An Incidental Reckoning (14 page)

“See. If you guys had gone in, we might be riding in that car and you would have been calling your wives from the county jail. Let’s wait until he goes, and then wait another few minutes after that to be sure he ain't coming back.”

Pressure built up inside Jon's skull. He watched Will’s leg jumping up and down. Jon pinched his nose and closed his eyes, scratched at his shoulders and chest, at a furious itching that popped up under his shirt like the onset of a plague. Maybe he would have a heart attack, hopefully not fatal, that would force Brody to abort the mission and take him to a hospital, the cop leading the way with his siren blaring without the knowledge that the same siren would have been howling for their capture.

“Okay, there he goes. I’m going to give you your gun back, Will, minus the bullets. The sight of it alone should work. But here’s my advice. You go in fast and hard. Aggressive. You don’t give him a chance to think about anything other than the fact that you will kill him. Go in like the gun is loaded. Some people have a little hero inside them that they think wants to get out, and if you give him time, he might start to listen to that little hero. Make him understand right up front that the hero is just a wet dream, get the money and go. You shouldn’t be in there any more than a minute, less than if possible. You stay in too long, and I’ll leave without you.”

“What about our faces? He’ll see our faces.”

“You have any t-shirts in a bag back here?”

“Yes. Mine’s the red one.”

Brody tossed the bag over the seat at Will.

“Tie one around your face. Like a train robber in those old westerns. Wait until we get over there. See those parking spaces on the side of the store? Go there so he won’t notice the car. Go.”

Will handed Jon a shirt, and they placed them on their laps as Jon backed out of the spot.

“Go around the block first.”

Jon complied, taking the car through an alleyway and back around to approach from the side that Brody had indicated. He was now grateful that he hadn't eaten; his stomach, churning in anticipation and fear, would have purged anything he had put inside.

He steered into the spot, noting a man pumping gas. His eyes flicked over Jon’s car and then moved on, scanning the plaza across the road with the same idle indifference. Jon waited until he had placed the nozzle back in its cradle and screwed in his gas cap, pulled his receipt from the pump and got in his car and drove away. There were no other vehicles, except for a maroon beater car two spots down from theirs that he assumed belonged to the kid inside.

“Okay. Showtime, boys. In and out, like you mean it.”

They tied the t-shirts around their faces, and Jon pulled his tight so that it pressed against his nose and pushed it uncomfortably to the side, then double knotted it in the back. He didn’t want to allow any chance he could lose it. He smelled his stale breath inside the makeshift mask, and several days' stubble scraped against the cotton material when he moved.

“Now. Before someone else comes.”

Jon steeled himself and put his hand on the door handle, then heard the passenger side slam shut and looked up. Will was already moving fast towards the entrance. Jon got out and raced around the car, swiveling his head, looking for the police car or a customer coming into the lot. So far so good. Inside of his terror, he felt ridiculous, like a kid playing bank robber with his friend, the convenience store clerk in on it as well, all just a big joke. But it wasn’t a joke. He could end up in jail for this. He moved faster, getting inside just as the door started to shut on its hydraulic hinge following Will’s entrance.

Will raced across the store, the gun pointed at an overweight young man sipping a large soda through a straw behind the counter. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His eyes glazed over in fear and soda ran from the corner of his mouth and dribbled a dark stain onto his shirt.

“Please don’t kill me. Take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

He wanted to tell the clerk that this wasn’t really a hold up, that they weren’t really criminals, that he could relax and just hand over the money because they
did
have to take it, but no reason there should be any hard feelings.

Will let the gun rest on the counter, and said, “Put whatever money you have in a bag. Do that, and you won’t get hurt.” His voice came out muffled behind his makeshift mask, and Jon almost giggled. He turned around and watched the doors and the pumps, still no one out there that he could see.

Hurry up, Will.

The clerk fumbled with the buttons on the register and finally the drawer popped open. He plucked a plastic grocery bag from under the counter, and Jon said, “Please hurry.”

Please hurry? Should I say thank you when he hands it over?

He noticed a slight change in the clerk’s demeanor. Sullen. Stalling. The Little Hero struggling to the surface. Jon contemplated that the boy likely had a dozen different fantasies about this exact situation, each one putting him on top, the robbers bleeding and unconscious or dead on the floor when the cops arrived. He put the money in the bag but not fast enough. He dropped a stack of bills and bent over to get them, and Jon had a vision of him standing up holding a huge .44 magnum in both hands and wearing an idiot grin.

Jon sensed Will stiffen, aware of the change too, and he lifted the gun from the counter and leaned over, pointing the barrel at the back of the kid’s head.

“Get it in there now! You want to die fatso?”

Will pushed the gun into his curly blond hair, the muzzle disappearing in the thick waves. The clerk sobbed and his hands scrabbled across the floor, the bag crinkling as he stuffed money inside. He stood slowly, his hands up and the bag dangling from his fingers.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Here. Take it.” Jon couldn’t help but feel pity, but also some contempt as the pungent odor of fresh urine rose with the boy. He pushed it away, putting himself in the boy’s shoes…and underpants. Didn’t he find himself overpowered and owned by another at one time in his life? And look how that had turned out.

“Let’s go,” Will said, and turned around. Jon backed out, still looking at the clerk to be sure he didn’t pull a weapon or pick up a phone. Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed a map from a rack near the door, not even sure why but maybe because this had felt like Will’s show and not his, and why that should matter to him he didn’t know. How easy it all seemed surprised him.

He pushed open the door with his butt, pausing for one more second, maintaining eye contact with the clerk and tracing the trail of his tears sliding down his chubby face, and then went outside.

As he turned around the boom of a gunshot caused him to instinctively fall into a crouch and lean against the brick façade of the store, feeling the heat it radiated against his already flushed skin. He imagined the police officer had returned, and that the first bullet had taken Will and second would find him. Jon opened his eyes and saw a man lying on the pavement with his hands behind his head, his car door hanging open, his whole body shaking as he muttered over and over in a chant, “Please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me…”

Will had stopped dead ahead of him and stared at the gun, only his eyes visible but they expressed surprise and wonder. He held the weapon out from his body like a venomous snake.

“It was loaded. That sonofabitch. The gun was
loaded
.”

Jon felt the same shock, remembered the gun buried in the clerk’s hair and nearly threw up. But he forced himself to move, stumbled ahead and pushed Will towards their car.

“Let’s go, Will. Now. We need to go.” He didn’t hear any sirens yet, but knew they were coming, that the boy had already summoned them, his fear and the stain at his crotch transformed into a need to punish.

They reached the car, Jon sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling away before Will had shut his door.

“Go go go! Yeah!” Brody said from the backseat, from where he slouched down.

Will turned around and pointed the gun at him. He tore off his t-shirt mask with the other hand. Jon heard a sound like crumpling tissue paper as Will pulled his tongue from the roof of his mouth, as dry and sticky as his own.

“You asshole. This is loaded. I should shoot you right now.”

“Go ahead, Will. Do it.” Brody said.

“I will! I’ll kill you!”

“I said go ahead.”

The gun trembled in Will’s hand, and Jon silently urged him on. If they killed Brody, this could be over. The camera would be theirs. They would then have to choose between explaining to the authorities the events that had brought them to this and hope for exoneration, or to just lay low and hope it all went away. At least they would
have
choices. But Brody was far too calm with a gun thrust into his face.

“There was only one bullet in it, right?” Jon said, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Maybe. Why don’t you pull the trigger and find out, Will?”

Will tried to steady his hand but failed, and then his wrist went limp and he sat down in his seat, rubbing his face with his hand.

“You were right, Jon. One bullet. A wild card. Because there’s always a wild card, a hitch in the plan, and you need to learn to react to whatever happens.”

“He could have killed that clerk.”

“Yep.” Brody said, without any concern and Jon wanted to be angry at him, but the adrenaline coursing through his system and bringing on the shakes as he drove ninety miles an hour down the highway into the countryside took all of his concentration and energy. He just wanted to go to sleep and then wake up in the tent at Ravensburg, ready to go home after an uneventful camping trip, Brody just a dread memory with no relevance to his current life.

“All right, slow down. No cops yet, so we should be home free if we can get to Will's car.”

Jon forced his foot to ease back on the accelerator. Will sat with the gun in his lap, looking out the window, his whole body shaking. They approached the road leading to their other car and Jon made the turn, putting his blinker on and noting the foolishness of following the rules of the road.

“So how do you guys feel?”

Neither of them answered at first, but then Will said, “Sick. I feel sick. I could have killed that kid.”

“But you didn’t. So apart from that. Tell me you didn’t get the biggest high you’ve ever had. Tell me that something else in your pitiful lives compared to that…except for maybe shooting Chris. Sex doesn’t come close to what you just did. Either of you going to be honest with me?”

Jon stared straight ahead, forcing his shaking hands to manipulate the wheel around the numerous bends in the road. He glanced again in the rear-view mirror for the police, and caught Brody smiling at him. He looked away.

In his periphery, Will finally nodded, and Brody said, “I knew it. I felt like you did the first time too. And next time it won’t be so hard, but it’s always a thrill.”

“Next time? What are you talking about next time?” Jon said.

“That, Jon and Will, was a training mission. And you both passed, provided the police don’t pick you up. I’m going to need your services one more time, and after that we’ll be done.”

“No.”

“The pictures. Your families if necessary.”

“I could wreck this car right now. I could put it into a tree and kill us all.”

“You could.”

They reached the second car, and hurriedly transferred all of the camping gear into it, working like a team although Jon despised any proximity to Brody; because of everything they had been forced to do, starting in high school and culminating in this insane weekend of mayhem that Jon still had a hard time accepting as reality. But it was more than that. He hadn’t answered Brody’s question with even the simple nod that Will allowed. But inside he knew, and if Brody put the gun to his head and forced him, he would also answer ‘yes’.

And he knew that Brody knew that already.

Chapter 11

Jon lay awake in his own bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to Erin breathe deeply beside him. His body throbbed with pain, and not just physical pain, but feeling that his soul had been boiled in a cauldron and then scrubbed raw with a wire brush. He looked over at the clock. Two in the morning, and he would need to be up at six for work.