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Fugitive by Kimberly Brown Lynnette Jones leaned across the counter and filled Ray Summers' coffee cup. She smiled at him, her gold tooth flashing. "I sure am glad to see your appetite has come back. We've missed you around here."
Ray smiled. For the first time in months he felt contented and at peace with the world. He sopped up the last of his grits and eggs with a bit of toast. "It was a fine breakfast," he told her. Steak, eggs, and grits--a man couldn't get a better last meal, he thought to himself.
He handed Lynnette a twenty. She went to the cash register and made change. "You know, we sure were sorry to hear about Mrs. Summers." She picked up a rag and wiped the counter as she spoke, as if embarrassed to be expressing sentiment to a man she'd only chatted with about the weather in the ten years he'd been coming to the Waffle Palace.
Ray looked down to hide the pain he knew flooded his eyes at the mention of Vera. "Appreciate that." He grabbed a toothpick from the dispenser and strolled into the hot Georgia sun. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and noticed an odd sight: police cars were scattered throughout the parking lot like a child's abandoned toys. Ray counted three sheriff's cars, two city police, even two state patrol cars and a motorcycle with a blue bubble on back.
Elmer Coty stood watching too, his paper cook's hat perched to one side of his head. He glanced at Ray. "They're looking for a fugitive. Guy robbed a convenience store in the middle of the night. Shot the clerk. Not fatal though. He got away, but someone thought they spotted him around here." Elmer's bony finger pointed to the grassy hill beside the restaurant. For the first time, Ray saw several uniformed cops combing through the long weeds.
"Just don't know what gets into folks," Elmer muttered. With a shake of his head, he turned and walked back into the restaurant. Ray could feel the cold air conditioning as the door swung open.
After watching for a moment, Ray went around the corner and climbed into his truck. The wave of stifling heat felt good on his 75-year old bones. He pulled onto the four-lane highway and headed for home. What waited for him there would be welcome. He was ready for it.
Idling at a red light a few blocks from the restaurant, he gazed into his rearview mirror. His eyes fell on the hard flat cover on the back of his pickup. Had he locked it? He rarely did, since he never carried much of value back there. He wondered why the cops hadn't searched it. A chill went through him in spite of the heat. What better place for a fugitive to hide? His truck had been parked around on the side--the side away from the road and closest to the grassy hill.
He shook his head as the light changed. He didn't really think the guy was back there. But now that he'd imagined it, he couldn't get it out of his head until he'd checked. Vera had always said he had too much imagination. He pushed thoughts of Vera away and pulled into a driveway. He was already out of the main part of town, into a section of old homes that hadn't sold out to businesses yet. On midmorning of a weekday, it felt pretty deserted.
Ray left the truck idling while he hopped out and went around to the back. He began to lift the heavy cover, expecting to see the stuff he carried: bits of bungee cord, a few boards, his toolbox. As he lifted the cover, he gasped as it was jerked out of his hands from inside.
A young man with dishwater-blonde hair, stubbled chin, and torn t-shirt crouched in the truck bed. One of his hands held the truck lid up, and the other held a pistol, pointed at Ray's chest. "Don't move." His voice sounded rusty, as if he hadn't used it in a while.
Ray stared at the gun while the young man--just a kid really--pushed the truck lid all the way open and stepped over the tailgate. His eyes darted around then settled on Ray. The highway was deserted, but Ray knew that someone could drive by any second now. The kid seemed to know it too. He pointed the small gun to the passenger side of the truck. "Get in and scoot over. You're driving."
Ray thought frantically. If he could get in on the driver's side, he could floor it before the kid could open the passenger door. "It's a stick," he said. "I'll have to climb over the gear shift."
"Then climb! I'm following you in." The gun poked Ray's ribs.
Ray lifted stiff legs over the gearshift and settled into the driver's seat. He looked over at the kid, who had gotten in and slammed the door. "Now what?" The gun was pointed at his middle. Ray had hunted for years and he respected the hole even a small gun could put in a living thing. But did it really matter? True, it would be more painful than the handful of pills he'd saved, but the end result would be the same.
"We're going to an ATM and you're gonna get me some money." The kid seemed pleased with himself for thinking of the idea. He flashed a nervous, yellow-toothed grin at Ray as he pulled the seatbelt over his bony shoulder.
Ray put the truck in reverse, waited for a car to go by, and backed out of the driveway. He turned toward town, heading for his bank. If he gave the kid money, he'd probably kill him anyway. That part didn't matter much. But if the kid killed him, what would he do next? Hurt someone else--maybe a woman or a family man. Someone who wasn't ready to die like Ray was. Ray licked his dry lips. "After we get the money, then what?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Ray could see the kid frown at the road, as if the solution to his problem would leap in front of the truck like a deer at night. He had one of those pinched, pockmarked faces that would look old before he was thirty, and the lack of sleep made his mouth slack, his eyes bleary. "I'm thinking," the kid said.
They were stopped at the first traffic light going into town. A few cars were around, their drivers oblivious to the trouble Ray was in. Hands gripping the steering wheel, Ray stared at his captor. "You're Al Jenkins' boy, aren't you? Kevin?"
The kid looked startled. "So
what if I am?" Ray shrugged. "Al and my boy Jake went to school together. They were pretty tight for a while. Been more'n a year since I've seen Al, though."
Kevin frowned. "So?"
Ray shook his head. He turned into the bank parking lot and pulled into the ATM line. Kevin held the gun down, out of sight of any passing cars or security cameras.
"Kevin," Ray said. "When I was about your age, I got into some trouble too."
Kevin gestured with the gun. "I don't care, old man. Just get me whatever you've got in your account."
"I will. It's not much though. Few hundred dollars is all. I won't be needing it anyway."
Kevin was quiet. Ray listened to the throb of the engine.
"What'd you do?" Kevin asked. "To get in trouble?"
"Robbed a gas station. Got sent to prison. It was the best thing that ever happened to me."
Kevin snorted. "So now you're gonna tell me to give myself up. Go to prison and get rehabilitated."
"It'd go a lot easier on you. And your family." Ray inched ahead as one car pulled away from the ATM.
"My family! As if they care."
"They care, believe me." Ray gripped the steering wheel, thinking of Jake, a grown man sobbing at his mother's funeral. "They care." He shook his head to clear it.
"Anyway, I did my time. Seven rough years. But it changed my life, that's for sure." Tears stung his eyes, but they were sweet tears, tears of remembering. "I met a girl named Vera--the prison chaplain's baby sister. Can you imagine? That prison chaplain really put his money where his mouth was. He said he believed I was rehabilitated, and then danged if he didn't let me date his sister when I got out."
"So some woman changed your life. So what?"
"So we were married for forty-five years. Until she died three weeks ago."
Kevin squirmed in his seat. Ray watched the gun. He could possibly get it away from the younger man, but one of them might get shot in the taking.
Ray pulled his truck forward. It was his turn at the ATM. He put in his card and punched in his PIN. "I'm getting you this money because of that gun there, but you sure need to consider giving yourself up."
Ray handed the bills to Kevin, who wadded them and stuffed them in his dirty jeans pocket. Ray pulled to the bank exit. "Now what?"
Kevin rubbed a hand over his dirty face. "I don't know. Take me to your house. I'll let you off and take the truck. I can be in North Carolina before they start looking for me serious." He looked at Ray, as if seeking approval for his plan.
Ray nodded and pulled the truck back into traffic. But for the gun Kevin held loosely on his lap, they could be a grandfather and grandson, out for a drive together. Kevin was quiet for a minute. Then he said, "My mom died a few months ago." He looked down at the gun in his hand.
Ray said, "Yeah, I read about it in the paper. You read a lot of obituaries at my age. I was real sorry about that. Didn't make it to the funeral, with Vera being in the hospital." Ray glanced at Kevin and thought he saw dampness on his thin cheek. "How's your dad holding up?"
Kevin snorted and looked away. "Not too good. Drinking too much." He wriggled against the seatbelt. "I just had to do something, you know. Get some money, get out of that house. My dad walks around like a ghost, doesn't go to work much, doesn't clean up, doesn't even take a shower. My sister's running wild, driving us both crazy. My mother would kill her if she knew." He slapped the dashboard with his free hand and grunted in frustration.
Ray stared at the road ahead. They'd gotten back through town and were on a two-lane heading for his old farmhouse. He didn't know what waited beyond, Heaven, Hell, or just blessed nothingness, but he knew that death really stank for the ones left behind. For the past three months he'd been running from the unthinkable--a life without Vera. He'd been a fugitive, too, as much as this young man beside him, hiding and plotting his sneaky getaway, hording pills, planning to leave Jake behind, motherless and fatherless.
Kevin spoke, almost too quiet for Ray to hear. "What'll they do? If I...you know."
Ray pulled into his long gravel driveway. His empty house sat in the trees. He still expected Vera to step out on the porch and wave to him. "I'll be honest. It won't be a walk in the park. You'll get time. But you'll get time anyway when they catch you. More if you let that gun go off and kill me." Ray suddenly realized he didn't want that to happen after all.
The sun shone through the windshield and the heat felt good on Ray's arthritic hands. The smell of coffee and bacon lingered on his clothes. It was a pretty day, he thought, and he wanted to see another one. He wanted to call Jake and go fishing with him, or just sit and talk. Vera would have been ashamed of him, for thinking what he'd been thinking, just because he thought he couldn't live without her.
Ray realized Kevin had said something. He looked down to see Kevin's trembling hand put the gun on the seat between them.
"I'm gonna do it," Kevin said. "Not because you told me to. But it's what my mom would have wanted."
Ray nodded and picked up the gun. "That's a real fine reason." THE END Kimberly Brown © 2006 |
Kimberly Brown is the flash fiction editor
for Apollo's Lyre. Her short stories have appeared in many places,
including Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, Dreams of Decadence
Vampire Fiction and Poetry, Espresso Fiction, Orchard Press, Flashshot,
and in Seven Deadly Tales of the Seven Deadly Sins anthology. She has a
mystery story upcoming in Silver Moon Ezine. Her day job is writing for
The Northeast Georgian newspaper.