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Authors: Allan Leverone
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the victim’s tearful mother as she stood in the shade of the overhang on the top step just outside the entrance to the rest stop. Her arm was wrapped tightly around her daughter’s shoulder, and it appeared she had no intention of ever removing it. The blonde girl looked exhausted.
Martin’s heart ached. She was so beautiful. He already missed her immensely.
“It was incredible,” the woman was telling an unseen reporter. “This man, Bill Ferguson, risked his life to save my little girl. He stared down the barrel of that lunatic’s gun. Then, the police came and he just disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him or where he went, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to him or even thank him for the tremendous risk he took. Mr. Ferguson, if you’re out there, you are a true hero. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Martin felt a tide of anger rising inside him as he watched the disgusting display on his television. He wanted to pull his gun out and shoot the woman right through the screen. That girl she was so obsessively hugging to her bosom should have been his . She was rightfully his and she’d been taken away by that stupid busybody who didn’t have a shred of common sense. Why in the holy hell did he have to stick his nose into a situation that was clearly none of his business?
Didn’t a loaded gun mean anything anymore? Martin was flabbergasted. He could not understand it.
The more he thought about, the more he realized he had been wronged, had suffered a personal insult, and he was not about to take it lying down. The old Martin Krall would have curled up in the fetal position like some pathetic loser when life dealt him a bad hand. No more. The new and improved Martin Krall had learned that you had to fight for yourself in this world; you had to go after what you wanted, because no one else was going to get it for you.
On television, the cameras tracked the reluctant hero as he climbed into his vehicle, clearly anxious to escape. Questions were shouted at him from every direction and he ignored them all. “No comment,” he said as he pulled his door shut and started his van’s engine. He pulled forward slowly and carefully, the reporters moving out of the way only with the utmost reluctance and only at the point of being run down.
The man’s van lumbered left to right across the screen as he accelerated toward the on-ramp to the highway. He was driving a Ford Econoline panel van. Stenciled across the side in big, gold, block letters against a blue background were the words “Ferguson Hardware.” Underneath, in smaller print, were words Martin could not make out. He assumed they were the locations and telephone numbers of his stores.
No matter. Bill Ferguson was the man’s name, and he owned a hardware store. How many Bill Fergusons could there be in the area who also owned hardware stores? This guy would be very easy to find.
He took a sip of his warm, flat cola and reached for his remote, changing the input on his television so he could watch a DVD. A long, lonely night stretched endlessly in front of him with no blonde teenaged companionship to help pass the time. That was the fault of one person and one person only. But it was okay, because Martin had all the information he needed to begin rectifying the situation.
It was time for a little porn and some planning.
CHAPTER 15
BILL STOOD ON THE varnished surface of the oversized farmer’s porch running the length of the colonial style home and rang the doorbell. He hoped Carli would be the one to answer the door, but knew that was unlikely. She was probably upstairs, finishing her homework or listening to music or texting her friends. The intense heat had barely abated even though it was now nearly dinnertime, and Bill was thankful for the shade the porch provided. He hadn’t realized how much the confrontation with the I-90 Killer had taken out of him until just now. He felt shaky, washed out. As soon as he was done
Martin’s heart ached. She was so beautiful. He already missed her immensely.
“It was incredible,” the woman was telling an unseen reporter. “This man, Bill Ferguson, risked his life to save my little girl. He stared down the barrel of that lunatic’s gun. Then, the police came and he just disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him or where he went, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to him or even thank him for the tremendous risk he took. Mr. Ferguson, if you’re out there, you are a true hero. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Martin felt a tide of anger rising inside him as he watched the disgusting display on his television. He wanted to pull his gun out and shoot the woman right through the screen. That girl she was so obsessively hugging to her bosom should have been his . She was rightfully his and she’d been taken away by that stupid busybody who didn’t have a shred of common sense. Why in the holy hell did he have to stick his nose into a situation that was clearly none of his business?
Didn’t a loaded gun mean anything anymore? Martin was flabbergasted. He could not understand it.
The more he thought about, the more he realized he had been wronged, had suffered a personal insult, and he was not about to take it lying down. The old Martin Krall would have curled up in the fetal position like some pathetic loser when life dealt him a bad hand. No more. The new and improved Martin Krall had learned that you had to fight for yourself in this world; you had to go after what you wanted, because no one else was going to get it for you.
On television, the cameras tracked the reluctant hero as he climbed into his vehicle, clearly anxious to escape. Questions were shouted at him from every direction and he ignored them all. “No comment,” he said as he pulled his door shut and started his van’s engine. He pulled forward slowly and carefully, the reporters moving out of the way only with the utmost reluctance and only at the point of being run down.
The man’s van lumbered left to right across the screen as he accelerated toward the on-ramp to the highway. He was driving a Ford Econoline panel van. Stenciled across the side in big, gold, block letters against a blue background were the words “Ferguson Hardware.” Underneath, in smaller print, were words Martin could not make out. He assumed they were the locations and telephone numbers of his stores.
No matter. Bill Ferguson was the man’s name, and he owned a hardware store. How many Bill Fergusons could there be in the area who also owned hardware stores? This guy would be very easy to find.
He took a sip of his warm, flat cola and reached for his remote, changing the input on his television so he could watch a DVD. A long, lonely night stretched endlessly in front of him with no blonde teenaged companionship to help pass the time. That was the fault of one person and one person only. But it was okay, because Martin had all the information he needed to begin rectifying the situation.
It was time for a little porn and some planning.
CHAPTER 15
BILL STOOD ON THE varnished surface of the oversized farmer’s porch running the length of the colonial style home and rang the doorbell. He hoped Carli would be the one to answer the door, but knew that was unlikely. She was probably upstairs, finishing her homework or listening to music or texting her friends. The intense heat had barely abated even though it was now nearly dinnertime, and Bill was thankful for the shade the porch provided. He hadn’t realized how much the confrontation with the I-90 Killer had taken out of him until just now. He felt shaky, washed out. As soon as he was done
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