What Hides Within (28 page)

"Deal, if we ever get out of here. How long does it take to do an oil change on a piece of shit Ford Escort? I could have done it faster myself."

Sure you could have. You can barely change a tire. Anyway, the guy said it would take half an hour.

"Well, I don't want Victoria subjected to that drunk brother of mine any more than she has to be."

I have to hand it to you, Clive. You're doing a great job with her.

"Thank you. I told you I would."

"Huh?" A new arrival, an elderly lady who sat beside Clive, asked. When Clive ignored her, she huffed, got up, grabbed a seat farther away and began watching him like the other customers.

Yes, Clive. You did. One question, though. What happens to her if something happens to you?

"Damn, Chester! Why are you always so negative?"

Clive's animation made a little girl nearby shy away. "Mommy, what's wrong with him?" she whispered. "Is he crazy?"

"Come on the other side of me, baby," the mother warned. She cursed Clive with a look. It went acknowledged but unheeded, Clive's focus on Chester.

I prefer "cautious." Besides, human life is so damageable.

"Well, nothing is going to happen to me. I look good and feel better. And I got you to watch my back. It seems you are the only one in a position to change all that. You're not planning to kill me, are you?"

You still don't trust me, do you? How about this then? I promise I will not kill or even harm you in any way, shape or form.

"And you have no fortune teller abilities, right? You don't foresee any harm coming to me?"

Like I told you before, your future is yours to make, Clive. I'll help you in any way I can, but ultimately, you decide how your life turns out. I'll just try to make it more interesting for you.

"You've already succeeded in that. So, then, nothing is going to happen to me, not with you looking over my shoulder . . . or through my eyes . . . or from wherever it is that you see out of me. However, on the off-chance that something did happen to me, I leave Victoria's care in the charge of Auntie Chester!"

Clive found his mirth refreshing. His optimism was uncharacteristic, but he certainly enjoyed it. Slowly, his laughter settled. Still, Chester's unprovoked line of questioning piqued his curiosity. Clive was far too young to worry about dying.

"Okay. You've got my attention. What brings up this sudden concern for my well-being?"

Nothing. Well, okay, something. Kevin did pull a knife on you, remember?

"So?"

What do you mean 'so'? He threatened your life!

"He's a puss. He doesn't have the balls to do anything."

Oh yeah, tough guy? Why, then, is he standing at the mall entrance, staring at you like you just ran over his cat with a lawnmower?

"What? You think I'm dumb enough to fall for that one? And who runs over cats with lawnmowers? That's just a sick analogy."

Just look.

Clive let out a deep breath. He knew Chester wouldn't shut up until he humored her. But there was no way Kevin would be there. He'd be seen by countless people. It doesn't get more public than a mall, and "public" wasn't in Kevin's best interest.

Clive looked nonetheless. His eyes searched over the materialistic and fickle consumers, through the red-tag sales and unshaven salespersons of the hardware department and out to the dimly lit, gumball-machine pampered, teenager-corroded mall entrance.

"Where am I supposed to be looking? I don't see him."

Look more closely.

Standing by the entrance to the store, a man in a grey sweatshirt, the hood suspiciously up and hiding most of his face, flittered through a tie display. A few feet behind him, three teenagers with more piercings than a dartboard conversed in swears between bubblegum chomps. One of them wore a grey sweatshirt that matched the tie shopper nearby, hood up in true thug style.

Come see the softer side of Sears
, Clive thought, amused by his usage of the old slogan.

He squinted, examining all the details between him and the mall entrance. He took in everything to the outer edges of his peripherals inward. Still, he saw no sign of Kevin.

"Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?"

You're hopeless. The man in the grey sweatshirt. Does he look familiar?

"Which one?"

Seriously, Clive?

"Okay. First of all, Kevin doesn't have any friends, so he's not the one on the left. Second, there's no way Kevin would come here to go shopping for suit accessories. Whether or not he looks familiar, how should I know? I can't see his face."

Well, I can, and believe me, you're going to want to know who that is.

"Why? Is he someone famous? That would explain his secrecy."

Clive's anticipation grew. He never met anyone famous. He hoped it was at least a B-lister, not someone like Screech from
Saved by the Bell
.

Are you really that daft?

"Come on! Tell me. Who is it?"

Kevin! It's Kevin! Is that explicit enough for you?

The thought of Kevin, an unseasoned though wanted felon, tie shopping made Clive burst into uncontrollable laughter. He got worse when he saw that the man had moved on to the belt section. The waiting room crowd seemed to grow steadily more uncomfortable by Clive's presence. Their awkward glares let Clive know they found him nuttier than squirrel shit.

"Sorry," he said, addressing the mother and daughter nearby. He lowered his self-conversation to a whisper.

"Uh-huh. That's Kevin. Good one, Chester."

It is him. Go say "hello." You'll see.

"You think Kevin would risk his freedom by coming to a vastly populated location so close to his former home, despite the fact that cops in two states are after him, just so he could get himself a sportier necktie? Look! He's trying on a reversible belt. Look out, Chester. A wannabe killer with poor fashion sense? How gauche!"

Sarcasm aside, that sounds about right. Why don't you see for yourself? He keeps looking this way.

Clive blinked and returned his eyes to the man with the grey sweatshirt. The man's face was slightly more discernible at that angle. Clive waited for the man to turn his way for a more complete view.

"Kevin may be a college dropout, but he isn't that stu--"

At that moment, the man turned. His eyes met Clive's and erased the smile from his face. Clive jettisoned out of his seat as if a bomb was about to go off beneath it.

"Jesus Christ, Chester! It
is
him."

That's what I've been trying to tell you.

"Well, you did a lousy job of it!"

Clive's light heart went instantly heavy. Across the expanse of the retail store, two men stood, gazes locked, poised, silent, each awaiting the other's move like two gunmen at high noon.
Go ahead
, Clive dared silently. He didn't so much as blink.
Draw.

Kevin made his move. "You're dead," he mouthed slowly. He took his thumb and ran it from one side of his neck to the other, the threat almost cartoonish and laughable. But Clive didn't take it as a joke.

"That's it!" Clive's hands rolled into fists, ready to pummel. He glanced at his watch, 3:58 p.m. He still had a couple of minutes before his car was officially beyond the mechanic's estimated repair time. And since others present had been waiting far longer than he, he had time enough to catch himself a criminal, maybe get in a few good whacks.

You'd be well within your rights to kill him, you know
, Chester advised.
He wants you dead. The way I see it, it's him or you, and you don't want it to be you, do you?

"Yeah, but Chester, he's not going to--"

He's mocking you, Clive. He's threatened you now not once but twice. He's basically calling you a pussy. Are you a pussy?

"No, but my car--"

It'll be here when you get back. Go after him. He deserves an ass kicking.

Clive started coming around to Chester's way of thinking. Kevin wanted to play games with him? Maybe it was time he taught Kevin a lesson. His anger grew the more he contemplated it.

"Alright, let's go kick his ass."

Yes, Clive. Do it now, and do it quickly. It's him or you, Clive. Him or you.

Clive's rage blinded him to logic. "Him or me," he repeated as he stormed through arrangements of power tools and riding mowers. The automotive center's customers sighed in united relief as he left.

Kevin watched his oncoming opponent. He slinked from the store and around a corner, out of Clive's immediate view.

When Clive reached the mall entrance, he couldn't find Kevin. He perused the mall in both directions, looking for a grey sweatshirt.
He must have ducked into a store
, Clive thought.
Fucking coward. No matter. I'll find him.

Before Clive could take another step, he heard his digital watch emit a single beep as it did every hour, on the hour. 4:00 p.m. The next thing he heard was a deafening blast. Then, darkness.

When he awoke, Clive's head rang so hard that it blurred his vision. He propped himself up and crawled to a nearby wall. He threw his back against it with his remaining might.

Clive could see mouths moving, screaming, around him, but they came through muffled. A wet trickle ran over his eyebrow, dripping off it like raindrops from a gutter and continuing in a stream down his left cheek. He slid his fingers across his face and could see dark red smears painted across them. When Clive groped for the blood's source, he could tell that his head had been split open. The incision followed the path of his scar tissue from Dr. Landenberg's needless surgery. In his haze, Clive wondered if it would affect his chances in a lawsuit against the doctor.

Clive took in the scene around him. A powerful blast incinerated and disintegrated everything and everyone in the automotive center. In his quest to apprehend and beat the shit out of Kevin, Clive had removed himself from the blast zone.

The hardware department was not as lucky. The shockwaves from the blast sent debris flying at high speeds. Tools and the shelves that once housed them uplifted as if at the whim of some wicked poltergeist. Clive was hit in the back by something solid, a tool box perhaps. A few were strewn about the storefront. As he tried to piece together what had happened, Clive surmised that whatever hit him sent him tumbling forward. As he plummeted toward the hard tile floor, his head must have connected with something that split it open and knocked him unconscious. The nearby bench seemed the most likely culprit. His head injury masked the soreness from the softball-sized bruise Clive sustained under his right shoulder.

Others weren't as fortunate. Aside from the dozen-or-so customers who were blown to bits in the waiting room, almost everyone within the vicinity of the hardware department was either injured or dead. Circular saw blades spun like Frisbees into two of the three mallrats who had stood only a few feet to Clive's left. Clive found it ironic that the one with the matching sweatshirt to Kevin seemed unaffected. A woman screamed hysterically, her leg fractured beneath a Sony television that she no longer wished to purchase. Another woman lay in shock in the carpentry aisle. Her wounds were superficial but painful. Several nails punctured her face and head in a manner that brought to mind that acupuncture enthusiast from
Hellraiser
. Still others had minor injuries near the store's entrance. Most seemed disoriented, but they had plenty to be thankful for. The customers in the automotive center needed to be collected by others, piece by bloodied piece.

Clive slid sideways down the wall, resting semi-deaf against the floor. His vision struggled to re-focus, but it would get no clearer. He saw the world as though it were reflected in the surface of rippled water. He closed his eyes.

Clive felt a tugging sensation. Someone reached under his right arm, beckoning him to stand. But the cold floor was somehow comforting, and he didn't want to move. With every tug, he grew more nauseous. He knew the feeling. It wasn't his first concussion.

Clive shook off the assisting stranger and tucked his arm under his bloodied forehead. Thanks to Kevin, Clive had avoided a horrible fate in the waiting room of the automotive center. Thanks to Kevin, the man who had pulled a knife on him only a week ago, Clive was alive.

But Clive didn't view things so cut and dry. He should have listened to Detective Reilly. He should have investigated Kevin more seriously like she had wanted him to, like he had intended. With Derek's death and all that had happened since, he barely found the time to have a key made. Kevin was exactly who Reilly claimed he was. Kevin was responsible for the explosions. And Clive believed that, in spite of all the innocents it had killed, this one was meant for him.

"Him or me," Clive said as his consciousness waned. "Him or me."

***

The parking lot looked as though Christmas had come early. Blue, red and white lights flashed and circled atop a battalion of emergency vehicles. Camera crews from all the major networks showed up. Guys in long jackets and well-pressed suits spoke into black microphones, relaying the morbid tale of the explosion and filming the dead with overzealous tenacity. They detached themselves from the human element. Clive thought they would shove their microphones against the mouths of each body if they could, hoping to get a statement.

He watched with disgust as the reporters swarmed like hyena around victims, witnesses and families. They would get nothing from him. But he knew who was responsible.

Wrapped in a coarse, unwashed blanket, Clive sat on a curb beside an ambulance, not really sure how he got there. His head had been haphazardly cleaned and bandaged, but he knew stitches would be necessary. As the paramedics did what they could for the survivors, he hid himself from the crowd, hoping to hitch a ride to the hospital in one of the ambulances. His car likely totaled, he had few other options. From what he could overhear, a second larger blast obliterated the automotive service area.
At least I shouldn't have to pay for the oil change now
, he thought.

Calling Morgan would only make her worry needlessly. So, Clive waited as they collected the bodies from the rubble. The waiting left him at police disposal.