
Slick Mitchell arrived about the same time as Ada. "What the hell's this?" Mitchell asked, pointing to the ghost.
"Ada MacKenzie," Ada said, holding out her hand.
"Who?" Mitchell asked.
"My grandmother," Kitty said. Ada smiled. Obviously, she'd found her teeth.
"That's enough!" Mitchell said, his voice rising. "Get the hell out of here!"
Two shots rang out. Everyone ducked. One additional shot followed, hitting an appliance, altogether too close to where they all stood.
Faulkner got to his feet and cried out.
"Susan!"
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 52 - Guns, Money, and Idiots. One dangerous combination.
Kitty Richardson had just hunkered down with an almost inedible Lean Cuisine when her phone vibrated. She dropped the forkful of caulking-covered noodles into the convenient serving tray and picked up the device beside her. Ada was learning to text.
LFMT. The text read.
Kitty responded almost immediately. What? Do you mean LMAO?
Kitty set the phone aside and took another bite of the sickening concoction. Ada's response took less than 30 seconds.
I'm looking for my teeth.
"Dear God," Kitty whispered.
Again?
The phone vibrated again. Kitty reread the text three times before reacting.
What the hell???
The horror of the Lean Cuisine was momentarily forgotten.
I am locked in a freezer. I'm afraid I am going to die. Can you come get me out?
Kitty threw the disgusting entrée into the trash, let the dogs out, and quickly typed.
Who is this? Grandma? Is this you? How did you get yourself into the freezer, and do you really think you left your teeth in there?
The phone buzzed ten seconds later.
It's Aaron Faulkner. You texted me the directions to your house when I delivered your Grandmother's stove. That's how I got your number. I snuck into Tommy's to get my scotch, Faulkner lied. Someone else is inside the store, so I hid in a freezer. Now I'm trapped.
In nobody else's life could this possibly happen. Kitty laughed out loud, and looked down at her choice of evening wear.
She supposed she should rescue Faulkner, but her Winnie the Pooh pajamas were not appropriate for rescuing anyone, save Christopher Robin. She let the dogs back into the suite, and rushed to the bedroom closet. Ten minutes later, she was on her way.
She should have checked the rearview mirror.
****************
Reeve Stockwell held the weapon in front of him, and felt adrenaline surge through his veins. He grinned like a teenage boy. He couldn't believe it. He'd been deputized. For all intents and purposes, he was an FBI Agent. His dream had come true. In an instant, his life had a purpose. He was no longer just a guy who managed people who sold nuts and bolts, and lawn tractors, and commodes. He was working for the FBI.
He'd lied to his wife, something he rarely did. He'd told her he had a meeting, an important meeting, a meeting to talk about a promotion. He knew that would get his wife into an agreeable mood, and buy him some time.
The miraculously transformed JJ Patricks had left him in the Tommy parking lot, but Reeve was smarter than most gave him credit for. He'd driven to Mort's Hardware, Tommy's closest competitor, left a few Tommy flyers in Mort's mailbox, just for fun, and then driven to a deserted park.
He'd left his beater parked out of sight, and hiked back the mile or so toward the Tommy compound.
The last quarter mile took him through a residential area. He heard a clang to his right, and hit the ground like a soldier. The gun bounced along the sidewalk and skittered out of sight.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered. He'd only been an agent for an hour and he'd already lost his weapon.
Something clanged again and he froze.
He'd been made.
He crawled silently toward a row of shrubbery, moving through something slimy in his travels. The pungent odor assaulted his nose.
Great!
He'd crawled through dog crap.
This wasn't going well.
He'd been made, he'd lost his weapon, and now he was covered in shit.
CLANG!
Reeve Stockwell had seen every James Bond movie ever made. Bond never hid in the shrubbery, covered in crap. Bond drove around in an expensive sports car, gun in the console, and a beautiful woman in the passenger seat.
Stockwell peeked through the shrubs. A heavyset man in a bathrobe was desperately trying to cover his metal garbage can with an ill-fitting lid. Maybe Stockwell should leave a Tommy flyer. Garbage cans were ten percent off, now through the end of the month. It looked and sounded as if the guy could use an upgrade.
So, he hadn't been made.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
That left two problems.
The missing gun, and the shit all over his trousers.
Stockwell waited until the bathrobe-clad homeowner went back inside, removed the penlight from his pocket, and shined around his immediate vicinity. The gun was nested inside a group of yellow tulips, two feet from the pile of crap.
He reached for the gun and sighed.
One problem down, one to go. He wrinkled his nose. He smelled like an outhouse.
It was garbage night. Stockwell was confident he could find something to cover himself with. He stood upright, and his slacks stuck to his knees. He had to find something.
At the end of the third driveway, Reeve Stockwell struck gold. Someone had discarded an old pair of waders, and a battered rain slicker. Stockwell peeled off his trousers and his jacket, and threw both in the trash. He climbed into the waders and shrugged into the slicker. He looked ridiculous.
The waders were significantly shorter than he'd hoped, leaving his white tube socks and black dress shoes clearly exposed. The slicker was almost as long as the waders.
He looked like an idiot, and he was pretty sure somebody knew what he'd done last summer.
He slipped the gun into his pocket and it hit the ground with a plunk.
The gun fired. The bullet hit the garbage can with the ill-fitting lid. One by one, lights came on in the houses that surrounded him.
Stockwell ran like hell.
****************
Sonny Brooks sat in the desk chair in Miles Longworth's office.
He felt like a thief.
How was he to know what was incriminating and what wasn't?
And where was Mitchell?
Slick had left him alone in the locked office. He'd told him to confiscate anything that looked suspicious, but to make sure it didn't look as though the office had been tossed.
Mitchell was a moron.
How could Sonny confiscate anything that looked suspicious and still make it look like no one had confiscated anything that looked suspicious?
Did Slick Mitchell really think Longworth was so stupid that he wouldn't notice half his stuff was missing?
Sonny Brooks shook his head.
This was ridiculous.
He wanted out of the deal.
He ran his hands through his hair, and gritted his teeth against the frustration he felt.
His tooth began to throb.
He couldn't get out of the deal. He needed the dental.
He opened the drawer to his left, and began to rummage through Longworth's things. It felt dirty. Sonny hated how it felt.
He pulled out a book.
Gambling for Dummies.
That seemed suspicious.
Unless you knew Longworth.
Sonny pulled out a small notebook.
He opened the front cover.
The first page was filled with notes, notes about horses, and money Longworth seemed to owe someone. Someone who Sonny hoped he'd never know.
Again. Not suspicious.
Sonny flipped through the notebook.
One entry caught his eye.
Dumpster money - $88,720.00
What the hell was that?
What was dumpster money?
The next entry was equally disturbing.
Stockwell's box of guns.
What the hell was up with that?
Reeve Stockwell was the one guy least likely to have guns. The world at large wasn't safe if Stockwell had one gun, let alone a whole friggin' box of them.
Sonny faced a conundrum. He couldn't take the notebook, but he certainly couldn't leave it.
He had an idea.
He fired up the small copier in the corner of Longworth's office. He made a copy of the page in question, and put the notebook back where he'd found it.
Sonny found nothing else questionable. He made a quick decision, took a deep breath, and texted Mitchell, as he'd been ordered to do.
Nothing suspicious in Longworth's office.
****************
LFMT. The text read.
Kitty responded almost immediately. What? Do you mean LMAO?
Kitty set the phone aside and took another bite of the sickening concoction. Ada's response took less than 30 seconds.
I'm looking for my teeth.
"Dear God," Kitty whispered.
Again?
The phone vibrated again. Kitty reread the text three times before reacting.
What the hell???
The horror of the Lean Cuisine was momentarily forgotten.
I am locked in a freezer. I'm afraid I am going to die. Can you come get me out?
Kitty threw the disgusting entrée into the trash, let the dogs out, and quickly typed.
Who is this? Grandma? Is this you? How did you get yourself into the freezer, and do you really think you left your teeth in there?
The phone buzzed ten seconds later.
It's Aaron Faulkner. You texted me the directions to your house when I delivered your Grandmother's stove. That's how I got your number. I snuck into Tommy's to get my scotch, Faulkner lied. Someone else is inside the store, so I hid in a freezer. Now I'm trapped.
In nobody else's life could this possibly happen. Kitty laughed out loud, and looked down at her choice of evening wear.
She supposed she should rescue Faulkner, but her Winnie the Pooh pajamas were not appropriate for rescuing anyone, save Christopher Robin. She let the dogs back into the suite, and rushed to the bedroom closet. Ten minutes later, she was on her way.
She should have checked the rearview mirror.
****************
Reeve Stockwell held the weapon in front of him, and felt adrenaline surge through his veins. He grinned like a teenage boy. He couldn't believe it. He'd been deputized. For all intents and purposes, he was an FBI Agent. His dream had come true. In an instant, his life had a purpose. He was no longer just a guy who managed people who sold nuts and bolts, and lawn tractors, and commodes. He was working for the FBI.
He'd lied to his wife, something he rarely did. He'd told her he had a meeting, an important meeting, a meeting to talk about a promotion. He knew that would get his wife into an agreeable mood, and buy him some time.
The miraculously transformed JJ Patricks had left him in the Tommy parking lot, but Reeve was smarter than most gave him credit for. He'd driven to Mort's Hardware, Tommy's closest competitor, left a few Tommy flyers in Mort's mailbox, just for fun, and then driven to a deserted park.
He'd left his beater parked out of sight, and hiked back the mile or so toward the Tommy compound.
The last quarter mile took him through a residential area. He heard a clang to his right, and hit the ground like a soldier. The gun bounced along the sidewalk and skittered out of sight.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered. He'd only been an agent for an hour and he'd already lost his weapon.
Something clanged again and he froze.
He'd been made.
He crawled silently toward a row of shrubbery, moving through something slimy in his travels. The pungent odor assaulted his nose.
Great!
He'd crawled through dog crap.
This wasn't going well.
He'd been made, he'd lost his weapon, and now he was covered in shit.
CLANG!
Reeve Stockwell had seen every James Bond movie ever made. Bond never hid in the shrubbery, covered in crap. Bond drove around in an expensive sports car, gun in the console, and a beautiful woman in the passenger seat.
Stockwell peeked through the shrubs. A heavyset man in a bathrobe was desperately trying to cover his metal garbage can with an ill-fitting lid. Maybe Stockwell should leave a Tommy flyer. Garbage cans were ten percent off, now through the end of the month. It looked and sounded as if the guy could use an upgrade.
So, he hadn't been made.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
That left two problems.
The missing gun, and the shit all over his trousers.
Stockwell waited until the bathrobe-clad homeowner went back inside, removed the penlight from his pocket, and shined around his immediate vicinity. The gun was nested inside a group of yellow tulips, two feet from the pile of crap.
He reached for the gun and sighed.
One problem down, one to go. He wrinkled his nose. He smelled like an outhouse.
It was garbage night. Stockwell was confident he could find something to cover himself with. He stood upright, and his slacks stuck to his knees. He had to find something.
At the end of the third driveway, Reeve Stockwell struck gold. Someone had discarded an old pair of waders, and a battered rain slicker. Stockwell peeled off his trousers and his jacket, and threw both in the trash. He climbed into the waders and shrugged into the slicker. He looked ridiculous.
The waders were significantly shorter than he'd hoped, leaving his white tube socks and black dress shoes clearly exposed. The slicker was almost as long as the waders.
He looked like an idiot, and he was pretty sure somebody knew what he'd done last summer.
He slipped the gun into his pocket and it hit the ground with a plunk.
The gun fired. The bullet hit the garbage can with the ill-fitting lid. One by one, lights came on in the houses that surrounded him.
Stockwell ran like hell.
****************
Sonny Brooks sat in the desk chair in Miles Longworth's office.
He felt like a thief.
How was he to know what was incriminating and what wasn't?
And where was Mitchell?
Slick had left him alone in the locked office. He'd told him to confiscate anything that looked suspicious, but to make sure it didn't look as though the office had been tossed.
Mitchell was a moron.
How could Sonny confiscate anything that looked suspicious and still make it look like no one had confiscated anything that looked suspicious?
Did Slick Mitchell really think Longworth was so stupid that he wouldn't notice half his stuff was missing?
Sonny Brooks shook his head.
This was ridiculous.
He wanted out of the deal.
He ran his hands through his hair, and gritted his teeth against the frustration he felt.
His tooth began to throb.
He couldn't get out of the deal. He needed the dental.
He opened the drawer to his left, and began to rummage through Longworth's things. It felt dirty. Sonny hated how it felt.
He pulled out a book.
Gambling for Dummies.
That seemed suspicious.
Unless you knew Longworth.
Sonny pulled out a small notebook.
He opened the front cover.
The first page was filled with notes, notes about horses, and money Longworth seemed to owe someone. Someone who Sonny hoped he'd never know.
Again. Not suspicious.
Sonny flipped through the notebook.
One entry caught his eye.
Dumpster money - $88,720.00
What the hell was that?
What was dumpster money?
The next entry was equally disturbing.
Stockwell's box of guns.
What the hell was up with that?
Reeve Stockwell was the one guy least likely to have guns. The world at large wasn't safe if Stockwell had one gun, let alone a whole friggin' box of them.
Sonny faced a conundrum. He couldn't take the notebook, but he certainly couldn't leave it.
He had an idea.
He fired up the small copier in the corner of Longworth's office. He made a copy of the page in question, and put the notebook back where he'd found it.
Sonny found nothing else questionable. He made a quick decision, took a deep breath, and texted Mitchell, as he'd been ordered to do.
Nothing suspicious in Longworth's office.
****************
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 51 - Aaron Faulkner - The Stove Guy's Goose is Cooked
Aaron Faulker clutched his empty flask. He needed a drink desperately. He thought he remembered the gentle glug, glug, glug, as the vodka emptied into the flask this morning, but now the damn thing was empty.
Had he drank it?
He didn't remember drinking it.
He felt no calming effects from it.
Perhaps he drank it in Kitty's truck.
That had been horrifying.
He was sure he was going to die.
And the grandmother?
Faulkner shook his head and stared through his windshield at the hulk of a building in front of him.
Did he dare?
Did he dare sneak into Tommy's Tool Town while it was closed?
He knew how to get in.
He paid attention, although no one would likely believe that.
He was the adorable drunk.
Faulkner looked in the rearview mirror and flinched.
Adorable?
That might be pushing it.
He had an angry welt on his face where he'd whacked the passenger seat, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot. The circles beneath them, ever present from an exhaustion that never subsided, had been gray only this morning. Now they were black as ink.
At least his hair looked combed.
By an egg beater, perhaps.
Faulkner didn't look adorable.
He looked like a homeless man turned serial killer.
He reeled in his thoughts.
Everyone thought he was a clown. Harmless, despite his dependency, and his propensity for accidentally lighting fires. They all laughed at his silly jokes.
No one knew what really went on in his head.
He should have said no, but he'd been scared half to death. And, he needed the money.
Cheap vodka was disgusting. Expensive vodka was disgusting, too, but easier on the palette.
Still.....
He should have said no.
"Dammit," he whispered.
He left the safety of his vehicle, parked far beyond the complex. He stuck an old undershirt in the slightly open window. No one would doubt that the beater was disabled.
Faulkner skulked across the parking lot, toward the Receiving Bay door. His footsteps were light, and he was silent as a tomb.
He knew there was one window that didn't lock properly, but this time he had a key. He slid the key into the door, turned it, and the lock released.
Faulkner slipped inside.
He knew the cameras would be deactivated for the night. He'd been assured.
Nonetheless, he pulled the ski mask from his back pocket and slipped it over his head.
It itched.
And it smelled.
It smelled like booze and sweat and fear.
Faulkner gagged.
He wanted to remove the mask, but he couldn't take any chances.
He carefully made his way from the bowels of the Receiving Bay into the retail area. The store was dark; only a few safety lights were left lit. Shadows followed him, and reached for him from the darker aisles. He shivered.
He hated this.
He should have said no.
He wasn't a brave guy. He was a coward. He didn't bungee jump. He didn't sky dive. He didn't want to.
His bucket list simply said:
Avoid any situation that might require bungee jumping or sky diving.
That was all he wanted to do.
Avoid danger.
He rode a roller coaster once, with his sister and her kids. He'd stolen two Xanax from his sister's purse and popped them both before the ride. He'd passed out on the first ascent, and had wound up in the medical tent.
He hadn't been scared.
He'd been unconscious.
He was a weasel.
Something moved in the next aisle and Faulker froze.
"Shit," he whispered, although he made not a sound.
He'd stopped breathing.
Two shadows passed. Two big shadows.
He was sure he wasn't alone.
What had he heard about the Tommy complex?
Wasn't it something else before it was Tommy's?
Had it been a prison, a mental hospital, an Indian burial ground?
Maybe it was haunted.
Maybe he'd disturbed the undead by coming into the store at night.
It wasn't his time to be here.
Perhaps it belonged to the spirits of the night!
Shit. Oh, my God. Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!
Finally, Faulkner did. He inhaled with such force, he should have been top stocked with the Shop Vacs.
He moved wildly through the dark aisles, successfully avoiding the shadow people.
Who were they?
Stop!
Faulkner had to calm himself. If he didn't, he'd have a heart attack, and they'd find him dead in rough plumbing, or some other retail hell, in the light of day.
He was already headed down that road.
He didn't have internal organs.
He had an internal micro brewery.
His liver was probably ruined.
He was almost dead already.
By some miracle, Aaron Faulkner had made his way to the appliance department. He was surrounded by refrigerators, freezers, stoves. Washers and dryers were to his left. He loved appliances.
They were strong.
He was weak.
Sometimes he named them.
He felt at home with his silent friends. They never judged.
Refrigerators were his favorite. They kept his beer cold.
Something moved deep in the store, and the noise, despite its distance away, was crystal clear in the otherwise silent warehouse. Faulkner had to get out of sight. He squeezed behind a behemoth stainless refrigerator. He'd named her Susan, for Susan Sarandon, one of his favorite actresses.
"Hello, Susan," he whispered.
He was safe.
Faulker bravely looked behind him.
"SON OF A ....." Faulkner said, forgetting to whisper.
He was an idiot. The spot behind Susan was empty. He wasn't concealed at all! He was completely visible from the next aisle.
He should have known that.
He'd sold Carol Burnett, a huge side-by-side, just the day before, to an adorable older couple. The husband couldn't hear much, and the wife wore a lot of really cheap perfume.
They'd paid cash. He'd marked Carol down ten percent. She was the last of her kind, a floor model he'd had since his first day.
He had hoped they were worthy of Carol Burnett. He'd really loved her.
Aaron Faulkner imagined how he must look. A crazy, quivering man in a ski mask, hugging a refrigerator. He chastised himself, and took a few seconds to think about his life. He had to get it together. His behavior was a real chick magnet. He wanted what other men had, someone to ask how his day was.
"How was your day?" he imagined his wife asking.
"I hid in appliances, wearing a ski mask, and hugging a refrigerator."
It sounded ridiculous, but the symbolism was nice.
No woman would want him like this, save Kitty. Kitty might like him. Surely she must grade crazy on a curve.
Faulkner sighed and dropped to his knees. He froze again, certain he'd heard a voice, a whisper, something that shouldn't be piercing the silence in an empty place.
He crawled to the freezers. The noises were getting closer, and he no longer doubted himself. The store wasn't haunted, and he wasn't alone.
Someone else....
Some other living person....
Somebody else was inside.
Aaron Faulkner had to find a place to hide, or risk being found.
He liked the hiding idea.
Anything else only worked for a far more courageous man.
He crawled to the back wall, to the chest freezers. He had one with a broken lock, one that didn't quite catch right when closed. One from which he might escape once the danger had passed.
He searched the shadows for just the right one.
He slipped inside.
The freezer latched.
HOLY CRAP!
Faulkner was an idiot.
He'd sold the broken freezer, Chilly Willy, just the previous week, to a middle-age woman who had recently discovered the joy of the Schwann's man. She had a son in college, and a daughter who was married. She was divorced. She'd told Aaron four times. The third time, she'd opened the top button of her blouse.
He'd been a little freaked out.
He didn't want to date her, and he didn't want Chilly Willy going to her crazy house, but he couldn't say no. She wanted the freezer, so he'd sold it to her.
Now he was going to die.
If his high school yearbook had had a category for the student most likely to be found dead in a freezer, Aaron Faulkner supposed he would have won that honor.
Now the prophecy was about to come true.
Aaron Faulkner prayed.
****************
Had he drank it?
He didn't remember drinking it.
He felt no calming effects from it.
Perhaps he drank it in Kitty's truck.
That had been horrifying.
He was sure he was going to die.
And the grandmother?
Faulkner shook his head and stared through his windshield at the hulk of a building in front of him.
Did he dare?
Did he dare sneak into Tommy's Tool Town while it was closed?
He knew how to get in.
He paid attention, although no one would likely believe that.
He was the adorable drunk.
Faulkner looked in the rearview mirror and flinched.
Adorable?
That might be pushing it.
He had an angry welt on his face where he'd whacked the passenger seat, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot. The circles beneath them, ever present from an exhaustion that never subsided, had been gray only this morning. Now they were black as ink.
At least his hair looked combed.
By an egg beater, perhaps.
Faulkner didn't look adorable.
He looked like a homeless man turned serial killer.
He reeled in his thoughts.
Everyone thought he was a clown. Harmless, despite his dependency, and his propensity for accidentally lighting fires. They all laughed at his silly jokes.
No one knew what really went on in his head.
He should have said no, but he'd been scared half to death. And, he needed the money.
Cheap vodka was disgusting. Expensive vodka was disgusting, too, but easier on the palette.
Still.....
He should have said no.
"Dammit," he whispered.
He left the safety of his vehicle, parked far beyond the complex. He stuck an old undershirt in the slightly open window. No one would doubt that the beater was disabled.
Faulkner skulked across the parking lot, toward the Receiving Bay door. His footsteps were light, and he was silent as a tomb.
He knew there was one window that didn't lock properly, but this time he had a key. He slid the key into the door, turned it, and the lock released.
Faulkner slipped inside.
He knew the cameras would be deactivated for the night. He'd been assured.
Nonetheless, he pulled the ski mask from his back pocket and slipped it over his head.
It itched.
And it smelled.
It smelled like booze and sweat and fear.
Faulkner gagged.
He wanted to remove the mask, but he couldn't take any chances.
He carefully made his way from the bowels of the Receiving Bay into the retail area. The store was dark; only a few safety lights were left lit. Shadows followed him, and reached for him from the darker aisles. He shivered.
He hated this.
He should have said no.
He wasn't a brave guy. He was a coward. He didn't bungee jump. He didn't sky dive. He didn't want to.
His bucket list simply said:
Avoid any situation that might require bungee jumping or sky diving.
That was all he wanted to do.
Avoid danger.
He rode a roller coaster once, with his sister and her kids. He'd stolen two Xanax from his sister's purse and popped them both before the ride. He'd passed out on the first ascent, and had wound up in the medical tent.
He hadn't been scared.
He'd been unconscious.
He was a weasel.
Something moved in the next aisle and Faulker froze.
"Shit," he whispered, although he made not a sound.
He'd stopped breathing.
Two shadows passed. Two big shadows.
He was sure he wasn't alone.
What had he heard about the Tommy complex?
Wasn't it something else before it was Tommy's?
Had it been a prison, a mental hospital, an Indian burial ground?
Maybe it was haunted.
Maybe he'd disturbed the undead by coming into the store at night.
It wasn't his time to be here.
Perhaps it belonged to the spirits of the night!
Shit. Oh, my God. Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!
Finally, Faulkner did. He inhaled with such force, he should have been top stocked with the Shop Vacs.
He moved wildly through the dark aisles, successfully avoiding the shadow people.
Who were they?
Stop!
Faulkner had to calm himself. If he didn't, he'd have a heart attack, and they'd find him dead in rough plumbing, or some other retail hell, in the light of day.
He was already headed down that road.
He didn't have internal organs.
He had an internal micro brewery.
His liver was probably ruined.
He was almost dead already.
By some miracle, Aaron Faulkner had made his way to the appliance department. He was surrounded by refrigerators, freezers, stoves. Washers and dryers were to his left. He loved appliances.
They were strong.
He was weak.
Sometimes he named them.
He felt at home with his silent friends. They never judged.
Refrigerators were his favorite. They kept his beer cold.
Something moved deep in the store, and the noise, despite its distance away, was crystal clear in the otherwise silent warehouse. Faulkner had to get out of sight. He squeezed behind a behemoth stainless refrigerator. He'd named her Susan, for Susan Sarandon, one of his favorite actresses.
"Hello, Susan," he whispered.
He was safe.
Faulker bravely looked behind him.
"SON OF A ....." Faulkner said, forgetting to whisper.
He was an idiot. The spot behind Susan was empty. He wasn't concealed at all! He was completely visible from the next aisle.
He should have known that.
He'd sold Carol Burnett, a huge side-by-side, just the day before, to an adorable older couple. The husband couldn't hear much, and the wife wore a lot of really cheap perfume.
They'd paid cash. He'd marked Carol down ten percent. She was the last of her kind, a floor model he'd had since his first day.
He had hoped they were worthy of Carol Burnett. He'd really loved her.
Aaron Faulkner imagined how he must look. A crazy, quivering man in a ski mask, hugging a refrigerator. He chastised himself, and took a few seconds to think about his life. He had to get it together. His behavior was a real chick magnet. He wanted what other men had, someone to ask how his day was.
"How was your day?" he imagined his wife asking.
"I hid in appliances, wearing a ski mask, and hugging a refrigerator."
It sounded ridiculous, but the symbolism was nice.
No woman would want him like this, save Kitty. Kitty might like him. Surely she must grade crazy on a curve.
Faulkner sighed and dropped to his knees. He froze again, certain he'd heard a voice, a whisper, something that shouldn't be piercing the silence in an empty place.
He crawled to the freezers. The noises were getting closer, and he no longer doubted himself. The store wasn't haunted, and he wasn't alone.
Someone else....
Some other living person....
Somebody else was inside.
Aaron Faulkner had to find a place to hide, or risk being found.
He liked the hiding idea.
Anything else only worked for a far more courageous man.
He crawled to the back wall, to the chest freezers. He had one with a broken lock, one that didn't quite catch right when closed. One from which he might escape once the danger had passed.
He searched the shadows for just the right one.
He slipped inside.
The freezer latched.
HOLY CRAP!
Faulkner was an idiot.
He'd sold the broken freezer, Chilly Willy, just the previous week, to a middle-age woman who had recently discovered the joy of the Schwann's man. She had a son in college, and a daughter who was married. She was divorced. She'd told Aaron four times. The third time, she'd opened the top button of her blouse.
He'd been a little freaked out.
He didn't want to date her, and he didn't want Chilly Willy going to her crazy house, but he couldn't say no. She wanted the freezer, so he'd sold it to her.
Now he was going to die.
If his high school yearbook had had a category for the student most likely to be found dead in a freezer, Aaron Faulkner supposed he would have won that honor.
Now the prophecy was about to come true.
Aaron Faulkner prayed.
****************
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