A Guardian of Innocents (23 page)

I slowed as I approached the cellar doors and made my way over to the corner where I had spied on the cops earlier.

I listened as one of them knocked on the door. It struck me as unusual that he would knock without saying anything, without announcing himself. I felt there were only two of them, one for each squad car. But I knew there would be more. There’d be a whole squadron of them once they found the underground theater.  

I prayed the kids would do what I asked of them and not give me away to the police. My stomach was cramping and boiling with anxiety.

The cop turned the knob and found the door locked, but just after that I heard the front door open.

“Well, hello there,” the cop said, surprised to be greeted by three young children.

“There’s a man upstairs,” the girl said, “I think he’s hurt. He was playing with fireworks I guess.”

Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
I silently cheered.

One of the cops radioed for an ambulance, and they both stepped inside, now almost completely certain the “shots fired” call was just the result of someone hearing the distant pop of firecrackers.

I emerged from around the corner I’d been lurking behind and was about to make a mad sprint for the gate and embark on a hopeless trek on foot back to my vehicle, which was just over a mile away. But then I noticed something. Something very tempting.

While the first parked cruiser was turned off, the second one behind it still had its engine running. The blue and red lights were washing over all the white of Milton’s estate.

I knew on foot I stood a damn good chance of getting caught, but if I took one of their squad cars, they’d surely just chase me with the other one. 

It didn’t take me half a second to figure out a solution to that problem. I took the knife out of my duffel bag and ran up to the first police cruiser and planted it in the side of its left rear tire. A loud hiss escaped the impaled Uniroyal as I pulled the knife free. I had to shake the hilt back and forth to get the rubber to let go of the blade. I thought about slashing another tire, but decided I shouldn’t risk the extra seconds it would cost me.

Still keeping low to the ground, I scurried over to the idling cruiser, slipping my survival knife back into my bag. I opened the driver’s door and tried to chuck the bag into the passenger seat, but it was blocked by a video camera which was in the center of the car between the driver and passenger seats, pointed straight at the center of the windshield.

Cursing under my breath, I tossed the bag into the passenger floorboard, got in and closed the door slowly, but firmly. I put the gear in reverse and let the police car coast backwards a bit. As I was turning the wheel so I could pull the car around and put it in drive, I heard a loud, “HEY!!!” 

A pudgy cop sprung out of the front door running. His thumb was unsnapping the button that secured his sidearm. I yanked the gearshift into drive and floored the accelerator, hoping to God I didn’t end up getting shot for this.

I could feel him aiming for one of the rear tires as I flew down the driveway. My senses listened for the moment when the trigger would be pulled. When I felt the little
pop
inside my head, I jerked the wheel to the right a little to throw off his aim.

And I’m pretty sure it worked. None of my tires blew out. But even if one of them had, it would have only slowed me down. I wasn’t stopping for shit.

I hung a right after careening out of Milton’s property onto Walnut Creek Drive, my heart seizing up when I saw a dark figure leaning against the edge of the ten foot wall. But I pressed on. The sight of him only startled me—I just hadn’t expected to see the man in black again. I thought he was done with me for another couple of years or so.

He gave me a quick salute with his right hand as I passed. He was using his left arm to hold up the half of the wrought iron gate the cop had leaned against the wall.

The blue and red lights of my misappropriated car were spinning around the quiet dark of the sleepy Mansfield neighborhood, pouring over all the quaint suburban homes I passed. I found a thin gray switch on the dash by pure luck and flipped it. The lights fell dead. I was relieved that at least I wouldn’t attract any attention on my way to the shop. I just hoped I could make it there without passing any cop cars on their way to Milton’s.

Buster’s Paint & body was getting closer. An automotive repair shop, the perfect place to leave your car late at night where it won’t be noticed! Just a little ways down the road and two quick left turns and I’d be there. Then I remembered the camera sitting only a foot away from my head. If that camera got a shot of my truck’s license plate...

I tried turning it, but it seemed designed to stay in its proper position. I pulled over, stopping just short of the parking lot to Buster’s. I pushed and pulled on the damn thing, desperate to get the job done quickly.

But then I thought to myself, fuck it. Just
fuck it.

Standing outside the vehicle, I braced myself by grabbing the roof of the car and karate kicked the front half of the camera. The lens shattered as the mount snapped, sending the camera toppling over into the passenger seat. If it was still able to record anything, it would see nothing but the glove box from here on out.

Shutting off my headlights, I eased the cruiser onto the fresh white gravel of the shop’s parking lot. I hated this kind of gravel. It was like driving on a road composed of ten million golf balls.

I was ecstatic to find my truck sitting where I’d left it. No break-ins this time. I leapt out of the car, pulling my truck keys out of my pocket and not giving a shit if I’d left the vehicle idling the same way the cop had.

But something was wrong. The familiar weight of the duffel bag wasn’t on my shoulders.

“Ah, hell,” I muttered as I raced back to the squad car to retrieve it.

White rocks crunched beneath my feet like granola as I fast-walked back to my truck and hopped in, throwing my bag into the narrow extended cab behind me. The truck started up fine (never in my life was I so grateful to be rid of that piece of shit Nova) and I sailed out of the place, proceeding north to I-20, not daring to go even one mile over the speed limit.

When I got to my first red light, I unscrewed the cap off a bottled water and emptied a third of it onto a large towel I had left in my truck just for this purpose. I was able to wipe most of my face paint off before the light turned green. I went over my cover story should a cop for some unforeseen reason decide to pull me over: I had just left a Halloween party where I had dressed as a burglar, and no sir, I did not consume any alcohol, not even a sip. I was raised Christian, fine and proper.      

As I approached the freeway, I got brave enough to light a cigarette. I relished the sweet intake of nicotine into my bloodstream. And as I merged onto the highway, a low-flying helicopter soared overhead, chopping up the night air with the pulsing bass of its spinning blades.

I couldn’t help but notice it was heading south.

Chapter 12

November 1
st
, 1997. All Saints Day. I had spent the rest of the night not even trying to sleep. I knew I was too wired for that. My blood pressure had to be near stroke-level. I took a shower about once every hour, did a load of laundry (paranoia prompted me to wash the same load of black clothes three times in a row) and smoked one cigarette after another on the back patio, anxiously anticipating the six AM news. I figured my little adventure would probably make the top story, at least locally.

I was flipping across the channels a little after five in the morning and found the news was already on.

“...police are calling this a
mass
execution,” a female anchor stated, stressing “mass” with a typical news reporter’s gravity.

My stomach sank into my groin. “Here we go,” I whispered.

The male anchor sitting next to her broke in, “Fox 4 News’ Melissa Sharp is live at the scene. Melissa...”

The picture cut from the news anchors’ desk to a female reporter with short blonde hair and wireframe eyeglasses that seemed custom made to give her a neatly clipped, corporate look. She was standing across the street from Milton’s estate.

“Tom, I’m standing in front of the residence of Jebediah Milton, owner and founder of the prominent law firm, Milton and Associates. Police are only releasing limited information at this time, but what we
do
know is that this was the site of at least twelve homicides, but the most shocking death of all was the thirteenth...”

The picture then cut to scenes showing police tape blocking off the gateway of the property, and of neighbors standing on the sidewalks gawking in awe at the entire scene. The reporter’s voice narrated as the cameraman surveyed the area.

“Mansfield Police Officer, Chuck Bonet, was killed in the line of duty last night in what
appears
to be a freak accident while attempting to pursue a suspect in these murders—“

WHAT!!! WHAT!!!             

“—police are not yet speculating how a large iron gate became dislodged from this wall behind me, but somehow a portion of that gate ended up crashing through the windshield of Officer Bonet’s police cruiser. It
is
important to note that police have
not
ruled out his death as a homicide.”      

My heart was pounding, fluttering, palpitating.

Ohshitshitshit!!!!!

A cop is dead. They think whoever shot up the place probably had something to do with it. But...

An image of the apparition popped into my head. One hand on a twisted piece of iron gate, the other giving that half-assed salute.

Ah, fuck. He couldn’t have.

I became possessed by a maddening desire to get the fuck out of Dodge. And I knew only one person who lived far enough away. Paranoia was warning me not to call her from my home phone. I walked down the street to a convenience store a little after six AM, in the dewy twilight of early dawn. I bought a long distance calling card, stepped outside to the store’s payphone, and followed the instructions on the back of the card.

With the one hour time difference, I figured it was about 7:20 in New York. I prayed she was awake.

“Hello?” Desiree answered. She sounded fully awake, without the slightest trace of grogginess.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said.

“Wow, you’re up early... Is anything wrong?”

“Um, well, something’s come up. Would you mind if I visited you for a few days? Maybe a week?”

“What happened?” Though we were thousands of miles apart, the shortness in her voice still made me cringe.

“Uh, I can’t really get into that here, but I promise I’ll explain everything when I get there... If that’s okay.”

A long silence followed. I felt so damn alone standing by that payphone. I was nervous and jittery and doing the motherfuckin’ pee-pee dance due to a combination of anxiety and insomnia.

“Yes, of course it’s okay. But only cuz it’s you. When do you think you’ll get here? I’ll pick you up from the airport. I hope it’s La Guardia. It’s the closest to where I live.”

“I haven’t arranged all that yet,” I said, “I’ll call you back and let you know.”

“Alright, well, I’m on my way to work, but I should get home around two. I have to work half-day Saturdays... Hey, are you still in school?”

“Yeah, I am. It’s... It’s just not real important to me right now.”

“O-Kay,” Desiree replied. I didn’t need any sixth sense to tell me she’d already figured out there was a lot more behind this sudden trip to New York than my desire to see her.

I spent the rest of the day tying up all the loose ends I could think of. I thoroughly washed and vacuumed out my truck, fearful that a criminal forensics team might find a blade of grass from Milton’s lawn in the driver’s floorboard, or perhaps some chalky dust on the tires from the new gravel at Buster’s.

I bagged everything I’d worn or carried that night, including my expensive black workboots, and tossed them all into the dumpster of an apartment complex twenty miles from where I lived.

I stopped at another payphone and, using my phone card again, booked a one-way flight to La Guardia Airport, realizing bitterly that this would use up a good chunk of the money I had left. My flight would depart just shy of two a.m. tomorrow morning.

I went back home to pack my things and discovered Doris had already left for work. She left a note saying she had to work a double and probably wouldn’t be home until ten tonight. There was some leftover roast beef in the fridge for dinner. I figured I’d just leave her a note too:
will be out of town for a few days, don’t worry about me, I’m fine, see you soon. Phil.

I watched the twelve o’clock news as I packed. The police had released a composite sketch drawn using descriptions given by witnesses whose names had not been released. I almost fell over, laughing with joy, when they displayed the picture.

It didn’t look a damn thing like me! You couldn’t even tell what ethnicity this guy belonged to. The only things they had right were the black face-paint and pullover knit hat. The lips were ridiculously inflated, and there was a villainous scowl cutting across his dark eyebrows. It was easy enough to see if you took off this guy’s cap, you wouldn’t expect to find straight blonde hair lying underneath.