Read Online Pod by Stephen Wallenfels - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Wallenfels
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of time and batteries. I’m about to switch off my light when I spot the black liner to the ashtray. It’s upside down next to the gas pedal. There’s a small bump on the side where it should be smooth. I pick it up. A strip of black tape is covering something. I peel back the tape and smile.
A silver key.
I glance over my shoulder at the green door. It’s closed and quiet, but who knows for how long. It’s almost midnight. Maybe they’ll decide to get some sleep before coming back. And maybe they won’t. I look under the driver’s seat, slide the key in the lock. It turns. I pull out the drawer. It’s padded with a thin layer of black foam. There’s a thick wad of folded-up fifties wrapped with a rubber band. A cell phone. And a black metal box. It’s like a mini-briefcase with a handle and a combination lock with four numbered dials. I lift it out of the drawer. It’s definitely big enough to hold a gun, and heavy enough, too. I leave the money and the phone but keep the briefcase. I close the drawer and start to lock it, but my brain flashes a picture of Richie smashing the taillights on the Nova. Mom will have to get that fixed and we don’t have any money. There goes our breakfast at Denny’s. That gives me an idea. It’s stupid, but I can’t stop. I find a piece of paper and use the flashlight pen to write a short note:
Guess what I’ve got.
Bang. Bang.
I slide the note under the money, close the drawer, and put the key in my pocket.
There’s some noise coming from behind the green door. Something is happening inside the hotel. The sound is muffled, but I think it’s screaming. I climb back to Cassie, carrying the black briefcase in my hand.
I pick her up. She’s warm and floppy from sleeping on my bag. Her eyes open.
“Look what I found,” I say, showing her my prize. “The Holy Grail.”
DAY 9: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Contact
I’m watching the apartments across the street. I do this for hours, binoculars glued to my eyes while I sit in the comfy red chair I dragged over to face the living room window. It’s a fascination of mine ever since the gunshot episode. Not because I’m a sicko freak hoping to catch a murder in progress. I do it because it keeps my mind off the alternatives. I tell Dad I’m looking for changes in the POD. I even have a notebook that I use to write down bogus observations, like:
2:17pm – Subject slightly changed color
or
Subject moved five centameters to left, then fired blaster beam at old lady with red hat.
Dad looks at the notepad from time to time. His only comment so far: “Centimeter is spelled with an i.”
I have a system. I start at the window on the bottom right and move across each floor until I reach the upper-leftapartment on the third story. Some windows have curtains, some don’t. One lap takes me about fifteen minutes unless something interesting is going on, and that happened only once, not including the naked fat guy with the bullet holes. I saw a woman dancing in a white dress. She kept passing in front of the window, twirling and spinning, sometimes really shaking it up. I liked how she’d toss her head back and laugh, her long blond hair dangling down behind her, then flying out when she did one of her spins. I keep checking back, but there’s a curtain over the window now. Even if I never see her again, I’d say my time here is well spent.
I hear Dad moving around behind me. I put down the binoculars, check my watch, pick up the pad, and write:
4:38pm – POD reverses rotation and nearly crashes.
I pick up the binoculars and resume the search. The window on the second floor, three over from the right—it’s cracked and missing a shutter. Five years ago this apartment building was new and attractive with fresh white paint and green doors with matching shutters. Now it’s a dull brown, the grass in front is mostly weeds, and there’s usually some kind of trash out front blowing around in the wind. Moving to the
A silver key.
I glance over my shoulder at the green door. It’s closed and quiet, but who knows for how long. It’s almost midnight. Maybe they’ll decide to get some sleep before coming back. And maybe they won’t. I look under the driver’s seat, slide the key in the lock. It turns. I pull out the drawer. It’s padded with a thin layer of black foam. There’s a thick wad of folded-up fifties wrapped with a rubber band. A cell phone. And a black metal box. It’s like a mini-briefcase with a handle and a combination lock with four numbered dials. I lift it out of the drawer. It’s definitely big enough to hold a gun, and heavy enough, too. I leave the money and the phone but keep the briefcase. I close the drawer and start to lock it, but my brain flashes a picture of Richie smashing the taillights on the Nova. Mom will have to get that fixed and we don’t have any money. There goes our breakfast at Denny’s. That gives me an idea. It’s stupid, but I can’t stop. I find a piece of paper and use the flashlight pen to write a short note:
Guess what I’ve got.
Bang. Bang.
I slide the note under the money, close the drawer, and put the key in my pocket.
There’s some noise coming from behind the green door. Something is happening inside the hotel. The sound is muffled, but I think it’s screaming. I climb back to Cassie, carrying the black briefcase in my hand.
I pick her up. She’s warm and floppy from sleeping on my bag. Her eyes open.
“Look what I found,” I say, showing her my prize. “The Holy Grail.”
DAY 9: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Contact
I’m watching the apartments across the street. I do this for hours, binoculars glued to my eyes while I sit in the comfy red chair I dragged over to face the living room window. It’s a fascination of mine ever since the gunshot episode. Not because I’m a sicko freak hoping to catch a murder in progress. I do it because it keeps my mind off the alternatives. I tell Dad I’m looking for changes in the POD. I even have a notebook that I use to write down bogus observations, like:
2:17pm – Subject slightly changed color
or
Subject moved five centameters to left, then fired blaster beam at old lady with red hat.
Dad looks at the notepad from time to time. His only comment so far: “Centimeter is spelled with an i.”
I have a system. I start at the window on the bottom right and move across each floor until I reach the upper-leftapartment on the third story. Some windows have curtains, some don’t. One lap takes me about fifteen minutes unless something interesting is going on, and that happened only once, not including the naked fat guy with the bullet holes. I saw a woman dancing in a white dress. She kept passing in front of the window, twirling and spinning, sometimes really shaking it up. I liked how she’d toss her head back and laugh, her long blond hair dangling down behind her, then flying out when she did one of her spins. I keep checking back, but there’s a curtain over the window now. Even if I never see her again, I’d say my time here is well spent.
I hear Dad moving around behind me. I put down the binoculars, check my watch, pick up the pad, and write:
4:38pm – POD reverses rotation and nearly crashes.
I pick up the binoculars and resume the search. The window on the second floor, three over from the right—it’s cracked and missing a shutter. Five years ago this apartment building was new and attractive with fresh white paint and green doors with matching shutters. Now it’s a dull brown, the grass in front is mostly weeds, and there’s usually some kind of trash out front blowing around in the wind. Moving to the
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