the knife to fly across the room, bounce off the floor, slide for a
bit, and finally come to rest up against the far wall.
Damon pushes Will away, attacks
him like a kick-boxer. Will backs off momentarily, then with the elegance of a
Karate master, spins Damon around and smashes his head into the wall. Damon
drops to the floor, doesn’t move. Will picks up the Bible, dusts it off, kisses
the cover.
“Amazing little book. Always
comes through in my time of need,” he says.
Damon lies on the floor, eyes
closed, doesn’t move. Will approaches me, helps me off the floor. I creep
around the lifeless body maintaining as much distance as possible. Will follows
close behind. As we approach the door, I glance at Damon one more time.
“Is he dead?” I ask.
Will stoops down, feels his
pulse.
“No. Just knocked out. He’ll
be okay.
“Maybe we should call 911.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Will strolls to the back wall,
tears off a paper towel from one of those wall dispensers, and then, uses it to
pick up the switchblade. He carefully folds the knife back together and then wraps
the paper towel around it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You’ll see. Come on; let’s get
out of here, before he comes to.” He takes my hand and then leads me out the
door.
The parking lot is dark now
except for a few areas illuminated by yellow sodium lights. I can see the black
T-Bird, but there’s no one else around. I guess hardly anyone stops here on
Sunday, at dinnertime, on a cold December night. I’m certain Damon knew that,
and planned this, and we fell into his trap. If it wasn’t for Will, who knows
where I’d be right now.
“Will... how’d you learn to
fight like that?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about
it right now.”
“Later then?”
“Yeah, later.”
Will takes the knife wrapped
in the paper towel and drops it down a drain.
“These toys belong in the
sewer,” he says.
I nod in agreement and we
retreat to the Cruiser. Will opens the driver’s door, slides into the seat, and
then starts the engine. As I reach for the passenger door, the wind whips at
the tear in my blouse exposing my bra. Suddenly I become disturbingly cognizant
of the impression it would project if a stranger saw me in this tattered condition.
I open the door, retrieve my jacket, and then struggle to put it on, still
shaking from the incident. Will nervously revs the motor.
“Come on, we got to get out
of here,” he barks.
“Okay!” I say gruffly, and
then plop into my seat slamming the door.
Will backs out the Cruiser
then speeds away onto the interstate.
“We’re lucky,” he says. “No
one saw us.”
“Yeah,” I say, but then think
about others that might be victimized by this psycho’s game, unsuspecting
college students or retirees traveling to their winter retreats. Who knows
where it could lead next time.
“Shouldn’t we file a police
report?” I ask.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something strange
about this guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, this is
not your typical hood,” he says. “He’s got a late model car, expensive clothes,
and talks like he’s well educated.”
“Crooks come in all shapes
and sizes,” I say.
“Yeah, but he’s got local
tags so I got a hunch he lives around here. And that could mean he’s well
connected.”
“Well connected?”
“Yeah, like he’s the son of a
politician or judge or something. We file a police report and next thing you
know, we’re the ones being charged with a crime.
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sure, but suppose the kid comes
up with a story, says we tried to rob him or something. If you’re the Justice
of the Peace, who you going to believe, the son of your best friend, or a
couple of drifters?”
“I never thought of that.”
“Better just let it lie.
Hopefully, someday, he’ll make a mistake and get his due.”
Will had a point. We were on
a tight schedule and
bit, and finally come to rest up against the far wall.
Damon pushes Will away, attacks
him like a kick-boxer. Will backs off momentarily, then with the elegance of a
Karate master, spins Damon around and smashes his head into the wall. Damon
drops to the floor, doesn’t move. Will picks up the Bible, dusts it off, kisses
the cover.
“Amazing little book. Always
comes through in my time of need,” he says.
Damon lies on the floor, eyes
closed, doesn’t move. Will approaches me, helps me off the floor. I creep
around the lifeless body maintaining as much distance as possible. Will follows
close behind. As we approach the door, I glance at Damon one more time.
“Is he dead?” I ask.
Will stoops down, feels his
pulse.
“No. Just knocked out. He’ll
be okay.
“Maybe we should call 911.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Will strolls to the back wall,
tears off a paper towel from one of those wall dispensers, and then, uses it to
pick up the switchblade. He carefully folds the knife back together and then wraps
the paper towel around it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You’ll see. Come on; let’s get
out of here, before he comes to.” He takes my hand and then leads me out the
door.
The parking lot is dark now
except for a few areas illuminated by yellow sodium lights. I can see the black
T-Bird, but there’s no one else around. I guess hardly anyone stops here on
Sunday, at dinnertime, on a cold December night. I’m certain Damon knew that,
and planned this, and we fell into his trap. If it wasn’t for Will, who knows
where I’d be right now.
“Will... how’d you learn to
fight like that?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about
it right now.”
“Later then?”
“Yeah, later.”
Will takes the knife wrapped
in the paper towel and drops it down a drain.
“These toys belong in the
sewer,” he says.
I nod in agreement and we
retreat to the Cruiser. Will opens the driver’s door, slides into the seat, and
then starts the engine. As I reach for the passenger door, the wind whips at
the tear in my blouse exposing my bra. Suddenly I become disturbingly cognizant
of the impression it would project if a stranger saw me in this tattered condition.
I open the door, retrieve my jacket, and then struggle to put it on, still
shaking from the incident. Will nervously revs the motor.
“Come on, we got to get out
of here,” he barks.
“Okay!” I say gruffly, and
then plop into my seat slamming the door.
Will backs out the Cruiser
then speeds away onto the interstate.
“We’re lucky,” he says. “No
one saw us.”
“Yeah,” I say, but then think
about others that might be victimized by this psycho’s game, unsuspecting
college students or retirees traveling to their winter retreats. Who knows
where it could lead next time.
“Shouldn’t we file a police
report?” I ask.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something strange
about this guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, this is
not your typical hood,” he says. “He’s got a late model car, expensive clothes,
and talks like he’s well educated.”
“Crooks come in all shapes
and sizes,” I say.
“Yeah, but he’s got local
tags so I got a hunch he lives around here. And that could mean he’s well
connected.”
“Well connected?”
“Yeah, like he’s the son of a
politician or judge or something. We file a police report and next thing you
know, we’re the ones being charged with a crime.
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sure, but suppose the kid comes
up with a story, says we tried to rob him or something. If you’re the Justice
of the Peace, who you going to believe, the son of your best friend, or a
couple of drifters?”
“I never thought of that.”
“Better just let it lie.
Hopefully, someday, he’ll make a mistake and get his due.”
Will had a point. We were on
a tight schedule and
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