Chapter Thirteen -- The Plodder’s Mile

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Smitty met Greg at the station. The plan had worked too well, and now the bad guy knew he had been conned, and probably wouldn’t be too happy about the fact. Instead of catching him in the act, now the best they could do was to get an all-points out on the still from the video camera in the station. Greg had enough sense to set the camera up right after the money had been locked away, but neither of them thought any of this would go down so fast.

“Sorry, buddy,” he began. “I didn’t think you’d have to take a bullet for my stupid idea. I just thought he would show up and try to be discreet about the whole deal. The worst news is that we haven’t heard from your deputy, and this guy obviously had both keys. We better go check on him now.”

Greg sat silent for a moment and realized he hadn’t even thought about Larry in all the commotion. He remembered seeing Larry’s car at his house, but that had been the last time he thought about it. Greg suddenly had a very bad feeling.

When they got to Larry’s house, they were surprised to see the front door open, and so both officers went in with guns drawn. They didn’t have to go far. As soon as they followed each other through that first door, Larry’s body on the floor told the whole story. The pool of blood around his head had started to coagulate. Greg found he had to go back out the front door and gulp in some fresh air.

Smitty was right behind him. He muttered some words of comfort and then walked over to his car and called in the homicide. He hadn’t looked closely, but the wounds looked very similar to Mike Shepherd’s. That meant they weren’t just dealing with a robbery. This thief wasn’t afraid to kill anyone to get his money back.

Simon was sitting in his favorite chair. It was one of those Barcolounger chairs with the handle on side and the legs support that would flip up from the front. Several years ago it has sprung a leak and some of the padding had started to sneak out. Now it was mostly torn and ripped with padding appearing more than what was once the blue material covering it. Simon didn’t care, since he lived alone and was the only one who had to look at it. No one ever came to visit either, so he never even really thought about replacing it. Simon just thought it was comfortable.

He was watching his equally ancient television, which surprisingly was not black and white, but mostly color. Some of the colors weren’t quite right, but that didn’t bother him either. As long as he had a cold beer in his hand and his shotgun by his side, Simon felt all was right with the world. Then the news report came on the television. It was that lovely Paula Rogers again. One of Simon’s favorite television people.

Just because he was slightly over seventy, there was no reason not to entertain the thought that this attractive young lady might see Simon as a desirable mate. He knew she was single, and with the wide-eyed optimism every man carries as standard equipment, Simon imagined himself a proper and eligible bachelor to any good looking woman who had not yet turned him down. He knew he would probably not get the chance to propose, but it did make watching the television that much more interesting.

At least he wasn’t as fanatical about television as the wife had been. She was dead and gone now for over 15 years. While she was alive, she had actually developed relationships with the people on the television, going so far as to tell Simon that if she didn’t watch this show or that, then those poor people on the television would be insulted that she wasn’t at her usual post. She had been whacky.

Paula Rogers was moving her mouth, and Simon was not really listening, but when the picture of Ray came on the screen, Simon sat up and turned up the volume. Apparently, Paula Rogers was reporting from just over the county line, still in Ridgeway.

“Police are asking anyone who has information about Raymond Johnson to contact Harold Smith with the state police,” she was saying. “He is considered armed and dangerous, and is wanted in connection with the $100,000 robbery which happened in our state capital recently. This is another Paula Rogers exclusive for WBHH.”

Simon recognized that guy’s face. It was the man who Simon had seen earlier that day on the dirt road. The same guy who had driven out to the lake was wanted for armed robbery. Simon wasn’t sure if there was a reward available, but to a man used to hunting crows and jackrabbits, the idea of bagging a bad guy who was just up the road was very appealing. Patting the shotgun by his side, Simon muttered, “Time to go to work, Bertha.” Simon had named the shotgun after his dead wife years ago.

John had finished his run, and felt the marathon metaphor fit in very well with what was going on. He got in the house just in time to see the most recent “Paula Rogers exclusive”.

“So that’s what the guy looks like,” John said to himself, not realizing Reba was standing in the kitchen nearby.

She walked into the front room and turned to John, “You’ve heard of this guy before?”

John stopped to think about what he could invent on the spur of the moment. “Yeah, this is the guy they think robbed that bank two days ago.”

Reba looked at his face and it made John nervous. “He was right here in our town?” she said.

“This is the guy who shot Greg, and probably the guy who murdered Larry,” said John. “He also has Larry’s car, and probably his gun.”

“Why didn’t they mention that in the story?” Reba wondered out loud, and John was happy to answer.

“They probably don’t want to panic the locals. He could still be in town, you know.” Reba just chuckled.

“Right, where you gonna hide Larry’s car in a small town like this?” she smirked. “I can see straight across town from our back door.”

John nodded his head and smiled. “Yeah, he’s long gone.” At least that is what John was hoping.

Ray sat sleeping peacefully in his car, enjoying the fresh country air and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. Next to the lake he had found a perfect place, which hid the car from anyone on the dirt road. It was practically impossible to find unless you were walking along the road and went around the turn. Parked under three massive trees, the car sat in the cool of the late afternoon.

He was feeling quite lucky to have found such an ideal location and even considered staying an extra day. If he wasn’t getting so hungry, he probably would have been able to stay. But that was the nice thing about sleeping. Unless you were famished, sleep hid the growling stomach pains. And Ray hadn’t slept at all last night.

The lucid dreams he had as he rested by the side of the lake were also peaceful. Ray could see himself playing happily with his brothers in one of the few moments during their childhood when they weren’t punching each other.

It was one of the days Grandpa had come up the coast to visit, and they were all sitting at the corner ice cream parlor trying to decide among 31 flavors. Grandpa had told them they could have anything on the menu, which to adults, means the most expensive, but to children means the biggest. As in three or four scoops stacked high.

But which flavors to stack next to each other, and in which order? The favorite flavor first? Or last, so you could enjoy it after the others? Grandpa was very patient, and it always made Ray wonder how a patient and kind man like Grandpa could have such angry kids. That was how Ray always thought of his father – angry. Angry enough to beat the boys regularly. Angry enough to leave scars.

Thinking of his father led him to another dream, and it was at least as painful to leave the wonderful ice cream dream as it was to recall the pain inflicted on him by his father. Ray could see the belt being drawn quickly through the belt loops, which signified impending pain. This beating was one of the last Ray had suffered at his father’s hands. It was so vivid that Ray was flinching in his sleep as the belt flashed across his back and buttocks. Then Ray could see his own back in his dream, with blood oozing through his shirt. Time slowed down as the blood crawled across his back, and a close-up of the material from his shirt turned from yellow to a dark brownish red. Ray could see his father dropping the belt to his side, looking at the blood on Ray’s back, and then more slow motion as his mother ran into the picture, grabbing Ray from his father.

It had been the next week they were all placed in a foster home. Ray had always thought it was his fault his family was broken up. If he had only been good enough not to deserve the beating, then there would have been no evidence to damn his parents.

His dreams moved from one foster home to another. Some good, some bad. The memories washed over him as he seemed to float farther and farther away from his family. He remembered fondly when Mrs. Anderson had sat home with him when he was sick, sitting by the bed comforting him, stroking his hair and pulling up the covers. Ray could feel the blankets getting tucked in around his waist. But this time Mrs. Anderson kept adjusting the blankets, and it felt like she was poking him in the side now.

Simon was poking him in the side. With the shotgun. Ray slowly awakened to feel something much harder than blankets pushed against his ribs.

“Get out of the car,” said Simon, “real slow.”

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