Visitations (14 page)

I nodded. “That happened to me too.”

“Oh Michael,” Jackie said. “I’ve missed you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, dad,” Margaret said.

Stuck

Stan Rickstead’s alarm sounded. He reached in the dark and fumbled with the switch, but the alarm continued. He realized the buzzer was his pager. He grabbed it and lit the screen up. The most dreaded words in his profession scrolled there: “
emerg-911. Call HQ en route”
.

For calls such as these he stayed prepared. His uniform was laid out, gun cleaned, boots shined, lunch already made and sitting in their second fridge in the garage. Lydia always had his lunch ready before she went to her night shift at the 24-hour Rexal Drug Mart. She’d never forgotten to make his lunch in the fifteen years they’d been married.

Five minutes later, Stan was running for the door to the garage, thinking about how much he loved his wife and all the little things she did. They knew it was one of those rare marriages where everything clicked, everything worked. Love was a puzzle, one that most people had trouble figuring out. But for Stan and Lydia, their pieces fell together with little effort.

He fired up his pick-up, backed out of the garage and slammed the accelerator down. The clock on the dash told him it was just after four in the morning. There wouldn’t be too many vehicles on the road to get in his way.

He unclipped the cell phone from its cradle on the dash and dialed headquarters. It was picked up on the second ring.

“Wallace Pine Police.”

“Nancy, it’s Stan. I received a page five minutes ago about an emergency situation. What can you tell me about it?”

“It’s not good. Jake and the boys are down there.”

“Down where?”

“This whacko has already shot two people and he’s got three hostages; a woman and two men. Jake asked me to page you so you could go down and try to talk to the guy. Jake said he needs your negotiating skills.”

“What happened to the two people the perp shot?”

“He let them go so we could get them to the hospital. They’re over at Lindsay Memorial right now in surgery.”

“Okay, I’m on my way, but you need to tell me where I’m going.”

“The all-night drug store. You know the one, Rexal Drug Mart.”

Stan tuned out. He lowered the phone from his ear, and set it on the seat beside him. Lydia worked there. The night shift. What if Lydia was the female hostage?

No way. I’m in a dream. This cannot be happening.

He grabbed the phone and brought it to his ear again, as his foot pressed harder on the accelerator.

“The two people who were injured, was one of them female?”

“No, both male. Is everything okay, Stan? You sound different.”

“Tell me again who is being held hostage,” he said, spittle crossing his lips, teeth tight together.

“One woman. We think she’s the employee, and two as of yet, unidentified males.”

“Tell Jake I’m five minutes away.”

He raced through the downtown area of Wallace Pine at a reckless pace. He had no experience in negotiating for a loved one. All his precedents were with strangers. Not to say they were of any less value, only emotion wasn’t attached to those ones. This would be personal, which meant he had no idea how it would play out. Everything he’d say or do, could be tainted. Knowing that, he wanted it no other way. If anyone was going to get Lydia out safely, it had to be him.

From the distance he could see the lights of the patrol cars flashing. Wallace Pine had three cruisers, and they were all present tonight.

Stan pulled in behind Jake’s cruiser. He got out and ducked around back where he met up with Jake and two of his men.

“What’s happening?”

“The guy’s got three hostages, but he hasn’t released any demands. He’s tied up the two males. The woman goes with him whenever he moves from aisle to aisle.”

“Is he strapped?”
 

“Yes. It looks like a Glock, but I can’t be certain.”

“Phone lines connected? Do I have a direct line?”

“Right over there,” Jake said, pointing to an office building, kitty corner with the drug store. “Mark is in there by the phone. Everything is set for you to call into Rexal. And hey, Stan, doesn’t Lydia work here?”

“Yes, the night shift.” His voice trailed off as he looked at the drug store windows.

“Good luck, Stan. Everyone goes home alive tonight, okay.”

Jake patted Stan’s shoulder as he crouched beside him and then Stan got up and ran to the office building. The phone sat on a table in front of the main front window. A pad of paper and pen sat beside it. Stan lifted the phone and hit the speed dial button beside the word Rexal. On the third ring he heard it picked up.

“Hello, this is Stan Rickstead. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Yeah,” a male voice answered.

“What do you need? Transportation?” Stan tried to keep his voice calm, level. The man he was talking to was holding his Lydia. The man he was talking to had a gun and he’d shot people.

“A new life. This one doesn’t work well.”

“We can help with things like that. We’ve got qualified people who can help. But first we need to end this predicament we’re in.” Stan reached up and brushed perspiration from his brow. He realized how nervous he was when he saw his hand shaking.

He looked across the street but saw no visible movement in the Rexal.

“I just came in for a few prescriptions and these two guys tried to give me a hard time, saying my slips were fakes. I’m sorry I hurt them. I didn’t want to hurt nobody.”

“I understand. Why don’t you put your gun down and come on outside. We can figure everything out.” Stan’s hand ached at the joints, but he wasn’t releasing his grip on the phone.

“No, I’m done talking. Don’t call again. I won’t answer.”

The line went dead. He couldn’t sit there and do nothing. Lydia was in peril. He had to get Lydia out.

He decided to go in.

Stan exited the office building and made his way to the back of the drug store on the opposite side of where Jake and his men were waiting behind their cruisers. There was a lone officer watching the back door. Stan nodded to him and pulled out his keys. Lydia and Stan had identical key rings, in the event one of them locked themselves out, the other could help. On Stan’s ring was a key to Rexal’s back door.

He unlocked the door and slid it open. Darkness swallowed him as he entered the stock room. In minutes, he had walked through the small back room, and made his way up the cough medicine aisle, and was about to come in behind where the perp was last seen through the window.

Then Stan saw his wife.

She stumbled into the aisle five feet away from him. She was alone.

Where was the perp
?

Stan saw red on her shirt, in her stomach area. His eyes widened as he realized that his wife had been shot. Lydia turned away and stumbled into a rack of cough syrup. She hit the ground. Stan was close enough to see her eyes roll back in her head.

The pain he felt for not being there quicker was too much to handle. He had not been able to save his wife. He couldn’t protect her.

In his reverie he missed the perp’s movement. Stan made to turn around, his weapon raised. A gun went off.

#

Stan Rickstead grabbed the pager and lit the screen. The most dreaded words in his profession scrolled across the screen: “
emerg-911. Call HQ en route”
.

For calls such as these, he was prepared. His uniform was laid out, gun cleaned, boots shined, lunch already made and sitting in their second fridge in the garage. Lydia always had his lunch ready before she went to her night shift at the 24-hour Rexal Drug Mart. She’d never forgotten to make his lunch in the fifteen years they’d been married.

Maybe this time he’d save her. If he didn’t, he’d try again another time.

#

Lydia stared at her empty garage. It had been two years since the hostage-taking at the Rexal. Two years since she had lost her husband.

She wished she could take it all back. Not go to work that night. Not try to help the two wounded men. She had had a chance to run for the exit. She could have made it out of the building. But she stayed to make sure everyone was okay. She thought she could handle it.

She had seen the look on her husband’s face. She knew that he’d seen the blood on her shirt. What Stan didn’t know was the blood belonged to the wounded men she had helped.

She’d fainted from shock, exhaustion and fatigue when she fell into the cough syrup stand. No doubt Stan thought she had been shot. There could be no other reason for him to turn on the bad guy and fire. And of course there was return fire. Stan had grazed the guy. The criminal’s aim was better, with his first bullet going through Stan’s heart.

Lydia looked at her watch: 4:10am. Right on time. Ever since Stan’s funeral, Lydia would hear the sound of a pager going off. It happened every morning at 4:00am. A distant sound, like it was coming from somewhere else. She also heard noises in the garage. Then the garage door would open and close all on its own. Every morning at 4:06am. She wondered if it was Stan, reliving that night over and over in a vain attempt to save her.

Blood Money

I can’t believe that I’m actually doing this. People might see me. What if it’s someone I know? My neighbors wouldn’t laugh, but my friends would and isn’t that an injustice?

I’m not a thief.

There, I said it. Everyone seems to think so after cops found me sitting in a stolen car. The car was removed from its rightful owner by a friend of mine. At least I thought he was my friend. He picked me up to cruise in his
new
car. I actually thought he’d just bought it. Guy bailed on me at the first sight of cops.

The fact that I’m picking up garbage on the side of the highway is because I was ordered to do this community service for ten hours by a judge who didn’t want to listen to reason. I know everyone says it, but in this case, I actually am innocent.

A car raced by me. I looked too fast. The cut on my forehead made me wince. I touched the bandage with my palm. My supervisor sat on the other side of the road having coffee and chatting with one of the other community service guys.

Here’s my chance to hide from public view.

I dropped below the edge of the highway and make my way into the ditch. It’s quite wide, opening to a flat area about twenty feet long before another small drop into a line of trees. This is the perfect area to pick up garbage without being seen by anyone driving by. Besides, it’s not just me I’m protecting here, it’s my brother. He’s second in charge at the police station in our little town of 15,000 people. Everyone talks and I wouldn’t want him embarrassed more than he already is.

Thinking of him reminded me about tonight. He’s supposed to be coming over for pizza and beer.

I notice to the right, a small tree bent in half. If it was a storm that caused this deformation, how come none of the other trees around it seem to have any damage? I realize that I’m probably too far from the shoulder of the highway but I have to get a closer look. I drop down another six foot embankment and step up to the little tree. There’s a large gouge in the earth about three feet behind it.

Something huge came through here. I step forward and part the branches of the small pines. A car is lying upside down, items from the interior are spread out on the grass. I realize this vehicle would never be noticed from the highway. I had been five feet away and didn’t see it because the tree line was so thick.

I step forward, wondering if I’m going to find dead people. I hope not. The last thing I need is to be in the newspapers for discovering a dead body.

Much to my relief, there are no humans here, dead or alive. I turn and notice a garbage bag perched on the sill of the broken back window. There’s a rip in the bag.

A wad of hundred dollar bills are sticking out.

I tear the bag open and discover it’s full of bundles of hundreds. It looks like they’re wrapped fifty to a pack, which would be five-thousand-dollar bundles. I deduce that I’m looking at a half a million dollars or more.

Questions race through my mind all at once while my heart rate triples. Do I report it? Or do I take the money home and let someone else find the car one day? The courts already convicted me of a theft that I didn’t do. I might as well just take it. This can’t be called theft because I found it.
 

I have to decide and decide now. No one can see me from the highway. If my supervisor happens along, I’m toast. Since it appears no one was hurt here, and whoever was in this car accident left the bag of money behind, then I guess it’s all mine.

I quickly take out one of the bags the courts provided me with to collect garbage and pile the bundles of cash inside. Then I take off my sweater and toss it in the bag on top of the money. No way is my supervisor going to let me take a garbage bag home. If I show him the sweater and tell him it was too hot out, that I had to pack a few things in this bag, I might get away with it. I get up and start back for the highway, my nerves jingling against the beat of my rapid pulse.