The Minnesota Candidate (23 page)

The scowl turned into a sweet smile as Doris
imagined being inside the big house, alone, covered in jewelry,
rolling in a massive pile of gold and silver coins. Tommy slipped
into her thoughts, but she quickly shoved him out. She didn’t want
anything, or anyone, spoiling her dreams. And with this on her
mind, Doris drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 17

“Wait a minute,” said Tom. “What did you
say?”

“I said that President Peabody changed his name.
He’s now President Ali Mohamed. Vice President Mertz, he’s now Vice
President Malik Shabazz. They changed their names when they
converted to Islam.”

“That’s really funny, will you quit clowning
around?”

Louie shook his head. “But I’m not joking. All
of the major news outlets are reporting it. They really did
it.”

They were back up on the roof and it was just
after midnight. The shooting had stopped and flashing lights told
them that emergency vehicles were finally at the scene of the
fires. Louie had spent the last half hour downstairs, while Tom had
stayed on the roof and stood guard. “That doesn’t make sense,” said
Tom. “Why on earth would they suddenly convert to Islam?”

Louie shrugged his shoulders. “The way I
understood it, they said that most religions were basically the
same, so it would be best if the country adopted a single one that
best represented our beliefs.”

“But that’s a load of crap.”

“I was raised a Buddhist, you don’t have to tell
me that.”

“And you’re telling me that a bunch of people in
Congress are converting, too?”

“That’s what I read before the battery in my
laptop died. I suppose it could all be bullshit, but why would the
mainstream media be reporting it?”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“This is just crazy. None of it makes any sense. Normal people
don’t flip-flop on their religious beliefs.”

“Yeah, but these aren’t normal people, they’re
politicians.”

“That’s a good point. Well, did you see anything
about them turning the power back on?”

“No, but we’re not alone. The grid is down all
over the country.”

“Did they say what caused it? Did we have an EMP
or something?”

“I don’t think so. Our electronics still work,
so I guess it must have been caused by something else.”

Tom stood up and surveyed the carnage below. The
parking lot looked like a war zone, which he supposed it was. The
sound of gunshots had been replaced by the wailing of sirens and
Tom could see flashing lights all over the city. “I think the jihad
is over,” he said, “at least for tonight.”

Louie checked his watch. “Why don’t you see if
you can catch a couple hours of sleep? I think one of us should
stay up here and stand guard.”

Tom laughed at the thought of going to sleep.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll stay out here and take the first
shift. I couldn’t sleep if you paid me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Louie stretched his arms and groaned. “Alright,
I’ll be back up here in an hour or so. I hope you’re right and our
friends have called it a night.”

“Me too, go on and get some rest.”

Tom watched as Louie disappeared through the
back door. He then returned his attention to the parking lot. He
stood there and thought about everything that had happened. He felt
as if he were living in someone else’s nightmare. The thought of
killing another man had never entered his mind, until tonight, and
he suddenly felt sick about it. He had broken the biggest of the
Ten Commandments. He would carry that sin with him into the next
world. With his back to the ledge, Tom slumped down into a sitting
position, praying that God would forgive him. He closed his
eyes.

And somehow, Tom drifted off into a troubled
sleep. He dreamed of bearded men wielding bloody machetes, of
headless corpses, and of being surrounded by hundreds of men with
stones. Tom had no idea of how long he had slept, but he awoke to
the sound of screeching tires. Flashing red and blue lights glowed
from all around the store. Tom rubbed his eyes and he got to his
knees. He poked his head up over the ledge and saw no less than six
squad cars in the parking lot. They were parked at odd angles and
men in riot gear were advancing on the store. The sound of crashing
glass sent him sprawling. From down below, he could hear the sound
of boots crunching on the glass and the sound of shouting men.
There was a gunshot, followed by an angry burst of semi-automatic
fire.

Tom scrambled to his feet. He was trapped and
there seemed to be no way out. Standing next to the door was a
brick chimney. The chimney looked impossibly narrow, but Tom knew
it was his only hope. While the shooting continued, Tom heaved
himself up on top of the box-like doorway. He leapt from the roof
and clung to the old chimney. Using every ounce of strength he had,
Tom scaled the chimney and dropped his legs into the dark abyss.
Slowly, he wedged himself down into the blackness. His feet landed
on what appeared to be a metal flue and Tom breathed a sigh of
relief.

A scant second later, Tom heard the sound of men
charging up the stairs. They charged out onto the roof and
scattered. Beams of light danced over his head. Terrified, Tom held
his breath. The men stayed out on the roof for what seemed like an
eternity. Tom felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia, but he
fought to control it.

Finally, Tom heard the sound of the door opening
and of footsteps in the stairwell. He then waited for what seemed
like a very long time. Slowly, Tom pulled himself from out of the
narrow space of the chimney. The flashing red and blue lights were
gone. Tom eased himself down to the top of the small doorway. He
then hung off of the top of the little shingled roof of the doorway
and he dropped to the rooftop. Tom crept to the ledge and saw that
the shotgun was gone. He then peered over the top and saw that the
parking lot was indeed empty.

He knew he had to get out of there, but Tom was
afraid of what he would find at the bottom of the stairs. He
bottled up what was left of his courage and crab-walked to the
stairwell. Without a weapon, Tom felt as naked as a newborn baby.
The stairwell was completely black and Tom did his best negotiating
them by memory. He tiptoed down the wooden stairs, his heart
pounding with every creak and groan. He clutched the handrail and
when it stopped at a landing, Tom would grope blindly for the next
one. When he finally reached the bottom, Tom felt up the wall,
searching for the doorknob.

When he found it, Tom held his breath and he
gave it a turn. The steel door swung open and he was bathed in
candlelight. Tom could see that his arm was covered in soot. He
looked down to see that his entire body was coated with the black
dust. He stepped into the silent store and surveyed the damage.
Tom’s heart sank as his head swiveled on his shoulders. The store
was completely ruined, but there was no sign of Louie or of his
father, Bing. Tom wanted to believe that they had been taken into
custody, so he focused on the shattered glass door and he crept
across the rubble towards it.

The lone candle burned on the counter and that
was where Tom spotted the blood. The wall behind the counter was
painted in gore. Tom found that he couldn’t bring himself to look
behind the counter and he kept moving. He stopped at the door and
fell to his knees. And then he vomited. He stayed there until he
had purged the contents from his stomach, retching with the dry
heaves long after he was empty.

Feeling woozy, Tom ran from the store and out
onto the sidewalk that bordered Lowry Avenue. He stopped behind
trees and ducked behind parked cars to catch his breath. He had
gone four or five blocks when he thought it would be safer to take
the alley. Mentally exhausted, he chided himself for his stupidity.
The night was silent and as dark as any he had ever known. The only
light he could see came from emergency vehicles, but they were many
blocks away. During his blind flight, Tom crashed into parked cars
and several trash cans. Undeterred, he continued running.

After several blocks, Tom ventured back to Lowry
Avenue to get his bearings. He could just barely read the street
sign that told him he was crossing James Avenue. He was happy at
his progress. The streets in North Minneapolis were alphabetical
and he was getting closer to the Mississippi and the Lowry Avenue
Bridge which would lead him back into Northeast. He jogged back to
the alley and continued running. He ran until he came upon Lyndale
Avenue, a main east-west thoroughfare that paid no heed to the
alphabet system. From where he stood, Tom could see the bridge, but
he would have to cross the four deserted lanes of Lyndale Avenue to
reach it.

Tom looked up and down the dark street,
gathering his courage. He waited until he caught his breath and
then he ran. Tom felt as if his footsteps on the concrete sounded
like the beating of bass drums. He continued running until he
reached the base of the long bridge. Tom stared across the inky
black river and thought that Northeast Minneapolis had never looked
so good. Then, on legs that felt like rubber, Tom ran up the
pedestrian side of the bridge. His lungs burned as he jogged up the
incline. Tom pushed on, determined not to stop, praying that his
luck would hold out. Halfway across the bridge, Tom’s heart nearly
stopped. Up ahead, a car was turning from Marshall Avenue, onto
Lowry, and was heading right at him. Tom dropped to his belly.

Tom covered his head and waited for the
inevitable. He could hear the car as it slowly approached. He was
sure that he had been seen and someone had reported him. He
wondered if it was true what he had heard about death. Would it be
like falling asleep and waking up in another world? Tom didn’t
know. As the car drew nearer, Tom flattened himself out as much as
he could, quietly cursing his thick stomach. He tried to control
his labored breathing, but found that it was impossible. He was a
dead man, Tom was sure of it.

But then the car rolled past him. Tom listened
as it continued cruising at the same slow speed. He lifted his head
and watched the taillights as they grew smaller. He then sprang to
his feet and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Wild with
excitement and still riddled with fear, Tom got too close to the
edge of the sidewalk and he tumbled onto the bridge deck. Tom
rolled like a square wheel and pain shot through his body. He lay
sprawled out on the bridge for a long time, too afraid to check for
broken bones. Finally, Tom staggered to his feet and began to
assess his injuries. Nothing appeared to be broken, but his left
ankle felt sprained and he was covered with bumps and bruises.

With tears in his eyes, Tom pushed on. Lightning
bolts of pain shot up his left leg, but Tom did his best to ignore
it. Blood trickled into his eyes from a cut on his forehead, and
Tom brushed it away with a soot-covered hand. The cut stung as if
he had pressed salt into the wound and Tom had to stifle a scream.
Without even looking to see if the coast was clear, Tom crossed
over the four lanes of University Avenue. Desperate to return to
the safety of his mother’s house, Tom did the same at Central
Avenue. Exhausted and feeling faint, Tom jogged down to
26
^th
Avenue.

With only a few blocks to go, Tom slowed to a
brisk walk. He had made it and as tired as he was, Tom’s heart
soared at the familiar sights. Drunkenly, he continued up the hill
to Pierce Street and he hung to the right. He had never been so
happy to be on his own street. He imagined stripping off his dirty
clothes and taking a hot shower, then crawling into one of the
brand new beds. He was so tired that he could barely keep his eyes
open. Suddenly, he smelled wood smoke and Tom sniffed at the air.
He wondered what was burning or what might have burned. He shook
his head, desperate to reach his mother’s house. Halfway down the
block, despite the blackness, Tom thought something looked out of
place. His footsteps made splashing sounds on the concrete
sidewalk.

Then he saw the silhouette of his mother’s
fence, but it was jumbled and loopy. Tom staggered forward, his
mind not comprehending what he was seeing. Red embers glowed where
his mother’s house should have been. Tom raised his hands up to the
heavens and screamed a silent stream of curses. Utterly defeated,
he staggered onto the lawn and collapsed. Tom buried his head in
the new grass and he wept.

Chapter 18

Dawn was just breaking in the pink sky and Tom
found himself staring up into the angry faces, and drawn guns, of
uniformed police officers. “Who are you and why are you here?”
shouted one of the angry men.

“Holy shit,” said Tom, “I’m Tom Picacello, this
is my home… This was my home. Someone tried to kill me!”

An old woman was led into the circle of guns.
Alice Kindersley leaned close to Tom and looked at him over the top
of her glasses. “Yep,” she said, “that’s him. That’s Doris’ boy,
Fat Tommy. Sorry about your mom’s house. That’s just a shame.”

“You were out after curfew,” barked one of the
cops. “But under the circumstances, we’ll let it pass. Don’t let it
happen again.”

Tom could think of a hundred snappy replies to
this, but he just nodded his head.

“You look pretty bad,” said Mrs. Kindersley.
“Why don’t you walk over to my house and we’ll get you cleaned up.
I thought you were a black man and that’s why I called the police.
You can’t be too careful. Thank God the telephones are
working.”

Tom could see that Mrs. Kindersley was already
well into her second or third pot of coffee. “That would be great,”
he said, barely getting the words out before the old woman began
rattling on about her arthritis.

The sparkling clean bathroom smelled like the
inside of an old hospital, fresh bleach over spilled bodily fluids.
Tom barely noticed, he stripped out of his clothes and put them
into the plastic trash bag that Mrs. Kindersley had given him. The
shower wasn’t hot, but it felt wonderful as he scrubbed the soot
from his body. Tom was happy to see that the swelling was gone from
his ankle. He tested it in the shower, finding that it barely hurt.
Soon, the bottom of the pink bathtub was as black as coal. Tom
thought of all that had happened and he was just happy to be safe
and sound. After he had finished in the shower, Tom cleaned out the
tub. He then dressed in Henry Kindersley’s old clothes. He had
always thought of the quiet man as being as big as an ox and he was
quite humbled when he found the loud plaid shirt and green nylon
slacks fit him, snugly.