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Authors: Raen Smith
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after.
He looked at the clock again to see
that ten minutes had passed. It would take him fifteen minutes to get down to
the pizza place. He had five more minutes to make his decision.
He played the message again,
listening to the voice of the man. The caller seemed relatively calm and
collected except for when he mentioned Holston Parker. The name had caught in
his throat. Fred closed his eyes as he finished listening to the message. The
answering machine clicked as it stopped and the humming of his window air
conditioning unit filled the silence.
Hell, he knew he had nothing to lose.
Heading out for pizza tonight with some guy seemed better than staying here. Plus, he was a little curious how his name ended up on some
list that Holston Parker kept. Fred knew that Holston was taking out criminals
when he was alive, but that was the key phrase, alive . Holston Parker was long gone, and he shouldn’t have to worry
if his name was on some list. Yet Fred kept going back to how he had gotten on that list anyway. Call it morbid curiosity.
Maybe the caller would know.
He set the glass back down on the
table, contemplating if he needed to change his clothes. It was a hot day in
the plant, and he definitely did his fair share of sweating, yet he knew that
no one expected much from a sex offender anyway. It was hard to disappoint
anyone.
He grabbed the glass and set it in
the sink before he wiped the table with a towel from the counter. He took the
towel to his own face, wiping it before he threw the towel back down, and
grabbed his wallet stocked with exactly eleven dollars and his driver’s license.
He had eleven dollars to get him
through the night and nothing more until tomorrow’s pay day. It would be enough
for some pizza and maybe a beer if he was lucky.
Fred grabbed the keys to his
ten-year-old Chevy Cavalier and ran his fingers through his hair.
Just be normal , he reminded
himself as he walked to the door. He pulled the door open with a quick sweep
and looked up to see a man in a baseball cap and glasses waiting in front of
it. He wore khakis and a button down shirt.
“Can I help you?” Fred asked,
dangling the keys in his hand.
“Are you Fred Sullivan?” the man
asked in a cool and steady voice. Fred recognized the voice; it was the caller
from the answering machine.
“Yeah,” he answered, still holding
the door open. Nothing about the man alarmed Fred. He was used to hanging
around convicts and criminals. This guy didn’t seem like one; he was shorter,
somewhat stocky, fit, but not muscular; maybe in his late fifties, early
sixties. Nothing to get worked up about.
“I’m the guy that called you about
the list,” he said, holding up a piece of paper. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Fred opened the door wider,
allowing the man to come in, not knowing that the glass of Scotch was the last
he would ever drink.
7
June 18, 8:45 a.m .
Norway
My eyes flashed open to see the
numbers glowing a light yellow that I could barely
read. I blinked in rapid succession, trying to moisten my eyes when I realized
my brown contacts were still in. I closed my eyes long enough to count, and
when I opened them, I read 8:45 on the clock. The morning sun was streaming
through the windows now, casting light on Ryan’s bedroom. Our bedroom. And the bag that I
left beside the bed was now sitting on top of the dresser right in front of me.
Shit.
I thought of the dream I’d just
had, the cowboy running through it with a vengeance. He was trying to tell me
something, warn me of what was to come. Someone wanted me back; someone was
trying to get my attention with the death of Father Haskens and the threats to Sister Josephine. I wondered how far this person would go if
I didn’t come back. Would he move on to the Jones family - my family? Who would be next? Delaney? Mark? I knew I had to go
back. I couldn’t let Sister Josephine end up like she had in my dream, and I
sure the hell couldn’t risk the rest of
He looked at the clock again to see
that ten minutes had passed. It would take him fifteen minutes to get down to
the pizza place. He had five more minutes to make his decision.
He played the message again,
listening to the voice of the man. The caller seemed relatively calm and
collected except for when he mentioned Holston Parker. The name had caught in
his throat. Fred closed his eyes as he finished listening to the message. The
answering machine clicked as it stopped and the humming of his window air
conditioning unit filled the silence.
Hell, he knew he had nothing to lose.
Heading out for pizza tonight with some guy seemed better than staying here. Plus, he was a little curious how his name ended up on some
list that Holston Parker kept. Fred knew that Holston was taking out criminals
when he was alive, but that was the key phrase, alive . Holston Parker was long gone, and he shouldn’t have to worry
if his name was on some list. Yet Fred kept going back to how he had gotten on that list anyway. Call it morbid curiosity.
Maybe the caller would know.
He set the glass back down on the
table, contemplating if he needed to change his clothes. It was a hot day in
the plant, and he definitely did his fair share of sweating, yet he knew that
no one expected much from a sex offender anyway. It was hard to disappoint
anyone.
He grabbed the glass and set it in
the sink before he wiped the table with a towel from the counter. He took the
towel to his own face, wiping it before he threw the towel back down, and
grabbed his wallet stocked with exactly eleven dollars and his driver’s license.
He had eleven dollars to get him
through the night and nothing more until tomorrow’s pay day. It would be enough
for some pizza and maybe a beer if he was lucky.
Fred grabbed the keys to his
ten-year-old Chevy Cavalier and ran his fingers through his hair.
Just be normal , he reminded
himself as he walked to the door. He pulled the door open with a quick sweep
and looked up to see a man in a baseball cap and glasses waiting in front of
it. He wore khakis and a button down shirt.
“Can I help you?” Fred asked,
dangling the keys in his hand.
“Are you Fred Sullivan?” the man
asked in a cool and steady voice. Fred recognized the voice; it was the caller
from the answering machine.
“Yeah,” he answered, still holding
the door open. Nothing about the man alarmed Fred. He was used to hanging
around convicts and criminals. This guy didn’t seem like one; he was shorter,
somewhat stocky, fit, but not muscular; maybe in his late fifties, early
sixties. Nothing to get worked up about.
“I’m the guy that called you about
the list,” he said, holding up a piece of paper. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Fred opened the door wider,
allowing the man to come in, not knowing that the glass of Scotch was the last
he would ever drink.
7
June 18, 8:45 a.m .
Norway
My eyes flashed open to see the
numbers glowing a light yellow that I could barely
read. I blinked in rapid succession, trying to moisten my eyes when I realized
my brown contacts were still in. I closed my eyes long enough to count, and
when I opened them, I read 8:45 on the clock. The morning sun was streaming
through the windows now, casting light on Ryan’s bedroom. Our bedroom. And the bag that I
left beside the bed was now sitting on top of the dresser right in front of me.
Shit.
I thought of the dream I’d just
had, the cowboy running through it with a vengeance. He was trying to tell me
something, warn me of what was to come. Someone wanted me back; someone was
trying to get my attention with the death of Father Haskens and the threats to Sister Josephine. I wondered how far this person would go if
I didn’t come back. Would he move on to the Jones family - my family? Who would be next? Delaney? Mark? I knew I had to go
back. I couldn’t let Sister Josephine end up like she had in my dream, and I
sure the hell couldn’t risk the rest of
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